Pretentiousness

A life of someone else. Disowned. A simulacrum of the real. Smiling, yet hurting. Listening but not saying.

Comfort? A constant dread? Authenticity? ‘Friends’ you can’t be real with. ‘Community’ you can’t belong to. Perhaps don’t need to.

What is a life of one’s own? Not written by narratives crafted by others? What is it listening to your own voice? What does it mean to create your own real and yet belong without offending, and without quieting your own voice?

Advertisements

Within the Physical

Our relationship with the physical is that it’s there but it’s never ours, it’s never to be possessed: whether it is a lover, a physical space one stands on, material goods – clothing, food items, lotions…or even our own body. It’s in flux – in movement – in a constantly changing position. Never the same.
Finance people say – ‘depreciation’. Simple people call it ageing. We don’t often see it and we definitely do not possess it/control it. A constant flux – in move.

And we ourselves are in the move. We don’t stay in bed any longer than needed (with occasional exceptions to get that extra hour of sleep, to only occasionally to be there for the other (or for ourselves)) but we move – out of bed, out of our room, out of our house into something, constantly, and repetitively, constantly and unendingly. We don’t see the time. We don’t see how it has passed, how the ageing is in place – we just move…

Only the disruption – a question, a white streak of hair, a loss, a commemoration, an incapability reminds us that it is there, we are in it. Ageing is in the process.

In the meanwhile – we own the physical and yet, it’s never ours, never belonging fully. It’s detached, around us. Only so, if we are around.

 

Yet, the physical constrains us. The moves we do, the moves we cannot do. The political systems of the countries we inhabit, passports we own or do not own. They dictate the possibilities and define the boundaries of our moves. These political systems dictate access to the ways we see, if we see and if we move. Education, healthcare, transportation…

and another dictator is the market, they say. What is the market? What is this ungraspable demand? Supply? The market forces – perhaps the most cited and most easily excused explanation for any and every system around. And, yet, least definable, the vaguest of all.
Is it constructed or real? A fiction, perhaps (?) Who are those faceless demanders? How are those desires crafted that all the demanders fall under?
Are the marketers at fault? Are they the evil? Are they the gods constructing the everyday. The everyday of mine and yours. Is my day founded in front of a hip youngster sitting in an East End office while drinking their flat white and playing ping pong. Under the instruction of their boss. Is it there that my reality is found. Is it there that my reality is constructed?

 

I live, observe and fall. Fall under the maze of desires.

Work. And spend the money to fulfil them. Spend my hours, my minutes, my energy, my nutrients, my blood, my self…To feed into the manufactured stories. To feed into the inspiration of others. To continue in the maze. Is this the way?

Thoughts on my self

What is a self? What is it composed of? My thoughts? My actions? Or are they all already predetermined by my own environment? The people I interact, the physical here and now…

What about other aspects of my every day? Does the place I live define who I am? Does the amount of money/material possessions I own, are part of me or not? Am I, my being, dissociated from the physical and material?

How about food? Does the food I consume and later turn into my fat, blood, skin is me? Or is it not yet?
How about the air?
They say electronics emit some sort of waves that affect humans, and they recommend placing mobile phones away from the bed while sleeping. Are they also part of my constructed self.

They say memory is funny – it chooses certain things to retain and certain ones to eliminate. “a ‘story’ in which the event already crosses within itself the archive of the ‘real’ and the archive of ‘fiction’.” So, is my understanding of my own self fictional?

Is my own self always predetermined by the past, by what has happened, or is it in futurity and the potential to happen? So, I guess, an interesting question to ask would be what story would I like to have at the end of my physical existence? What is it that’s important to me…?

Overpowering Uncertainty

The same day last year – an induction day to university – has felt extremely different than today. I was joyous and excited to start something I have dreamt for years – an art course. I wanted to be there, I was certain that it was the best decision I have made and, finally, I am where I should be.

The same day today is clouded with confusion and uncertainty. My path has become murky, full of a morass. A Slough. I am not sure any longer if being here is the right thing to do. I don’t know if I want to say ‘goodbye’ to my Lithuanian culture, to my family. I am afraid that I am suddenly succeeding where it’s not important and missing out on what’s the most important in life – my family and my community – being in the lives of those I care about.

This overarching affect of confusion and fear and of the unknown is stemming not from the current here and now – I do love studying, art history, people are fantastic and London is a fascinating city, but the future vision is unclear. There are people who can close their eyes and just live in the ‘now’, but I crave to know where it is that I am going, what is the destination that I am aiming at reaching at. I desire to run and climb and be focused to be ALL there, not just stroll and walk in circles. I want to be certain and have peace that it is well, that it is the right thing to do.

Ieva Tarajeva: “Kol plaukai ant galvos mums gražu, o kai išslenka– šlykštu, tas pats su dantimis, nagais ir kūno skysčiais.
Kiek iškrypęs yra kūno estetizavimas?
Kas yra žmogaus esmė, kai išskaidai kūniškas asociacijas?”

Learning to be thankful

I am grateful for:
– the sun kissing my body, realisation that the summer is still here,
– fresh air,

  • wide spaces. The rooms in my flat with soothing cream colours and wooden pallets on the floor,
  • eating ice-cream with my mom in the park. For walks with her. The undying love and acceptance she is always showering me with.
  • the presence of my sister
  • my friends being around
  • re-reading texts from my Literature class and questioning
  • time to rest. time to be. time to not do and sleep
  • the future with all of the possibilities in it. the new out there, behind the corner.

Is there more than this?

People are just bags of meat with an expiration date.

A few weeks ago I read this phrase and it just struck me with its boldness and cruelty. Are we just pieces of meat that are slowly degrading/decaying..? Is one’s life just acts of sleep, food, and material provision..? Is there more than this?