You can still contact me at svaha@iki.fi

31 Dec 03: Temporarily Sated.. So, What's This About the Year Changing?

Ahh. Feeling much, much better. Got up quite easily, drove to pick Anu up and then to the city. We got really good seats, middle of row 8. And the movie itself - so much more rewarding than at the first try. Now that I had prepared for the moments that disappointed me, I could bypass them and enjoy the good bits. And oh, those good bits are wonderful!

I think I can now distill the moments or aspects that affected me most down to five. One, Billy Boyd really should get some special "responsible for the most beautiful single moment" for his singing. Two, except for the other most beautiful single moment, which - still - is Frodo's final smile. Three, I still hate how weak Minas Tirith is portrayed: the card-house buildings, the aimless soldiers, the women and children running around in panic (when actually they would be, and were evacuated from the city long before), Denethor only seen in his final madness... Four, Sean Astin truly is magnificent, and now that I've seen it again, so is Viggo Mortensen (though Astin is given the most opportunities to shine).

Five, I still say that Elijah Wood is not good enough. Oh, he is good, very good even, definitely commendable... and I have nothing but the highest respect and admiration for his work. He just is not as good as Frodo could and should be. It's a part that should break your heart again and again, every single moment, even through all those interminable hours, and if it did, it would be a laughable shoo-in for every possible acting award. But, well, that would require years and years of life experience and theatre training that Wood simply does not - and, of course, physically cannot - have. And I'm sure he could have risen to the challenge (being as talented and bright and ambitious as he seems to be) anyway, if with a director that would have known how to get that many nuances out of him, and would have taken him through the process as relentlessly as everything else in these films was done. But no matter how much a genius Jackson is in other ways, he is not a method director either. And some ends in performing art simply cannot be achieved without the use of the special skills, special tricks, that the acting profession has developed through millennia. Wood's immaturity shows especially well in comparison to Astin here.

Well, we can't have everything perfect, or this would not be the real world.

Anyway. Yes, I appreciate the film much, much more now. I still don't think it is as good as it could have been - easily even, with this materila. And my appreciation for Jackson himself has gone down a lot after reading interviews where he states quite emphatically that he, himself, considers the theatrical versions the definitive cuts, and that no-one in their right mind except for rabid fans would want to watch the extended cuts.

So. New year's eve today. Funnily enough, I have four options of spending the evening from which to choose, three of which I was invited to and one just sort of popped up. And typically enough, I worry over the decision of where to go quite inordinately - I'm sure that whichever option I choose, I'll end up wishing I'd chosen something else. And that is so stupid. I'm trying to tell myself that I should just be glad that I have so many nice choices and to go with what I feel like right now, today. Not think of what I might miss, but what I want to do. (And, also, keep reminding myself that whatever I choose, it's probably not going to be as nice as all the four choices put together, and that I should not expect too much of people, of myself, of anything.)

And I still love Frodo too much for words, which of course is quite the ironical paradox. And it still is no more fair than it was in the book, the whole business with his leaving...

Oh heck, an additional six to the list, for good measure: the Houses of Healing. It really is too much of a shame, especially in regards to Eowyn.

(At night, four hours into the new year but not into the next cycle yet) Got home from Sokkelo maybe half an hour ago or so. Had a lovely time at first, and even when I drove a few people (including myself) to watch the fireworks near Talo; had many well-wishes and good feelings from many sweet people. Returning to Sokkelo, soon got into the usual funk: no-one likes me, no-one finds me attractive, no-one wants me, I hate everyone and in particular those other girls who clearly are found attractive... Tried to fight the feeling, regretted not arrangning to stay at Talo, considered the possibility of going to Aarne's place to meet the Posse etc., did not finish consideration until too late. Lost composure completely over Loponen and Pervilä teasing me about LOTR slash, hated myself, hated everything. Was calmed down partly by Clo and partly by Anni, who persuaded me just to go home, which advice I finally took.

Based on the reaction, it's time for a reality check. But where to find one, and yet not be crushed by the grey order of reason?

Zenya has apparently peed on the computer desk chair. Not nice. It's in no way washable.

The best part about the whole evening was catching up with a few lovely people (old friends or new) and agreeing to meet them again as soon as possible. If nothing else has changed during these two years, it seems that I may have found some paths to some lovely people that I did not see before.

30 Dec 03: Lost in Faerie

I woke up around ten, having fallen asleep at nine (no Faerun meeting, blast the lazy asses of the rest of the writers...), having judged that it was better to sleep the tiredness away than try to stay awake and be cranky. I dreamed of the last days of a week-long vacation in London, where everything went dismally wrong, and I swore I'd never spend that much money on going to the place if I could just as well stay home and do something else with the money.

The morning is bright and pale, with that special thin film of gold of such December mornings when there is not much snow around, but just enough frost to change every dark surface into something that doesn't reflect much nor absorb much. For some reason, this is year's end weather to me much more than deep snow would be. I guess I've read too many British novels.

I don't get how American critics are so willing to dub Return of the King perfect. Does it have something to do with that "Men of the West, Unite!" attitude? Because I really think I agree more with Helena Ylänen's distinctly lukewarm review. But whether or no (God, I can never see those words again without getting embarrassed), I really need to see it again NOW. Today. I wish I knew anyone else who is in the same ditch - everybody's either seen it two or three times already, or not wanting to see it again for a while! I've wanted to go since Christmas, but I really want company there, or I'll be completely lost.

(Later) I still haven't found anyone who'd like to go with me.

This is not very good, but when were my poems ever anything except attempts at communicating something:

The wind of the dying year is vast -
even in here it tramples me, drowns me
under its beats: falling senses
of tin and shields and doorframes

the wind is huge and ravening and uncaring and
I am so small and finite
in the pain of your face, in your loss:

like the wind, they crush me under, despite
not being there for me to grab and pull and not
give up, not give up,
slipping through my hands while pushing me to ground,
not being there for me to be there,
not being there at all

Frodo

the saviour of us all, the Son of Small Man,
the echo of the truth to be, in the end
saved
            by none,
the storm that squashes my heart and leaves me
grappling with air,
my arms reaching for nothing, everything,
                                                nothing
                                    Frodo

(At night) Hmn. Actually, I must admit I don't find the above scribble totally abominable, after all.

Anu, the dear, called and asked me to join her in going to see ROTK, so we're going tomorrow morning, which means I have to get up at half past seven to pick her up from Suvela and to be at the theatre by nine. I can't even remember when I last managed to get up at that hour, but now it feels like no problem in any way. We'll see how I feel when the hour arrives (it's half past one by now, after all).

I took the dog for a walk and deliberately chose the score for Kundun for listening, hoping it might have a calming effect. All I kept seeing was LOTR images. Even in the sauna afterwards I was much amused by thinking how much hobbits would love something like the sauna.

We spent some time mindstorming over Anni's dress for "Pelargirin ympyrä" and mostly arguing over mine (or the vague ideas neither of us could really formulate about it), but ended up somewhere close to accord.

Can't help having more random ROTK observations. First, I am even more in awe of Billy Boyd: he not only sang that lovely song of Pippin's, he wrote the melody for it! And second: now I get the Arwen-dying-because-of-the-Ring connection - in the first film, she did ask for her life's grace to be given to Frodo... Third, I wrote my first-ever note to someone at theonering.net, which should say quite a lot about how far this ...thing... takes me beyond self-consciousness, among other things.

Bedtime.

29 Dec 03: Spaces

Another night of "who needs sleep when there's stories to read". Now, though, mostly tangential stuff, and so the feeling that stays with me is an irritation of not having any romance in my own life. It would be really nice to be in love again... to have the electricity between two people, the awkwardness, the growing certainty, the tingle of tension on the way, step by step, the sweet and urgent and hollowing-but- fulfilling words of having it out... And, of course, the closeness, the reasons to smile and laugh again, the warmth, the pride... and did I mention closeness already?

I'm so tired of not having any of that. And, actually, so tired of not having most, if not all, of that, that I can't even be bothered to try and think if any old friends could perhaps give me - exchange with me - at least some of that, for some time. I want the package. Now, having had days and days again of the exaltation that also is part of it, I can tell that I'm sane enough to know and admit that the exaltation alone is not enough. It's fine and dandy, but we're physical creatures, after all. And social creatures.

Oh well. Can't do anything about that but wait. And maybe see if there could be some light snacks of flirtation while waiting for the proper meal. And if not, just get by on snacking.

Talking about nourishment and what is necessary... I found myself complaining to Kalle about not wanting to go back on my medication. I really, really like the ability to feel the kind of intensity I've had with me in the past week; the sense of energy, of creativity, of almost touching something beyond the veil of reality. I don't want to be out of control, just tossed by emotions, but it's not what this has been like, this time. However, I am mindful, and worried, over the possibility of the bad things getting spectacularly spiked as well, like they did during that break in the summer. I don't feel any particular hurts being especially topical right now, but I do fear that if the feelings of worthlessness begin to take up an edge again, the result might be something unacceptable. And that is not to happen. Not a single time. So yes, I am going to call the psychiatrist tomorrow for that appointment I need anyway; and I am going to ask her opinion, and probably about seven other opinions, and I am going to be a good girl if the opinions are against me. But I don't particularly relish going back to being mellowed out.

(Later) Slept from eight to twelve like a good girl, been reading and writing and gushing at Anni when she got here for a change, and listening to music, and even got to the grocery store and back in the most horrible weather. Should be fine, then, but instead, everything is back to hell again.

Later, though.

28 Dec 03: Oops... And Oops

Was apparently more distracted yesterday than thought. After that cup of tea and that story (exquisite and weird and making me so, so jealous of talent some people can waste on darned x-rated fan fiction) I just had to gush to someone. I actually planned on going to see ROTK again, but didn't find anyone willing to go with me, and I was not up to sitting there in the theatre alone with my Headspace. All grown-up female friends were unavailable even for phone gushing, but luckily I ended up getting a hold of Jukka, and we went shopping a bit in the horror that is post-Christmas sales (as Dad and Satu-T. gave me a gift voucher to Lindex) and then came here for dinner and LOTR DVD extras. I must have made really confusing conversation, but we had a good time, anyway, or at least I did.

After I drove Jukka home, it was too late to contemplate the movies, and besides, I'd been awake for two days straight. I got too sleepy to finish updating; read some more, trying to gather up the energy, and finally just crawled under my new, properly big and soft and billowy blanket and fell asleep. Slept for eighteen hours straight, had blessedly normal dreams (by that I mean that they were strange, and lengthy, and detailed, but at least non-hobbity, which was probably a good thing), woke up at six pm with a crink in my neck, but feeling satisfyingly refreshed. Been sitting in front of the computer, listening to music, going on with my reading, and vaguely planning on the start of all the costume designs I gave for Christmas.

Apropos reading: if you are irked by the fact that I'm not putting down links to the stories, you only have to ask, and I'll send the URL's to you over email. I hope I'm not being too much of a hypocrite, but I really don't feel comfortable linking to x-rated stories (some about real people even!) in a public diary, even if the publicity was in the author's putting the stories up in the first place. Still.

Been taking up my promise and listening to music all the while. Kent is very entertaining; no wonder they're such a hit. AOR classics did not suit my mood at all. Now Phantom of the Opera is on, but I'm not paying much attention to it.

I hope we manage to have that Faerun planning meeting tomorrow. I'm feeling generally more positive and looking forward to things than is usual for me. I hope I can hold on to the feeling up until tomorrow.

I wonder how Heli's ballet thingy went today. Well, I hope.

...Okay. Here's what I wrote the day and night before yesterday and that I was supposed to transcribe yesterday. I read the scribble again just now, and I almost decided it was not necessary to put it up at all... it was just incoherent and obsessive rambling... and then I realized that is exactly why I need to put it up. I was all about greater honestly yesterday, was I not? And this is an example of it, a lesson on how I've let public writing become just that, even though it was absolutely not the intention.

This should be read to Dido's debut album, as that is what I was listening to, to drown out the voices upstairs idiotically going through Trivial Pursuit Millennium Edition questions without the board. And the specific theme song that struck me so hard I nearly hated it is, of course, "My Lover's Gone". "No earthly ship will ever bring him home again" - indeed.

(26 Dec, transcript) This is the Frodo Christmas. And I wonder - despite having been like this first when I was eight - how many people there are out there to whom it is like this, too. Bah, make that "how many millions"... and I feel anger and jealousy rise in me, I feel ready to fight them all for Frodo, my Frodo ("I saw him first, he's mine; your "first" doesn't count!)... And I have no right for that, after all, as I admit that the very public, meant-for-public, portrayal of Frodo by Elijah Wood has helped me, fueled my fire for the soul and spirit of whom he portrays, quite awfully. Not, let me emphasize, for him, for the child-eyed, smooth-skinned, too young even though admittedly talented actor, but for the dream-creature he and us rest are reaching for; the unbearable courage and sadness and suffering and humanity...

I am so confused with all the unseen images of formless sorrow and longing, I don't know which way to turn or whether to stand on my head. I feel like I am standing on my head: upside-down, blood packing in my brain, looking and feeling foolish... and also, skirt over head (but of that, later). I don't know - even now, after all these years of not making sense of the same question - whether I identify or just sympathize. I don't know how to love him etc. (and that is apt, as Frodo is a human Christ-figure, after all). And so, in this confusion, I turn to dreams, both others' and my own, that just are not my cup of tea at all, as such. For whom to project to, in the desperate heartbreak over Frodo and Frodo's pain, if not to Sam?

Except I still don't think they should be written as a Great-and- Tooby Gay Happily-Ever-After: it's not-that-bloody-simple! It's love, of course, but desire? No. No, unless only as the last resort to help, to bring relief, protection, in desperate attempt to hold fast. And if written so, I bow to mastery. Or if the other, more complex issues are handled well, and the desire comes as part of them, sure, I acknowledge skill and vision, again. Ask me addresses to the examples privately, if you want. So, to sum: IF it is a romance that rises out of a deep understanding of Frodo; love for Frodo; sorrow for Frodo (and understanding and admiration of dear, brave, loyal Sam, too, of course), then good and fine. Though I hate the labels set on this brand of story ("Hurt/Comfort", indeed; how cheapening, especially as the labels have spread so far elsewhere, too). IF I sense an ounce of dishonesty, of an attempt to titillate, to twist character, to be fashionable, it is so wrong I want to throw up.

They transcend definitions and titillations. Love for someone like Frodo tends to do that.

And I still don't know whether I'm inside his skin or out. Whether I identify more or love more. I just know I'm so desperate to make sense of it I keep reading even trash. Take RPS ("Real-Person Slash", and what label will they come up with next??)). As such, I find it highly indiscreet, disrespectful and just plain out of character. With anyone else. But the Frodo mystery is so complex and all-encompassing that it spills easily into imaginations of the real life of the interpreters with reasonable style (but even then, unless it is directly tied into the Frodo-Sam dynamic, it's just yucky and ugly). Still, I am slightly ashamed of having such a common taste.

Okay, back. If I were a hobbit around Frodo, I'd love him madly. No, I would, too! He's so absolutely too much my type. And, of course, I'd have no chance. And as I'm not ingenious enough to come up with a female protagonist who would be good enough, Frodo-wise and story-wise and world-wise (and I refuse to add the obvious bad pun), even I have to go around. (I've actually read only one half-bearable Frodo/somehobbitgirl romance, and even there the only strikingly good and surprisingly right aspect were the descriptions of Frodo as a lover...) So, therefore, slash and stuff. Cue in my silly story number one.

(This is where I stopped to have coffee and then go home. The rest is written at night.)

I was reading the appendices and some of the end stuff. And ...am I imagining things, or is there the possibility of Tolkien implying that Frodo is not only wounded but impotent, after? A war invalid in that sense, too? (There must have been many after WWI.) All that talk about not being whole? It would fit in mythologically, as well - the fatal heroic flaw, symbol of Man's Fall (and Frodo did fall, after all: inevitable though it was, he did finally fall to the Ring). Think the Fisher King and stuff. Even before checking on this, the thought floated into my head last night while fighting the influenza fever (in a house that was far too warm, so I was unable to sleep between being constantly either sweating or freezing). Cue in story concept two (and yes, that one fits the third great fan-Frodo cliche, with an understanding Rose and a strong Sam... just let me state that even though that dynamic is now so incredibly overused, I thought of it long before I even knew other people wrote fanfiction, far less something like that). And keep your hands off that one, it's mine! For now.

Oddly, through those hours of slowly getting the hang of spinning those separate stories purely in my head, trying to get sentences out of words like thread out of unworsted wool, they kept switching languages unpredictably... and not only between English and Finnish, but also from words to wordless images, both moving and still. I had a hard time trying to herd them, since they seemed to do it without my even noticing until a few sentences or scenes later. I tried my best to stick to one sort of telling, considering that I can't draw and therefore the imagery was ineligible. I still feel vague despite to both concepts and their lack of originality, but they are as far as I've got on the path of trying to make sense, and I must make sense. I must deal. I must learn where and why and whatnot, not to go into an even worse obsession for the non-existent.

...Dear Source Of Life, help me, as I even entertain occasional ideas of dying, again - it's not as if I've done enough to deserve any love of fulfillment if I die now... far less something like Frodo. (I wonder if anyone ever does it for that, hoping? Scary.)

I really, really don't know if he's mirror or complement. But don't I always, always fall in love with mirrors, even if well-hidden inside the Otherness...?

I wonder if there is a profound insight in there... Or if there is, if I even want to know...

You know, I've found a surprising, fiery, renewed loathing for the Appendices! Why? Because they set down everybody's ends, of course. One can't even fantasize they might be around, when it is explicitly stated they're long dead, thousands of years dead, with detailed proof.

It suddenly came to me that I'm being confused about my dream angels anyway: which is it now that I want to find at the end of the journey, Frodo or Luke Skywalker? Or - no, it's not a new thought after all. Remember deep teens? It was a dilemma even then. Such questions should naturally have passed with growing up: how can they possibly have any relevance at all? And yet...

(Back in the present) There. As I said, incoherent and obsessive. But done. And now the theme song is Loreena McKennitt, "The Mystic's Dream".

(26-)27 Dec 03: Strange Headspaces, Strange Resolves

Another skipped night. Who has time to sleep when there are stories to read?

In a second, I am going to start typing up poorly written musings from yesterday (when lacking any civilized communication in all senses of the word) and last night; well, this night. However, before that I'd like to note something that came to me a minute ago like the most profound, most essential truth (but may actually be going out as just another snorting self-evidence, as so many morning-after-insomnia-delirium truths tend to do in the final run; I don't know, how could I know): I do not think I am writing, nor have been writing, what I need to write.

I think I have got bogged down into being careful and polite and harmless in all senses, except possibly the rants about myself, as those are not impolite to anyone else. I have started to think of this as a two-sided conversation, and as I am one of those people who in a conversation will constantly find ways to make nice, to make oneself pleasing to the other, this diary is slowly fusing with the rest of the shit on the near-imperceptible downwards spiral slide: as bland and brown as yesterday's tea. More and more, I find myself using this not to simply further understanding (as in the beginning), but to manipulate it; manipulate people's conceptions of me. And realizing this - even more, putting it down in so many blunt words - makes me want to vomit for disgust of my stupidity and spinelessness. Oh no, it's not that I've told lies - I've just learned to smooth over, to oblige, to omit, just like in face-to-face communication... and it should not be necessary here.

It should not be. Writing is more important than anything else, and truth is the only thing worth writing for (even in stories, even in nevernever and onceupon: the internal truth of the belief; the external truth of meaning, of relevance). I should stop whining about my inability to write, if I can't make even the basics work. If I can't force myself to discard the platitudes and the everyday doings and listings - at least I should let them be and just add the real stuff.

Where did all this come from, this very tired and manic morning? I realized I can't remember my first months with Tommi seven (dear Lord, seven!) years ago, including the moment when I realized I was truly, madly, deeply, magnificently in love with him. I can't remember, and I have no written record of those days; and as it is past, I don't even have his memory to lean on, any more. And I realized that if it were happening now, I still would not have much of a record. Scattered hints, but no true accounts; no actual whys and wherefores and the things behind the whys and the wherefores. No emotions except the frustrated sea of self-pity, stormy or calm, whichever - that one you've all seen, all.

This state of matters must not continue. I have to think about this hard. I wonder if I should switch to Finnish, after all. A foreign language is often deceptively easy. On the other hand, why not get completely (or at least functionally) fluent in English, hopefully, with time?

Another note that has distant connections to the core issue - writing, and what it may or may not result in - is that I cannot have any excuse not to listen to music more often, not any longer. I can see what it does to me and my thoughts; and if I can bother enough about my body to eat vitamins and minerals regularly, I should very well bother enough about my mind to give it what is its due. And music is vitamins and all the weird minerals and enzymes that one cannot even deliberate, yet just as iexplicably necessary. Which reminds me that I could put some on. I hope Kalle isn't too hung over from the Red Dwarf drinking game I stumbled upon arriving home yesterday.

Yesterday's and yesternight's rant - we could tentatively call it "Frodo Lives This Christmas!" - will follow, but my tea just boiled, and at every cup, I deserve to get on with this exquisitest of exquisite (and so indiscreet and impolite) RPS I can't, shamefully enough, tear myself off of. I'll be back in a chapter!

24 Dec 03: Strangely at Peace

Dropped back home to pick up a couple of things I forgot. It seems I may survive this Christmas. I feel easier, right now, and it's a welcome surprise.

I love you all. And even if it looks like a stupid cliche, remember this is me saying it. Today, I'm able to mean it. It means the world to me that you, all you dearest and distant and much admired and most irritating people, are reading this.

I wish you a perfect moment, be it Christmas or some other holiday or just a bit of peace and the light of a candle and the laugh of someone dear.

And now I'll go and head back towards Kerava and my bowl of porridge before you throw up on me for overload of mush.

23 Dec 03: Tugged and Pulled

Have not slept. Torturing oneself with jealousy over talented, polished fanfiction. Listening to Ei by Maija Vilkkumaa and wondering if all lyrics would affect me similarly right now, or if ninety percent of it really fits in this scary - and therefore irritating - extent. Keyboard still skewered.

As you know, I am extremely lazy at linking, but this essay deserves it, in defense of Frodo, the true, original character.

Ari and Mikis dropped by and gave me a great Christmas present. I promised to make winter hoods for them in return. Must finish Olli's present, put some new colour into hair roots and then head for Kerava. Don't wanna.

22 Dec 03: The Ends of Despair

I hate this. I hate being alive, when there is nothing, nothing, nothing in my living to compare it to the brightest, most beautiful, most revered dreams - no, I don't care that it's not equal, I just care that it's not even possible to find a single "well, at least I have/do/can x...", no matter how small. Not even in the class of those smaller dreams of fans, the best of which are shards of perfect joy and beauty and sharing. I want to be at least as good as them - I want to make stories, I want to make dreams - and I'm no good, and can't, and don't.

No life, no purpose, no worth, no good deeds, no love, no loving of anyone or anything, not enough bloody talent. I just want to bang at things with my fists and scream, but that leads nowhere, no more than these past two miserable self-examination years have, or all those stupid blind painful years before. Nothing leads anywhere. I'm worn out. I'm finished, killed by need to reach out without the ability to drag answers off others.

I'm angry. Furious. I've written a long, nearly complete piece of fiction today - but it's not what you think. It's fanfiction. And smut. And angst. And bad attempts at characterizations. And it's all been done before, better. Shit to all of it, nothing matters.

I hate Christmas. It doesn't help at all that Liisa says, meaning to be comforting: "Yes, it's such a terrible emotional point of pressure all in all..." Sure, sure, I know. But I don't care. This is my bloody emotional pressure point, here, now. All of this: the same time, the same pieces, the same place as last year, and the year before, and God knows for how long before that, except blind.

God knows. Indeed. And now, God, I've had enough of your knowing and my ignorance. I know this is presumptuous, but I've read gorgeous stories written for nothing but fun all day and I'm screaming inside for not being able to do even that much for so much seriousness I want to...

Well, you know.

Still here. Now. And hating it, and trying, trying so hard to find an excuse good enough to throw it back at the face of Creation, for being just a faulty little brick and not a creator, even a sub-creator, myself.

Yes, you can probably tell that I've slipped out of medication by means of being out of money, again. But I don't care. And I don't want you to care either. I don't want compassion (well, yes, I always do, but not at the final, dividing edge). I want exaltation. I want purpose. I want fire. I want stories, a story. And, failing that, I want to be at least useful to others, since that is what the exalted stories are about, at bottom: sacrificing oneself for others. But no, there's not enough ability even for that, even in small, everyday senses.

Oh bloody hell, find me a pyre. Find me an arrow for my breast. Find me oblivion, if only for a single moment of making a difference. If only in one heart, one soul, one story, one single other life of purpose.

Bloody hell. I'm so screwed up. And I can't sleep, and I have to spend a few hours at some time tomorrow when I am sane and rested enough not to have constant trembles to come up with a couple of Christmas presents (make them, I mean, as reminded about the money), and then I have to spend Christmas with Mom, who would run screaming away from exaltation, sacrifice, and death alike, even if they all came and danced around her in a rosy ring. Liisa says I shouldn't waste time being angry at my parents, as they have proved unable to answer my needs already, anyway, and I don't, really, but my mother is a choker. She dampens everything just by being so proper and small and scared of making a difference. I don't really expect us to deal well with each other when I'm on a mood like this.

Though probably I'll just put on a nice face and grit my teeth and hate the mask.

Mask, inspiration, creation, difference, story - bloody swearwords all. I hate hate hate hate being this Black Hole. Where's my White counterpart, and can I please go and strangle them? Slowly?

What a pretentious load of wankery-bitchery. I could have just imitated the hordes of fashionable fangirls and announced that I am in a bit of a headspace because of my Continuing Great And Tooby Love For Frodo. Everybody would understand, and be able to place me, and be happy with the little boxes all around. Excuse me. I'll just go and bury myself in books I've each read already, since anything more challenging is clearly too much for me, but some shreds of dignity there are that I will stick to.

I hate needing comfort. I hate hate hate being such a coward. And I just hit something I should not have and messed up my keyboard settings.

Now that the deluge is past, random thoughts stagger and swirl behind it in the drown-drown-drowning stream like bits of debris left over. Acceptance of people would be one ability to make a difference. We need so much more unconditional acceptance in this world, and I cannot even accept one single me, far less extend selfless acceptance to others...

...And even then, if only one could just live, live well, and be nice, and bring laughter into the world, and happiness. But I cannot even that. Not even simple pleasures and simple services to others. I am not made that way. I am made for pain and fire and light and darkness and too much, too much obsession. And (just another way of saying what I have said all along this year, and last year) it is getting too late to change, when not even arrived at one\s original truths in the first place...

...I think of fulfillment - in death, in the ending of a story, in happilyeverafter, in death at its proper time, in heaven, and the worst thing is, all I can do is think of it and cry, because it is not here. There is no joy here at all, and so all descriptions of it, of satisfaction, of exaltation, of fulfillment, stab into me like knives and make me cry like an idiot. I cannot bear them and yet cannot stay away from them. I fear of wallowing in such emotions needlessly, but I cannot stay away from feeling at least the mirror image of joy - the hopeless longing for it.

21 Dec 03: Waking Up at Dog Hour

I suppose this counts as the 21st, even if it generally wouldn't in my timetables - I've slept since nine in the evening, after all. It's now a quarter to four am; I woke up about an hour ago and finally gave in and got up, when even crocheting long-winded and personally un-shippy hobbit smut in my head did not result in oblivion. (I don't know what it is about thinking up word-by-word - ahem - fantasies, but it is the surest way of sending myself to sleep.)

Ten More Rants on a Post-ROTK Night:
(I know I'm getting formulaic - but the formula helps me get at least some words out...)

1. I can't believe I forgot the lighting of the signal fires. There was a collective, LONG drawn-out gasp in the audience at that.

2. As I thought, the slashers are partying like rabid bunnies. I so despair of some people - or would, if I gave a damn. Why must all love be equalled with lust and nothing but? Has the world turned into a hegemony of giggling twelve-year-old girls? And what is it with girls and male slash anyway???

3. The cats are finally making admirable process at peace and co-operation (Anni brought Tuikku home from Kaustinen three days ago). As I came to the dining room, they were quite amiably sleeping in the same armchair, which was a first. Good. I had this small nagging worry that Zenya would never get used to other cats after her traumatic experiences before. So why are they now pretending it never happened and they just want to beat each other to pulp?

4. I suppose part of the disappointment must be projection about having to let go of this level of nearness to the story (even if the actualization isn't too perfect... it's close enough).

5. Must have chocolate. Now.

6. There are things in our fridge that were supposed to be taken out with pincers and destroyed in high-danger toxical labs two months ago, and Dad and Satu-Tuutu are coming to visit today. So you know what I'm going to be doing in my morning hours, eh?

7. Much of the slash problem seems to be because of lack of context: it has come to me during the interviews and fan reactions that Americans simply cannot figure out the aspect of class distinctions in the story. Of course the extents of love and loyalty the characters go to look suspicious if you don't understand that it's mostly loyalty between master and servant, or liegelord and sworn subject (or, in another tangent, the friendship of heroic epics). From reading other books, it seems to me that these sworn relationships are the sort that survived, even were strengthened by, wars particularly well, and Tolkien, a Brit who fought in WWI, probably observed such relationships firsthand. I suppose such inequality is too much of an anathema even to take up in America - but without it, you are seriously hampered in trying to understand medieval-ish stories, and then you get wound up in otherwise twisty motivations. And it annoys me. Okay, so maybe I do give a damn. But I shouldn't.

8. Which does not mean that I see it as impossible that Frodo and Sam, or Merry and Pippin, might have sought physical solace in each other. It just would not make them gay persons. And with the other characters, I can't see it at all (sure, we can always theorize what elves get up to in all their millennia, but that has no relevance at all to the actual story). Gay, bi, whatever, is fine and dandy, if it is there. But it isn't. There are many other fine fantasy books in which it is. Can't one read them instead?

9. Must stop getting wound up about this. Howsabout that chocolate?

10. I have an unhappy suspicion that I will come to feel I am in the wrong cast of the two for Ruusu ja Risti. This has the potential to become seriously annoying. I don't know what to hope for, or how to deal if bad comes to worst.

(One extra, for good measure)11. I'm pondering on, in the future, including in my LARP applications some examples of people I have good chemistry with, and people I have negative chemistry with. No, it's not just selfishness; it's to make it more rewarding for everyone. Different examples of good chemistry: Jori (though he has an ability to have good game chemistry with almost everyone). Jukka (because we're close enough). Tiuku. Wolven. Antti H. Mike. Example of non-chemistry: Anni (because we're too close, just like actual sisters - sure we can play together, it's just not very stimulating). There are others, but even if it's really not about their niceness or attractiveness or lack of same, I started but decided not to list them in public for fear of being misunderstood anyway.

20 Dec 03: Eighteen Moments I Loved in That Pesky Movie

Bah. After a night in front of the computer with my conscience nabbing at me, I decided I had to do this, for balance and also because it deserves as much. So much. I'm not even sure I can remember enough to do it justice. Probably not.

1. When Gandalf bursts onto the palace's courtyard in Minas Tirith, that first sweeping look on it and down.

2. The last lines between Elrond and Aragorn when the former brings the sword and the latter accepts it. A true flash of the occasional Jackson genius: the cleverest, wisest, most-obscure-but-getting-it-so-right textual reference in the whole movie.

3. The stubbornness of "dwarves".

4. The look of Minas Morgul, with the Witch-King perching high above his troops (it never made sense to me that he rode that trip on a horse in the book; why, with the fell steeds available?).

5. The Morgul troops still marching out below after hours and hours of climbing for Frodo et al.

6. Pippin leaning on the railing, gazing out above Minas Tirith.

7. Pippin singing for Denethor.

8. That the Tower of Cirith Ungol sequence was included.

9. Legolas and the mumak. I know, I know. I am ashamed, but unrepentant.

10. Frodo's speech of the wheel of fire at the mountain.

11. That (see yesterday) Jackson did not pull back a single inch in portraying the deeply emotional ties between the characters.

12. "For Frodo!" Because I love Frodo so much it breaks my heart, and want him to be remembered in everything, in and out of story.

13. The smiles (and, in Sam's and Frodo's case, the non-) in the sequence where Frodo wakes at Minas Tirith. And, I hesitate to admit but will, the clothes.

14. Legolas being even more strikingly beautiful than before. (Yes, I was surprised at the extent of my own fangirlishness. But still unrepentant.)

15. Aragorn singing the Oath of Elendil. Oh, Viggo.

16. That Kiss (see yesterday). Like a drowning man who suddenly breaks into air. So perfect.

17. That Smile at the end - that true, perfect, relieved and at the same time loving smile. Oh Elijah, if only you could have been ten years older and more mature for this part... you would have made movie history all by yourself...

18. Knowing that there is going to be an Extended Edition. Almost worth staying alive for another year.

There. One more than in the list of complaints (which were not even that, all of them), so it should be okay. I wanted to add something about Rohan, but PJ seems to love them quite enough all by himself...

(...Later, still in front of the computer, unslept:)
Nine Random Observations in the Post-ROTK Blues

1. It's actually just like the aftereffects of those rare physical encounters with A Certain Someone. Something to live for, to die for... and in the end, a vaguely disappointed and empty feeling that leaves one looking for meaning on several levels and matters, finding nothing but uncertainty and longing mixed with a curious, fatalistic calm.

2. Despite fandom.goddess CassieClaire's differing claims, there is such a thing as entertaining and even touching (no pun intended) hobbit smut.

3. I still think Jackson (mostly) recognized and followed the spirit of the story, its world and its themes. Therefore, I consider his films a worthy adaptation, even if not the true epiphany I, and many, hoped for.

4. Slash may be artistically exquisite and sometimes even non-boring, but even then it just doesn't make me feel tingly. This results, to the shame of my cosmopolitan, broad-minded soul, in somewhat apologetic relief.

5. I love Frodo. Utterly. And, just like with Star Wars and Luke Skywalker in my teens, it is the Frodo of my mind's worlds, not the one on film. And it has always been Frodo, ever since I was eight.

6. No, I do not feel unusually drawn towards small men with hairy feet. Not that height has ever been much of an issue for me in any case. Personally, I'd still prefer an elf. Frodo is a special case. Frodo transcends divisions of race and even gender (though I actually adore stories where he is - believably, and with other hobbits, please - portrayed as deliciously male).

7. I can't believe I just said that.

8. I can't believe I went and read hobbit smut, for that matter.

9. Mostly, I've been thinking how all joy, happiness and beauty actually is just as fleeting as cliches put it. It's never there but it's already over. So in effect, you can't really have it at all, only memories of it. So, again... what is the point? Of living, of pursuing the nonexistent? Of anything?

19 Dec 03: Seventeen Useless Opinions on ROTK

Spoilers.

1. It is not as good as it could have been.

2. Too much noise and action, too little closure on character arcs.

3. It is not as good as it should have been.

4. All that is noble about Denethor is in the actor's name.

5. Sean Astin rules, which is bloody unfair.

6. You can see the rush job in the editing choices. That is what you get for over-fiddling and procrastinating in the hope of getting it Just Right, Peter. Sorry.

7. Merry and Faramir get really short shift, which might be seen as Jackson pandering to the lowest common taste and admitting that they don't make as pleasing mug shots as the rest.

8. Arwen becoming mortal physically? A mortal suffering from the existence of the Ring while it is thousands of kilometres away? Excuse me?

9. Now you see I was right. Elijah Wood was too young to make much of perpetual suffering, nor is Jackson nuanced enough as a director to coax out of him the heartbreaking poignancy of the true Frodo - not during the quest, not after.

10. WTF is up with the greatest citadel of a race of millennial citadel- builders coming apart like a house of cards with just about three stones?

11. The slashers will have a field day (heck, probably a field year). Well, at least Jackson did not stint on the deep emotional stuff in fear of them, for which he is forgiven much.

12. Billy Boyd shines. I am in awe. And the man can sing, too!

13. Elephants can't run at speed. Even more long-legged elephants even less.

14. That Kiss is spot-on. Just one more thing in which Viggo rules. Can the man do nothing poorly??

15. It probably will not get the Oscars everyone, even in Hollywood, honestly hoped for it.

16. I can almost forgive even the less-than-sublime portrayal of Frodo because of that last, perfect smile. (But not quite.)

17. I did not hate it. It just was not worth living for (which is how I used it for the two preceding days). And it should, and could, have been so. I feel like I'd been in a funeral for someone in the prime of their life who was hit by a truck, leaving two perfectly sweet children and a slew of incomprehending family and friends.

(After two days of being propped up and taken care of by Paula, and a warm, relaxing evening at Qttiland.)

17 Dec 03: On the Edge, Unbalanced

I have not written much, I know. I guess I've been waiting, dreading for something like this to happen. The money thing has finally fallen on me crushingly. I have none, moreover, will have none. I'm tired, worn out, scared to death of being frowned on, and pretty much all the way to giving up. There's just no way to go on any more.

The SCA event was okay, but I realized I expected far too much of it socially. Oh blast it, let's just be honest, what does it matter any more? I had faint hopes, or perhaps only wishes, of some romantical associations. Well, there was none, naturally. This is me we're talking about, after all - old, fat, weird, loser me.

Return of the King was not as good as it should have been.

I don't know when I will write next, or if I will. If I don't, have a sweet and safe Christmas, all of you.

(Yes, I realize this is exactly where we were a year ago, except that then there was still some hope. Nothing, nothing has got better in all this year of therapy and medication. I am not fit to live.)

11 Dec 03: Oh Drag

Went to sleep at nine in the morning "just for a moment, to get rid of the headache". Woke finally around four. No phone business, no therapy, no bloody use. Besides, the nightmares were quite exceptional (so much so that I definitely do take exception to them).

Well, at least a good dinner is waiting.

I really am afraid that someone will get my tax return slip at that wrong address, open it and somehow manage to wrangle it to themselves from the post office. I know it's not probable, but even the slightest possibility is horrible.

Can't do anything about it now, anyway. So to shower and moving, I suppose.

(Later) I'm so stuffed. The food was fabulous, and now I feel like I immediately gained back every single ounce I've lost by the happy chance of not having had anything to eat in the house (except chicken soup, of course; there is always the chicken soup). I also got a ride to the SCA event, and now that that most pressing problem is out of the way, I'm panicking about what to wear. I've raided Anni's and Lin's closets already (unfortunately, most of their Viking-era costume stuff is with them at Kaustinen). (And anyway, I'd like something else to weat besides the Viking stuff, anyway, and all my costumes are in questionable condition... just like their owner.)

Will hopefully be getting my computer working this weekend, if Kalle finds the time to help me.

10 Dec 03: Payback Time

Okay. So it still goes like this. Pay for a couple of energetic days with falling into deep hibernation, emerging only for a couple of hours between midnight and sunrise, as alienated from ordinary humankind as the proverbial Creature of the Night. (Well, maybe not proverbial, but... well, you get the context. Not that I ever got any closer to gothic-punk than the obligatory LARP chronicle, and even there my character is about as reluctant a bloodsucker as you can get.)

Now that vampires came up, I was reminded that I should finish that self-indulgent Buffy crossover daydream I started far too long ago. Not that it has a single literary merit to its credit, but it bugs me that I never get a story finished, not even a Mary Sue with full complements of souled-vampire hotness. Oh yeah, that reminded me of that Legolas daydream last year... unfinished, naturally. I'm hopeless. I can't write down anything except trash, and then I can't be motivated even to finish it because it's trash.

Hm. Was that enough self-flagellation for four days, do you think? Tsk. Me neither. Oh well, of course these past three days that weren't, also happened to be the sort of days when I absolutely needed to be awake and on the phone at office hours for several different reasons, of which the first and foremost spot is shared by the tax return issue and applying for more therapy money for next year. Right at their heels comes the Faerun date thingy, to get it finally back on track and the signup opened.

All right, all right, there were some tiny positive signs in this as well: the energy/sleep ratio is getting better. A week and a half of energy, four days of sleep. Let's say 11/4, compared to the old 1/3. Definitely in the right direction. Also, the book that Q-Heli got me really was compelling and comprised most of my entertainment during those rare waking hours. Even though it was romantic fantasy novel with an intelligent, beautiful, special heroine, it managed not to make her irritating or unbelievable. I mean, how often do you read a novel that fits those criteria where, at the end, you have a very vague picture of what the heroine actually looked like, because, as befit her character, as a narrator she just was not interested in describing that at length? Very refreshing. Kushiel's Dart by Jacqueline Carey, if anyone else wants to read a 1000-page alternate history/fantasy novel about a likeable masochist-courtesan that has some echoes of Guy Gavriel Kay. (Oddly enough, I found the parts having to do with her chosen profession rather un-titillating - may be because despite being a submissive, my interest in actual pain is very limited. For most, this same effect may actually enhance the reading experience: the book does not dwell on the descriptions overmuch.)

As to last weekend's parties: managed to rush through Aarne's party to P&P's Presidential ball judging and the most delicious cocktail food ever, made by Paula and Kaisa, ended up in Sopulilaakso's pre-Christmas party as planned. Loved meeting old friends. Couldn't dance more than two songs in a run before getting exhausted. Offered Dare a spot to sleep, ended up at a nice lunch on Sunday at Santa Fe. Came home and fell to hibernation.

...Then, the dreams I've had! Unbelievable. Completely unbelievable.

Tomorrow, that official business is a must. Then to therapy, then to Olli's place for a Christmas party with Mom, as P&P are going to be in Italy for Christmas (delayed honeymoon). On Friday, I'm going to an SCA party in Poukka - the Dies St. Anna that I actually gave start to, coming up with the idea to name their first dance event after Baroness Anna, as the party happened to be on Anna's nameday. But that was in '96, I think, and no-one remembers my contribution now... (You can't see it, but I'm pouting cutely here.) Let's just hope I get a ride, as it's literally behind the middle of nowhere. It's really nice to go to an event, again.

Hm. I clearly am awake, again. I feel the need to open up about a couple of things, and I haven't exactly been the model of openness in this diary lately, either. Have you noticed that I tend to write less when I don't want to write about some particular subject, claiming general unwillingness (which, not to mistake, is a real reason just as often)? And then, at some stage or another, it comes out anyway?

Okay. So. Listening to Maija Vilkkumaa (I got it into my head to arrange the CD's that reside in Kalle's beautiful old glass-front cabinet, as it really irks me when they're out of their covers and Eru knows where) and thinking. First, that I really should listen to more music, especially some with good lyrics, and it might even wake my dried-up lyrical springs. Perhaps (a very doubtful perhaps, but it's not that much to try). Second, that I really don't know if I am as well over A Certain Someone as I triumphantly claimed - or maybe I am, and that's exactly it: I'm simply feeling the effect of actually realizing it deep in my bones (as noted, not being in love does not agree with me at all, and I've been plagued by this particular dream, no matter how insubstantial and conflicted, for two and a half years, after all). In other, more simple words: I've been thinking about him more than expected, and feeling melancholy and defeated for reasons undetermined.

An inevitable drawback to writing a public diary (at least, it seems, this particular diary) is that it affects how people relate to me. I wish it didn't, but it does, and I fear to notice it once again, when putting down this stuff. I fear that he will read this and decide to distance himself again. I fear that people will see me as too attached to him to be of any fun in any other company (which is about as far from truth as it gets). Silly fears, you may say, but that's how people are. Still, if there is no truth, there is no point to writing at all.

Luckily, there are people in the world who make me feel better - easier, and more attractive. Dare is one of those. We find it hard to communicate on a meaningful level except very rarely, which I regret, but I find him brilliant and lovable (as, naturally, do many others), and it's nice to know that he finds me at least cute and sweet, if difficult. Sometimes nothing heals as much as being able to communicate wordless closeness, just like that.

Besides, he offered me a possible sewing job, which also helps a lot...

I just realized that I have a problem to solve with my hair for the weekend - the colour's not exactly suitable, and I hate headscarves. Hm. Will see. (Yes, I re-coloured it, and as I predicted, it became more pink than red - not that it looks bad at all. Just not very compatible with the Middle Ages.)

Zenya the Cat has decided that when I'm in front of the computer, absolutely nothing else will do than my lap (aided by the fact that I have a habit of sitting with one leg bent under). I just realized she's here again, but I haven't the faintest memory of her arrival. I haven't been able to teach her not to come between me and my book when I'm reading in bed, either (that's really a drag). She's also pretty averse to having her nails trimmed, but those are pretty much her only faults. Some cats are just surreally cute.

06 Dec 03: Conflicted Feelings

A backlash day: tired, reluctant, confused. Should already be up and about, instead, hanging undecidedly in front of the computer, feeling cold and grumpy. Deeply thankful of living in an independent country, but ashamed of that leading logically to supporting the obligatory armed service that I, personally, am glad not to have been forced to take.

Took the emode IQ test that noticed some people referring to a couple of weeks or months ago. First ever full IQ test for me, too (I've never either a) had the opportunity b) dared). Got 140. Is that good or bad, or just okay? It would be nice to know how I did in the parts that require a high skill in the English language, and how that would compare in doing the whole test in Finnish, because there were a few questions there that I wasn't too sure of. As to all those number sequences, I already know that I suck at those. I really don't have that automatic skill some people seem to have with them; I just can't see the mathematical functions. Luckily, at least this particular test didn't have many of those.

Slept late and had the most incredible sci-fi adventures; was woken at a critical moment by the phone, and probably was rather cross at poor Heli as a result. When I tried to remember the dream in detail, a lot of it seemed rather drab and haphazard, but the emotions in the story were extremely charged. And, again, it all weaved in and out of being a larp, and again, it happened in Savonlinna. What is it about that place that I return there so often now; at least once a week, it seems?

Must go and shower and then start moving towards P&P's party, maybe try and meet Aarne&co and congratulate him on the white hat on the way.

05 Dec 03: People Day

No money today either. Bummer. And naturally today had to be the sort of day when I wake up far into the afternoon and never get anything done, at least not in the department of official business.

Instead, I spent the afternoon with Jukka in a pub in Malmi, trying to ignore the aborigines while drinking bad glögi and catching up (especially over games, but otherwise too). Evening was reserved for Topi and Heli and lots of conversation. I also got a book that Heli assured I'd like... I'm looking forward to it.

The day was freezing, so it was lovely to have a sauna. My hair turned far less orange in only one wash, and I fear the goth colour I bought is going to turn out too pink now. Oh well, I'll just keep approximating towards the ruby I'm looking for until I get there.

Been eating a little and moving a lot. That's the way to go.

04 Dec 03: Dude, Where's The Money?

No tax returns on my account today. I wonder if there's a problem somewhere... perhaps they have messed up my address or something, as I never received a tax card I asked for a couple of weeks ago, either. Must call about it tomorrow.

Heli was here today to have an angst-filled meeting over Faerun. We're now exactly at the stage where there are many vague-ish character concepts, but too few concrete details - those will only come with time and deliberate thought, and with many new characters, we've only just started all that. So panic is at its highest and most desperate. It'll be a good game, still. I feel strangely trusting about that.

Had therapy, then wandered around a bit and went for dinner and coffee with Jori. Got home and watched Everwood after a break of several episodes. Nice evening, all in all.

Tired now. Slept fitfully last night, oddly enough. Lots of things to do tomorrow. Bed. King Rat is turning out oddly addictive.

03 Dec 03: Reasonably Energetic

Despite being obstinately incommunicado, I've been up and about. Monday and today, I was a good girl and worked myself to sweat to free our poor long-suffering excuse of a lawn from suffocating under maple and ash leaves we had not managed to gather away in proper time. Now I learned through quite thorough experience why it should be done earlier and not later - not only are the black, wet leaves forbiddingly ugly, they are also remarkably heavy. I used a shovel most of the time. I feel very proud of my accomplishments, even if they only took three hours all in all.

I've also made appointments with several friends whom I've really wanted to see lately. And on Independence Day, Paula and Petri are having a party - cocktails and watching the Presidential ball. I am really looking forward to being social, for a change.

Got bored with my dark roots, and since I am not going to bleach my hair a single time more, I finally used that bottle of red mousse I bought in the summer. Despite my faint hopes otherwise, it turned my hair bright orange - Pippi Longstrump -carroty. Awful. It seriously doesn't suit me. Luckily, tax returns should be in any day now, and I can try to rectify the situation with one of those goth colours. Even a firetruck red would be better - actually, much better. I don't know if I can hope for a ruby red yet, but this orange is not to be born.

The tax returns should help a bit with the money situation, though not much - perhaps only enough to let me get on top of the more immediate concerns. Even so, that's much better than nothing.

Had coffee with Inka, chatted about games and life and such. Now should get sewing, but feel much more like watching more Two Towers extras...

Finally got email back from Nina in Hong Kong. Felt good.

Oh, and Tomi: thank you, dear, dear creature. Friends like you are a rare and precious breed.

(Yes, I know the red is very bright, but it's for Christmas. Besides, it'll get easier when there's enough text to fill the page. And besides, it's my page and my red, so there!)

This seems to be another day of short, scattered notes... I borrowed Mieville's first novel, King Rat, from Paula, and started it on the way home today. So far, it reads like a deliberate re-take on Neverwhere with exponentially nastier atmosphere. I'm looking forward to it becoming something of its own.