So I'm home. I'm in a place I really thought I had come to detest. Home is beautiful; home is familiar; home is nurturing and comforting. It's clean and warm and refreshing. It impels me to rebuild myself. I can go anywhere I want. I can run errands. I can exist on my own terms. I am free to be, and to be happy ( Read more... )

I didn't think I'd return to the journal after the completion of the assignment, but I have ( Read more... )

I touched upon this in a previous entry, but my thoughts on the subject have evolved a bit. Giving credit where it's due, it came about because of some class discussions, readings, etc. My place in the world. Not just that; one's place in the world ( Read more... )

INT. NINA'S APT. - DAY ( Read more... )

It's a peculiar thing, that when I'm down about something, I get really, really down about it. On top of that, I turn it into a strong state of self-deprecation. And in that, I derive, in some way, some feeling of pleasure, in seeing myself at an emotional low. Instead of just trying to work myself out of it, I dig deeper into whatever petty grief ( Read more... )

So any failed attempt to have affection reciprocated throws me into a seemingly irreversible fit of self-consciousness, embarrassment and inaction. It's the extremes again. If this person does not desire me, then I cannot be with anyone I will ever desire ( Read more... )

If the creation of art is the necessary sublimation of a regressed person, then what happens with failed art? Does that makes things worse? Is it sublimation at all? Is it further regression ( Read more... )

Tonight I saw "Mad Love," directed by Karl Freund and starring Peter Lorre. Certain questions came up during the film, however I haven't fully digested Psychoanalysis enough to answer them fittingly. We had begun discussing how the actress is someone who is reanimating the dead female, and this has to be relevant in relation to Yvonne. Additionally ( Read more... )

Couple years ago I read a cute little book called Ways of Seeing by John Berger. When I was taking a few summer classes at Columbia in NYC, a friend of mine handed it to me after the day's Art History lecture ( Read more... )

Ever been so inexplicably frustrated that you start imagining violent acts of torture, murder, and destruction unfold around you? Thankfully, my fear that this kind of reckless abandon was unique to me (which may therefore inspire me to question my sanity) was acknowledged and sympathized wih by a friend. She was feeling the same way in school ( Read more... )