perfect

This is a post about perfection.

Okay, so when I was a 5-year-old, my dad asked me why I use the word "hate".
You know, like kids do it, "I hate this", "I hate that", "I hate peas", et cetera.
So he said, why not say "dislike".
He told me the word "hate" had a lot of negative energy, for me and for others, using a word that strong, that powerful.
So I dropped it, and I don't use it.
I just don't.
I rarely, rarely - rarely - close enough to almost say "never", feel strong enough to "hate" anything, at all.
Strong dislike? Sure.
Hate? No.

I will now.
I hate this search for "perfect", or "perfection".
I hate it.
The Perfect Wedding, the Perfect Man, the PERFECT holiday, the PERFECT dress, the PERFECT hair, the PERFECT PERFECTION.
Seriously.

(.. keep going with me.)

The thing is.
To seek perfection or to seek The Perfect person or state, implies that at some point we get to stop working, and stop growing.
It implies that at some point change will stop occurring.
Therefore, it implies the arrival of stagnation.
Blissful (I'm sure), yet stupid stagnation.
Almost like a catatonic state.

The question is not whether "perfect" exists in this world or not.
I don't care.
The point is that we simply do not - and honestly do not - need it.
We don't need it.
It does us no good.
No good, at all, as living, breathing, sweating, bleeding human beings.
We are alive.
This implies not being stagnant! Ever.
Stagnation in human beings implies a flat-line.
No heartbeat, no blood pressure, no cells growing, and renewing.
Perfection makes us strive for a goal, an end-point, when we really should have two eyes focused on the journey.
This magical, awesome, brilliant journey.
Also called Life.
There is no "perfect", there is no end point.

There is just the boundless giving random-ness of the great Universe kaleidoscope.

Perfect has nothing to do with it.


It's like this phrase: Picture Perfect.
But you know what? It's also un-alive.
And I come at this as someone who has the highest regard for the art of photography, photographers and photos.
I really do value it as an art and respect it, but real life?
Real life is not picture perfect.
This endless talk about - this looks perfect, and that looks perfect.
Fine for selling something, an advertisement, or dolls, and of course snapshots of our memories.
But we cannot be Picture Perfect because we are alive.
And that is magical.
And I don't see why anyone would ever want to change that.
Change the magic of being alive for giving into the hunt for this rigidity.

We are alive, so alive.
Perfection cannot be duplicated.
Maybe newborns are perfect?
Maybe the fact that the sun rises and sets, is perfect?
Maybe flower-like frost on a window, is perfect?
Or maybe laughing till you cry with friends?
But it cannot be manufactured.
It happens.
Maybe it exists after-all.
But to chase it would be certain death for the living cell.

It just Is.
We just Are.

So let's just Be.

Yours truly.
Love and light, as always.
M.

always this way

And may I   a l w a y s   be this way.

I hope you've had a most lovely weekend.
I know mine has been.
(Covered in paint and loveliness.)

Tomorrow is a day to get over being snotty, sort some stuff for a work meeting on Wednesday and you know. Blah blah = life.
Point is, I wanna be covered in paint some more, and I wanna sing.

Yours truly.
M.

see it in your eyes

Rainy Monday morning.

What a cover, ladies and gentlemen.
M.

Серге́й Васи́льевич Рахма́нинов

This day has just been "ugh"

It's been a fabulous-fabulous day really, from beginning to afternoon, then to the middle and the evening, to the very pleasant female-filled end.
Dad made some sweet food, then went and saw the fire-lights-candle-whatever show in one of the beautiful parks in Tallinn with some friends, and then ended up on M's sofa chatting, eating chocolate. I mean, sweet. A sweet day.
But there's still been so much "ugh" seeping out, from everywhere.

My head feels like Rachmaninov's 3rd piano concerto (which in itself is nothing new at all). No movements in particular, just all of it. From beginning to end. If by any chance anyone who will ever happen to read this will have listened to the whole thing, you can relate.
To those who haven't (and I recommend it soooo hard if you can stomach classical music, not all recordings are good though...), it is brilliant and great fun (if it can be called that), but it's intense. And somewhat, like, thick. Over-filled.
It is my absolute favourite piece of classical music or just music or anything ever, but I don't really fancy my own brain feeling like that, from cell to cell.

So that's where we're at.
I wish I had some aloe-vera juice which makes stuff so much better.
But I don't have any.

And I wish I would know a few things which I don't know at the moment, and can't really find out either.
Or maybe I could, but I'm just reluctant.

I want to game. My PS2 and Lara Croft would do.

And I want this flat so much I could actually weep. It is so perfect, for me. It's tiiiiiiiny. Tiny tiny tiny. But what else would I need? I only need a tiny amount of space.
And I don't want to post any pictures because that would only make it worse.
And I'd like to curl up there, in my one room of 26 sq m, and eat ice-cream. Estonian ice-cream. Jesus this is getting so so so
But I can't get it right now, and I really wish, really hope it will not be gone in a few months or so, when I could actually start looking at it properly, but. "ugh". You see? "ugh" crept in.

So.
I wrote a letter. Which in a perfect-hypothetical world would have a use. But in this one it doesn't.


There are so many good people, and I like that.
But I don't like unpredictable behaviour. I ♥ control, or whatever.
No, actually, I don't heart control. It's not control, it's just, with some things I prefer knowing where I stand.
The rest of it can go however it wants to go and three cheers and an absolute whatever to it.

Letters and Rachmaninov.
I ♥ my cat.
Head ööd.
M.