Life becomes such a routine of everyday activities and I hardly take time to write.

I’m getting less and less sentimental. Sometime purposely using vulgar words, talking dirty, or even swearing the hell out of somebody lightens me up when I’m moody, till I start to detest myself. But generally speaking a bit of fundamental difference from “what you think you are”, or from “what you normally do” is truly a relief. It is almost like acting. A taste of others. Life is a drama itself anyways — we are already acting according to… who knows what.

I have grown to understand the reason of your act, and I have grown to forgive both myself and my hatred towards certain things. That I call, a reconciliation with the past.

I started to think how I couldn’t stand Leonard Cohen anymore. I put on one of my old time favorites and immediately realized why. The rhythm, the lyrics, the instruments he chose to use, all sound so… pretentious. As if I could see a man putting on a purposely wrecked look, wooing a woman with dances… I felt almost disgusted.

Then I started to read Waits’ lyrics. That really hooked me. It is the gloominess that I see in myself. Reflected first upon his coarse voice, the super low-fi sound of the instruments, his magical beats, I then turned to the lyrics, each a poem of its own kind. Gloomy but not sad, depressed but not desperate, sighing without moaning, drinking but sober — that’s the spirit. Liking his music is almost as if liking a particular part of me, a rather bleak part of me.

Pookie got sick a few days ago. She wasn’t able to jump, nor to run. She wouldn’t even meow to us. We thought she was dying and were very sad. Then her owner came and took her to see a vet. After a couple of days on medicine, she seems now recovered.

Tom Waits: Telephone Call From Istanbul (Frank’s Wild Years)