"The Dead Man's Diary": web.vtheatre.net
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My dreams are more dramatic than my daytime dreaming. I wake up from the world I wish to stay in. I stop recording them -- too much. As if I live there...
10.5.04. Every night. Sometime several times each night. I am lost. From one place to another. Only the strangers around. Russia? And I have no place to go... "This is how my father felt before he died" -- I think in my dream.
SummaryDo you want to see what is my year about? Read the webpages -- everything is out there.
QuestionsI am angry. I know it. I am angry all the time. Why? Maybe because of this webbing? Am I angry at all of them out there -- angry at myself for serving them? But why do I do it? Do I seek their attention? What for? I watch the mumbers grow -- two-three thousand a day? What does it mean, even if that many read what I write? I am not happy with WHAT I write! How could I? I know how real writing looks like -- I read real books...
NotesHow different this year from 2003? The continuety is easier to notice. I am webbing. The pages are doubled in size. Oh, yes, there are new pages and even new directories -- new plays to direct... The Taming of the Shrew, Oedipus -- and the pages that are born, when you are doing adaptations.
My father died. "Antohins" is about the end of the line. As if I am dead too.
... and in Russian?
Well, I do not know. I simply keep doing it. Sometimes, like at this very moment, I have no sense of directions...
Maybe this all is for nothing.
Another year -- and the other year ahead. I know that I do not come with the texts that stand on their own. It's notes only, nothing to come back...
Life is strange. How difficult to make sense of it.
I look back -- 2003, what was this year? What for? What is left? What was done? What is to remember? What is to come back to?
The same sensation as in my youth, the passing time. Passing by, through me, and I feel it in my chest, where the heart is... Never stops, never slows down this stream. My own life is passing me by...
2007 -- I try to record what I do...
This page is perhaps the last time I try to have "diary"..."Speak so even the most lowly can understand you, and the rest will have no trouble." -- Abraham Lincoln
Every day I write. I do it for many hours every day. I do it online. A lot of my writing is very personal. Especially, when it comes to nonfiction of any page in "write" directories.
Maybe "diary" as a genre is dead. Phone and photo killed it. We record everything. We over-record our little lives.
There is nothing to write about -- this is the feeling I had fourty years ago. Maybe the boy was right.
5.3.04. I close my eyes. I want to keep them closed. I do not want to see what is coming my way. I know it's wrong. I should face it. The future. The next day. The day without any promice. I used up all my breaks. Doesn't matter if I don't give myself a break, life won't.
How do I know it? I don't -- I feel it.
The most depressing -- even if I will get it, I won't notice it. It won't change my sense of myself, the sense of the free fall. Nobody knows it (this is enough to understand how alone I am), the silent fall...
It's different from what I felt in the past. "It couldn't be true," and I would get up to fight again. "It is true," now, "This is it."
Age is a part of it. I didn't get it -- the summary. I am not getting it. It = life.
"Okay" -- what is hurting me. I never understood it, but this is what my life is -- okay...
It's four in the morning, the sky is getting light -- white nights. The day of labor behind, another -- ahead. It was sunny, bright sunday -- and worked on the land, cleaning, burning, two of us, I and Esther. Long, beautiful day, with the kids, driving in late, and the sick dog, sad. I should write a poem, but I don't.
On the horisont, behind the hills, the sky is rosy, above it blue -- no, you won't miss me. Nobody wouldn't notice that I never was born. I respect this indifference, but it's hard to die.
I have more readers than I even had -- a few thousands a day. What readers? They come for my stupid pages on film, acting, directing... It's not me! I feel like I back to Moscowthirty years ago, when I wanted to run away from myself and my writings -- where could I run now? Alaska is the last "frontier"! Sure, I am contradicting myself, I know it...
4.30.04. Worked on Tarkovsky Page; what a contrast with my own life! The importance to stay focused, mind your own business. I was and am all over; as a result -- nothing is completed, finished, perfected. Nothing will survive.
Diary of a Webman
Raugh periodization: 1998-2000 = learning HTML, 2000-2004 = making pages for use by mylsef. 2004 and after = to use WITHOUT me, after me... No need for diary...
anatoly.live.com + antohin.wp.com
I am losing my interest in what I started (left -- biomechanics). I am good only for the initial stage of everything... Why?
Ideas I love.
To follow up, to work, to continue? No, I want to move to something else...
I am surprised that I stuck with the Internet for so long!
No, I do not understand this stage of my life...
Look at the ads! Wow! Am I depressed? Suicidal? They are ready to sell something for this state of mind as well. Every thought about life and death, about time must be cured! Why not simply every thought. Period.
The future doesn't belong to humans.
2007 -- Preservation of mortality : How would we live without death? ...
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