Routines

As you can see, lady, I'm trying. It's not as easy as it used to be though. Switched most of the talk about movies and books to one of the blogs I write for, and the political gibberish to another. That leaves the personal and emotional bollocks, but that's no longer taking much blog space, is it? The truth is, somehow I no longer feel like writing about it here. I feel it to be pointless. You know: eventually talking doesn't help us any more. Writing still does, in its own peculiar way, but not here. I don't feel like whining any more. I start talking about myself and everything is so fucking boring that I get bored of writing, so I can't imagine how bored anyone would feel while reading it. I suppose the blog needs some sort of adrenaline shot, something to give it its meaning back, to revive it. Anyway. The friday picture of a band will continue, yes, and it must continue. It's a routine I'm trying to establish here. Routines are important, even essential. Writing, truth be told, is a routine. So is reading. By the way: read this. It's perhaps the most brilliant thing I've read in a while in the blog world. If somehow you, my dear reader, cannot read portuguese and the translation add-on of Firefox or Chrome is not working well, allow me to give it a shot, knowing that it won't do justice to the original:

I had a friend who said to live vicariously through me. That was not true: neither my live was exciting enough, nor his life was tedious enough to justify such appropriation of someone's existance. Truth be told, that can never be true. Instead what commonly happens is to live vicariously through the lives we used to have, through the people we used to know, through the dreams we used to dream, etc. Mistake it not for nostalgia, for nostalgia implies a degree of awareness of the time that passed. It's rather a feeling of faint anachronism, one that we feel not to have the strenght - or the will - to solve. (from here, my crappy translation)