do people seriously still belive in hell?/ persistance of the soul/ liberation in friendship

Hey! Here's another letter to Emili for my records and your curious eyes:

There's this horrible oppressivee mist on everything, it's sluggish, like the heat of the jungle, it's not cold and ice-blasting like chrystalline winter, it's just humid and rotten. It's shit summer weather.

The book you sent me is called "words of a believer" and is written by a Christian, inspired by literary fervour to impart his wisdoms to others. I imagine him, bright and jolly, pointing at everything and declaring it God's work. I've not read it yet, just skimmed through:
"when you see a man being led away to prison, do not be so hasty to say: "that's a man who's committed crimes against his fellow man"- because maybe he is infact a man who wanted to serve mankind, who is being punished by his oppressors for it."
There's also a passage comparing mankind to a hive of bees and urging us to share our honey with those bees in need. Well, I guess it makes sense.

I find it astounding that so many people sign up so wholeheartedly to religious doctrine. When one considers the entire world's human population, the nonbelievers are really in the minority. I'm up for keeping an open mind, but blindly following the rule book of one group or another seems to me as closed as shutting one's mind off entirely from the spiritual.

It's the whole "hell" thing that does it for me. I find it frightful that some of our friends, otherwise friendly and reasonable people, genuinely hold onto and absorb themselves in this belief which consigns us (me at least) to "hell"- to eternal punishment, while they anticipate a future of basking in divinal light and love for themselves! Can people seriously be so ridiculously stupid?
Perhaps organised religion will slowly die out over time, killed by modernity and the rationality of our mechanised, urban existance? In a way, it would be a shame.

I'm particulaly interested in tribal cultures and beliefs, voodoo for instance, the long-held belief in the power of "the spirits" and the dualism of our world co-existing alongside a spirtual world of the dead. I can't remember if I already wrote/spoke to  you about my experiences talking to a medium?

Are we really just a complex machine, powered by the brain? Surely we can't be solely made of physical, material stuff? There are studies which have measured the weight of the soul, a very slight reduction in mass after it leaves the body (or maybe just the weight of a death-exhalation?)
The dead body is made up of the same material stuff, just minus the "life energy". If I'm going to believe in anything, it's this: Something cannot become nothing. Every physical atom in the human body persists, just in another form- so why not the "life energy" too?
Perhaps God is just another word for all the "life energy" in the universe. It must be a steady amount, forever getting re-used and re-cycled.
If we're all a part of the same life energy, then I am you, and we are both my cat, or Elvis, or that tree over there...
Have I told you this theory already? I've become quite posessed by it.

I enjoyed your letter and use of adjectives: "mysterious looking man" Haha! I'm fascinated? I imagine him a crumbling, little wizard.

You said  you were in a strange, self-questioning emotional state? I understand what you mean, the pressure to behave in a certain way. For me, it seems that one must follow the codes of normal behaviour or else face exclusion, be pointed out and unmasked as "weird, anomylous, unwanted", an element hindering the smooth-running of the world. So I go around with my mind on the task at hand. Smile and laugh in the appropriate places, use the self-service machine at the supermarket, keep walking in the crowd, don't stop and stare, don't lie on the floor and look at the fluffy clouds, don't say words which pop into your head before they've been considered and approved... it's a stress.

We need to break free, but perhaps we need the right circumstances, the right partner-in-crime. Everything beomes easier when one becomes two- as with you and I when we would live out our whims: "Shall we get pierced? Shall we turn the internal urge into action and physical sensation? Shall we see what these people have to say, instead of just wondering?"
Of course, it is difficult to find someone to act as the external part of one's consciousness. One should hold onto it when one finds it.

I feel slightly guilty that at lot of my pain about M's death is selfish pain. I'm crying not just for him, but for what I've lost, like a child who's been denied it's favourite toy. But also the pain of losing oneself, through the other person.

I think I'll come to London (If I haven't managed to find a part-time job in Sheffield) one weekend. Lena keeps asking me to. I feel undeserving of her attention and affection- or rather, I feel that she only clings to our friendship out of a loneliness and nostalgia for the past and a harkening back to a memory of a time when we were united as part of a "something" together. Rather than out of a genuine love. She says it is love though, but is it just the idea of love?
That girl seems to be "alone" even when she has people around her. I think there is some truth in it, when she drunkely texts "I don't understand people. I can't be close to anyone"- that's not a criticism, just an observation, and perhaps I'm mistaken- but in my imagination she's a "stand-alone" figure.
It seems like she longs for your past frienship- why do you not re-start it?

Other than that, I've just been doing exams, Library sessions and am currently sipping chocolate and chili chai in a buddhisty cafe called "teasutra".

I took Dan out the other week. Since his fit he seems distracted and disconnected. It's the blue, swedish eyes that do it for me, too captivating and flashing with emotions like sunlight off black-ice, fire behind an exterior of stone. He refuses to "make love" with me since our break-up, and so we have fallen surprisingly easily into some kind of platonic union, with me fussing over him and reminding him of his doctors appointments like a mother.

Books: still gripped by "Women in Love". But don't you think Gudrun and Ursula are horribly ugly names?! Perhaps one shouldn't simplify such a great, flowing work of art into such a crude question- but who would you prefer? Gerald or Birkin? And why? Answers on a postcard.
Miss you. Lots of love. Yours, S.

poorly mashed Swede and 4 months since loss of M

Here is a letter to Emili, which I shall copy for you, since it covers all sorts of issues which are currently on my mind. My sick boyfriend (yes a NEW one. I know this is the third one since I started writing this thing), my friend's troubles with her boyfriend (which involved them playfighting and throwing eggs at each other, which resulted in a trip to hospital!) and my feelings about it being 4 months today since M departed this world.

My dear Emili,

Today seems a good day to write. Milky skies, not a peep of sunshine, Easter Holidays stretching before me with unfilled possibilities. I've made a little home for myself at my desk, surrounded by books, and the various language tasks I have to complete are endless. I wanted to get the ink and ideas flowing- to unblock my creative faculties- with this letter.

The most interesting and problematic task I have to do is an essay for German literature. All of the books we studied deal with the aftermath of WW2 from a German perspective- and surprisingly take on the subject from an angle which emphasises German suffering.

The question is: To what extent can we say these texts are trauma narratives? It's interesting because Germany is historically considered the aggressor, the invader, the perpetrator of hideous Nazi crimes, and yet these authors seem to not want to engage with Holocaust-guilt or accept national responsibility, rather they put forward the idea that German civilians were just as much victims of war and circumstance and Nazi-crimes- yet not all of them can be guilt-free, some must have participated, or participated through their silence in the face of crimes such as genocide.

Well, that's what I've got in store for myself for today.

My boyfriend just rang me from G hospital. The scan on his pancreas didn't show anything to worry about, although it's possible they may have to test some cells, just to make sure. They do that by sticking some little device down your throat and remote-controlling it to go to the desired part. 

Hospitals fascinate me. It's funy how much trust we put in these doctors and nurses- but they're people just like us, who get tired and frustrated and argue with their spouses and make errors of judgement.

I feel pretty happy that he's "in there" while I'm away down here though, because, as people like to repeat to each other, he'll be "well looked after". The food in there is damn good too.

I visited yesterday. It was icy cold and kept threatening to snow. I got off at G Metro station and then got a bus which climbed for ages an endless ten minutes up a steep hill, past grim houses and grim shops. The hospital itself was a big, unmodern block.

I navigated endless corridors, right-turn, left-turn, double doors, up stairs... passing and leaving behind branching corridors labeled with horrors such as "open chest surgery" and "critical care".

My boyfriend was on "ward 9" and I was told he was in the end cubicle by a harassed nurse. He got his own little room, what a luxury! En-suite and everything. That medical smell pervaded everything though.

He was lying in bed wearing one of those ridiculous hospital-gowns, open at the back, that look like they're made out of paper. He was all groggy from the morphine and not as smiley to see me as he usually is, hair all a sexy mess, and confused and slightly mad eyes.

I sat in bed next to him, but he kept feeling nauseous. Then a doctor came in (a girl who looked barely older than me!) and started talking about calcium deposits and scans and mentioning the "C-Word".

But back to the lunch menu- you tick your options for the next day- and there's more choice than at a school canteen! One of the side-dishes was called "mashed swede" which made us laugh, cos that was pretty much a description of Dan when he got admitted.

I feel fairly guilty for not being in N. A heart-stabbing, itching seems to be attacking me. I want to write to him, but I don't think the hospital has a postal service. Perhaps I could make a package and get someone up there to personally deliver it to him? But who? French Charlotte? Who would go out of their way like that for a friend in need? I feel that you would. That's real friendship I think. All the others I would feel i couldn't "put on them" or "bother them". With real friendship, these considerations don't even come into question.

But... how are you? How is the London life? The bars, the club-nights, the tube, the rain-splattered pavements radiant with neon lights...

And as for the whole egg situation, not to be a nagging mother-hen, but it is somewhat concerning. Even if one brushes it off as "fooling around" or "a joke" D's aware of and in control of his actions and how far they're going... was it all really in good-spirits or was there some subconscious, concealed aggression? Perhaps some childish spite and jealousy behind his egg-crush?

The way I see it- here you are, making money, getting out there, giving it your best shot. Despite his big-talking, you're the beautiful one, and the one who's come out top. Perhaps it's a frustration at himself and subconscious jealousy that made him act in this way?

In any case, you should make sure that you keep that self-confidence and belief in your own strengths and identity firmly established and impermeable to outside influences.

Today is four months since M's death. I'm not sure what to say about that really, except I still disbelieve it. I guess I'm horrified at the way it happened and that fact that he "took his own life". I can't "come to terms" with the nature of the death, so I can't move on to properly mourning him and missing him.

But do I really miss him yet? I hardly see you and I don't miss you as such, because I know you're still there, a part of my life, and instinct and clairvoyance tells me, our paths will cross many more times, for many more years.

I think when summer comes. Then will be the time that I properly miss him. We would spend the majority of our free time together, every long, lazy summer, for the past four years, from 2008. Those summer days are gonna come and shine on me and warm and scorch my unprotected soul, but hey won't shine on him, and his absence in the world will be very marked. For me at least.

And I've worn myself out with these melancholy thoughts. Write to my S address- tell me all; weave me stories and illuminate the tangled pathways and dark tunnels in your mind, so that I may see your thoughts. 

Thinking of you. Lots of love.

unfinished short story

Not written on this thing for a while. It's got very sophisticated while I've been away, when you compose your post it's like being on word, there's a whole choice of fonts and possibility to put up links. Think I'll keep it simple though.

Updates:
The last time I wrote I was living in a little town in France, which meant I could do a sort of travel-blog as I explored the area and learned about the Breton culture. Now I'm studying in Newcastle so there's nothing foreign and unknown to uncover, although sometimes with that weird local accent can seem a bit like a foreign tongue to my ears.

I dumped my french boyfriend because of our incompatability, and I'm pretty much content being on my own. I feel like that's the way it should always have been. I don't want to be tied to anyone.
I say content as in, not displeased with the way it turned out.
I'm not an altogether happy bunny, although I shouldn't moan, I am grateful for all the friends that I have, the old ones who let me know that they're there for me, and the new ones that I'm starting to meet up here, who I'm sure I'll get on to writing about.
I'm unhappy because of the death of my best friend, who I used to refer to as "M" on here. The closest and most lovely friend I had, I felt that our connection was such a deep and beautiful thing, like two live wires that come together and cause sparks and magic, we made each other laugh and cheered each other up. The grey monotony of life became painted with brighter colours when we were together. We struggled- him more than me, but I felt that we were travelling through life together, alongside one another, like climbers carrying each others backpacks when the other gets weary, and that was a pleasure and a support, and I miss it unbearably.

prepare yourself for... Sherlock Holmes based, mildy homo-romantic fan-fiction in which the main characters are based on my best friend and his boyfriend:

Sounds very creepy. I did tell M about this and he thought it was sweet and funny but I never got around to finishing it.
In the summer, I was bored and after having read a lot of Sherlock Holmes short stories I thought I knew the formula for them pretty well, so I set about writing an updated modern version of my own, in which Holmes and Watson are a couple and go about solving petty misdemeanors and mysteries. The mystery was supposed to be about a vain art student type who thinks someone is trying to sabotage her exhibition, and there was supposed to be some sort of twist, but we never got on to that- but I'll share the unfinished thing anyway.
ALSO note that I had NEVER MET my friend's boyfriend at the time of writing, I was painting his character from snippets of information and mostly my own imagination and so it shouldn't be considered that the character bears any real life likeness.
Don't take it too seriously, I was giggling as I was writing it, but I think it is quite a nice affectionate description of my sweet friend-

The Unfinished Story:
It was a fine afternoon in late September and J was reclining in his favourite chair. The small apartment on Smiths Street had been theirs but six months, but already they had made it homely, a den of cushions and sofas and neat Ikea bookshelves loaded with novels, and case files.
In the adjacent kitchen, M was rolling out the pastry for a vegetarian pie. J had been a meat-eater for years, convinced of the necessity of meat as a part of a healthy diet, but since their co-habitation, M's delicious home cooking was winning him round.
M sang along to a Catatonia greatest hits album as he worked. Today he was good humoured, as was often his way he sensed intuitively when business was coming to Smiths Street.
For three weeks now the house had been quiet, business slow, but it did have the advantage of allowing the pair time to stroll in the late summer sunshine through the park, as  had often been impossible when the caseload left J sleepless and irritable.
M was the younger of the pair. He was slightly built with nervous pale blue eyes and a shock of black hair which would stand on end inquisitively if left untamed. He was at times quiet, and flung by the powers of his uncontrollable humours into introspective depression, but he compensated for this with his equal tendency to cheer.
His good moods would take him out of the house, drinking, dancing and cavorting. He had many friends, although few who knew the intricacies of his character.
J, private detective, was more steadfast and serious, a good five years his partner's senior. He possessed extraordinary skills of reasoning and an infallible logic which led to his huge success in business. Together they were Disney Private Detection [lol!] an unshakeable team.
J, stockily built, blonde, muscly and of undeniable classical good looks. He had at one time been a wine merchant who specialised in supplying restaurants with only the best quality French wines. He had, however, made his fortune selling champagne marketed as a high end luxury product, to rich Chinese businessmen for ten times it's European value.
He had a fine nose in more ways than one (for a fine Roman nose it was). J, with his perpetually full wine rack, had only a taste for the finer things in life, and he was frequently trying to impress this refinement upon his young business partner in the hope of instilling within him a reverence and preference for refinement. However in vain, for M preferred cheap vodka, and was more than satisfied with imitation Lambrini (that British drink so often aquainted with teenagers intoxicating themselves in public parks)
"Your tea's ready," said M, and J took the plate from him with an affectionate smile. Since their co-habitation and the foundation of their joint business venture, his life had brightened up considerably.Whenever he saw the boy lounging around the flat, sleeping, picking at food, writing letters, anything, his heart was overcome with warmth and tenderness.
Sometimes, in moments of weakness, he would gaze upon him, as unawares, M was performing some everyday chore with that expression of extreme concentration so characteristic of him upon his fine and pretty face, and he would feel emotion rising in his throat. The insatiable urge to tell the boy he loved him. Sometimes he gave in and the words came out despite him, and once said they saturated the room with awkwardness.
Perhaps it was simply fear of being alone that bound him so tightly to this other human being, perhaps the need to feel that his life had some meaning besides the daily chore of keeping himself alive and in good health. He needed someone else to live for.
His ruminations were disturbed by a knock at the door, followed by the distinctive chime of the doorbell tearing through the quiet.
J settled deeper into his chair, crossed his legs, took his pipe from it's stand on the coffee table [lol!] for it was reserved only for moments such as these when presenting himself with an air of gravitas was necessary, and lit some strawberry flavoured tobacco.
Hastily, M cleared away the remains of the vegetarian pie and hurried to the door. Guests had to climb a flight of steps to access the top floor flat, and a distinctive, dragging noise could be heard, like a great snake pulling it's body weight up the stairs.
Always cautious, M peeped through the spyhole and saw the concave version of a hideous green elf.
"Oh my God," he said and opened the door.
"Pray, come in Madame," said J with the indulgence and charm for which he was famed, and little regard for her unusual appearance. He indicated the chair opposite him.
The girl slowly approached, her elaborate and yet raggy satin ballgown trailing across the floor like a dog might drag a broken limb. With the grace of a princess, of one who has become accustomed to having her own way, she settled into the plush cushions and glared at the detective with a sparkling and unwavering brown eye. Her hair was a birds' nest, dark brown and matted and piled high like some sort of down-and-out Marie Antoinette. Most startling of all was the facepaint, white like a sick geisha with thick lime green and dark brown eyemakeup and ivy coloured, pursed little lips.
She held out a gloved little hand, "R" she said. M, as always, had a polite smile ready, but behind his twinkling blue eyes a sarcastic remark was lurking. J served her sugared mint tea from an arab style, ornate, metal teapot, and then all settled down around the coffee table to bear witness to her recital.
J's flavoured tobacco sent clouds of strawberry smoke pluming into the air which mingled with the girl's overwhelming scent of patchouli and incence.
"As you probably know," she began, sipping her tea, "I am an artist and a musician and take my work very seriously. Tonight is an important night. It's the bi-annual biennale [wtf!] taking place at the university and I've come to you because I've heard good things about you from my friends, whom your services have greatly helped in the past,"
Her bejewelled fingers clinked on the little china teacup as she raised it to her curt little mouth. A green imprint was left behind where her lips had made contact.
"Tonight I am to perform a performance art piece infront of the big names of the art world and I think I have high chances of being recognised and maybe even winning a prize. I've been doing a lot of networking and online promotion and I think my name is finally starting to have a resonance."
She paused for dramatic effect.
M's lips were pursed and poised for some unsaid retort. He didn't think much of these arty types who lived off the wealth of their parents, convincing themselves that their "talent" and the meaningfulness and importance of their creative endeavours merited them respect. Nothing but sophisticated scroungers, he though. Looking at this specimin with all her costume and frills made his stomach lurch. An excess of outward pomp to compensate inner vacuosity. Her sweet, high-pitch, well-spoken little-girl voice grated on his nerves.
He rose to pour himself a shot of J's brandy.
J on the other hand was using his great powers of observance to scrutinise the girl......