JOURNAL. November 2025.
Communication (20.11.2025)
Today I met with the supervisor for my (sociology) BA thesis for the first time. I was worried, as I don't have very concrete ideas yet, when it would be standard to begin with an outline. The other professor I had contacted wanted a very specific description of my thesis, planned sources, etc. That is beyond me. This one was patient enough to accept that for now I have vague intuitions and areas of interest which I feel to be connected, and curious enough to ask the right questions. I liked the question he would ask, "Czy dobrze odczytuje to, co Pan mówi?" (~="Am I correctly understanding/deciphering what you are saying?"). Communication is very difficult and painful for me. But when I am lucky I can be deciphered.
I have lately in general been upset about my difficulty in transmitting my thoughts to others. The fact is that my way of experience the world, most often as a series of vague impressions, makes it very difficult to have any thought which may be put into words. This makes regular conversation almost impossible for me, as the pace demanded is usually much higher than I am capable of. In groups, the conversation will almost certainly have moved on without me by the time I manage to gather my words.
He noticed this, which I am not particularly happy about. I do not like that it is so evident to everyone how other I am. But he at least did not treat it as shameful. He asked if it is easier for me to write than to speak, which it is. But I wish it wasn't so difficult for me to speak. I wish it was possible for me to participate in intersubjective "daily life". It is difficult in part for the same reasons that knowing what I will write ahead of time is difficult. At any rate he treated me no less warmly for it.
I feel sometimes (because it is true) that I am in a very risky position. You can more or way get away with this sort of social "deficit" if you present the world with some other proof of your "worth". I was not much troubled about my odd and often recessed nature, my "lack" of common sense, growing up, because I performed well academically. This was a "good" position in the area where I interacted with the social world. In adulthood these places are not so assured. I have to rely on my writing, and for that I must hope for a continuous sense of "inspiration". Not only that, but I must also hope that it justifies itself. I make bold claims. The idea to write of "art as magic" is (in my supervisor's words) "intriguing", but of course it is also risky. If I do not support it very well it will simply seem insane or arrogant. It is easier to be a "researcher" than a "theorist", for which I somewhat envy my classmates. They have picked their theoretical frameworks and have a rather certain base from which they are operating. I am walking on air. But I have gotten distracted from what I was trying to say. Without my ability to produce this sort of writing then there is no place for me in society at all.
I sense that I am getting too glum, especially as I am supposed to be writing this before I go to bed. As I hinted at before, he was rather warm. I am not really used to this, though I don't particularly blame others for this, as I come across as very aloof regardless of whether I want to or not. Being approached in good will, I suppose I would call it. Interesting mannerism: shaking my hand when we agreed on the supervision and opening the door for me on my way out combined with his rather casual way of speaking.
He also suggested an interesting theorist, who I talked about a little in my thesis journal. What I've been looking for, sociologically, even beyond this thesis.
16.11.2025
Started watching The Sopranos. Actually really good.
sensation (11.11.2025)
On Sunday night our DnD group met for a (slightly belated) Halloween oneshot. For whatever reason, I feel particularly attached to the character I made up on the spot. Cormac the Irish mobster. Admittedly, it is very fun to shoot an eldritch horror to pieces with a tommy gun. I understand the "action movie" guys now. Now, I was quite into action movies as a kid. Obsessed with Indiana Jones. The feeling was somewhat similar to what I had playing as Indiana Jones during recess as a kid. I felt something similar when I watched the first two Mad Max movies some months back (I also watched the third, but it was shit).
Largely prompted by this, I rewatched Scarface last night and fear that I am becoming one of those guys who is a bit too into mafia movies. I quite liked the Godfather I and II as well, though I've yet to watch III and Coda... I also have to watch the Sopranos at some point, though it's probably rather different from what I'm interested in. But it serves as a point of cultural connection with the broader world.
As I write this I am sitting and listening to an "extended" version of The World is Yours from the soundtrack, being on the 41st minute of this version. There is something unobtrusive yet mournful about it. I feel the loneliness of this position, of the one who destroys everything with which he comes into contact.
For whatever reason over the past few days, whatever emotions have been prompted by this incident have left me with a faint but recurring feeling of "warmth" which has not been available to me for years and which frankly I had forgotten. It is the sort of warmth I used to feel while at home during Christmastime. A feeling of being loved. Not so much for being given things, but for being given things I liked and which seemed to have a certain relationship with "myself", things related to Indiana Jones or other things in later years. A feeling of "looking forward" which I once seemed to possess, a feeling of interest in some embodiment through play or through creative endeavors. My world was not so fragmentary.
I do feel somewhat sad that I will likely never "use" Cormac again; it was, as I said, just a oneshot. I get why people make "OC"s now, although that is just a part of internet culture I have no relation to. But he remains in my mind, perhaps to manifest somewhere else again. It would be nice. I am almost prompted to "make" something with him, but I really only know how to make oblique "literature".
I need to sleep, but I am not tired.
Recently I have been replaying the original Silent Hill. I forgot how amazing its atmosphere is. I also forget how short it really is, how simple the school and hospital in fact are. I do trust Bloober to expand on those well in the upcoming remake, just as they did with Silent Hill 2. That said, I fear that the artistic direction (again just as with SH2R) will be lacking. The fixed camera angles were wonderful, and although clunky, tank controls are not particularly difficult to adjust to. But it would not be acceptable in a mainstream game nowadays, where things must be very smooth. And likely much of the charm (such as the opening musical sequence) will be removed due to seeming "out of place" in serious gaming. Though it is very unlikely, I do hope "Esperándote" remains. A shockingly beautiful song for the "bad ending", although again "out of place".
I am getting sleepier now. I am surprised by the amount that I have had to say. But it is good that for once I feel compelled to speak at all.
oh dear (06.11.2025)
and there is no hope of expressing to people that the strangeness they occasionally find themselves face to face with when speaking with you is the same strangeness you feel emanating from the entire intersubjective world, that normal speech is as foreign to you as administrative writing is to them, it is the same language but no it isn't, that this strangeness they recoil from when they draw close enough to you to feel its radiation is but a small fraction of what there is inside you because there is simply no point in allow people to sense it and even this inside you is but a small fraction of something which has since its construction been collapsed
pain (02.11.2025)
Recently a friend to whom I had sent my (academic) essay for feedback said that he would be delighted to work with me academically. This is a good thing. And I am unable to prevent myself from feeling pain at his admission. It is not his fault. I like this friend. But to receive warmth is very painful to me.
I appear "happy alone". I am not. It is simply still very painful to me to enter into relation with humanity.
This is a rather glum beginning to this entry, but things are not so bad. I played more Silent Hill f this weekend and got to a new ending. Unfortunately I accidentally spoiled myself a bit on the first ending, but I've managed to avoid spoilers for this one (and the rest). I still wish I could go back in time and not have spoiled my first SH2 playthrough.
Anyways, it was nice just to spend the weekend doing something I enjoy. I've spent too long avoiding (for whatever reason) almost anything pleasurable to myself. Unfortunate. This particularly as an interest in one thing tends to encourage an interest in other things. things form a network. There is no center but the net coheres.
(I write oddly and I know it is amusing to some. But this is often the only way I can bring myself to write, particularly in this moment.)
I emailed the professor I want to supervise my (sociology) bachelor's thesis yesterday. Waiting for a response. Hopefully fruitful. I have an idea I am interested in. All it is for now though is a murky intuition. I need to read and I need to refine it. Art as magic.
Ridiculous amounts of reading for my classes, honestly. But there is not much to be done about that. Must spend less time staring at the wall and un-fry my brain from phone usage.
I hate these months. Ones where the sun sets early. I wish "vacation season" was not summer, but winter. Not to travel, but simply to rest. On the other hand, at least the dark months are better for playing Silent Hill games.