Fog at my grandmother’s house

This is from that winter when I was quite depressed but not nearly as badly as it used to be. I stayed over at my grandmother's house for a while.

It was a very foggy winter. Almost every day, I remember seeing a slightly different fog. My grandma lives in a small, very old house next to a forest. I would sit at her dinner table and hack away on some

During this winter, I started a number of projects that are still quite dear to me. In this time, I think I started to come to terms with what working through such periods by means of doing creative computer work. "Working through it" does not make it fun, per se, but it gives my mind something to be occupied with that is not the the disassembly of my internal structures of worthiness.

I also really enjoyed the structured nature of spending some weeks at my grandma's: we would eat the same breakfast, the same lunch, and dinner at the same time of night. After dinner, we would watch the same television news, quiz shows, or that series about the crazy strict hospitality school where people go to become very good butlers. We would work on embroidery projects, knitting, weaving. We would take walks in the fog.

I am endlessly grateful that these periods during the winter are not nearly so severe anymore. I remember that I felt like this winter was a particular turning point, in that development. As if I better understood what aspects I can control, what aspects I can better leave to wash over me on its own terms, and that it is okay if I cannot tell the difference. I also started to treat the little computer things I made more and more as art projects, as small works put together with care.