Vicissitudes
Feb. 3rd, 2006 02:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bending_sickleWritten: February 3, 2006 at 12:17 am
Like Picasso, I too have my blue periods.
Having nothing to do kinda exacerbates those days. For example, today I bought the newspaper, waited for the new guy Carlos to come get his keys (he was an hour late) then walked all the way down Barcelona to see if I got picked in the raffle. I was, so I have to sign up tomorrow for level 4. (Oh, and I have to do the exam for level 3 sometime, else they’re liable to kick me out of class. Need to investigate that…
Since Ingrid left yesterday and Alba and her boytoy David left too (so that Ingrid could sleep in Alba’s room today) and Manuel, who’s working the nightshift, was either asleep or out, I was all alone yesterday and today until this evening. *breathes* I’m sick and tired of being lonely. Seriously, if I don’t make friends in my French classes, I’m going to go insane. It’s not right, being friendless for so long. Sure, there’s Marta and Christina and my roommates, but…
Aaargh!
And now for
“Walk the line” has been titled “La cuerda floja” (i.e. the tightrope). Only that that parenthesis is silly, because what in English is called a tightrope, in Spanish is literally called “the loose rope” so which is it?
I hate old ladies who think that just because they’re old they can push me aside or use their lonely apple as a place-holder at the cashier’s in the supermarket while they go get beans, tomato soup and bread enough to feed an army.
I once read an article talking about how loneliness, and admitting to it, was sort of taboo. How it was alright to say you had a sucky summer, but not that you were lonely. I remember an example the guy gave:
“So, how was your summer?”
“Lonely.”
“Oh.” *awkward silence*
I’ve read Not to Disturb by Muriel Spark (1971) and am now reading The Beginning and the End by Michael Sadler (1937). Both books belong to the flat. The first one is about a group of servants who know that the Baron is going to find out, and get very angry about, the Baroness screwing his secretary. The servants know that the three are not going to live through the night and have made plans with reporters to offer them an exclusive.
This line sums up the concept nicely:
“We have nothing to hide. We are innocent.”
“Well, we are crimeless.”
The other book I picked because it’s thick, hardcover and falling apart. The title page bears the quote “These foolish things remind me of you” from a popular song (passage of which is reproduced later, with musical notes and everything). The chapters are divided into three groups, with a prologue (The Beginning and the End) and an epilogue (The End and the Beginning): 1) Others and I, 2) She and I, 3) You and I.
Simply reading that warmed my heart to the book and its author because it shows a love of language, of the words, the bare tools. Reminds me of Diane Schoemperlan, that poetic appreciation of just words.
Examples:
“Then the hooter went and the bugle was blown, and everything was forgotten as in the sharpness of death. For the last time I kissed you, for the last time felt your shoulders quiver under my hands. Perhaps you crossed to the shore side of the boat, peered down on the gangway, and wondered which of the huddled rain/blurred figures jostling their way ashore was your ex-lover.”
“And then what? Indeed I hardly know. It is cruel how vivid and accurate is my memory of every detail to the moment of your going, how confused and uncertain since.”
“Your powder-box; your broken kirbgrip; your crumpled packet of cigarettes—these and other pitiful little relics were scattered here and there. I remember closing the door behind me, leaning a little crazily against it and, my hand still on the light/switch, surveying under the harsh glare of the unshaded bulb in the middle of the ceiling this worse-then-emptiness—this room so full of what had been you, so bare now of everything but what you had left behind.”
“Just so far, as I have said, I remember what happened that night. But thereafter is noting until net morning; until the grey light of another wet day came chinking through the curtains on to your empty bed; until I realized that my head was like a burning wheel and the future a waste of ashes.”
“I had packed my bag (if you can call “packing” what was merely a kneading together of crumpled incompatibles)”
That last sentence is my favourite of these.
And yes, I have a bad habit of marking and making notes of favourite phrases in books. I had to stop writing notes when I was reading Asimov, because almost every sentence was note-worthy. I prefer reading Asimov’s autobiography (the third book, I. Asimov, which was the last thing he ever wrote and condenses his previous two autobio’s, the first of which is called In Memory Yet Green), or his little essays prefacing his stories, than I do his novels. Partly because his novels are dialogue- and idea-heavy, all about intrigue and complicated political moves. But his writer’s voice is wonderful, such vitality and interest.
The same happens with Neil Gaiman. By now I’ve read four of his novels and read various of his blog entries, seen him do Q&A, read passages from his novels and even do a commentary on the BBC Neverwhere. When I read his stuff now, I get a very strong sense that I’m reading Gaiman, not just any old novel.
Same with Roald Dahl.
And I’m not saying that these writers were always going on about the same things, or in the same style. Not at all. Just that you get a sense of the author, and, to me at least, this makes me notice things more.
Granted, some jokes Gaiman makes I can totally hear him saying. That’s kind of what I’m getting at.
Sometimes I worry about my linguistic skills. I don’t get to talk much. I don’t have to write about complicated things, or read them. I have a much wider vocabulary in English than I do in Spanish and I can’t bloody well use it to express myself. There’s a definite lack of use happening.
And there’s the troubling detail of this summer. I couldn’t get words out. Couldn’t get my mind to wrap around a concept and express it. It still happens. English, Spanish, whatever. I sometimes get these blocks and just can’t say anything, can’t express myself. It was particularly strong when I was over in NS with J.
Sometimes I stumble over words, or can’t get them out in order. My uncles put on this confused-and-focused look and I just know I’m not making the clearest of senses. I stumble over words asking for coffee, for fuck’s sake.
K called past Sunday. I was overjoyed, shocked, and at a loss for words, but in a good way. The thing though, is that I couldn’t think of much to say. All I could think about was the great void across the telephone, how far away K was, how long it’d been since I’d last seen her… There just seemed to be such a long distance. All I could think about, really, was how much I missed her. What else was there left to say? I tried making chit chat, and it was nice, but…
On a lighter note, before I get all melodramatic and pensive: “Underworld: Evolution”. We’re going to have to tear that movie apart, K. For hours. :)
And another thing I’d jotted ages ago. Either there’s more attractive women than men, or I’m finding women more attractive. Then again, most men are pigs, whereas your average woman takes a bit more care.
And let’s be honest, there’s been times times I’ve wanted to kiss random strangers of either sex. Although, since there’s more pretty women than handsome men… Complicated little life. I swear, if my lovelife doesn’t speed up a bit, I’m not going to have the choice of reproducing or not, just continue on with status quo. Then again, while I like m/m slash, femslash never really struck my fancy. True, I haven’t read all that many, and the first such fic I read was an OOC PWP* involving fisting. Scarred. For life.
* OOC = Out of character
PWP = “Plot, what plot?” or, more eloquently, “Porn without plot.” Without the porn, it’d be a drabble.
PS: planetary.org/postcards_from_venus
PSPS: Can’t sleep. Too bored.
Like Picasso, I too have my blue periods.
Having nothing to do kinda exacerbates those days. For example, today I bought the newspaper, waited for the new guy Carlos to come get his keys (he was an hour late) then walked all the way down Barcelona to see if I got picked in the raffle. I was, so I have to sign up tomorrow for level 4. (Oh, and I have to do the exam for level 3 sometime, else they’re liable to kick me out of class. Need to investigate that…
Since Ingrid left yesterday and Alba and her boytoy David left too (so that Ingrid could sleep in Alba’s room today) and Manuel, who’s working the nightshift, was either asleep or out, I was all alone yesterday and today until this evening. *breathes* I’m sick and tired of being lonely. Seriously, if I don’t make friends in my French classes, I’m going to go insane. It’s not right, being friendless for so long. Sure, there’s Marta and Christina and my roommates, but…
Aaargh!
And now for
“Walk the line” has been titled “La cuerda floja” (i.e. the tightrope). Only that that parenthesis is silly, because what in English is called a tightrope, in Spanish is literally called “the loose rope” so which is it?
I hate old ladies who think that just because they’re old they can push me aside or use their lonely apple as a place-holder at the cashier’s in the supermarket while they go get beans, tomato soup and bread enough to feed an army.
I once read an article talking about how loneliness, and admitting to it, was sort of taboo. How it was alright to say you had a sucky summer, but not that you were lonely. I remember an example the guy gave:
“Lonely.”
“Oh.” *awkward silence*
I’ve read Not to Disturb by Muriel Spark (1971) and am now reading The Beginning and the End by Michael Sadler (1937). Both books belong to the flat. The first one is about a group of servants who know that the Baron is going to find out, and get very angry about, the Baroness screwing his secretary. The servants know that the three are not going to live through the night and have made plans with reporters to offer them an exclusive.
This line sums up the concept nicely:
“Well, we are crimeless.”
The other book I picked because it’s thick, hardcover and falling apart. The title page bears the quote “These foolish things remind me of you” from a popular song (passage of which is reproduced later, with musical notes and everything). The chapters are divided into three groups, with a prologue (The Beginning and the End) and an epilogue (The End and the Beginning): 1) Others and I, 2) She and I, 3) You and I.
Simply reading that warmed my heart to the book and its author because it shows a love of language, of the words, the bare tools. Reminds me of Diane Schoemperlan, that poetic appreciation of just words.
Examples:
“Then the hooter went and the bugle was blown, and everything was forgotten as in the sharpness of death. For the last time I kissed you, for the last time felt your shoulders quiver under my hands. Perhaps you crossed to the shore side of the boat, peered down on the gangway, and wondered which of the huddled rain/blurred figures jostling their way ashore was your ex-lover.”
“And then what? Indeed I hardly know. It is cruel how vivid and accurate is my memory of every detail to the moment of your going, how confused and uncertain since.”
“Your powder-box; your broken kirbgrip; your crumpled packet of cigarettes—these and other pitiful little relics were scattered here and there. I remember closing the door behind me, leaning a little crazily against it and, my hand still on the light/switch, surveying under the harsh glare of the unshaded bulb in the middle of the ceiling this worse-then-emptiness—this room so full of what had been you, so bare now of everything but what you had left behind.”
“Just so far, as I have said, I remember what happened that night. But thereafter is noting until net morning; until the grey light of another wet day came chinking through the curtains on to your empty bed; until I realized that my head was like a burning wheel and the future a waste of ashes.”
“I had packed my bag (if you can call “packing” what was merely a kneading together of crumpled incompatibles)”
That last sentence is my favourite of these.
And yes, I have a bad habit of marking and making notes of favourite phrases in books. I had to stop writing notes when I was reading Asimov, because almost every sentence was note-worthy. I prefer reading Asimov’s autobiography (the third book, I. Asimov, which was the last thing he ever wrote and condenses his previous two autobio’s, the first of which is called In Memory Yet Green), or his little essays prefacing his stories, than I do his novels. Partly because his novels are dialogue- and idea-heavy, all about intrigue and complicated political moves. But his writer’s voice is wonderful, such vitality and interest.
The same happens with Neil Gaiman. By now I’ve read four of his novels and read various of his blog entries, seen him do Q&A, read passages from his novels and even do a commentary on the BBC Neverwhere. When I read his stuff now, I get a very strong sense that I’m reading Gaiman, not just any old novel.
Same with Roald Dahl.
And I’m not saying that these writers were always going on about the same things, or in the same style. Not at all. Just that you get a sense of the author, and, to me at least, this makes me notice things more.
Granted, some jokes Gaiman makes I can totally hear him saying. That’s kind of what I’m getting at.
Sometimes I worry about my linguistic skills. I don’t get to talk much. I don’t have to write about complicated things, or read them. I have a much wider vocabulary in English than I do in Spanish and I can’t bloody well use it to express myself. There’s a definite lack of use happening.
And there’s the troubling detail of this summer. I couldn’t get words out. Couldn’t get my mind to wrap around a concept and express it. It still happens. English, Spanish, whatever. I sometimes get these blocks and just can’t say anything, can’t express myself. It was particularly strong when I was over in NS with J.
Sometimes I stumble over words, or can’t get them out in order. My uncles put on this confused-and-focused look and I just know I’m not making the clearest of senses. I stumble over words asking for coffee, for fuck’s sake.
K called past Sunday. I was overjoyed, shocked, and at a loss for words, but in a good way. The thing though, is that I couldn’t think of much to say. All I could think about was the great void across the telephone, how far away K was, how long it’d been since I’d last seen her… There just seemed to be such a long distance. All I could think about, really, was how much I missed her. What else was there left to say? I tried making chit chat, and it was nice, but…
On a lighter note, before I get all melodramatic and pensive: “Underworld: Evolution”. We’re going to have to tear that movie apart, K. For hours. :)
And another thing I’d jotted ages ago. Either there’s more attractive women than men, or I’m finding women more attractive. Then again, most men are pigs, whereas your average woman takes a bit more care.
And let’s be honest, there’s been times times I’ve wanted to kiss random strangers of either sex. Although, since there’s more pretty women than handsome men… Complicated little life. I swear, if my lovelife doesn’t speed up a bit, I’m not going to have the choice of reproducing or not, just continue on with status quo. Then again, while I like m/m slash, femslash never really struck my fancy. True, I haven’t read all that many, and the first such fic I read was an OOC PWP* involving fisting. Scarred. For life.
* OOC = Out of character
PWP = “Plot, what plot?” or, more eloquently, “Porn without plot.” Without the porn, it’d be a drabble.
PS: planetary.org/postcards_from_venus
PSPS: Can’t sleep. Too bored.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-02-03 10:18 pm (UTC)