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bending_sickleDespite actually managing to wake up in the am today, I didn't get around to doing anything till 'round 7 pm, which is when I got ready to talk a little walkabout, for sanity's sake. Granted, I'm a bit special when it comes to walkabouts: I take a street and keep on going**, not slowing the pace, not caring that gods only know where I am, just going on and on, noting landmarks, slightly freaking out because I'm not freaking out about the fact that I don't know where I am and I'm walking all alone in a dark empty street. Sane? Yeah...
Amazingly enough, I don't get lost. (I even got asked for directions twice, once by a biker and once by a Russian lady, whom I directed to a map by the tram-stop after waving vaguely in the direction of the Central Station.) I got three "Hello-o" cat-calls, but I was armed with an iPod and fast stride, so by the time the last "-o" comes out, they're sucking dust.
The company I had on my iPod was of a somewhat depressing nature, what with it being American Gods - more precisely, the bit where Shadow's on the World Tree. Uplifting little thing to walk along to, yeah?
Anyway, I'm back, not having done anything that I'd meant to do - internships, doctors***, residences - but I got off the couch for an over two hour walk, so yays.
Oh, yeah, I ought to mention that yesterday I went to Amsterdam with Landen - well, we met on the train after a bit of a hiatus involving him getting on the train I'd just gotten off of - and went museum-ing. We hit the Van Gogh (horrifyingly pronounced /goh/, like you're hawking up a lung) and then the Rijksmuseum.
Van Gogh, both museum and artist, disapointed me a bit. The museum because only one of its three floors has paintings by the man, and insisted on saying van Gogh had the "mental illness" of epilseps. One, epilsepsy isn't something that gets you into the psychiatric hospital. (Yes, I know what it is. I had a friend in highschool with epilepsy and I'm a science student with a firm grounding in psychiatric disorders. So there.) Two, by best bets^, van Gogh was manic-depressive.
The man himself disapointed me in that I disagree with his life choices of saying, "I don't know shit about art, but that's what I'm going to be, an artist! Artiste, even." He didn't sell a thing for years and years, living off his art dealer brother Theo's earnings - little parasite - defending his artistic shortcomings by saying that it reflected something else, the "true" aspect, or whatnot. And he knew he couldn't draw some things, but just said, "Well, that's the way I want it to be anyway." Yessir, and them green grapes weren't ripe anyways. Also, some of the really nice things he did - Japanese wood engraving style**** - wasn't so much inspired as literally traced from a magazine cover. But don't get me wrong, when the man's art wasn't depressingly grey, or the people had dusty, unwashed and unpeeled potatoes for faces, he was quite accomplished. Some gorgeous work peeked out from amidst the rumble. And for that, well, kudos Vincent.
(Museum-wise, I've been much more disapointed by Dali and Miro. One Dali museum had nothing but paintings of his wife in the same stance and bland style, whereas one exhibition on Miro, while notable, will always be remembered for a set of three paintings showing a few diagonaly lines on a white canvas, the concept of which took seven years and supposedly represent a prison of some sorts. Please note, however, that I actually really, really like Miro's work.
It was no where near as bad as the giant red blob with vertical lines titled something like, "Peace running through trees" or gods knows what. Ah, modern art. The titles, when not mere numbers, are often little mini-poems. Why the paint, I'll never know.)
The Rijksmuseum was shinetastic, what with Vermeer and Rembrant and a special exhibition of Karel du Jardin (never heard of him, but pretty light effects). The Night Watch, I learnt, was a) so named because it was once so dirty that the scene was mistaken for a night one, b) savagely attacked and slashed thrice by a psychiatrically-disturbed man and finally c) amusingly reduced in size - ie. hack and slice - to fit into its second resting place. Who looks at a giant painting and say, "Yeah, it's too big for the wall. Let's just slice a few bits off around the edges? It's not like this Remy guy's going to be famous."
I think I'll be popping off to Amsterdam again tomorrow, 'cause the church next to the train station is giving a free concert (Gregorian chant). I might even catch a film afterwards. Go me! I'll have to also see about checking out the Oude Kerk and the Jordan neighbourhood.
(Yeah, Mom's sort of instilled in me an apreciation for church architecture. We always hit 'em when we tourist. Plus, I really like wandering into a church and having a little sitdown. And nothing beats the smell of church incense.)
You know what? Living so near Amsterdam gives me all sorts of not-good ideas. I mean, if I ever care to give a hookah a try, I can. If I ever want to get a tattoo: hey, this is tattoo-central! And then, of course, there's the Red Light District, with all of its interesting shops. Not, of course, like I'll ever do any of this. *hangs head in lame shame*
Ooh, I also had a horrendeously disturbing dream, one that seemed to go on for ages but in real time - like, days and days. I can't remember most of it now, mainly because I've been metaphorically scrubbing my memory with bleach ever since I fumbled awake, but I'd been captured in the forests of Thailand and taken by the judiciary system, along with a number of others. I was then put in jail, notable for its cramped rooms, numerous stories, bamboo furnishings and hellish conditions. Serious suffering going on there, mate. Then it sort of oozed into on-deck slave-ship conditions, but still all tropical and horrible. Obviously a certain passage in American Gods dredged up stock slave footage from the mental image department, and combined it with new Forget You Had a Daughter footage. Visual imagination, I hate you.
Links of the Day:
How We Met: David Tennant and Arabella Wier - Adorable, really, and I love how I can just hear Tennant saying it in my head.
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
versaphile has a Tennant/Simm RPF trilogy: Kiss Me Quick, Mind the Gap, and O Ffwrnais Awen
* Last Night I Went Out Walking, Handsome Family
** This actually works surprisingly well. Once you get a mite tired, thinking of all the way you've come that you eventually have to undo, you just turn your ass around and *voom* path in reverse, right to your doorstep.
*** Not Doctors, just doctors, apointments with. I wouldn't say no to doing the Doctor, mind you.
**** And here it was nice to have Lander, 'cause he grew up in Japan and assorted Asian countries.
^ As seen in my abnormal psychology classes. A disturbing number of creative geniuses were manic-depressive. These discoveries are either true or the result of a curious trend in psychology. Like historical figures all being gay. Truth or fashionable trend? Meh.
Amazingly enough, I don't get lost. (I even got asked for directions twice, once by a biker and once by a Russian lady, whom I directed to a map by the tram-stop after waving vaguely in the direction of the Central Station.) I got three "Hello-o" cat-calls, but I was armed with an iPod and fast stride, so by the time the last "-o" comes out, they're sucking dust.
The company I had on my iPod was of a somewhat depressing nature, what with it being American Gods - more precisely, the bit where Shadow's on the World Tree. Uplifting little thing to walk along to, yeah?
Anyway, I'm back, not having done anything that I'd meant to do - internships, doctors***, residences - but I got off the couch for an over two hour walk, so yays.
Oh, yeah, I ought to mention that yesterday I went to Amsterdam with Landen - well, we met on the train after a bit of a hiatus involving him getting on the train I'd just gotten off of - and went museum-ing. We hit the Van Gogh (horrifyingly pronounced /goh/, like you're hawking up a lung) and then the Rijksmuseum.
Van Gogh, both museum and artist, disapointed me a bit. The museum because only one of its three floors has paintings by the man, and insisted on saying van Gogh had the "mental illness" of epilseps. One, epilsepsy isn't something that gets you into the psychiatric hospital. (Yes, I know what it is. I had a friend in highschool with epilepsy and I'm a science student with a firm grounding in psychiatric disorders. So there.) Two, by best bets^, van Gogh was manic-depressive.
The man himself disapointed me in that I disagree with his life choices of saying, "I don't know shit about art, but that's what I'm going to be, an artist! Artiste, even." He didn't sell a thing for years and years, living off his art dealer brother Theo's earnings - little parasite - defending his artistic shortcomings by saying that it reflected something else, the "true" aspect, or whatnot. And he knew he couldn't draw some things, but just said, "Well, that's the way I want it to be anyway." Yessir, and them green grapes weren't ripe anyways. Also, some of the really nice things he did - Japanese wood engraving style**** - wasn't so much inspired as literally traced from a magazine cover. But don't get me wrong, when the man's art wasn't depressingly grey, or the people had dusty, unwashed and unpeeled potatoes for faces, he was quite accomplished. Some gorgeous work peeked out from amidst the rumble. And for that, well, kudos Vincent.
(Museum-wise, I've been much more disapointed by Dali and Miro. One Dali museum had nothing but paintings of his wife in the same stance and bland style, whereas one exhibition on Miro, while notable, will always be remembered for a set of three paintings showing a few diagonaly lines on a white canvas, the concept of which took seven years and supposedly represent a prison of some sorts. Please note, however, that I actually really, really like Miro's work.
It was no where near as bad as the giant red blob with vertical lines titled something like, "Peace running through trees" or gods knows what. Ah, modern art. The titles, when not mere numbers, are often little mini-poems. Why the paint, I'll never know.)
The Rijksmuseum was shinetastic, what with Vermeer and Rembrant and a special exhibition of Karel du Jardin (never heard of him, but pretty light effects). The Night Watch, I learnt, was a) so named because it was once so dirty that the scene was mistaken for a night one, b) savagely attacked and slashed thrice by a psychiatrically-disturbed man and finally c) amusingly reduced in size - ie. hack and slice - to fit into its second resting place. Who looks at a giant painting and say, "Yeah, it's too big for the wall. Let's just slice a few bits off around the edges? It's not like this Remy guy's going to be famous."
I think I'll be popping off to Amsterdam again tomorrow, 'cause the church next to the train station is giving a free concert (Gregorian chant). I might even catch a film afterwards. Go me! I'll have to also see about checking out the Oude Kerk and the Jordan neighbourhood.
(Yeah, Mom's sort of instilled in me an apreciation for church architecture. We always hit 'em when we tourist. Plus, I really like wandering into a church and having a little sitdown. And nothing beats the smell of church incense.)
You know what? Living so near Amsterdam gives me all sorts of not-good ideas. I mean, if I ever care to give a hookah a try, I can. If I ever want to get a tattoo: hey, this is tattoo-central! And then, of course, there's the Red Light District, with all of its interesting shops. Not, of course, like I'll ever do any of this. *hangs head in lame shame*
Ooh, I also had a horrendeously disturbing dream, one that seemed to go on for ages but in real time - like, days and days. I can't remember most of it now, mainly because I've been metaphorically scrubbing my memory with bleach ever since I fumbled awake, but I'd been captured in the forests of Thailand and taken by the judiciary system, along with a number of others. I was then put in jail, notable for its cramped rooms, numerous stories, bamboo furnishings and hellish conditions. Serious suffering going on there, mate. Then it sort of oozed into on-deck slave-ship conditions, but still all tropical and horrible. Obviously a certain passage in American Gods dredged up stock slave footage from the mental image department, and combined it with new Forget You Had a Daughter footage. Visual imagination, I hate you.
Links of the Day:
How We Met: David Tennant and Arabella Wier - Adorable, really, and I love how I can just hear Tennant saying it in my head.
versaphile has a Tennant/Simm RPF trilogy: Kiss Me Quick, Mind the Gap, and O Ffwrnais Awen* Last Night I Went Out Walking, Handsome Family
** This actually works surprisingly well. Once you get a mite tired, thinking of all the way you've come that you eventually have to undo, you just turn your ass around and *voom* path in reverse, right to your doorstep.
*** Not Doctors, just doctors, apointments with. I wouldn't say no to doing the Doctor, mind you.
**** And here it was nice to have Lander, 'cause he grew up in Japan and assorted Asian countries.
^ As seen in my abnormal psychology classes. A disturbing number of creative geniuses were manic-depressive. These discoveries are either true or the result of a curious trend in psychology. Like historical figures all being gay. Truth or fashionable trend? Meh.
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Date: 2008-01-26 11:48 pm (UTC)"but I was armed with an iPod and fast stride, so by the time the last "-o" comes out, they're sucking dust."
- I enjoyed that thoroughly =) Go you!!!