Hello everyone! Hopefully you've all had a wonderful holiday. I spent most of Christmas nauseous, so mine hasn't been the best. I did get a new book of poetry, so we all know what that means... more poetry for me to torture you with. Sorry.
Anyway, I'm still recovering so today's post isn't going to be one of those well-written, thoughtfully phrased ones. Then again, most of them aren't, but what the hey.
It's actually about things that drive me nuts.
(Look, I'm sick and irritable and this is just me venting. Go with the flow. Let me just hate on stuff for a while. God knows I'm weird enough to have some unique loathings.)
There are a lot of them, and they vary widely. Most of them are completely irrational hatreds, and I recognize this. Doesn't stop me hating them though.
I even have a whole separate bank of word-related hatreds. Like, everyone has that one word that just makes them cringe whenever they hear it. (For most people it's moist.) In my case, there's a lot more than one, and my grammar nazi brain comes into play fairly often.
I can't stand when people say "ok" instead of "okay". Seriously. It drives me absolutely insane. And you know how teachers always stress the difference between their, there, and they're? They never teach the difference between breath and breathe. And people keep mixing it up, and that bugs me even more than the ok/okay thing.
And, for no reason at all, I cannot stand the word "naked". I don't know why. I prefer the word "nude". "Naked" just seems so coarse.
Like I said, I realize that this is irrational.
Let's see, what else do I hate? Cashews. I really hate cashews. They're like the blandest nut. Well, in point of fact, they're not actually nuts. They're seeds, if I remember correctly. No, seriously. They're the seed of the cashew apple. Or something. Maybe they're the fruit, though I rather doubt that as I remember reading somewhere that the fruity part has a thick skin and tastes like caramel or something. I don't feel like looking it up. If you're curious then go Google it.
I also hate that sick smell. Do you know what I'm talking about? Like when someone's sick, they tend to stay in one room and then that room just smells all sick-ish and germy and... I don't know how to describe it. It's like that slightly fuzzy taste in your mouth after you've just woken up. Not morning breath, it's not nearly that nasty, but that taste before morning breath has had a chance to fully develop. Either way, it's off-putting and eminently dislikable.
And now I'm feeling nauseous again. Please do excuse me.
Happy holidays, everyone!
Wednesday, 26 December 2012
Thursday, 20 December 2012
A Very Attractive Post
There are some people whom all agree are just good-looking, end of story. Movie stars and the like. Beauty really is in the eye of the beholder, but there are just some who pretty much everyone thinks attractive. Orlando Bloom or Anne Hathaway, perhaps. I don't know.
Then there are others who have striking features, but may or may not be considered classically handsome/pretty. People disagree on the attractiveness of these people. Benedict Cumberbatch is a very good example of this: from what I've gathered, most people don't originally think he's handsome, but as time goes by his features sort of draw them in until they are practically foaming at the mouth for more pictures, more viewpoints, more him. Of course, there are exceptions: some just don't really think he's handsome, and others thought him gorgeous straightaway.
And, naturally, there are the people who we'll just have to agree to disagree on. They are total toss-ups, with some at one end of the spectrum finding them mindblowingly attractive and others at the other end who just don't see it. For example, Daniel Radcliffe doesn't really inspire anything but apathy in me, but I've a friend who all but has a shrine to him. It's simply a matter of opinion. That may be a bad example, but it's nearly three in the morning, give me some latitude.
Lastly, there are the so-called ordinary people. People who will never really be called stunning by complete strangers. Me, for instance. Now, don't get me wrong, I have nothing against my looks. I'm actually probably one of the few people alive who's not self-conscious about how I look. I'm perfectly happy with my appearance. I hardly break mirrors, but I'm hardly something special.
And on the topic of breaking mirrors, I honestly don't believe in the concept of ugliness. Gargoyles are thought to be hideous, but I've always rather liked them - they're certainly more interesting to look at than angels, who tend to have roughly the same features no matter who sculpts or paints them. It's the diversity of gargoyles that makes them interesting - the different ways one can render what is basically the same thing. It's the same thing with people. Ever notice how every single model, the class of people charged to be pretty, seems to look exactly the same? You can see so much more beauty just sitting in a busy cafe.
Yes, just by nursing a cup of tea or coffee or what have you, you can and will see more beautiful people than in the entirety of Fashion Week.
Why is that?
It's because the people you see look normal. They look like (and are) people you could pass on the street. They look like the family who live a few doors down that you wave to whenever you drive past.
And I love poetry.
Doesn't that seem like a total non sequitur? It isn't. A staggering amount of poetry is about finding beauty in the most ordinary things. Poems can focus on the tiniest, most inconsequential things and make you see them in an entirely new light. But it doesn't work half as well on things that we already know are beautiful.
Sunsets are pretty. Everyone knows this. It may be that some aren't nearly as interested in watching them, but everyone kind of knows in a very abstract way that they are beautiful. Fairly simple, right?
Now, how many people can find beauty in a manhole cover? A broken light bulb? The paint used for lines on the road?
I've always been fascinated by such things. Manhole covers, for instance, usually have such intricate patterns on them that no one ever notices, and the wear patterns can't help but make me wonder about all the sorts of things that have gone over them since they were laid down shiny and new. Broken light bulbs never break in exactly the same way, and the jagged sharp edges contrast so well with the much more fluid, curved shape of the original bulb. And have you ever noticed that if you just stare at the paint lines on roads (this is when you're not driving, obviously) it's almost like watching a movie? You can watch as it twists and turns, grows fainter and bolder, and sometimes the marks of past journeys will scuff them up for a momentary blip.
Back to my original point. These kinds of people are like poetry. They are ordinary, and yet the very fact of their ordinariness makes them so wonderfully extraordinary. They are average, yet somehow the fact that they are average makes me want to examine them further. And the more you examine, the more interesting things you can find.
If you're a Doctor Who fan, there's a quote from "The Girl Who Waited" that kind of explains what I'm trying to get across here.
"You know when sometimes you meet someone so beautiful and then you actually talk to them and five minutes later they're as dull as a brick? Then there's other people, when you see them you think "Not bad. They're okay." And then you get to know them and... and their face just sort of becomes them. Like their personality's written all over it. And they just turn into something so beautiful."
It's like if you look deeper, you can find extraordinary beauty in the simplest and most ordinary things. And this, this is why I tend to prefer the people who aren't, strictly speaking, handsome or pretty. I mean, they are, but most of the world wouldn't agree with me. Sure, I like a classically gorgeous person sometimes, but only after I get a peek at what's behind the long eyelashes and high cheekbones.
Why not look deeper? Why just accept the surface? Sure, there are people who are completely, jaw-droppingly beautiful and the sweetest, most wonderful folk who ever lived. But I've come to believe that that particular type of people is fairly rare. Not extinct, but certainly rare.
I don't really crush on people, not really. Not people my own age, not people older or younger or dead or fictional. I may admire them. I may be sensible that they are attractive or hilarious or startlingly, refreshingly intelligent, but I don't really develop an infatuation.
Perhaps that's why I think this way about beauty and attractiveness. Perhaps my psyche is just messed up. Perhaps I've spent too much time behind the lens of a camera, in the stanzas of a poem, or pushing pencil to paper in an inevitably futile attempt to capture the beauty I see in things with a quick sketch.
Who knows.
But beauty is in the eye of the beholder, or so they say, and the eye of this beholder will always be drawn to the ordinary, the normal, the people of real life.
Then there are others who have striking features, but may or may not be considered classically handsome/pretty. People disagree on the attractiveness of these people. Benedict Cumberbatch is a very good example of this: from what I've gathered, most people don't originally think he's handsome, but as time goes by his features sort of draw them in until they are practically foaming at the mouth for more pictures, more viewpoints, more him. Of course, there are exceptions: some just don't really think he's handsome, and others thought him gorgeous straightaway.
And, naturally, there are the people who we'll just have to agree to disagree on. They are total toss-ups, with some at one end of the spectrum finding them mindblowingly attractive and others at the other end who just don't see it. For example, Daniel Radcliffe doesn't really inspire anything but apathy in me, but I've a friend who all but has a shrine to him. It's simply a matter of opinion. That may be a bad example, but it's nearly three in the morning, give me some latitude.
Lastly, there are the so-called ordinary people. People who will never really be called stunning by complete strangers. Me, for instance. Now, don't get me wrong, I have nothing against my looks. I'm actually probably one of the few people alive who's not self-conscious about how I look. I'm perfectly happy with my appearance. I hardly break mirrors, but I'm hardly something special.
And on the topic of breaking mirrors, I honestly don't believe in the concept of ugliness. Gargoyles are thought to be hideous, but I've always rather liked them - they're certainly more interesting to look at than angels, who tend to have roughly the same features no matter who sculpts or paints them. It's the diversity of gargoyles that makes them interesting - the different ways one can render what is basically the same thing. It's the same thing with people. Ever notice how every single model, the class of people charged to be pretty, seems to look exactly the same? You can see so much more beauty just sitting in a busy cafe.
Yes, just by nursing a cup of tea or coffee or what have you, you can and will see more beautiful people than in the entirety of Fashion Week.
Why is that?
It's because the people you see look normal. They look like (and are) people you could pass on the street. They look like the family who live a few doors down that you wave to whenever you drive past.
And I love poetry.
Doesn't that seem like a total non sequitur? It isn't. A staggering amount of poetry is about finding beauty in the most ordinary things. Poems can focus on the tiniest, most inconsequential things and make you see them in an entirely new light. But it doesn't work half as well on things that we already know are beautiful.
Sunsets are pretty. Everyone knows this. It may be that some aren't nearly as interested in watching them, but everyone kind of knows in a very abstract way that they are beautiful. Fairly simple, right?
Now, how many people can find beauty in a manhole cover? A broken light bulb? The paint used for lines on the road?
I've always been fascinated by such things. Manhole covers, for instance, usually have such intricate patterns on them that no one ever notices, and the wear patterns can't help but make me wonder about all the sorts of things that have gone over them since they were laid down shiny and new. Broken light bulbs never break in exactly the same way, and the jagged sharp edges contrast so well with the much more fluid, curved shape of the original bulb. And have you ever noticed that if you just stare at the paint lines on roads (this is when you're not driving, obviously) it's almost like watching a movie? You can watch as it twists and turns, grows fainter and bolder, and sometimes the marks of past journeys will scuff them up for a momentary blip.
Back to my original point. These kinds of people are like poetry. They are ordinary, and yet the very fact of their ordinariness makes them so wonderfully extraordinary. They are average, yet somehow the fact that they are average makes me want to examine them further. And the more you examine, the more interesting things you can find.
If you're a Doctor Who fan, there's a quote from "The Girl Who Waited" that kind of explains what I'm trying to get across here.
"You know when sometimes you meet someone so beautiful and then you actually talk to them and five minutes later they're as dull as a brick? Then there's other people, when you see them you think "Not bad. They're okay." And then you get to know them and... and their face just sort of becomes them. Like their personality's written all over it. And they just turn into something so beautiful."
It's like if you look deeper, you can find extraordinary beauty in the simplest and most ordinary things. And this, this is why I tend to prefer the people who aren't, strictly speaking, handsome or pretty. I mean, they are, but most of the world wouldn't agree with me. Sure, I like a classically gorgeous person sometimes, but only after I get a peek at what's behind the long eyelashes and high cheekbones.
Why not look deeper? Why just accept the surface? Sure, there are people who are completely, jaw-droppingly beautiful and the sweetest, most wonderful folk who ever lived. But I've come to believe that that particular type of people is fairly rare. Not extinct, but certainly rare.
I don't really crush on people, not really. Not people my own age, not people older or younger or dead or fictional. I may admire them. I may be sensible that they are attractive or hilarious or startlingly, refreshingly intelligent, but I don't really develop an infatuation.
Perhaps that's why I think this way about beauty and attractiveness. Perhaps my psyche is just messed up. Perhaps I've spent too much time behind the lens of a camera, in the stanzas of a poem, or pushing pencil to paper in an inevitably futile attempt to capture the beauty I see in things with a quick sketch.
Who knows.
But beauty is in the eye of the beholder, or so they say, and the eye of this beholder will always be drawn to the ordinary, the normal, the people of real life.
POTD #5
Today's poem is by an unknown author. It's rather fitting, I think, for the lunatics who are convinced the world will end on Friday. Below you will find Life Owes Me Nothing.
Life owes me nothing. Let the years
Bring clouds or azure, joy or tears,
Already a full cup I've quaffed;
Already wept and loved and laughed;
And seen, in ever endless ways,
New beauties overwhelm the days.
Life owes me naught. No pain that waits
Can steal the gold from memory's gates;
No aftermath of anguish slow
Can quench the soul-fire's early glow.
I breathe, exulting, each new breath,
Embracing Life, ignoring Death.
Life owes me nothing. One clear morn
Is boon enough for being born;
And be it ninety years or ten,
No need for me to question when.
When Life is mine, I'll find it good,
And greet each hour with gratitude.
Life owes me nothing. Let the years
Bring clouds or azure, joy or tears,
Already a full cup I've quaffed;
Already wept and loved and laughed;
And seen, in ever endless ways,
New beauties overwhelm the days.
Life owes me naught. No pain that waits
Can steal the gold from memory's gates;
No aftermath of anguish slow
Can quench the soul-fire's early glow.
I breathe, exulting, each new breath,
Embracing Life, ignoring Death.
Life owes me nothing. One clear morn
Is boon enough for being born;
And be it ninety years or ten,
No need for me to question when.
When Life is mine, I'll find it good,
And greet each hour with gratitude.
Monday, 17 December 2012
I'm Fine
It is a commonly accepted reality that the words "I'm fine" often mean nothing. To most people, they are just expulsions of noise. They are just sounds. They are not words - they do not deserve that moniker.
The thing is, some people genuinely are fine when they say that. It's impossible to tell, especially if you can't actually see the speaker's face. So what do you do, particularly if you don't know the person very well? Do you take them at their word, but potentially miss something so catastrophically important that you'll never forgive yourself for ignoring it? Do you decide to keep pushing, but run the risk of driving them away with your constant questioning of their emotional state and ignoring what they say in favour of acting on instincts?
It can drive a person mad with disturbing ease.
They say sticks and stones can break your bones, and it's true: with force, they will. The rather optimistic end of that proverb is "but words will never hurt me". A more realistic ending (taken, of all things, from an episode of Fairly OddParents) is "but words leave deep psychological wounds that will never heal".
Compliments are just like sharp words. Both leave marks on a person. The problem is that marks left by compliments and their ilk, as beautiful as they may be, are fleeting and far too easily forgotten. They tend to fade quickly, whereas their opposites are like permanent ink on pale skin - virtually indestructible.
What people don't realize is that the word "fine" has multiple meanings. There is the usual one, as seen in the sentence "It's a fine day today." However, fine can also mean penalty. Fine can mean small. Fine can mean crushed.
So perhaps everyone who says "I'm fine" is telling the truth, in a way. But perhaps, like I am too wont to do, they say it just to get people off their back. The trouble is identifying who is who.
Look, I don't particularly like people. I am fascinated by them, yes. I would dearly like to spend the rest of my life watching people and how they live their lives, learning them far deeper than perhaps they know themselves, and I very much dislike seeing people unhappy or in pain. But I do not like them, not really. I have found that they tend to suffer from a stunningly wide variety of hamartia.
They tend to forget me. It gets lonely.
I have been accused of being unfeeling and distant. I have been accused of treating people like experiments rather than living things. I have been accused of misogyny and sadistic tendencies.
It may be that I am these things. In my head, however, I am too wrapped up in other people. I am watching with interest how they choose to act in given situations: what makes them sad, what makes them happy, the difference in behaviour around different sorts of people. It is fascinating, and I don't understand why no one else sees the human as a fantastic yet flawed magnum opus of their own unwitting creation.
I suppose a more accurate description is that I like people against my better judgement. Or that I dislike the fact that I like people. I shouldn't like people. By all rights, I should be a bitter cynic isolated from the madding crowds. But I, despite aforementioned better judgement, am not a sensible person by any means, and it is far too easy to be distracted by a new person to fall in love with.
Because that's what I do - I fall in love with everyone I meet. How could I not? In every single person there is something brand new and precious. I don't know how to put it into words properly. I don't know how to make others understand that my eyes and my imagination are captured by the unique beauty of the human form, whatever its defining characteristics.
It seems there is a terribleness that only I can see, and yet in and of itself it is a gorgeous phenomenon worthy of study. And there is a quiet beauty that I've heard of but never seen, and everyone always tells me I'm a fool for missing it. But no matter how hard I try, I can't make my eyes believe, I can't make them normal, and sometimes it's a burden that I do not wish to bear.
All I know is that I can always hear the symphony that is a new person to know calling out for me in my dreams, but sound is such a fickle mistress (as I know only too well). I've searched the wide world over looking for the utterly simple complexities that I hear every night. But I am slowly becoming convinced that this glorious beyond-music is locked amongst the stars because when I face the world at first light, there are only discordant notes that don't make sense in any way, shape, or form.
I'm so close and yet so far, and the music must lead me to the most wonderful story ever known. I'm sure of it. I have to be. But as of now, I am left with the unreasonable and unhealthy love of humanity to keep me company, and that's really not much at all but it's all I've ever had and that's almost reassuring, in a way.
So, to answer your question, I'm fine.
Make of that what you will.
The thing is, some people genuinely are fine when they say that. It's impossible to tell, especially if you can't actually see the speaker's face. So what do you do, particularly if you don't know the person very well? Do you take them at their word, but potentially miss something so catastrophically important that you'll never forgive yourself for ignoring it? Do you decide to keep pushing, but run the risk of driving them away with your constant questioning of their emotional state and ignoring what they say in favour of acting on instincts?
It can drive a person mad with disturbing ease.
They say sticks and stones can break your bones, and it's true: with force, they will. The rather optimistic end of that proverb is "but words will never hurt me". A more realistic ending (taken, of all things, from an episode of Fairly OddParents) is "but words leave deep psychological wounds that will never heal".
Compliments are just like sharp words. Both leave marks on a person. The problem is that marks left by compliments and their ilk, as beautiful as they may be, are fleeting and far too easily forgotten. They tend to fade quickly, whereas their opposites are like permanent ink on pale skin - virtually indestructible.
What people don't realize is that the word "fine" has multiple meanings. There is the usual one, as seen in the sentence "It's a fine day today." However, fine can also mean penalty. Fine can mean small. Fine can mean crushed.
So perhaps everyone who says "I'm fine" is telling the truth, in a way. But perhaps, like I am too wont to do, they say it just to get people off their back. The trouble is identifying who is who.
Look, I don't particularly like people. I am fascinated by them, yes. I would dearly like to spend the rest of my life watching people and how they live their lives, learning them far deeper than perhaps they know themselves, and I very much dislike seeing people unhappy or in pain. But I do not like them, not really. I have found that they tend to suffer from a stunningly wide variety of hamartia.
They tend to forget me. It gets lonely.
I have been accused of being unfeeling and distant. I have been accused of treating people like experiments rather than living things. I have been accused of misogyny and sadistic tendencies.
It may be that I am these things. In my head, however, I am too wrapped up in other people. I am watching with interest how they choose to act in given situations: what makes them sad, what makes them happy, the difference in behaviour around different sorts of people. It is fascinating, and I don't understand why no one else sees the human as a fantastic yet flawed magnum opus of their own unwitting creation.
I suppose a more accurate description is that I like people against my better judgement. Or that I dislike the fact that I like people. I shouldn't like people. By all rights, I should be a bitter cynic isolated from the madding crowds. But I, despite aforementioned better judgement, am not a sensible person by any means, and it is far too easy to be distracted by a new person to fall in love with.
Because that's what I do - I fall in love with everyone I meet. How could I not? In every single person there is something brand new and precious. I don't know how to put it into words properly. I don't know how to make others understand that my eyes and my imagination are captured by the unique beauty of the human form, whatever its defining characteristics.
It seems there is a terribleness that only I can see, and yet in and of itself it is a gorgeous phenomenon worthy of study. And there is a quiet beauty that I've heard of but never seen, and everyone always tells me I'm a fool for missing it. But no matter how hard I try, I can't make my eyes believe, I can't make them normal, and sometimes it's a burden that I do not wish to bear.
All I know is that I can always hear the symphony that is a new person to know calling out for me in my dreams, but sound is such a fickle mistress (as I know only too well). I've searched the wide world over looking for the utterly simple complexities that I hear every night. But I am slowly becoming convinced that this glorious beyond-music is locked amongst the stars because when I face the world at first light, there are only discordant notes that don't make sense in any way, shape, or form.
I'm so close and yet so far, and the music must lead me to the most wonderful story ever known. I'm sure of it. I have to be. But as of now, I am left with the unreasonable and unhealthy love of humanity to keep me company, and that's really not much at all but it's all I've ever had and that's almost reassuring, in a way.
So, to answer your question, I'm fine.
Make of that what you will.
Saturday, 15 December 2012
POTD #4
Today's poem is by Ella Wheeler Wilcox. It's called Words and Thoughts.
He said as he sat in her theatre box
Between the acts, "What beastly weather!
How like a parrot the lover talks-
And the lady is tame, and the villain stalks-
I hope they finally die together."
He thought- "You are as fair as the dawn's first ray;
I know the angels keep guard above you.
And so I chatter of weather and play,
While all the time I am mad to say,
I love you, love you, love you."
He said- "The season is almost run;
How glad we are, when the whirl is over!
For the toil of pleasure is more than its fun,
And what is it all, when all is done,
But the stick of a rocket that has descended?"
He thought- "Oh God! to be off somewhere
Afar with you, from this scene of fashion;
To know you were mine, and to have you care,
And to lose myself in the crimson snare
Of your lips, in a kiss of passion."
He said- "You are going abroad, no doubt,
This land of Liberty coldly scorning.
I too shall journey a bit about,
From Wall Street up by the L. Road out
To Harlem, and down each morning."
He thought- "It must follow on land or sea,
This pent-up, passionate, dumb devotion,
Til the cry of a rapture that may not be
Shall reach your heart from the heart of me
And stir you with strange emotion."
He said as he sat in her theatre box
Between the acts, "What beastly weather!
How like a parrot the lover talks-
And the lady is tame, and the villain stalks-
I hope they finally die together."
He thought- "You are as fair as the dawn's first ray;
I know the angels keep guard above you.
And so I chatter of weather and play,
While all the time I am mad to say,
I love you, love you, love you."
He said- "The season is almost run;
How glad we are, when the whirl is over!
For the toil of pleasure is more than its fun,
And what is it all, when all is done,
But the stick of a rocket that has descended?"
He thought- "Oh God! to be off somewhere
Afar with you, from this scene of fashion;
To know you were mine, and to have you care,
And to lose myself in the crimson snare
Of your lips, in a kiss of passion."
He said- "You are going abroad, no doubt,
This land of Liberty coldly scorning.
I too shall journey a bit about,
From Wall Street up by the L. Road out
To Harlem, and down each morning."
He thought- "It must follow on land or sea,
This pent-up, passionate, dumb devotion,
Til the cry of a rapture that may not be
Shall reach your heart from the heart of me
And stir you with strange emotion."
The (Plastic) City of Lights
There is a small plastic Eiffel Tower in the corner of my room. I don't know why I've kept it. It's utterly useless. It's not even a decent facsimile of the real thing. It's the sort of thing one might find in the prissily-decorated bedroom of an eight-year-old girl who's obsessed with France and fashion and la cite de lumière.
I am not eight years old. I am not obsessed with France. I have no interest in fashion nor in the City of Lights.
So why the hell do I keep this thing around?
Maybe I like having the satisfaction of knowing that I am not, never was, and never will be the sort of person who genuinely values it. I may be ridiculously nostalgic about certain things, and it's true that I attach absurdly twee memories to the most commonplace of things. But I have never been that goofy prepubescent girl who dreams of sipping a latte in a cafe in Paris.
For one thing, I hate coffee.
Maybe I keep the stupid thing because it reminds me that there is more out there than just this land of ten thousand lakes (which is incorrectly named anyway - it's closer to 15,000). Even if that outside world has chosen to be commemorated by the production of cheap plastic trinkets.
The point is, I genuinely have no clue why I keep it. From time to time, I spend a while staring at it and listing all the reasons I should throw it away.
But then I never do.
Perhaps it's only fitting that, since the City of Lights has survived millennia, this moronic piece of crap should at least survive my passive aggression.
I am not eight years old. I am not obsessed with France. I have no interest in fashion nor in the City of Lights.
So why the hell do I keep this thing around?
Maybe I like having the satisfaction of knowing that I am not, never was, and never will be the sort of person who genuinely values it. I may be ridiculously nostalgic about certain things, and it's true that I attach absurdly twee memories to the most commonplace of things. But I have never been that goofy prepubescent girl who dreams of sipping a latte in a cafe in Paris.
For one thing, I hate coffee.
Maybe I keep the stupid thing because it reminds me that there is more out there than just this land of ten thousand lakes (which is incorrectly named anyway - it's closer to 15,000). Even if that outside world has chosen to be commemorated by the production of cheap plastic trinkets.
The point is, I genuinely have no clue why I keep it. From time to time, I spend a while staring at it and listing all the reasons I should throw it away.
But then I never do.
Perhaps it's only fitting that, since the City of Lights has survived millennia, this moronic piece of crap should at least survive my passive aggression.
Sunday, 9 December 2012
POTD #3
Today's poem is one I recently discovered. It's by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and it's titled The Day Is Done.
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And tonight I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
Snowsong
Today is a very symphonic sort of day.
There have been fast bits with notes going at the speed of light, so quick and nimble that it almost makes you out of breath just listening to it. There have been slow bits with a lilting melody that lull you to a sense of contentment and security. There have been bits that are in between the two, and those, I think, are my favourites.
Outside, snow is falling steadily, as it has all day. That's such a beautiful sight from a window, isn't it? Whirling bits of white. To me it has always looked like they are dancing, and during the long Minnesota winters I always find myself composing music for them to dance to. Would it be a lively gigue, filled with eighth and sixteenth notes jumping up and down the scales? Would it be a leisurely nocturne, with graceful bass and tenor notes dreamily intertwining with the alto and soprano with footsteps light as air?
I'm never sure which one is right. On one hand, you have the frenetic energy that snow always seems to exude. On the other, you have that inescapable sense of contentment and sheer rightness that comes from watching snow fall as you're cozily ensconced inside, preferably with a hot cup of tea.
I suppose the perfect snowsong would be a mix of the two.
But if I try to compose different movements, it would never end. I would want to compose the childlike giddiness of running outside and catching snow on one's tongue. I would want to compose the sharp jagged overwhelmingness of a bitterly cold morning. I would want to compose the slight terror of a blizzard, the giggly unsteadiness of building a snowman with friends that you know is going to fall down the moment you get it to stay up, the breathless ecstasy of a snowball fight.
There's a million moments I'd want to set to music, and it would take my entire life, all my winters, to even begin to do it justice.
And that's only winter. What would I do, if set loose upon the other seasons? How could I compose the first non-forced flowers of spring? What would I do with the prompt of the hot summer sun on a deserted beach? The falling of scarlet and gold flowers like as many precious jewels and metals? The sometimes drowsy, sometimes abrupt flow of seasons?
My mind is dancing with notes right now. There are crescendos here, where gusts a particularly large burst of wind and snow. Decrescendos here, as in the grey light of predawn the last snowflake settles softly. Tempo changes and glissandos and shifting from key to key at the speed of light - or, perhaps, the speed of snow.
That has been my day. A Snowsong, one that wholeheartedly deserves the capitalization. In major and in minor key, and all the better for it. Complex in its simplicity, simple in its complexity, and on the whole mesmerizing.
In short, the best sort of all.
There have been fast bits with notes going at the speed of light, so quick and nimble that it almost makes you out of breath just listening to it. There have been slow bits with a lilting melody that lull you to a sense of contentment and security. There have been bits that are in between the two, and those, I think, are my favourites.
Outside, snow is falling steadily, as it has all day. That's such a beautiful sight from a window, isn't it? Whirling bits of white. To me it has always looked like they are dancing, and during the long Minnesota winters I always find myself composing music for them to dance to. Would it be a lively gigue, filled with eighth and sixteenth notes jumping up and down the scales? Would it be a leisurely nocturne, with graceful bass and tenor notes dreamily intertwining with the alto and soprano with footsteps light as air?
I'm never sure which one is right. On one hand, you have the frenetic energy that snow always seems to exude. On the other, you have that inescapable sense of contentment and sheer rightness that comes from watching snow fall as you're cozily ensconced inside, preferably with a hot cup of tea.
I suppose the perfect snowsong would be a mix of the two.
But if I try to compose different movements, it would never end. I would want to compose the childlike giddiness of running outside and catching snow on one's tongue. I would want to compose the sharp jagged overwhelmingness of a bitterly cold morning. I would want to compose the slight terror of a blizzard, the giggly unsteadiness of building a snowman with friends that you know is going to fall down the moment you get it to stay up, the breathless ecstasy of a snowball fight.
There's a million moments I'd want to set to music, and it would take my entire life, all my winters, to even begin to do it justice.
And that's only winter. What would I do, if set loose upon the other seasons? How could I compose the first non-forced flowers of spring? What would I do with the prompt of the hot summer sun on a deserted beach? The falling of scarlet and gold flowers like as many precious jewels and metals? The sometimes drowsy, sometimes abrupt flow of seasons?
My mind is dancing with notes right now. There are crescendos here, where gusts a particularly large burst of wind and snow. Decrescendos here, as in the grey light of predawn the last snowflake settles softly. Tempo changes and glissandos and shifting from key to key at the speed of light - or, perhaps, the speed of snow.
That has been my day. A Snowsong, one that wholeheartedly deserves the capitalization. In major and in minor key, and all the better for it. Complex in its simplicity, simple in its complexity, and on the whole mesmerizing.
In short, the best sort of all.
Thursday, 6 December 2012
POTD #2
Today's poem is by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. It's called Break, Break, Break.
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O, well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor lad,
That he sings on his boat in the bay!
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand
And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O, well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor lad,
That he sings on his boat in the bay!
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand
And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.
Stress
Okay, look.
I realize I've been gone for a frankly alarming amount of time.
In the five days since I've last posted, my friend has had a huge argument with her stepmother that required some hours of distracting, my portfolio for history has gone missing and now I'm 140 points in the hole in the one class I really need to get good grades in, and I had what basically amounts to an intense breakdown.
It hasn't been fun.
Please give me until tomorrow to come up with a good post. I'm sorry.
I realize I've been gone for a frankly alarming amount of time.
In the five days since I've last posted, my friend has had a huge argument with her stepmother that required some hours of distracting, my portfolio for history has gone missing and now I'm 140 points in the hole in the one class I really need to get good grades in, and I had what basically amounts to an intense breakdown.
It hasn't been fun.
Please give me until tomorrow to come up with a good post. I'm sorry.
Saturday, 1 December 2012
Poem of the Day #1
(After this, I'm just going to call it POTD.)
Today's poem is one of my favourites - "She Walks in Beauty" by George Gordon, Lord Byron.
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and light
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the namely grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
Today's poem is one of my favourites - "She Walks in Beauty" by George Gordon, Lord Byron.
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and light
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the namely grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
Turn of Phrase
I like poetry. Rather a lot, I'm afraid.
It's kind of difficult for me to understand why other people don't, actually.
For me, at least, there is nothing quite so lovely as a well-said turn of phrase. And when you look back at all the utterly wonderful turns of phrases history has produced, how can you help but be amazed?
The sad fact is, however, that there are people who don't like poetry. I can only conclude that this is because they have yet to read that one poem that simply clicks.
So, partly because of that and partly because it gives me an excuse to find a new one every day, I'm going to post a daily poem.
First one to come shortly. Enjoy!
It's kind of difficult for me to understand why other people don't, actually.
For me, at least, there is nothing quite so lovely as a well-said turn of phrase. And when you look back at all the utterly wonderful turns of phrases history has produced, how can you help but be amazed?
The sad fact is, however, that there are people who don't like poetry. I can only conclude that this is because they have yet to read that one poem that simply clicks.
So, partly because of that and partly because it gives me an excuse to find a new one every day, I'm going to post a daily poem.
First one to come shortly. Enjoy!
Chocolate Chip Cookies and Bond, James Bond
First things first: FINALS WEEK IS OVER. PARADES. REJOICING. WORLD PEACE.
Now.
I'm a little ticked off because my dad brought home gluten-free homemade cookies that his baking genius colleague made for us yesterday, and my sister ate all but two of a fourteen-cookie batch. In less than twenty-four hours.
The real kicker is that she had to go to softball practice right after we got them, and I offered to not eat any until she got back. I, being a nice sister, kept my promise. And, because I'm so nice, I ended up with two cookies while she ate twelve.
Ain't sisterhood great?!
On to usual programming.
I apologize for the lack of posts recently, but as stated above, this past week was finals week - and I was home sick on Monday. To be honest, I was still sick until about Thursday, but I honestly couldn't afford to miss any more school. Especially for finals week.
You know, it's amazing how much homework you get during finals week. Review packets I can understand, sure. But honestly, I got about half an hour of sleep during the entire week, didn't do any flashcard gimmicky review stuff, and pulled all nighters nearly every day.
Thank god I'm used to doing that.
Yesterday I saw Skyfall. Right. Easily the best film I've seen in years. I have to admit that I absolutely adore Q, if only because he's basically me but a genius. And male. And British. Anyway, fantastic film, would recommend to anyone old enough to handle guys shaving in towels and getting shot. (Not at the same time, mind you.) It's a brilliant 007 film.
Today was... actually rather lovely. I slept for like ten hours to make up for the dearth of shuteye during the week. Then the assorted people in the house brought home Noodles and Company (which was admittedly kind of rubbery but Olive Garden's is far worse for gluten free, so who cares). And then, joy of joys, I went to Barnes and Noble with forty quid in giftcards to spend.
Heaven.
Anyway, I ended up with a history book - yes, I adore history - a Rex Stout mystery, Smithsonian magazine, and the Hobbit official movie guide. (Shut up. I'm allowed to fangirl over Tolkien.)
Speaking of the Hobbit, I'm going to see it opening night with a group of friends. But get this - none of them want to see it in 3D.
I'll repeat that. None of them want to see it in 3D.
I.. to be honest, I don't understand. They were all "I wish we could see this in 3D!" when we had a LOTR marathon, and now the Hobbit is coming out in less than two weeks and they've gone all Eeyore!
I'll be frank. The Hobbit is one of my absolute favourite books. It's pretty much tied with This Side of Paradise. Bilbo is one of the few people, real or fictional, that I have completely fallen in love with (albeit completely platonically in all cases). I simply do not understand why people would choose to experience it in a less than complete way.
If you're offered tickets to see your favourite band perform, you do not say "No thanks, I think I'll sit outside and listen from there."
So, that's been my day. Not much happened.
How was yours?
Now.
I'm a little ticked off because my dad brought home gluten-free homemade cookies that his baking genius colleague made for us yesterday, and my sister ate all but two of a fourteen-cookie batch. In less than twenty-four hours.
The real kicker is that she had to go to softball practice right after we got them, and I offered to not eat any until she got back. I, being a nice sister, kept my promise. And, because I'm so nice, I ended up with two cookies while she ate twelve.
Ain't sisterhood great?!
On to usual programming.
I apologize for the lack of posts recently, but as stated above, this past week was finals week - and I was home sick on Monday. To be honest, I was still sick until about Thursday, but I honestly couldn't afford to miss any more school. Especially for finals week.
You know, it's amazing how much homework you get during finals week. Review packets I can understand, sure. But honestly, I got about half an hour of sleep during the entire week, didn't do any flashcard gimmicky review stuff, and pulled all nighters nearly every day.
Thank god I'm used to doing that.
Yesterday I saw Skyfall. Right. Easily the best film I've seen in years. I have to admit that I absolutely adore Q, if only because he's basically me but a genius. And male. And British. Anyway, fantastic film, would recommend to anyone old enough to handle guys shaving in towels and getting shot. (Not at the same time, mind you.) It's a brilliant 007 film.
Today was... actually rather lovely. I slept for like ten hours to make up for the dearth of shuteye during the week. Then the assorted people in the house brought home Noodles and Company (which was admittedly kind of rubbery but Olive Garden's is far worse for gluten free, so who cares). And then, joy of joys, I went to Barnes and Noble with forty quid in giftcards to spend.
Heaven.
Anyway, I ended up with a history book - yes, I adore history - a Rex Stout mystery, Smithsonian magazine, and the Hobbit official movie guide. (Shut up. I'm allowed to fangirl over Tolkien.)
Speaking of the Hobbit, I'm going to see it opening night with a group of friends. But get this - none of them want to see it in 3D.
I'll repeat that. None of them want to see it in 3D.
I.. to be honest, I don't understand. They were all "I wish we could see this in 3D!" when we had a LOTR marathon, and now the Hobbit is coming out in less than two weeks and they've gone all Eeyore!
I'll be frank. The Hobbit is one of my absolute favourite books. It's pretty much tied with This Side of Paradise. Bilbo is one of the few people, real or fictional, that I have completely fallen in love with (albeit completely platonically in all cases). I simply do not understand why people would choose to experience it in a less than complete way.
If you're offered tickets to see your favourite band perform, you do not say "No thanks, I think I'll sit outside and listen from there."
So, that's been my day. Not much happened.
How was yours?
Monday, 26 November 2012
Proof that I'm at least partly insane
Words, words, words. It’s amazing how well they can describe something and yet be so insufficient at the same time. It’s amazing how they can be black or white or grey or just any damn colour they please depending on how you feel when you encounter them. It’s amazing how they can be grouped to show a new meaning that somehow you never considered before, but once you do see it, you’ll see it for the rest of your life.
Sometimes I wonder if people are words. I wonder, if you looked really closely at the various lines that make up everything we see, if you’d find that the lines are actually a million tiny words all linked together. If you had a people-magnifying glass and you looked at the tired eyes of that guy you just passed on the street, could you read his story? There are a million words dancing round in my head right now and all I want to do is go someplace crowded and busy and just let words spill out and attach themselves to unsuspecting passerby in hopes that maybe the words will be passed on. But my ideas are always stupid when it’s this late at night, and by the time I found the place I’ve been looking for, I have to hope that I will be lost for words. I have to hope that it will be so amazing that I’ll be perfectly content to just observe the days passing by without feeling the desperate cry of words that need to be released.
That, I think, is true heaven for a person like me. I may be deaf but I can hear the pleading of trapped words wherever I go. It’s only fair that they should be free, isn’t it? People get so heated and emotional about animals that are trapped and can’t get free from wherever they might find themselves, but no one cares about words. No one cares that there are ideas, sentiments, theories, hundreds of thousands of millions of simple, undiluted thoughts that spend eternity floating around waiting for someone to put them carefully in the right place.
I never have any idea what I’m about to say when I open a document. Never. But somehow my hands will start to tremble, my fingers will start flying over the black and white of this laptop keyboard like it’s the glorious grand piano I’ve always wanted to play, and the words come spilling out with no input from me. Sometimes it’s happy things, sometimes it’s sad, and other times it will be like this, full of weird character studies and vague talk of the magic of life.
Because it is magic, it really is, and the fact that some people can’t see that makes me so depressed. No one should die without being amazed at least twice by the utter magnificence that is our existence. I doubt anyone sees the world quite like me, but that’s probably a good thing - we’d spend our entire lives stopping dead on the middle of a busy sidewalk because we’re utterly transfixed by seeing something so completely mundane in a completely new way.
But there are some people who never see the sunrise, and there are other people who never look away. And the fact that those two types of people are somehow the exact same thing will never cease to amaze me. We are all so alike and yet I doubt there ever was another species that had anywhere near the same amount of diversity. It utterly boggles my mind, and when it’s so late it’s early, as it is now, I can sit here in silence except for the click of plastic keys and yet in my head there are infinite symphonies playing and I swear to whatever deity you care to name that I’ve never felt so alive.
I’ve got a cold, there’s a nasty bruise on my forehead, my throat is sore for reasons unknown, and my feet are killing me, but none of that matters, don’t you see? Look at how wonderful our world is! What the hell do I care about those idiotic complaints when there’s the whole universe out there, full of countless things that no one ever dared to imagine?
And people! Oh, the gloriousness of people! Each and every one is something perfectly unique, something brilliantly new. The only sad thing is that I can’t meet every person who ever lived, no matter how hard I try. And that’s the really brilliant thing, isn’t it? Learning about people. Listening to stories. Finding out all this information that maybe they wouldn’t even remember, but I always will. You get to see the little eccentricities that everyone has, the tiny quirks that make them truly and utterly them, and there’s nothing quite so beautiful as the smile of someone found.
There’s always something new, because you can’t learn a person in a single moment. There’s always something old, because memories are never perfect. And there is always, always something surprising, and those are the best bits - the ones you never saw coming.
People are novels, things that some can’t be bothered to deal with but others will happily spend a lifetime picking through every sentence, every word, every letter because they really are genuinely fascinated by how they mesh together to form a chaptered whole.
People are anthologies, collections of stories that are all by different people and yet they centre on something that is, at its core, an essentially timeless thing, despite how easily or how often it might be forgotten in the gradual erosion of the harsh sands of existence.
People are poems, a collection of noise and rhythm and sometimes-disjointed words, and yet if you ever saw someone written down it wouldn’t be quite the same because some poems are meant to be lived and heard and felt and humanity is one of them.
You know, I don’t even remember what I was talking about when I started to write. I don’t really have any input on what gets typed out - it’s never up to me and I never get sick of it.
Is that what it’s like for most people? Are there other people who can just sit down and let sentences and words and letters flow out like some sort of literary tsunami? Or is it just me? Because the further I get into this, the less I have any idea what I’m talking about. I’m sort of just watching in a kind of fascinated shock as I type this. Is that normal?
I wonder if other people can hear words screaming out at them like I do. Do others keep a list of their favourite words? Do others write simply because they think words deserve to be free? Are there other people who think words are as gorgeous and brilliant and utterly fascinating as I do?
Listen - do you hear that? It’s the sound of people hitting the back button. Yes, I’m a lunatic. I never said I wasn’t. But as I once heard it put, being completely bonkers is like being mad, but much more fun.
So try it out. See if you can hear them. Because if you ask me, there’s nothing quite so beautiful as the music made by words.
Good night.
Sometimes I wonder if people are words. I wonder, if you looked really closely at the various lines that make up everything we see, if you’d find that the lines are actually a million tiny words all linked together. If you had a people-magnifying glass and you looked at the tired eyes of that guy you just passed on the street, could you read his story? There are a million words dancing round in my head right now and all I want to do is go someplace crowded and busy and just let words spill out and attach themselves to unsuspecting passerby in hopes that maybe the words will be passed on. But my ideas are always stupid when it’s this late at night, and by the time I found the place I’ve been looking for, I have to hope that I will be lost for words. I have to hope that it will be so amazing that I’ll be perfectly content to just observe the days passing by without feeling the desperate cry of words that need to be released.
That, I think, is true heaven for a person like me. I may be deaf but I can hear the pleading of trapped words wherever I go. It’s only fair that they should be free, isn’t it? People get so heated and emotional about animals that are trapped and can’t get free from wherever they might find themselves, but no one cares about words. No one cares that there are ideas, sentiments, theories, hundreds of thousands of millions of simple, undiluted thoughts that spend eternity floating around waiting for someone to put them carefully in the right place.
I never have any idea what I’m about to say when I open a document. Never. But somehow my hands will start to tremble, my fingers will start flying over the black and white of this laptop keyboard like it’s the glorious grand piano I’ve always wanted to play, and the words come spilling out with no input from me. Sometimes it’s happy things, sometimes it’s sad, and other times it will be like this, full of weird character studies and vague talk of the magic of life.
Because it is magic, it really is, and the fact that some people can’t see that makes me so depressed. No one should die without being amazed at least twice by the utter magnificence that is our existence. I doubt anyone sees the world quite like me, but that’s probably a good thing - we’d spend our entire lives stopping dead on the middle of a busy sidewalk because we’re utterly transfixed by seeing something so completely mundane in a completely new way.
But there are some people who never see the sunrise, and there are other people who never look away. And the fact that those two types of people are somehow the exact same thing will never cease to amaze me. We are all so alike and yet I doubt there ever was another species that had anywhere near the same amount of diversity. It utterly boggles my mind, and when it’s so late it’s early, as it is now, I can sit here in silence except for the click of plastic keys and yet in my head there are infinite symphonies playing and I swear to whatever deity you care to name that I’ve never felt so alive.
I’ve got a cold, there’s a nasty bruise on my forehead, my throat is sore for reasons unknown, and my feet are killing me, but none of that matters, don’t you see? Look at how wonderful our world is! What the hell do I care about those idiotic complaints when there’s the whole universe out there, full of countless things that no one ever dared to imagine?
And people! Oh, the gloriousness of people! Each and every one is something perfectly unique, something brilliantly new. The only sad thing is that I can’t meet every person who ever lived, no matter how hard I try. And that’s the really brilliant thing, isn’t it? Learning about people. Listening to stories. Finding out all this information that maybe they wouldn’t even remember, but I always will. You get to see the little eccentricities that everyone has, the tiny quirks that make them truly and utterly them, and there’s nothing quite so beautiful as the smile of someone found.
There’s always something new, because you can’t learn a person in a single moment. There’s always something old, because memories are never perfect. And there is always, always something surprising, and those are the best bits - the ones you never saw coming.
People are novels, things that some can’t be bothered to deal with but others will happily spend a lifetime picking through every sentence, every word, every letter because they really are genuinely fascinated by how they mesh together to form a chaptered whole.
People are anthologies, collections of stories that are all by different people and yet they centre on something that is, at its core, an essentially timeless thing, despite how easily or how often it might be forgotten in the gradual erosion of the harsh sands of existence.
People are poems, a collection of noise and rhythm and sometimes-disjointed words, and yet if you ever saw someone written down it wouldn’t be quite the same because some poems are meant to be lived and heard and felt and humanity is one of them.
You know, I don’t even remember what I was talking about when I started to write. I don’t really have any input on what gets typed out - it’s never up to me and I never get sick of it.
Is that what it’s like for most people? Are there other people who can just sit down and let sentences and words and letters flow out like some sort of literary tsunami? Or is it just me? Because the further I get into this, the less I have any idea what I’m talking about. I’m sort of just watching in a kind of fascinated shock as I type this. Is that normal?
I wonder if other people can hear words screaming out at them like I do. Do others keep a list of their favourite words? Do others write simply because they think words deserve to be free? Are there other people who think words are as gorgeous and brilliant and utterly fascinating as I do?
Listen - do you hear that? It’s the sound of people hitting the back button. Yes, I’m a lunatic. I never said I wasn’t. But as I once heard it put, being completely bonkers is like being mad, but much more fun.
So try it out. See if you can hear them. Because if you ask me, there’s nothing quite so beautiful as the music made by words.
Good night.
I've been up for over twenty four hours.
You ever had one of those days that was just destined to go wrong?
I haven't been this nauseous in five years. My headache has gotten so bad that I nearly passed out in public.
Oh, joy.
Anyway, have decided to post something I wrote a while back. Said thing will appear in the next five minutes or so.
I haven't been this nauseous in five years. My headache has gotten so bad that I nearly passed out in public.
Oh, joy.
Anyway, have decided to post something I wrote a while back. Said thing will appear in the next five minutes or so.
Sunday, 25 November 2012
Nightmares R Us
Well!
My first blog post. This is truly a momentous occasion.
I feel like I should be performing a sort of celebratory dance or something. Perhaps a polka. But then again, I don't actually know how to polka. Right. That's not going to work, then.
This isn't going very well, is it?
I'm sorry, I'm a bit loopy at the moment. I've been up since a little before two in the morning because I was afraid to go back to sleep after the most recent nightmare.
Have you ever had one of those nightmares that's just terrifyingly, incandescently real? It's like you stub your toe in the dream and it hurts even when you're awake. Usually there's that little niggling thing that tells you that it isn't real, that you will wake up eventually, but my dreams have gotten so intense that until I see that one little thing, I honestly believe that it's real.
Take the nightmare I woke up from this morning. It basically consisted of me being hunted down and killed by people I consider to be close friends. As has been happening more and more often recently, I could see the murder weapon (in this case a pure white knife about twelve inches long altogether) being drenched in my blood before the actual wound occurred. In the dream, it feels like things just sort of freeze when I stare at it, and then there's a red spot that grows and grows and grows until there's red everywhere, coating the person's hand, dripping on the floor with a sickeningly fluid sound, making everything slick and disgusting. I always snap out of it just in time to see the business end fire or stab or whatever that night's instrument of murder is attack.
Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it doesn't. There are times when I'm just vaguely aware of chilled metal entering my body. There are other times when I could swear every nerve in my dream body is twice as sensitive and I wake up crying so hard I have red eyes for the rest of the day.
And even though I do eventually wake up, it's so real that unless I find that thing that's just wrong, I'm honest to goodness convinced that I am about to die.
It's always something easily overlookable. Last night it was the colour of my Converse. Once it was the page I had bookmarked in Macbeth. The side of my deodorant facing the room. The order of the books on my desk. The year on the coin I have a habit of fiddling with. In the most subtle case, the brown spot in one of my eyes was reversed so it was on the other side of the pupil. That one was beyond scary - I kept looking and looking for something to prove that it wasn't real, and I couldn't find anything until I was thrown through a mirror and I got a very up-close and personal view of my face before smashing through it.
Yeah. Sleeping hasn't been happening much lately.
And I'm used to it, I honestly am - a whole life full of nightmares does that to you - but it's been particularly bad recently and my headaches are getting worse as well.
I'm so exhausted, and my head hurts, and yet I'm absolutely terrified to sleep and the only way to get rid of one of my migraines is to sleep it off, helpfully enough.
Yes, well.
Great inaugural post, huh?
Have a nice day.
My first blog post. This is truly a momentous occasion.
I feel like I should be performing a sort of celebratory dance or something. Perhaps a polka. But then again, I don't actually know how to polka. Right. That's not going to work, then.
This isn't going very well, is it?
I'm sorry, I'm a bit loopy at the moment. I've been up since a little before two in the morning because I was afraid to go back to sleep after the most recent nightmare.
Have you ever had one of those nightmares that's just terrifyingly, incandescently real? It's like you stub your toe in the dream and it hurts even when you're awake. Usually there's that little niggling thing that tells you that it isn't real, that you will wake up eventually, but my dreams have gotten so intense that until I see that one little thing, I honestly believe that it's real.
Take the nightmare I woke up from this morning. It basically consisted of me being hunted down and killed by people I consider to be close friends. As has been happening more and more often recently, I could see the murder weapon (in this case a pure white knife about twelve inches long altogether) being drenched in my blood before the actual wound occurred. In the dream, it feels like things just sort of freeze when I stare at it, and then there's a red spot that grows and grows and grows until there's red everywhere, coating the person's hand, dripping on the floor with a sickeningly fluid sound, making everything slick and disgusting. I always snap out of it just in time to see the business end fire or stab or whatever that night's instrument of murder is attack.
Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it doesn't. There are times when I'm just vaguely aware of chilled metal entering my body. There are other times when I could swear every nerve in my dream body is twice as sensitive and I wake up crying so hard I have red eyes for the rest of the day.
And even though I do eventually wake up, it's so real that unless I find that thing that's just wrong, I'm honest to goodness convinced that I am about to die.
It's always something easily overlookable. Last night it was the colour of my Converse. Once it was the page I had bookmarked in Macbeth. The side of my deodorant facing the room. The order of the books on my desk. The year on the coin I have a habit of fiddling with. In the most subtle case, the brown spot in one of my eyes was reversed so it was on the other side of the pupil. That one was beyond scary - I kept looking and looking for something to prove that it wasn't real, and I couldn't find anything until I was thrown through a mirror and I got a very up-close and personal view of my face before smashing through it.
Yeah. Sleeping hasn't been happening much lately.
And I'm used to it, I honestly am - a whole life full of nightmares does that to you - but it's been particularly bad recently and my headaches are getting worse as well.
I'm so exhausted, and my head hurts, and yet I'm absolutely terrified to sleep and the only way to get rid of one of my migraines is to sleep it off, helpfully enough.
Yes, well.
Great inaugural post, huh?
Have a nice day.
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