Reading Books

Love, you'd be better off dead

Love, you'd be better off dead
With a bullet in your head
Than to come back to me

So burn all the letters I sent
For every word that I meant
There were two that were lies

Yes, thank you Teddy Thompson for such profound lyrics. Love – you’d be better off dead indeed. My closest friends know that if I would ever utter the ‘L’ word in relation to a man, to put me down or place me in a mental institution along with House. I have never been in l and don’t intend on it ever infecting me. As a matter of fact, now at 24 I am preparing for the life that Barbara Pym delineates extensively in her books. I will be ‘an excellent woman.’ Yes. Hmmm or maybe I will be Miss Havisham. Well, tons of choices out there...maybe mad Bertha in the attic.

But before one considers why one was never infected before or how to avoid catching this disease, let’s talk about the first signs of the fever and how it is viewed by different people.
Nietzsche was delighted about love, claiming, “One seems almost transfigured, stronger, richer, more complete; one is more complete.” Ahh yes, happy go lucky Nietzsche. But not to worry, I have the Greek lyric poets behind me on this one, where they describe the l experience with metaphors of ‘war, disease and bodily dissolution’ Now that’s more like it! Ship ahoy, we’ve only just started! L is described as something that “assaults or invades the body of the lover to wrest control of it from him.” Essentially, both have very disparate ideas about love but they do agree that it changes you. When I had my contemporary British literature class years ago, I distinctly remember my professor exclaiming, “L changes you and thank god.” Now about a few centuries ago I still had the capacity to be infatuated by certain persons. And yes, I will concede that in the beginning there were some positive symptoms exhibited as a result of coming into close contact with the virus. Initially, one does have all that vitality and becomes desirous of accomplishing all the deeds one always wanted to do. One might even find oneself being less cynical and misanthropic. Or one might even allow for brighter colors in one’s wardrobe. Of course, while one is in this state one does not usually want to consider how it’ll end…but oh, as sure as Jane Austen is a genius, it’ll end. Later or… sooner. One person will lose his interest and leave, “with pain and embarrassment all round. He will repudiate the relationship, regret his investment in it and move on to new infatuations.”
But this is the end, let’s consider the beginning. After all, there are some symptoms of this ailment, and if you’re Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the ‘the symptoms of love were the same as those of cholera.’ So when one starts to experience the onset of the symptoms, does one agree with Plato or Lysias, who asserts that one must stop it when the first symptoms are first felt?

Clarissa

But often now this body she wore, this body, with all its capacities, seemed nothing--nothing at all.  She had the oddest sense of being herself invisible, unseen; unknown.

Sitting on the train and thinking. I have so much to say.  And I want to express what I want to express the way I want to express it. I have been silent for so long that I am screaming and disintegrating inside. The center cannot hold. 

Until recently I've not spoken at all. My teachers didn't even know what my voice sounded like. Probably didn't even know I was there. I am invisible always. Outside I'm invisible because I'm overweight. Inside my classes I'm invisible because I am always silent. High school, 4 years of college and always quiet, hiding, afraid to be called upon because the blush would materialize on my face and my whole body would go into overdrive, shaking. My brain would stop functioning and coherent words would not come out. Oh God, the only thing I want is to be an academic, to be good at English, to achieve something, to have a voice, my own voice. To understand the discourse of the academia and be able to speak their language. Dense language. Beautiful dense impenetrable.

Sitting on the train and crying. Because how could one want something so much and understand that maybe one will never get it. What would be the point of one's life if one will never be able to speak the discourse of the academia. To understand literature thoroughly. To absorb it.

What if I just don't have it. What if I can only be mediocre. I don't want fame or public success. I just want to know that I'm smart and that I am in control of words. Control. To pin them down, to beat them down, to tear them apart and string them together into completeness. What is there in the world for me if I will never win this battle with words. How can I be a complete person without it.

I read Jane Austen or Winterson and think – they are in charge of the world; they are in charge of the universe because they have gained mastery over words. I don't want much from life. I will never be beautiful, coveted or famous or even coupled with someone. I am destined for the life of loneliness and mediocrity. So can't I just have this one thing from life. Is that too much? Really? Am I asking too much, am I being selfish in my wishes. Is it too much to ask for a little protection. Protection by words. Shield against invisibility, against indifference, against my weight, against my diffidence and my utter nonexistence in this world.

Someone like you

The little black book of Marilyn Monroe

Marilyn had a little black book in which she wrote down poetry, her thoughts and ponderings.

I can't really stand Human
Beings sometimes--I know
they all have their problems
as I have mine--but I'm really
too tired for it.  Trying to understand,
making allowances, seeing certain things
that just weary me.

"The unknownness of my needs frightens me. I do not know how huge they are, or how high they are, I only know that they are not being met."

Hats

And is love then more Than the kick galvanic Or the thundering roar Of Ash volcanic

An Audrey Afternoon

To The Not Impossible Him

HOW shall I know, unless I go
  To Cairo and Cathay,
Whether or not this blessed spot
  Is blest in every way?
Now it may be, the flower for me
  Is this beneath my nose;
How shall I tell, unless I smell
  The Carthaginian rose?
The fabric of my faithful love
  No power shall dim or ravel
Whilst I stay here,–but oh, my dear
  If I should ever travel!

E. SVM

Papers Papers

Day 4 of my trying to write my Children's Lit paper.  Number of full sentences. 0. I have fully immersed myself in this project.  I've thought about it nonstop, I've even dreamed about it.  Analyzing illustrations is not as easy as it appears to be.  Writing about the story I can.  I can analyze  the text minutely using different approaches. Historical, cultural, Freudian, feminist - you name it.
Thus far have accomplished much. Much except for the paper that is. Finished a book, watched my netflix films, worked out, played with the cats, painted my nails green and my toes black.

Worst paper in the history of papers! Oh Please Muse, come to me!!!

Maybe I'll try getting away from staring at the blank screen.  Have now attempted to write the paper in the living room and currently am in the closet.

Days of Heaven

Well, "Days of Heaven" is certainly interesting and different from other films with that distinct Malick touch. 
 The basic premise of the film is the love triangle that develops between the two poor lovers and the wealthy farmer.  The working class Bill (Richard Gere) convinces his paramour to marry a rich farmer(Sam Shepard) who's fallen in love with her only to realize in the end that his lover has fallen in love with her husband.  Still for most of the movie the girl can't decide which man she likes more and the entire time I feel like screaming - What is there to vacillate about?  Come on, obviously love Sam Shepard.  Choose Sam.  Love Sam.  He's so lusciously tasty.