I was going to write a note on Costa Rican politics for a change, but as I'm sitting here, with some stupid Sara Jessica Parker film going on, I have started thinking about other things. Things that may have to come out bloating from the keyboard instead of something a bit more structured. For some fucking reason the Internet is freezing over every once in a while and that pisses me off. It makes you value those moments when the letters appear on the screen as you type them. Like I said on Hókisasszony, I spent all day yesterday writing in the several handwritten journals I'm keeping. One for Caroll, one for Gabs, and my little treasure of all the meanness and dark, lurking little bits of my heart, my own. I wrote and scribbled and poured my heart into the processed wood pulp of the pages of the journals. Funny, how my own journal is so terribly different from the other ones, and not only for the language it is written on (evidently in Hungarian), or the contents, but also for the looks for it. I'm carrying my own journal now, everywhere I go now whether I write or not, whether I have time for it or not, I just can't leave without in my bag, just as I can't leave without a book to read. Now my journal keeps "Suite Française" company.
My French is sadly poor, and though I can say a few things and twist and turn the language to its fullest so I can say all the things I need to say, it's still poor and I realize that when I'm in front of a novel or a novelette like this one, which makes use of a higher, more sophisticated French. I would pack also a French dictionary, but really, that's just as much weight as I can carry around. I must improve slowly and by my own, learning the meaning of the words from the text, reading more frequently until my vocabulary builds up. Kind of like with the English. There is also something else about this book. It was written by a Ukranian Jew woman who came to live to Paris and who was hauled to Auschwitz, where she died quite soon after her arrival. This kind of gives something to the novel, not an Anne Frank flare, but certainly a something, a taste of something... like "Fate" or "Doom" or "unavoidable destiny" like something to the words, particularly after you read the foreword and you know she knew she wasn't gonna survive the war. I wonder, does people know with such certainty that death is breathing down their necks? How do you face it?
The thought of death unmistakably makes me think of Henrik. I must say, I admire him. Was it so hard to die? What does it take for a human being to overcome the pain of ripping away from one's body and scatter around into the airy energy of the universe? If I think of dying, I'm sure the "dying" itself ain't that bad. It must be quite liberating, and it must be the best feeling ever, like the ultimate relaxing, but I guess the "getting there" is the real bitch. Must admire someone like Henrik. But then, he knew he was going to die, or at least he hoped for it, since he was handling the dying himself, but what about Irene? She didn't know when or where or exactly how. That must be... how does that go? How do you get that certainty, how do you feel it? Is it like love, which is never explained and you have to second guess all your feelings to whether this is it until something pops inside your chest and you "know" this is it and it only becomes more and more certain when you realize that it's not wearing off and it's not going away and yes, this must be it because nothing else comes close to it?
Of all determinating feelings in the human range, why can't all of them be as simple as hate? You never question how much you hate other people or other things and whether "this is it". You hate and you live it fully. Why can't love be just the same? I guess because mankind ifds it safer to hate because hate keeps us "strong" while love makes us vulnerable. Same with death. You are not supposed to know it because somehow death is seemed as some sort of defeat. But was Irene defeated? And if she was, what a beautiful sense of defeat soaked her soul that made her write such groping stories.
I bought myself a new bag yesterday. Not like I really-really needed one, but I wanted to treat myself and come a step closer to have a true messenger bag. I've packed it already for tomorrow. I hung my gray dress in the bathroom and I'm still deciding over my black pumps or my ever-present black boots. I think about the dictionary and the weight of my bag again and I remember my poor boss' remark about women packing up a frigidaire in their bags: have a lot of stuff and weights like a frigidaire. I was going to refute that, but my bag is really somewhat heavy. And what can I say? I have in there what I need:
Tomorrow, tomorrow, what's in store for tomorrow? Lunch at Wendy's most likely. I believe I won't really be able to lunch with Jets like in the old times. There are no more old times. She has changed and so have I. What is left of our friendship but threads to pic up and figure out? It's fraying. Do not misunderstand me, I still love her, and oh Hyne, how I love her. She's like my sister, the sister everybody takes us for, but we are falling apart. Those things hurt, but we all have to grow up. I was wondering about her birthday present, and I think I have it: a book on the Second World War and a contact lens case. One hitting the motels as often as she does now (so that she has to carry her shower gel, body spray and body milk in her purse), well, sure needs to take care of business if something were to happen to her contacts, right? Even found a glam, very sophisticated, rhinestone case I believe she might find appealing.
I wanted some entertainment for the weekend, so I rented three movies: two newbies and a "sure hit". No Country for Older Men, Beowulf and Fast and Furious: Tokyo Drift. The first was bad and I have no idea how could that win an oscar. The second was even worse. Someone should have told me it was crappy computer animations. Why wouldn't they just do another Shrek? At least that would have been funny. Okay, maybe they animated it so no one could blame the crappy acting on the actors. The third... I have seen it and I know I like it. Good thing I rented it.
Gara go now. Won't promise you I'll be back tomorrow with yet a new entry, but I'll be back some other time. Until then, remember that perceptions are imperfect, but they are the only truth we have.
My French is sadly poor, and though I can say a few things and twist and turn the language to its fullest so I can say all the things I need to say, it's still poor and I realize that when I'm in front of a novel or a novelette like this one, which makes use of a higher, more sophisticated French. I would pack also a French dictionary, but really, that's just as much weight as I can carry around. I must improve slowly and by my own, learning the meaning of the words from the text, reading more frequently until my vocabulary builds up. Kind of like with the English. There is also something else about this book. It was written by a Ukranian Jew woman who came to live to Paris and who was hauled to Auschwitz, where she died quite soon after her arrival. This kind of gives something to the novel, not an Anne Frank flare, but certainly a something, a taste of something... like "Fate" or "Doom" or "unavoidable destiny" like something to the words, particularly after you read the foreword and you know she knew she wasn't gonna survive the war. I wonder, does people know with such certainty that death is breathing down their necks? How do you face it?
The thought of death unmistakably makes me think of Henrik. I must say, I admire him. Was it so hard to die? What does it take for a human being to overcome the pain of ripping away from one's body and scatter around into the airy energy of the universe? If I think of dying, I'm sure the "dying" itself ain't that bad. It must be quite liberating, and it must be the best feeling ever, like the ultimate relaxing, but I guess the "getting there" is the real bitch. Must admire someone like Henrik. But then, he knew he was going to die, or at least he hoped for it, since he was handling the dying himself, but what about Irene? She didn't know when or where or exactly how. That must be... how does that go? How do you get that certainty, how do you feel it? Is it like love, which is never explained and you have to second guess all your feelings to whether this is it until something pops inside your chest and you "know" this is it and it only becomes more and more certain when you realize that it's not wearing off and it's not going away and yes, this must be it because nothing else comes close to it?
Of all determinating feelings in the human range, why can't all of them be as simple as hate? You never question how much you hate other people or other things and whether "this is it". You hate and you live it fully. Why can't love be just the same? I guess because mankind ifds it safer to hate because hate keeps us "strong" while love makes us vulnerable. Same with death. You are not supposed to know it because somehow death is seemed as some sort of defeat. But was Irene defeated? And if she was, what a beautiful sense of defeat soaked her soul that made her write such groping stories.
I bought myself a new bag yesterday. Not like I really-really needed one, but I wanted to treat myself and come a step closer to have a true messenger bag. I've packed it already for tomorrow. I hung my gray dress in the bathroom and I'm still deciding over my black pumps or my ever-present black boots. I think about the dictionary and the weight of my bag again and I remember my poor boss' remark about women packing up a frigidaire in their bags: have a lot of stuff and weights like a frigidaire. I was going to refute that, but my bag is really somewhat heavy. And what can I say? I have in there what I need:
- My journal
- My PDA (wasn't in the original post- Added 2008IV10)
- A small notepad
- My wallet
- The book I'm reading
- My nici pencilbag
- Cosmetics bag (the one Mario gave me! Oh, I love that little necessaire!)
- Keys
- Umbrella
- Glass case with my glasses in it. My "sophisticated glasses", you mind. The comfortable ones stay at home.
Tomorrow, tomorrow, what's in store for tomorrow? Lunch at Wendy's most likely. I believe I won't really be able to lunch with Jets like in the old times. There are no more old times. She has changed and so have I. What is left of our friendship but threads to pic up and figure out? It's fraying. Do not misunderstand me, I still love her, and oh Hyne, how I love her. She's like my sister, the sister everybody takes us for, but we are falling apart. Those things hurt, but we all have to grow up. I was wondering about her birthday present, and I think I have it: a book on the Second World War and a contact lens case. One hitting the motels as often as she does now (so that she has to carry her shower gel, body spray and body milk in her purse), well, sure needs to take care of business if something were to happen to her contacts, right? Even found a glam, very sophisticated, rhinestone case I believe she might find appealing.
I wanted some entertainment for the weekend, so I rented three movies: two newbies and a "sure hit". No Country for Older Men, Beowulf and Fast and Furious: Tokyo Drift. The first was bad and I have no idea how could that win an oscar. The second was even worse. Someone should have told me it was crappy computer animations. Why wouldn't they just do another Shrek? At least that would have been funny. Okay, maybe they animated it so no one could blame the crappy acting on the actors. The third... I have seen it and I know I like it. Good thing I rented it.
Gara go now. Won't promise you I'll be back tomorrow with yet a new entry, but I'll be back some other time. Until then, remember that perceptions are imperfect, but they are the only truth we have.
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