(no subject)
Yesterday, I went to Mexico, or so the Texas Chainsaw Massacre guy told me. Both his accent and his facial expressions transported me back into a time when ghosts did not cross water and you minded your pa else he'd whip you with a metal hanger. Upon meeting him I was given the chills, and to be honest, as nice a guy as he seemed, I felt uncomfortable until the moment we bid him adieu.
The highlight of yesterday was a trip to the George Ranch in Richmond, Texas. It's a territory which was bought by a family by the name of Jones back during the days of the white vs. red devils faceoffs. (The year was 1830 I believe.)Unfortunately, we arrived too late and were not able to see all the highlights of the ranch, however we did visit the two oldest exhibitions there. Those were, a stock farm and a Victorian house, both of which were scary yet enlightening glimpses back into this country's past. I never had so clear an idea as to the original pioneers' life experiences until I visited the ranch. It was simultaneously relaxing and intense ... the heat, the crocodiles and snakes in the river ... the tallgrass and the dragonflies .... I'm sure having to work dawn to dusk with obsolete technology would only intensify all of those experiences. I was especially intrigued by the Victorian exhibition. For some reason I've always had a fascination with antiquarian fashions and customs. Factually I didn't quite learn anything new, but being in an actual Victorian home was more of an experience than I could have ever gained from a book. The sepia stained photographs, Oriental furniture, the miniscule stair railings which gave me the uneasy impression of being a top-heavy oaf in comparison with these petite peoples.
...
A few days ago, I finally finished reading The Name of the Rose. I'm glad I chose to read it as a mystery rather than an extensive philosophical treatise, otherwise I would have been truly lost. However, I cannot help but feel, everytime I read such a book as this (does any other such singular piece of work exist?), a deep chasm open up within my frontal lobe, and all the previous items of knowledge I once held dear disseminate, only to make way for a monstruous black hole with a row of sharp canines delineating its circumference ... vagina dentata organ ... which gulps whole and digests information with the fury and splendor of lightning. I want to know more ... I want to see and study with my own eyes ... crumbling linen manuscripts decorated with grotesque basilisks and centaurs, gorgons and chimeras. The symbolic history of Christian literature, art and architecture I find so fascinating ... that reading those dear lines transported me to a place simultaneously so enlightening and terrifying that I was not sure that I hadn't been sucked into another glorious dimension by the force of my own willfull imagination.
...
This ... is why I do not read at night. Especially not on cold winter nights when my house rickets and rackets and I think some astral force was drawn by my explosive imagination, and is taking interest (and advantage of) this weird girl with near-hallucinatory visions.
This ... is when I miss being a child, miss being able to jump and take comfortable repose in the warm, fluffy mass that is my mommy's tummy. Actually, there is no longer a comfy mass. I was mad when she got an abdominoplasty. They got rid of all the fluff =(
The highlight of yesterday was a trip to the George Ranch in Richmond, Texas. It's a territory which was bought by a family by the name of Jones back during the days of the white vs. red devils faceoffs. (The year was 1830 I believe.)Unfortunately, we arrived too late and were not able to see all the highlights of the ranch, however we did visit the two oldest exhibitions there. Those were, a stock farm and a Victorian house, both of which were scary yet enlightening glimpses back into this country's past. I never had so clear an idea as to the original pioneers' life experiences until I visited the ranch. It was simultaneously relaxing and intense ... the heat, the crocodiles and snakes in the river ... the tallgrass and the dragonflies .... I'm sure having to work dawn to dusk with obsolete technology would only intensify all of those experiences. I was especially intrigued by the Victorian exhibition. For some reason I've always had a fascination with antiquarian fashions and customs. Factually I didn't quite learn anything new, but being in an actual Victorian home was more of an experience than I could have ever gained from a book. The sepia stained photographs, Oriental furniture, the miniscule stair railings which gave me the uneasy impression of being a top-heavy oaf in comparison with these petite peoples.
...
A few days ago, I finally finished reading The Name of the Rose. I'm glad I chose to read it as a mystery rather than an extensive philosophical treatise, otherwise I would have been truly lost. However, I cannot help but feel, everytime I read such a book as this (does any other such singular piece of work exist?), a deep chasm open up within my frontal lobe, and all the previous items of knowledge I once held dear disseminate, only to make way for a monstruous black hole with a row of sharp canines delineating its circumference ... vagina dentata organ ... which gulps whole and digests information with the fury and splendor of lightning. I want to know more ... I want to see and study with my own eyes ... crumbling linen manuscripts decorated with grotesque basilisks and centaurs, gorgons and chimeras. The symbolic history of Christian literature, art and architecture I find so fascinating ... that reading those dear lines transported me to a place simultaneously so enlightening and terrifying that I was not sure that I hadn't been sucked into another glorious dimension by the force of my own willfull imagination.
...
This ... is why I do not read at night. Especially not on cold winter nights when my house rickets and rackets and I think some astral force was drawn by my explosive imagination, and is taking interest (and advantage of) this weird girl with near-hallucinatory visions.
This ... is when I miss being a child, miss being able to jump and take comfortable repose in the warm, fluffy mass that is my mommy's tummy. Actually, there is no longer a comfy mass. I was mad when she got an abdominoplasty. They got rid of all the fluff =(