only the lull i like, the hum of your valved voice
I was never a Thoreau fan, honest, I never ever was a fan of the Concord School or the Transcendentalists (though now I get them a bit more). But bits and pieces of his stuff have been coming to mind lately, and upon sitting down and reading Song of Myself, I think I identify with it completely, and I love it, except it doesn't perfectly click with me now because I've been in this terrible-but-slowly-improving mood since Sunday, which I attribute partially to the shitty weather, regardless of what Durkheim might say on the matter. For example - reading this almost made me cry:
I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over
upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue
to my bare-stript heart,
And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my
feet.
Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and
city I live in, or the nation,
The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old
and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss
or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations,
Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news,
the fitful events;
These come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.
Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,
Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,
Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,
Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.
Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with
linguists and contenders,
I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait.
I really love that whole bit. And I love the beginning [of Song of Myself - "I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself, / And what I assume you shall assume, / For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you."], which is useless, save for the magnificent first line, unless one is firmly in love and in loved and in a relationship of weight, which I'm not, and maybe that can be attributed for the series of run-on's that I've been using for the past week or more with scarce a pause between. My thoughts have been really frenzied, actually.
Pierre theorizes that since I spend slightly over half the year not speaking English and not being able to regularly expel the usual series of puns, urbane commentary, random references and pseudo-witticisms, my mind finds it necessary to try to get as much of it out during the brief time that I spend with my friends, during the brief time that I am here; its a new theory, but I like it. Thoughts? When I speak, do the thoughts I express come out in practically manic torrents of layers and energy?
I misread everything. It is not going to be a good week, at all. It's going to be a bloody awful week. I feel like the mother in Crónica de Una Muerte Annunciada (which everyone should immediately read), interpreting the dream, which initially she interprets as one of good fortune, because of the birds, and only later does she realize that the birds were in trees, signifying death. No one is dying, but I've no idea what compelled me to think that this would be a good week - quite on the contrary, it has been hell, so far. Only since it's unofficial beginning on Sunday it's been a series of horrible events. And then I got outbid on ebay? Awful. I'm also wondering about the summer, and if I really want to be here for its entirety. I have to come back to get my papers in order, but what's holding me here, and is it worth it? The other option being what - finding work in Madrid? Being a counselor in Tübingen for this year's Congress-Bundestag recipients? But it would probably be somewhat depressing, considering how much history I already have with that city, and even then it would only happen for the month of August - I'd have to find something to do in September, till classes start. Le sigh - as usual, I'll figure this out around May. But I'm thinking about it, and the fact that I've been an emotional wreck during the past few days (and today, even) is not helping.
I had a dream the night before last: the 12th grade Art History teacher, whom I hated, slapped {green} paint on my face; I went to the office and complained to the Principal (who was stationed inexplicably in a small counselor's office) and threatened to press charges if nothing was done. Nothing was done. I woke up in a very bad mood, eventually went to Barnes and Noble (non-dream) and read I Am My Own Wife, which was really good. I think I want to see it onstage, but I doubt they'll be doing a Madrid run after it closes in New York, if in fact it still is running. I had coffee with Lexi, a looooong series of coffees, and that was cool too, but again, emotional? She was too, which was cool, and funny due to how long we've known each other, and how we've built these pseudo-elitisms that apparently make us exempt {for no reason at all} from rules that we apply to others. We thought it funny that, despite how overly-analytical and self-exploring and oft-times irrationally emotional. And meanwhile, I was totally deadpan watching Brokeback Mountain, whilst apparently others were sobbing. Ha. But emotional irrational for other stuff, too, not just that.]we can be...we still mostly cannot stand emo music.
(The again, if everything is supposedly emo, maybe I'm misclassifying the genre.)
(But I don't think so.)
I had a dream last night, as well. I know that the one from the night before (with the Art History teacher) was probably due to the orange juice (orange juice before bed or in the middle of the night makes me dream, I swear, and more often that not the dreams are either trippy or scary, but sometimes I just really crave juice in the middle of the night); last night's dream was completely spontaneous though (no juice.) I almost forgot it, but I made an effort to remember it right after I woke up, and I remember half. I was in an apartment (it was not my apartment) with Maria, who was in a half-bad mood; we had just moved in, but there were crates of dusty pictures and framed paintings all over the room. I needed to go out and get something on the other side of town (no idea what town it was; again, there was the Cabinet of Dr. Caligari jagged, set-like architecture.) I think maybe Pamplona? It reminded me of Grace's first flat. A window opened into the apartment, and connected it with a bakery; the Baker was friendly and helpful, and in fact the now-aged protagonist of Bon Voyage, though he looked nothing like him - somehow I just knew that it was him, on (apparent) account of his published novel, which someone let me read on the street. I remember wondering how he had gotten back from England, right before I woke up. But sometime before that, I had another dream that was interrupted by the phone ringing in my room, only it was great because I didn't wake up till the fourth ring, and before that the rings sounded like doorbells, and at each ring I would let a new person into the flat. I can't remember who all of them were, but I remember laughing because the first person who came in was apparently Mao, and in the dream there was a very theatrical collective expression of, "Chairman Mao!", like in a cheesy 70's sitcom, or like when a villain is unmasked in Scooby Doo.
Maddy is here. I feel like a good smashing is in order.