"und ich warte mal wieder auf den frühling!"
Despite what seems to be a general consensus against it, I really do like A Prairie Home Companion, or atleast certainly the long meandering monologues delivered by Garrison Keilor in the second half of the show; it’s not that his voice lulls one into this totally relaxed and semi-reflective state, but also that his stories are always simple, they’re always anecdotal, and more often than not they’re silly, but they’re also sometimes containers of these pretty fantastic universal truths that, methinks, makes them relevant enough to be interesting to me in the first place.
On Wednesday afternoon I did my inaugural panicked run to school over the established route stretching from my flat in Carabanchel, across the Latina District, down the Paseo de Extremadura, over the Manzanares river, up the Cuesta de Segovia, past the great foreground of the Royal Palace, straight through the Plaza de España, along the Calle Princessa, crossing the northern fringe of the Parque del Oeste and over to the School of Journalism in University City. It took more physical effort than I remember (as in, I had to run “harder” if that makes any sense), yet I was pleasantly surprised that I made good time, and arrived in a little less than an hour and fifteen minutes, which is a quite respectable pace for one who hasn’t run that course in half a year, tho still a far cry from my best time back in May of last year, when I had the run down to 50 minutes, which is quite respectable. I Google-mapped it - which was surprisingly fun - so you’re all welcome to take a look at the route; according to Google, I go exactly 5.35 miles each way every school day, which means my timing (both before and now) isn’t bad given I’m doing it fully dressed, with a winter’s coat and school bag, and up and down hilly terrain with not-running shoes. Hurrah, legs.
Thursday was the official date of Sarah Larson’s birthday, and it was a fine thing that it was so as otherwise I might really have risked not having done anything all day; indeed, tho I did do a spot of drawing when I awoke at 3 that morning, I went back to bed and slept from 9 to noon, and then again from 2 to nearly 7, only answering e-mails and quickly buzzing my head at some point in-between. I was by no means refreshed when I startled myself back to consciousness that evening, but my commitment to attend a small drink session (to which I was already late by the time I awoke) in Sarah’s honour on the Gran Via pushed me to force myself out of bed, into the shower, out the door and up to the center of town, where I arrived just in time to make the last few seconds of happy hour, and quickly made due with the situation by ordering three drinks at once, which I nursed over the next half an hour. It was a good group (Claire, David, Shanti, Sarah, and Claire’s friend Karla) and the events quickly rose to “drunken wandering” status, eventually leading to a pleasant Indian café in Chueca, after which all summarily called it a night because, hey, we’re getting old. While I imagine the large broccoli and tomato omelet I made myself when I got home may have helped to temper a fairly out of control situation, I was nonetheless still fairly smashed when I went to bed (tho I still managed to get a couple of pages of transcribing in), and I’m fairly sure that my lingering headache yesterday was two parts exhaustion but atleast a third part hangover.
Friday was somewhat more productive, tho again I was up far too early (at 6, having gone to bed at 2), and tho I did get a lot accomplished, in reality I did fairly little; indeed, I secured what I hope will be the final interview with my subject, acquired much-needed classnotes, fixed my mailing situation and made some progress into my history progress, but in truth all of these things could have probably gotten done in less than an hour, and instead they took something like 6. Indeed, two calls (one to the interviewee, another to the professor) solved the first two issues; a jaunt down stairs to replace the name label on my mailbox and about half an hour of typing and a single call to the Museum of Municipal History resolved the latter ones. And yet it took forever, partially because of procrastination, and also partially because my computer moves at a snail’s pace at random intervals which it dictates, but mainly because I feel exhausted pretty consistently, and I do wonder why that is. Sure, I haven’t been getting enough sleep, and my sleep has been coming in four-hour bursts at 8-hour intervals, but I do think it strange that even with what amounted to 10 hours of sleep on Thursday I was quite literally dragging myself to bed that evening. I get Friday, kind-of, considering the whole getting back into the pace of running to and fro from school is tiring but, wow, I really am exhausted all the time, even on days upon which I haven’t had to go to school (falling asleep, even, on the train back from tutoring the other day). I wonder if it’s the weather, or if I’m sick, or if I’m just being especially lazy; indeed, the Minister suggest that we’re both rather slow-moving this year, tho he’s quick to defend that by stating matter of factly that a lazy Aitor and Minister are still quicker than one of the normal kids at their very best. He’s generally right, but still - gah, I wish I had more energy.
(And fewer nightmares. I awoke the night before last to go grab a glass of milk and I found a not-quite-alright child sitting on the couch in the living room; it scared the shit out of me and I ran out the front door, but there were more of them out there, too, looking horribly…wrong. And then I woke up, terrified. My imagination is too vivid.)
Yesterday, tho, was both lovely and relaxed; I finally tidied up my room and put away the suitcases, and thus officially completed the moving process and formally assumed the flat as home. The rest of the day was spent cleaning, then painting for several hours, and for awhile it seemed as if I would later be getting ready for part two of Sarah’s birthday festivities, but as the evening progressed I grew progressively more tired, and a fortunate reprieve was dealt when Sarah called to say that the events had been cancelled on account of everyone having called in expressing similar exhaustion to my own; again - hey, we’re getting old. This was especially good because I was very much in my element at the moment, lost in an elaborate drawing, and I would have hated to stop to get dressed and go out into the cold when there wasn’t any place I would rather be than at my desk in my room, next to the blazing heater and with a most excellent concert coming off my computer. Indeed, it was that sort of peaceful time when you’re in a tired buzz and just completely calm and relaxed, and the drawing was coming along well, and the music was a sort of deep southern bluegrass with the melodic guitars and the twanging banjos and the man singing spoke in a slow voice in the same exact accent as the old hick painter-fellow in Junebug, and it was all just immensely…soothing, and certainly ideal before turning in and chipperly surrendering to the great unknown (which in this case was a most-splendid nine hours of continuous sleep intermingled with happy thoughts).
On Friday I re-saw Before Sunrise, which was every bit as good as I remembered, and it got me thinking about a great many things, as it generally does. Indeed, it would do me good to watch that movie with a notepad one day, jotting down every thought it aroused, but as it stood I only had the sense to start note-taking only shortly after I felt jolted enough to try to do a quick abstract sketch of the Viennese Danube-side poet, and so my notes really refer only to that.
I am amused, still, by when the Ethan Hawke character mentions always seeing himself as a 13 year old because that’s essentially how I see myself as well, only perhaps a bit older (a junior in high school, kind of?); I’m vaguely incompetent at many social things with people slightly older than I because I inevitably see myself as being much younger than they, even if we’re talking about an age difference of, at most, a year. It’s curious, tho, because almost as often I have no concept of age and, indeed, with many people younger than me I don’t even notice an age difference - the best case, I suppose, being that of my deep friendship with Murray, but also with people once I get to know them well enough, as I suppose is the case with some of my older students and, indeed, older high-school friends. But, aye, seeing one’s self as a young one - certainly in the States, more than here, social contexts like clubbing and etc. have always seemed strange to me in part for the very fact that (without state-side precedence and ever envisioning myself as underaged) the very concept seems almost inappropriate to me. Curious. I also like it when he talks about how Casablanca would have ended had the characters stayed together at the end - with them hating, or atleast growing bored of, one another after X amount of time, discovering their quirks and growing disillusioned by the lack of perfection; I used to think the same of Romeo and Juliet (“give them long enough and it would have just become an unhappy marriage) but over the past few years I’ve generally changed my mind about that, in part because I suppose part of a long-term relationship is liking people despite their lack of perfection, or even because they are imperfect. This isn’t some sort of “based on life” comment, or some metaphorical insight into my present relationship - let’s not overanalyze or imagine projections - but I think it makes a fair degree of sense, no? I remember Oscar Wilde wrote in one of his plays that women are supposed to be seen as being perfect, and in a sense I suppose I see where he was coming from, especially because I see Maddy as being pretty much immaculate - but, by the same token, I think I also enjoy when I see chinks in that exterior, if only because it makes her all the more interesting and three dimensional, and it makes the perfection all the more valuable, as it implies that it isn’t just part of her nature, but also partially because she endeavors to be a good person. I think, likewise, romantic attraction can grow with such things, and one can actually grow to like someone more upon learning of some irrational fear they have, or about some sin they’ve committed, or one of their annoying quirks - because ultimately all of these things make them more understandable, and ultimately if you’ve fallen in love with them to begin with, then in theory all of these things that you learn over the year shouldn’t really change your fundamental opinion of them in the first place. Will your sexual attraction towards them be moderated over time, and will your relationship have ups and downs? Certainly (atleast from what I’ve gathered from having heard all of Savage’s podcasts by now). But the fundamental romantic aspect of love, I expect, shouldn’t really change as long as a fundamental reason for it exists, which it should as long as you like that person not for their looks or their current job or how they were on one particular night, but rather their essential persona overall. Or something. Do I now think that Romeo would have eventually grown disillusioned and cheated on Juliet? Maybe - I mean, he was Italian. But ultimately I don’t see why he would have left her…IF he were really in love with her to begin with - something which I’d put into doubt when they were marrying less than a week after meeting. Crazy renaissantine Veronese.
(That was a strange tangent.)
On the opposite side, I enjoy when the Julie Delphy character talks about being like a general in the army when she starts dating, plotting a strategy; this used to be the norm, and not-so anymore basically because I realized awhile ago that plotting never ever works because life is random and no amount of strategy will or won’t make something happen, and in the case that it does work, well, things simply cease to be fun when they are over-planned. I remember I started off dating Grace with a declaration of intent, establishing that our union would be about freedom and free-thinking; ultimately my statements were entirely unnecessary, as our romance had floundered within the hour, taken down by a particularly revelatory kiss. I like my current condition in large part because, tho declarations might be made in the numerous charters (ever being reviewed and, up to this point, renewed), if something happens it happens, if something doesn’t it doesn’t, but the constant machinations and over-analysis of relationships past is gone - in large part because they failed so spectacularly to bring upon the desired outcome the first time I found myself in the first manifestation of this particular romantic situation. The charters are good, I feel, because they provide a basic structure with the frankness of asking, “Hey, where exactly do we stand on this?”, preventing confusion and hurt feelings later on and giving a bit of basic stability to things, which methinks really does make for decisions and actions imbued with caring and consideration. There is an enormous difference, tho, between that and the active strategy making of doing one thing to provoke another and etc., and I am pleased that the Machiavellian alternates of before are not present because it implies, well, comfort. I’m comfortable enough to ask. Or to not need to ask, and either infer or simply accept that I don’t need to particularly be clear on every issue. I don’t want to come off as some overly-confident, extremely optimistic twat - by no means, as (like everything) winds can change at any moment, and I’m certainly well prepared to accept such an eventuality - but I enjoy that, as things stand, I’m comfortable enough to let things be and I don’t need the mathematical scrutiny of the past because it is so well-established that all bets are off within this phenomenon; it wouldn’t be interested were it capable of charting out into a series of explainable actions and patterns (besides the fact that I have been proven to be utterly incompetent in said prediction) and so I am kind of happily resigned to having no choice other than to happily sit back and watch things go the way they will, and to do the best by the other as best I can and likewise hope for the best, leaving the generals for the battlefields and whatever fortune might come along for the bed.
Independently from all of that, I want to see Chansons D’Amour and Paranoid Park when those two come out. Also, I may have just broken my ipod: I washed my hands and then touched it with a couple of drops still on them, and which it subsequently stopped, began clicking, and has been giving me error messages since; all the online places I looked tell me my biggest error was to keep it on after this happened, as I’ve likely irreparably shorted it out, and now the only solution is to let it sit, off, for several days and hope for the best, and so FUCK, I say. I read a lot about the Pied Piper of Hamelin today and I am fascinated; I read an equal amount about Bob Jones University and I am disgusted. I would like to see or read the script for The Pillowman. My first exam is in twelve hours.
I think that’s all for tonight, kids.
Happy days, and better luck with your electronics.
On Wednesday afternoon I did my inaugural panicked run to school over the established route stretching from my flat in Carabanchel, across the Latina District, down the Paseo de Extremadura, over the Manzanares river, up the Cuesta de Segovia, past the great foreground of the Royal Palace, straight through the Plaza de España, along the Calle Princessa, crossing the northern fringe of the Parque del Oeste and over to the School of Journalism in University City. It took more physical effort than I remember (as in, I had to run “harder” if that makes any sense), yet I was pleasantly surprised that I made good time, and arrived in a little less than an hour and fifteen minutes, which is a quite respectable pace for one who hasn’t run that course in half a year, tho still a far cry from my best time back in May of last year, when I had the run down to 50 minutes, which is quite respectable. I Google-mapped it - which was surprisingly fun - so you’re all welcome to take a look at the route; according to Google, I go exactly 5.35 miles each way every school day, which means my timing (both before and now) isn’t bad given I’m doing it fully dressed, with a winter’s coat and school bag, and up and down hilly terrain with not-running shoes. Hurrah, legs.
Thursday was the official date of Sarah Larson’s birthday, and it was a fine thing that it was so as otherwise I might really have risked not having done anything all day; indeed, tho I did do a spot of drawing when I awoke at 3 that morning, I went back to bed and slept from 9 to noon, and then again from 2 to nearly 7, only answering e-mails and quickly buzzing my head at some point in-between. I was by no means refreshed when I startled myself back to consciousness that evening, but my commitment to attend a small drink session (to which I was already late by the time I awoke) in Sarah’s honour on the Gran Via pushed me to force myself out of bed, into the shower, out the door and up to the center of town, where I arrived just in time to make the last few seconds of happy hour, and quickly made due with the situation by ordering three drinks at once, which I nursed over the next half an hour. It was a good group (Claire, David, Shanti, Sarah, and Claire’s friend Karla) and the events quickly rose to “drunken wandering” status, eventually leading to a pleasant Indian café in Chueca, after which all summarily called it a night because, hey, we’re getting old. While I imagine the large broccoli and tomato omelet I made myself when I got home may have helped to temper a fairly out of control situation, I was nonetheless still fairly smashed when I went to bed (tho I still managed to get a couple of pages of transcribing in), and I’m fairly sure that my lingering headache yesterday was two parts exhaustion but atleast a third part hangover.
Friday was somewhat more productive, tho again I was up far too early (at 6, having gone to bed at 2), and tho I did get a lot accomplished, in reality I did fairly little; indeed, I secured what I hope will be the final interview with my subject, acquired much-needed classnotes, fixed my mailing situation and made some progress into my history progress, but in truth all of these things could have probably gotten done in less than an hour, and instead they took something like 6. Indeed, two calls (one to the interviewee, another to the professor) solved the first two issues; a jaunt down stairs to replace the name label on my mailbox and about half an hour of typing and a single call to the Museum of Municipal History resolved the latter ones. And yet it took forever, partially because of procrastination, and also partially because my computer moves at a snail’s pace at random intervals which it dictates, but mainly because I feel exhausted pretty consistently, and I do wonder why that is. Sure, I haven’t been getting enough sleep, and my sleep has been coming in four-hour bursts at 8-hour intervals, but I do think it strange that even with what amounted to 10 hours of sleep on Thursday I was quite literally dragging myself to bed that evening. I get Friday, kind-of, considering the whole getting back into the pace of running to and fro from school is tiring but, wow, I really am exhausted all the time, even on days upon which I haven’t had to go to school (falling asleep, even, on the train back from tutoring the other day). I wonder if it’s the weather, or if I’m sick, or if I’m just being especially lazy; indeed, the Minister suggest that we’re both rather slow-moving this year, tho he’s quick to defend that by stating matter of factly that a lazy Aitor and Minister are still quicker than one of the normal kids at their very best. He’s generally right, but still - gah, I wish I had more energy.
(And fewer nightmares. I awoke the night before last to go grab a glass of milk and I found a not-quite-alright child sitting on the couch in the living room; it scared the shit out of me and I ran out the front door, but there were more of them out there, too, looking horribly…wrong. And then I woke up, terrified. My imagination is too vivid.)
Yesterday, tho, was both lovely and relaxed; I finally tidied up my room and put away the suitcases, and thus officially completed the moving process and formally assumed the flat as home. The rest of the day was spent cleaning, then painting for several hours, and for awhile it seemed as if I would later be getting ready for part two of Sarah’s birthday festivities, but as the evening progressed I grew progressively more tired, and a fortunate reprieve was dealt when Sarah called to say that the events had been cancelled on account of everyone having called in expressing similar exhaustion to my own; again - hey, we’re getting old. This was especially good because I was very much in my element at the moment, lost in an elaborate drawing, and I would have hated to stop to get dressed and go out into the cold when there wasn’t any place I would rather be than at my desk in my room, next to the blazing heater and with a most excellent concert coming off my computer. Indeed, it was that sort of peaceful time when you’re in a tired buzz and just completely calm and relaxed, and the drawing was coming along well, and the music was a sort of deep southern bluegrass with the melodic guitars and the twanging banjos and the man singing spoke in a slow voice in the same exact accent as the old hick painter-fellow in Junebug, and it was all just immensely…soothing, and certainly ideal before turning in and chipperly surrendering to the great unknown (which in this case was a most-splendid nine hours of continuous sleep intermingled with happy thoughts).
On Friday I re-saw Before Sunrise, which was every bit as good as I remembered, and it got me thinking about a great many things, as it generally does. Indeed, it would do me good to watch that movie with a notepad one day, jotting down every thought it aroused, but as it stood I only had the sense to start note-taking only shortly after I felt jolted enough to try to do a quick abstract sketch of the Viennese Danube-side poet, and so my notes really refer only to that.
I am amused, still, by when the Ethan Hawke character mentions always seeing himself as a 13 year old because that’s essentially how I see myself as well, only perhaps a bit older (a junior in high school, kind of?); I’m vaguely incompetent at many social things with people slightly older than I because I inevitably see myself as being much younger than they, even if we’re talking about an age difference of, at most, a year. It’s curious, tho, because almost as often I have no concept of age and, indeed, with many people younger than me I don’t even notice an age difference - the best case, I suppose, being that of my deep friendship with Murray, but also with people once I get to know them well enough, as I suppose is the case with some of my older students and, indeed, older high-school friends. But, aye, seeing one’s self as a young one - certainly in the States, more than here, social contexts like clubbing and etc. have always seemed strange to me in part for the very fact that (without state-side precedence and ever envisioning myself as underaged) the very concept seems almost inappropriate to me. Curious. I also like it when he talks about how Casablanca would have ended had the characters stayed together at the end - with them hating, or atleast growing bored of, one another after X amount of time, discovering their quirks and growing disillusioned by the lack of perfection; I used to think the same of Romeo and Juliet (“give them long enough and it would have just become an unhappy marriage) but over the past few years I’ve generally changed my mind about that, in part because I suppose part of a long-term relationship is liking people despite their lack of perfection, or even because they are imperfect. This isn’t some sort of “based on life” comment, or some metaphorical insight into my present relationship - let’s not overanalyze or imagine projections - but I think it makes a fair degree of sense, no? I remember Oscar Wilde wrote in one of his plays that women are supposed to be seen as being perfect, and in a sense I suppose I see where he was coming from, especially because I see Maddy as being pretty much immaculate - but, by the same token, I think I also enjoy when I see chinks in that exterior, if only because it makes her all the more interesting and three dimensional, and it makes the perfection all the more valuable, as it implies that it isn’t just part of her nature, but also partially because she endeavors to be a good person. I think, likewise, romantic attraction can grow with such things, and one can actually grow to like someone more upon learning of some irrational fear they have, or about some sin they’ve committed, or one of their annoying quirks - because ultimately all of these things make them more understandable, and ultimately if you’ve fallen in love with them to begin with, then in theory all of these things that you learn over the year shouldn’t really change your fundamental opinion of them in the first place. Will your sexual attraction towards them be moderated over time, and will your relationship have ups and downs? Certainly (atleast from what I’ve gathered from having heard all of Savage’s podcasts by now). But the fundamental romantic aspect of love, I expect, shouldn’t really change as long as a fundamental reason for it exists, which it should as long as you like that person not for their looks or their current job or how they were on one particular night, but rather their essential persona overall. Or something. Do I now think that Romeo would have eventually grown disillusioned and cheated on Juliet? Maybe - I mean, he was Italian. But ultimately I don’t see why he would have left her…IF he were really in love with her to begin with - something which I’d put into doubt when they were marrying less than a week after meeting. Crazy renaissantine Veronese.
(That was a strange tangent.)
On the opposite side, I enjoy when the Julie Delphy character talks about being like a general in the army when she starts dating, plotting a strategy; this used to be the norm, and not-so anymore basically because I realized awhile ago that plotting never ever works because life is random and no amount of strategy will or won’t make something happen, and in the case that it does work, well, things simply cease to be fun when they are over-planned. I remember I started off dating Grace with a declaration of intent, establishing that our union would be about freedom and free-thinking; ultimately my statements were entirely unnecessary, as our romance had floundered within the hour, taken down by a particularly revelatory kiss. I like my current condition in large part because, tho declarations might be made in the numerous charters (ever being reviewed and, up to this point, renewed), if something happens it happens, if something doesn’t it doesn’t, but the constant machinations and over-analysis of relationships past is gone - in large part because they failed so spectacularly to bring upon the desired outcome the first time I found myself in the first manifestation of this particular romantic situation. The charters are good, I feel, because they provide a basic structure with the frankness of asking, “Hey, where exactly do we stand on this?”, preventing confusion and hurt feelings later on and giving a bit of basic stability to things, which methinks really does make for decisions and actions imbued with caring and consideration. There is an enormous difference, tho, between that and the active strategy making of doing one thing to provoke another and etc., and I am pleased that the Machiavellian alternates of before are not present because it implies, well, comfort. I’m comfortable enough to ask. Or to not need to ask, and either infer or simply accept that I don’t need to particularly be clear on every issue. I don’t want to come off as some overly-confident, extremely optimistic twat - by no means, as (like everything) winds can change at any moment, and I’m certainly well prepared to accept such an eventuality - but I enjoy that, as things stand, I’m comfortable enough to let things be and I don’t need the mathematical scrutiny of the past because it is so well-established that all bets are off within this phenomenon; it wouldn’t be interested were it capable of charting out into a series of explainable actions and patterns (besides the fact that I have been proven to be utterly incompetent in said prediction) and so I am kind of happily resigned to having no choice other than to happily sit back and watch things go the way they will, and to do the best by the other as best I can and likewise hope for the best, leaving the generals for the battlefields and whatever fortune might come along for the bed.
Independently from all of that, I want to see Chansons D’Amour and Paranoid Park when those two come out. Also, I may have just broken my ipod: I washed my hands and then touched it with a couple of drops still on them, and which it subsequently stopped, began clicking, and has been giving me error messages since; all the online places I looked tell me my biggest error was to keep it on after this happened, as I’ve likely irreparably shorted it out, and now the only solution is to let it sit, off, for several days and hope for the best, and so FUCK, I say. I read a lot about the Pied Piper of Hamelin today and I am fascinated; I read an equal amount about Bob Jones University and I am disgusted. I would like to see or read the script for The Pillowman. My first exam is in twelve hours.
I think that’s all for tonight, kids.
Happy days, and better luck with your electronics.