Halcyon.
[hal-see-uhn] (adj.) (1) calm; peaceful; tranquil (2) rich; wealthy; prosperous (3) happy; joyful; carefree
Once, years back, I walked beside my father
among the windfall pears. I can't recall
our words. We may have strolled in silence. But
I still see him bend that way-left hand braced
on knee, creaky-to lift and hold to my
eye a rotten pear. In it, a hornet
spun crazily, glazed in slow, glistening juice.
- Eating Alone, Li-Young Lee
I no longer require people to ask what sort of music I prefer/listen to/am inclined towards. Does it really matter. I read a little self-help books (yes, I might have sunk as low as the helpless, but there is nothing more dangerous than living within a bubble of recycled information, with no clue how the winds have changed and the waves no longer beat upon the shore, so knowing what's out there becomes necessary even to continue living in here), and picked out phrases out of the blue, such as 'we are social creatures' to the point that I have surmised that it is almost natural to want to share a part of yourself with the rest of the world. All this runs very contrary to everything that I have held close, and it scares and troubles me to know that I would sooner or later be turning my back on my self, the animalistic self forsaking principles to gel with the rest. It made that churning feeling in my stomach and for a moment I felt like throwing up. Are people merely tools of their own instinct? I thought my social instinct was N/A, but apparently I was wrong, and I have been made a fool by my self, who now I see as an enemy, but no longer as strong now that she/it has lost her/its subtlety.
I don't. The only powerful weapon I have to quell the 'internal uprising' lies in the sweetest fact that even talking and the idea of being close (again, where italics function as unsaid words) makes my skin crawl. Which spells victory for me, for that part of me which I prefer, the one who believes she has her own fantastic back garden to tend to and is too busy for surreptitious glances at the gardens of others. So no, it has become no longer my concern if anyone else apart from me does know my musical tastes, inclines and fetishes. I think for the most part they will be surprised. This is not startling, for half the people I know who think I live in a world so esoteric that classical music and its various permutations have seeped deeply under my skin. That however would sound nice on the placard I have hovering on top of my head, the one everyone has, the one called 'first impressions'. I have no time for this, to confirm references, assumptions and correct misconceptions. I don't care if my classmates find out I love My Chemical Romance. It is no longer required (by me, I don't know theirs) that my preferences become common knowledge among companions, though it does facilitate talk and all things used to pass the time. (I cannot imagine discussing MCR with a bunch of people over lunch. Unthinkable, given the circumstances, the people I mix with. The Good Influences. This is not a cocktail, it's a glass of water.)
Whether I prefer it to be known is another story altogether.
---
I found a website this morning on literary criticism, a wonderful addition to Bookmarks, and the growing list of websites both delightful and productive. It accompanies Digested Read, Book Reviews, Writers' Rooms and a MCR fic (which is AU and a particular kind of cute) on the wired bookshelf. I feel the need to learn something useful, the need which eats me up. It is probably the reason why I subscribe to breaking news by email. Treading the edge between trials on intelligence and a vision of me as a quasi-intellectual. I am probably it, knowing nothing, wishing I knew everything, uncertain if, at all, I have gleaned anything useful or beautiful from this existence and am worried over this whole affair. At least it fails to sound patronising.
I have yet to get through The Elegence of the Hedgehog, but I am four-fifths through. It sounds like a relief and a chore but it isn't. I want it to drag on a little longer, though the due date is near. It's too beautiful to ever let go of, to forget, to be tossed into the unrecognised existence of thousands of books, underappreciated. I have decided I would buy my own.
Is there such a thing as a badly-written book? I suppose there is.
Once, years back, I walked beside my father
among the windfall pears. I can't recall
our words. We may have strolled in silence. But
I still see him bend that way-left hand braced
on knee, creaky-to lift and hold to my
eye a rotten pear. In it, a hornet
spun crazily, glazed in slow, glistening juice.
- Eating Alone, Li-Young Lee
I no longer require people to ask what sort of music I prefer/listen to/am inclined towards. Does it really matter. I read a little self-help books (yes, I might have sunk as low as the helpless, but there is nothing more dangerous than living within a bubble of recycled information, with no clue how the winds have changed and the waves no longer beat upon the shore, so knowing what's out there becomes necessary even to continue living in here), and picked out phrases out of the blue, such as 'we are social creatures' to the point that I have surmised that it is almost natural to want to share a part of yourself with the rest of the world. All this runs very contrary to everything that I have held close, and it scares and troubles me to know that I would sooner or later be turning my back on my self, the animalistic self forsaking principles to gel with the rest. It made that churning feeling in my stomach and for a moment I felt like throwing up. Are people merely tools of their own instinct? I thought my social instinct was N/A, but apparently I was wrong, and I have been made a fool by my self, who now I see as an enemy, but no longer as strong now that she/it has lost her/its subtlety.
I don't. The only powerful weapon I have to quell the 'internal uprising' lies in the sweetest fact that even talking and the idea of being close (again, where italics function as unsaid words) makes my skin crawl. Which spells victory for me, for that part of me which I prefer, the one who believes she has her own fantastic back garden to tend to and is too busy for surreptitious glances at the gardens of others. So no, it has become no longer my concern if anyone else apart from me does know my musical tastes, inclines and fetishes. I think for the most part they will be surprised. This is not startling, for half the people I know who think I live in a world so esoteric that classical music and its various permutations have seeped deeply under my skin. That however would sound nice on the placard I have hovering on top of my head, the one everyone has, the one called 'first impressions'. I have no time for this, to confirm references, assumptions and correct misconceptions. I don't care if my classmates find out I love My Chemical Romance. It is no longer required (by me, I don't know theirs) that my preferences become common knowledge among companions, though it does facilitate talk and all things used to pass the time. (I cannot imagine discussing MCR with a bunch of people over lunch. Unthinkable, given the circumstances, the people I mix with. The Good Influences. This is not a cocktail, it's a glass of water.)
Whether I prefer it to be known is another story altogether.
---
I found a website this morning on literary criticism, a wonderful addition to Bookmarks, and the growing list of websites both delightful and productive. It accompanies Digested Read, Book Reviews, Writers' Rooms and a MCR fic (which is AU and a particular kind of cute) on the wired bookshelf. I feel the need to learn something useful, the need which eats me up. It is probably the reason why I subscribe to breaking news by email. Treading the edge between trials on intelligence and a vision of me as a quasi-intellectual. I am probably it, knowing nothing, wishing I knew everything, uncertain if, at all, I have gleaned anything useful or beautiful from this existence and am worried over this whole affair. At least it fails to sound patronising.
I have yet to get through The Elegence of the Hedgehog, but I am four-fifths through. It sounds like a relief and a chore but it isn't. I want it to drag on a little longer, though the due date is near. It's too beautiful to ever let go of, to forget, to be tossed into the unrecognised existence of thousands of books, underappreciated. I have decided I would buy my own.
Is there such a thing as a badly-written book? I suppose there is.