This and that
-I wonder if it's harder for a cat owner to realise she is going mad or if she's being haunted. Every time there's an odd, flickering shape or shadow at the corner of your eye, you first assume it's the cat.
But the most disconcerting thing is when you realise that no, it isn't the cat. And you must blame the heating fan--surely that was what just shook the coats beside the door?--or having stayed up too long.
-Anaïs, Anaïs, her madness, her tearing herself apart. Her quaint language, constructed as it is since she spoke no English until puberty, full of flavour, spices, piquancies not to be found in a native speaker's language. Words inserted into English, making perfect sense, yet distinctively foreign. "Ensorcellement". She is so full of fire, so full of explosions, scattering here and there, unstable, volatile. And so incredibly inspiring, as if she is striking stakes into my ground with her words and she hits all these veins of water, of gold, of molten lava that then burst to the surface. I am still baffled that anyone could compare my writing to hers because she is so alive, so vibrant, so full of thought and detail that I seem monotonous, repetitive in comparison, contracted and concentrated and monomaniac where she is expansive, explosive, flooding everywhere at once.
-On yet another Art Nouveau surfing spree. Harry Clarke needs to do me now. And there should be a long rant here about how many Issues I have with modern women's art with its deliberate childishness, naivete and wobbly figures that seem to be frozen at the kindergarten level of art when those artists--I have known so many--are perfectly skilled and could create something as beautiful as the figures you'd see in the Golden Era of Illustration. It seems like a rebellion against growing up, against having to take responsibility, a celebration of the dull and normal and everyday instead of all the glorious beauty and transcendence all art is capable of. It gives fuel to the old male chauvinist cliche about women not being able to see outside the everyday, the home, the boring and dull things; that women can't aspire to higher realms philosophically or artistically, that they remain dull, children. Stick-figure-y women's art is therefore the patriarchal, unassertive, simple child-woman personified, only now adopted as some sort of strange badge of pride without these artists fully realising the implications, the connections between these things. And I bet they all type only in lowercase as well. It feels like a crime to see talent wasted like that, when it could be used to create exquisite beauty, to make the world a happier place instead of perpetuating wobbliness, insecurity and plainness. Perhaps I am becoming a true old-school art snob, perhaps, but I would much prefer art to aspire to something everyday life *isn't*, to strive for beauty instead of the horrid ugliness we are all surrounded by, suffocated by. But no, now it's trendy and hip to draw spotty-faced, potato-nosed ugly creatures because that's somehow quirky and real--I can think of a couple of people I know for whose drawing skills I'd sell my firstborn for because I've seen them draw breathtakingly beautiful, realistic fantasy art as teenagers, but now they only choose to draw these mundane, disgusting things. To use their powers for ugliness. The aesthete in me feels vomit rising into her throat, she really does.
-Also, speaking of the decline in aesthetics, can we just talk about erotic scenes in old movies? You hardly ever see a man grab and glomp a woman like that these days unless you type kink.com into your address bar. Or dig out a trashy romance paperback. Lord knows I wouldn't go anywhere within a five-mile radius of a self-centered playboy type that was full of himself IRL, but I would quite like to roleplay that whole being erotically grabbed and claimed thing, thanks. Repeatedly. Until my vagina was raw. Please, God. There's a dearth of this shit if you're that scum of the earth known as the sexually subby woman. Give me some respite from the political correctness for once and let me just wallow in fantasy and roleplay, FFS.
-Despite the grumbles above, I really have been happy as hell today. I still think it's the coconut. I know it has extraordinarily awesome fatty acid chains, but this is just fucking ridiculous. The only problem is that it's so easy to overdo it and then you'll just crap your guts out because those awesome fatty acids either get used for fuel immediately or get chucked out because your body can't store them in any way--so if you go even a bit over what your body needs within the next couple of hours or so, all those fatty acids will be forcefully ejected through your guts. Which is deeply uncool. But I seem to be doing fine today. I remember versaphile said she'd never seen me as happy as I was after a good chicken korma (with tons of coconut) that time we were in London, so clearly coconut is some sort of magic happiness pill for me.
-Ok, that and tons of Jaffar/Pwinzezz. They are being disgustingly loving and tender with each other and... let me just stay here in my pretty world of storybook aesthetics, wicked and witty grand viziers ravishing happily laughing maidens and coconuts, okay? I don't want to come out ever again.
But the most disconcerting thing is when you realise that no, it isn't the cat. And you must blame the heating fan--surely that was what just shook the coats beside the door?--or having stayed up too long.
-Anaïs, Anaïs, her madness, her tearing herself apart. Her quaint language, constructed as it is since she spoke no English until puberty, full of flavour, spices, piquancies not to be found in a native speaker's language. Words inserted into English, making perfect sense, yet distinctively foreign. "Ensorcellement". She is so full of fire, so full of explosions, scattering here and there, unstable, volatile. And so incredibly inspiring, as if she is striking stakes into my ground with her words and she hits all these veins of water, of gold, of molten lava that then burst to the surface. I am still baffled that anyone could compare my writing to hers because she is so alive, so vibrant, so full of thought and detail that I seem monotonous, repetitive in comparison, contracted and concentrated and monomaniac where she is expansive, explosive, flooding everywhere at once.
-On yet another Art Nouveau surfing spree. Harry Clarke needs to do me now. And there should be a long rant here about how many Issues I have with modern women's art with its deliberate childishness, naivete and wobbly figures that seem to be frozen at the kindergarten level of art when those artists--I have known so many--are perfectly skilled and could create something as beautiful as the figures you'd see in the Golden Era of Illustration. It seems like a rebellion against growing up, against having to take responsibility, a celebration of the dull and normal and everyday instead of all the glorious beauty and transcendence all art is capable of. It gives fuel to the old male chauvinist cliche about women not being able to see outside the everyday, the home, the boring and dull things; that women can't aspire to higher realms philosophically or artistically, that they remain dull, children. Stick-figure-y women's art is therefore the patriarchal, unassertive, simple child-woman personified, only now adopted as some sort of strange badge of pride without these artists fully realising the implications, the connections between these things. And I bet they all type only in lowercase as well. It feels like a crime to see talent wasted like that, when it could be used to create exquisite beauty, to make the world a happier place instead of perpetuating wobbliness, insecurity and plainness. Perhaps I am becoming a true old-school art snob, perhaps, but I would much prefer art to aspire to something everyday life *isn't*, to strive for beauty instead of the horrid ugliness we are all surrounded by, suffocated by. But no, now it's trendy and hip to draw spotty-faced, potato-nosed ugly creatures because that's somehow quirky and real--I can think of a couple of people I know for whose drawing skills I'd sell my firstborn for because I've seen them draw breathtakingly beautiful, realistic fantasy art as teenagers, but now they only choose to draw these mundane, disgusting things. To use their powers for ugliness. The aesthete in me feels vomit rising into her throat, she really does.
-Also, speaking of the decline in aesthetics, can we just talk about erotic scenes in old movies? You hardly ever see a man grab and glomp a woman like that these days unless you type kink.com into your address bar. Or dig out a trashy romance paperback. Lord knows I wouldn't go anywhere within a five-mile radius of a self-centered playboy type that was full of himself IRL, but I would quite like to roleplay that whole being erotically grabbed and claimed thing, thanks. Repeatedly. Until my vagina was raw. Please, God. There's a dearth of this shit if you're that scum of the earth known as the sexually subby woman. Give me some respite from the political correctness for once and let me just wallow in fantasy and roleplay, FFS.
-Despite the grumbles above, I really have been happy as hell today. I still think it's the coconut. I know it has extraordinarily awesome fatty acid chains, but this is just fucking ridiculous. The only problem is that it's so easy to overdo it and then you'll just crap your guts out because those awesome fatty acids either get used for fuel immediately or get chucked out because your body can't store them in any way--so if you go even a bit over what your body needs within the next couple of hours or so, all those fatty acids will be forcefully ejected through your guts. Which is deeply uncool. But I seem to be doing fine today. I remember versaphile said she'd never seen me as happy as I was after a good chicken korma (with tons of coconut) that time we were in London, so clearly coconut is some sort of magic happiness pill for me.
-Ok, that and tons of Jaffar/Pwinzezz. They are being disgustingly loving and tender with each other and... let me just stay here in my pretty world of storybook aesthetics, wicked and witty grand viziers ravishing happily laughing maidens and coconuts, okay? I don't want to come out ever again.