Saw a sign which said ‘a man is not complete until he’s married... then he’s finished’. I then forgot about it. Then I dreamt about it in one of those day dreams which last approximately two seconds and indicate that you haven’t consumed sufficient liquids/ nutrients or that you are too filled with drugs to function properly. The end result of that was the thought that things can’t be finished until they’re complete. And when is something complete? When you’re ‘happy’ with it?
What if it’s something you can never be happy with? Or what if it’s finished when you’re ‘unhappy’ with it?
I’m no philosopher, which could be a problem. I’d rather think of myself as a failed poet, or as someone who is entangled in the idea of adoration of words. Neither of these things being particularly concrete.
I’m so amused, that that would be the mistake you’ve made. It’s hilarious. If only I could let you read my little black book, and if only you could take the lines like ‘just to stop feeling vague’ or ‘I’m vaguely frustrated with myself, but also kind of happy, a little concerned, and in the after-math of the general gist of exhilaration, meaning, the idea of it in teeny bite-sized moments’ seriously.
Is it bad that I don’t care what anyone thinks of me so long as it fits my validations? These are: 1. It has to be strong, 2. If it’s negative it has to have a reason. If it fits into those, then my poor shivering soul can look at it and not draw a blank.
It was lovely to see Tatiana today, and thank you to Mailee for recommending to Tatiana the gardens behind the museum. Sitting in a garden... In a garden... garden of Eden IMAGERY... pastoral study has clearly affected my mind.
Although, announcing facts about oneself, is something I feel I ought to apologise for, it is not how or what I think. Sometimes these lovely words... well sometimes they forget that it’s my mouth they’re using.
Why no grand abstractions?
–Who am I to answer them? What do I know?
Why not the personal details?
–They are too petty, pathetic. Who cares.
I get scared I’m too good at that old principle of abstraction.
Day dream believer, eh?
Just sat here and watched this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=szGOlkMC-lI&feature=sub I subscribed to his videos when I used to love Bright Eyes, and he did come pretty good covers, and people said he was trying to be Connor Oberst, and his justifications made me smile. But mainly I like his voice. This is out of sync, sound/ picture wise, so there’s some added amusement.
Then I laughed at this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=05MRbZvzFsw which is a song I used to love (and the reason I have this weird thing about smoking Camels. Of which I like to speak to no one). But the movie... made me cry, eventually, because how muscley the legs are and the colours of the shoes and how sad it is that someone made that and all the effort they put into it and how no one ever really does anything and how the nails were painted in a colour that clashed with the shoes, and the poor person buying those horrific shoes maybe especially to make that movie, and it looks like the person wearing them is quite tall and probably doesn’t suit them at all but thought they did. I don’t know. It seemed very sad.
This is why I am not a philosopher.
Then Ben told me about a girl we know who just got married and in one of the wedding photos the way they’re kissing, just missing each other’s mouths... that made me cry. I think I only cry when I’m alone. And they were holding these big bunches of orangy yellow flowers and there was so much celebration but I couldn’t see the girl I remembered anywhere in there. Not that I knew her that well. And then Ben sent me this:
Because he’s apparently a lion pirate, as he says: ‘grrarr’. I just like the pipe.
If you’ve waded through all this drivel to here, I feel I ought to give you a prize. Have some Nabokov:
‘how I waited, how certain I was that without my having to tell her she would steal to my room, how she did not come, and the din thousands of crickets made in the delirious depth of the rocky garden dripping with moonlight, the mad bubbling brooks, and my struggle between blissful southern fatigue after a long day of hunting on the screes and the wild thirst for her stealthy coming, low laugh, pink ankles above the swan's down trimming of high-heeled slippers; but the night raved on, and she did not come, and when next, in the course of a general ramble in the mountains, I told her of my waiting, she clasped her hands in dismay -- and at once with a rapid glance estimated whether the back of gesticulating Ferd and his friend had sufficiently receded.’
OR,
‘for I did not yet know that had I said a word it would have changed at once into a wonderful sunburst of kindness, a cheerful, compassionate attitude with all possible cooperation, as if woman’s love were spring water containing salubrious salts which at the least notice she ever so willingly gave anyone to drink’.
I can’t look at the word ‘compassionate’ anymore without analysing it. With passion.
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