December 11th, 2004

catfish envy

This book reminds me of the Forgotten Art of hiding books under pillows.

I've been reading Lucrezia Floriani, and it is slowly driving me insane. One minute it's the brilliant light of the sun, the next it's the worst LiveJournal ever written. So many times I've wanted to scream "Stop looking at the camera!" "The audience" this and "The reader" that. Fuck this phony frank discourse. And fuck the "innocent of all guile" crap as well. And what's with the one translation footnote, anyway? I'd think it's be a 15thousand or none at all kind of thing. A remark on the word "tu", of all the trivial nonsense. As repulsed as I repeatedly get, there is fucking GOLD inside it and I can't cast it aside. I was curious at first about the slathered proclamations of how transparently it paralelled the "characters" of herself and Chopin. I'm not sure if it's funny or sad that mere paragraphs in I thought "Jebus, it's so fucking obvious!", but that thought, of course, was based on nothing more than a movie's portrayal of their characters. (A romping good time, if you like movies that ROMP.) (Whatever I say now, this movie is mostly to blame for me loving Judy Davis or even knowing who she is, really.) More of a lasting confusion is how all the talk of it being them makes it sound so negative towards Chopin as a person. Every perceptible negative character trait even hinted at is explained as a logically progressed result of something positive, there isn't so much as a temper tantrum left to sit in a negative light. Beyond positive and negative, every described seeming irrationality is explained as a difference of mental states, social mannerisms, blah blah blah, there's no villification, and I don't know why anyone'd be upset. I mean. Beyond the occasional suggestion of self as a godlike being merely bouncing off lesser, mortal thoughts, and the occasional suggestion that Chopin Homer Prince Karol could do naught but love her. Beyond that though, it's clean!

Editor's note: I was reading it this morning while the power was out. My bookmark is on page 229 of 230.
  • Current Music
    this song with its horrible, horrible vocals
Hungry

I spit poison so I know what it tastes like.

That time, I walked into the bathroom and this Roald Dahl book was sitting on the toilet tank. "This" meaning not Charlie and the Chocolate factory etc etc but instead a book whose back cover talked smirkingly of "his reputation as a children's author". This book was the most frightening manifestation, a nightmare come to claim me. I cowered from it and prodded it, wondering for whom the book tolled, it tolled for me. (That is my jokingly diminishing way of saying, I was fucking terrified in my soul of this book. Or rather, its cover.) (Afterwards) I stared at my face in the mirror, wondering impossibly how to look at my face as not "my face". This fear of being recognized. It felt so unfair. That is why I was miserable when I read Coraline. Its usage of the idea that People look at you and know. Sometimes I hint at it but it's a hard thing to reconcile: I feel like the usage of a "black soul" for entertainment purposes is despicable. Or rather. To take a frame and case it around some broken toy, some frantic novelty. Put your "I aspire" away. (This is the part where I self-censure(censor) the line "Roman lions have more class" because it feels heavy-handed and defensively aggro but leave it in with an explanation that pretends at frank discourse.)
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    every you and
Splurt

(no subject)

He changes the bongwater but never minds the screen, I scrape the screen incessantly but never change the water. Together, we can never be happy. Isn't there a fairytale for that?
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    JWH - Negative Love (live)