talking of Michaelangelo.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
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Don't Panic. // 4:47 am
Overall message of the First Aid review session. Valid and worth noting. (Before a child has a seizure, they have an "aura" that it will happen. Interesting fact of the day.)
Also, inferiority complex. So as it turns out, I feel awkward to an extreme degree and hermit inwards when there are people of authority over me, or if they're better ... especially when they are taller and smarter and better and have more ideas to contribute. Not a surprise, but I see I have not shed that. And when it happens I shut off and I awkwardly smile and nod and smile until someone catches me off guard and asks "You should contribute something, ha ha, I feel like I'm talking too much." And I'm so startled by this that I sound like someone stuffed my brain with straw before I had arrived to the scene, that my brain is not intact, like it fell out of my head on the way there or something. And I feel so stupid and the stupidity makes me want to cry and yell and scream in the silence of my awkwardness and run out of the room and cry.
Don't Panic.
And so as I take the subway home and I'm mindlessly reading the Hemingway, the words floating in and out of me, I think the only thing I am allowed to think. I think this, "I am good." And I think this, "I can do a good job, people have commended me for a job well done and I am good. I know my ability and it is good. When they see me interact with children and parents, they will know it was not by some wild mistake that I am there, and I am engaged and hard working and I will learn what I need to learn to do a good job."
I am not a fish out of water, although it may seem like what you have asked me has caught me off guard, I will show you and you will see in time that I can hold my own. You wait, and you will see. I am good, and you will see that. I will do better than all of your expectation of me, with whatever impression I gave you. Just give me that chance. You just need to give me that chance. And you will not be sorry, that I promise you and myself.
Monday, June 27, 2011
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difficult times // 7:52 pm
I don't know how to not give you what you call "a sympathetic hug". Don't punish yourself like that. I know how hard it was. Just stand up again, just stand up.
I don't know how to be there for you when you won't let me! Ugh. Tell me how I can help you... (your nightmare can only end when you will it to).
And nothing's changed, you have my shoulder whenever you need it.
No pity parties shall be thrown.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
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perhaps this is why // 10:30 pm
Perhaps this is why she will wait and wait and wait.
Perhaps because he teaches her to be content first and that in turn will make her better. Perhaps because he teaches her to be grateful first and that in turn will make her content. Perhaps because he teaches her to be content with illusions and onions of reality and illusions are alright and they are real. Perhaps because perception is most important.
Perhaps because sometimes, he wakes and she is there with him, but not... only a mere illusion... perhaps she
is there. Perhaps with promise of ice and fireflies and axes, she will wait and wait and wait.
Perhaps... but regardless she will wait and wait and wait. And maybe eventually she can or will even learn patience. Perhaps that will come about.
Perhaps because he can say things that nobody else can that will make her cling to her blanket and cry for missing him. Perhaps because his words are warm and sincere and even on a screen, embrace her, comfort her. Perhaps because it is alright even if it is sappy, because the sincerity trumps it. Perhaps...
And as she has said, perhaps it is because she knows now he will come back. And she knows. And perhaps she knows that he waits too, and he will wait if he needs to. And so she will wait and wait, perhaps with faith that he is not a fool. That soon there will be days of staying and staying and staying and not just coming backs.
Perhaps she should say all of these things with more certainty than with perhaps's, because she can.
"...he will come back for one as you, if he is not a fool, he will comeback and again and again, and if he truly is no fool at all, he will stay and stay and stay, and leave this coming back business for someone else"[/sap]
These days, these days are missing...
Friday, June 24, 2011
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fickle skies and dentures // 4:24 am
Dentistry is the occupation with the highest suicidal rates, according to hearsay. I can see why though, they give so much pain and they're not very pleasant. (Well, mine isn't anymore.) Your scrubs with hysterical-faced multi-coloured dancing mushrooms are creepy and they look like they want to attack me with their happiness.
Dr. C: You don't ever floss do you.
K: Iredoocrvwashvshwy.
Dr. C: No, your teeth have so much plaque build-up, it's been too long. You need to come more often.
K: Sreivywpshpb.
Dr. C: Your bones are really big.
K: ?!?!
Dr. C: This won't be a problem as long as you never get dentures. If you ever have to get dentures, your bones are too big and we will have to take some out or cut them.
K: Butgrgleishb?
Dr. C: Rinse your mouth.
It is a very one sided conversation. I don't remember her being this brusque. She used to smile more. But all's well, no cavities, no gingivitis.
And the X-ray was painful. My mouth is small and the film is huge. The dental nurse had nicer scrubs and was so much nicer. (Sorry I bit your gloved finger so many times, they were accidents, I assure you, there's someone who I'd much rather bite.)
The weather was fickle today, the sky wore both blue and grey, like it couldn't make up its mind.
I love the father because he helps me get triple helpings of taste test foods. Yumm! Rice pudding, sausage, scrumptious perogies (x3), quarters of apple pies (x3). Dahahaha, free foood! Happy day for a piggy.
And some Hemingway, perhaps more worth reading than my stupidity,
"When you have been concentrating so hard on something you can't stop and your brain gets to racing like a flywheel with the weight gone. You better just not think."And the part with the girl in his arms and his sincere... This is good. This is very good.
"'Do you know that until I met thee I have never asked for anything? Nor wanted anything? Nor thought of anything except the movement and the winning of this war? Truly I have been very pure in my ambitions. I have worked much and now I love thee and,' he said it now in a complete embracing of all that would not be, 'I love thee as I love all that we have fought for. I love thee as I love liberty and dignity and the rights of all men to work and not be hungry. I love thee as I love Madrid that we have defended and as I love all my comrades that have died. Many. Many… But I love thee as I love what I love most in the world and I love thee more.'" rain rain rain rain rain
"But for all his noble thinking a little while before there was in him that reprieved feeling that had always come with the sound of rain in the village on the morning of the fiesta." Reading about the reprieving sound of rain while breathing with the sound of rain, mm.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
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decritique and deracination // 6:40 am
Fascinating terms! It comes as a surprise to me that I'm actually learning something. Perhaps I should read less carelessly and actually glean something from this course... perhaps it may be useful in the future...
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
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oblomov inspired day // 11:17 pm
rain rain rain rain rain rain rain
Today is my stay-in-bed-all-day day. It has been awhile, bed. It's been lovely so far, except for the hunger. Hah, the hunger and the absence of agency.
I'm also restarting my hydrating regime which hopefully will revitalize my skin.
Things idyllic in nature can be so lovely. Too bad this isn't completely idyllic, this eight page paper taints the day like a growing ink puddle on a clean white sheet of paper (so characteristic of Glassa's procrastination, "It's a bear! It's a bear!"). I'm here staring at it, and it is definitely not getting done at all.
There's a dwindling sense of how much substance this post will have. Oblomovism is very much attached to this day.
I would very much like to do some reading today. Which reminds me, I'd like to pick up
The Book of Disquiet, it looks rather fantastic. But my list is already longer than I can hold... better get cracking.
What an awful post, just like that emptiness in my stomach... better go make some eggs.
Off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of oz......
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hilarity! // 11:53 am
Bridesmaids was
so good!
I seriously think I was the only one in the cinema who cried. There were really precious moments. And there were laughing so hard my belly hurt parts. The romcom part of it was unconventional, not cheesy at all. Very well done! The man was not good looking, but adorable! Such a sweet face and smile and bear qualities!
The filmography and editing was a bit awkward at moments, but really, it was a lot of fun.
(Also, anything involving carrots really, you know, just get me.)
Well done, hahaha, laughter is good.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
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project anonymous // 3:57 am
overdue letters to people I meet...Dear middle-aged baby pink tank-top lady,
Your visor is hideous. But I think if I owned your carrot patterned socks, my life would be complete.
Enviously,
K
Dear silver-haired though balding, twinkly eyed man,
You must be a bird course professor at University of Toronto who is trying to keep abreast with the time of your students and the time you find yourself thrown into. You must be failing, by the way you blush when you realize you can't text message on your iPhone in the subway. You are a wizard, not a muggle. Pulling up your long, teal-pale canary-magenta-pink-brown-red striped socks gives you away. I must say, they match your tie splendidly.
Yours,
K
Dear bum,
I know you are a bum by the way you smell, and by your shoes. But I think you are the coolest bum I have ever met. You wear a purple trench coat and a clashing red toque. Rock on.
Best of luck,
K
Dear immaculate girl,
You look like you walked off of a magazine. I see those white thin price tag lines stretching out from every part of your face, clothing, nails, hair, body. --- MAC Sheen Supreme Lipstick $14.50 --- OPI Lilac $4.99 --- Chanel $378 ... But of course, these could only be made up; I would have no idea what brands would please that perfectly symmetrical face of yours. But I can see, even under that $30 mascara and the concealer that brushes so smoothly on your face that you have dark circles, perhaps from sleeping late the night before, under your eyes. And your worried expression. I empathize. I worry for you too, girl.
Sincerely,
K
Dear rebel,
The whole class is doing something else and it's obvious you have no idea what in the world you're doing on stage. You hate holding flowers and you hate being in the first row and you think you're way too cool for this. I think you're hilarious.
Cheers,
K
Dear child who used my lap as a pillow,
I tried to get you to sit still, but instead, you opted for lying still. I was okay with it, but some others might not be. You are an adorable (heavy) child. Don't talk to strangers next time.
Love,
K
Dear K,
Who are you?
Always,
K
Friday, June 17, 2011
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Полишинель // 12:50 pm
Polichinelle, derived from Pulcinella, commedia dell'arte (a forgotten term from DRAM100). Something about masks.
Secret de Polichinelle refers to "no secret at all" or an open secret, a stage whisper
And the French say it well,
Polichinelle - personnage grotesque de la comédie, affublé de deux bosses; personnage ridicule, indigne de confiance et sans personnalité
morceaux de fantaisie (pyesy fantazii), Rachmaninov is love.
[Maybe it's time for me to learn the whole opus.]
Vocalise is also intensely poignant, not as dissonant; I didn't even know he composed violin pieces. But the brother is playing this piece and there's so much feeling attached. The timbre has less attacks (the striking) than the Polichinelle, still a darker colour, mahogany, a melancholic and smoother, yet intensely passion driven piece. (I am told the passages are difficult, just as the his piano pieces are.)
Thursday, June 16, 2011
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allegro vivace // 1:21 am
How could I forget how much I enjoy this? My fingers used to be nimble feet dancing across the keys like a love affair. They used to twirl, fly even. And now, they're so stiff and awkward, they've lost their agility a little bit.
And still, entrenched in me, some remembrance of convoluted chords once played. The black and white just stare back, cold and unfeeling, but my fingers seem to remember their shapes especially for the Polichinelle, it comes back to me, the feelings of the music. The clown's affair, his defeat, his triumphs. The stairs, falling up the stairs. It's that PUNCH punch PUNCH punch of the music. The strikes. The solid, delicious chords. A passage with all black keys, gorgeous, gorgeous! So well written! And how can you not love the opening up, the treble and bass moving away from each other like a blossoming contrast.
And still, the dream passage washes over me. So entranced, like the whole world (even the mistakes) wears away with every note. Rachmaninov is a great composer because if you play his passions, his Agitato, his szforzandos, his tumbling rush of spilling emotions, you can feel his heart. You step into his box, his arena, his most inner self. You can see Rachmaniov from the inside out. If you play it right and you feel it right, for some moments you become him, your body moves with your fingers, you can't help but run, can't help but soar, rise, jump, land with force, force that the rest of the world can feel too. And you forget, that you are you, and from then on you can only feel Rachmaninov.
In ternary, the A comes back after the B passage with such a strong return. Striking the large chords, like one last attempt to chase after the B the character so wants, but fails. Such defeat, such strong but perfect triumphant defeat. That feeling of the huge C#-F# finish. Szforzando after szforzando, going up then down again, then up again, like stairs, like he can't decide if he took the right stairs. And the huge C#-F# finish where you just want to strike so hard you could break the keys with the intensity of your emotion.
Maybe it's just all in my head, but it is much like swimming in that perfect blue. The sound in the perfect blue strips everything else away. The water currents from other swimmers can take you or you can resist or you can move along with them. The immersion, submersion, and all you can see before you is blue ahead. You become the water, you fly with the water. And the music, all you can see before you is the current, the rush, the emotion. Pulling you, the blue sound pulls you and you allow it. You become the music, you fly with the music. You allow the pull or the tug. You forget yourself. You allow it. You allow it all.
A post on Polichinelle, to come.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
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encounter // 3:38 am
Swarms of elderly, nude ladies in the change room at the pool today. I've grown rather accustomed to the frolicking about of them, in full nudity (they talk and laugh like they're fully clothed, loud gossip about their grandchildren). I used to be perturbed, felt uneasy, but I've grown accustomed and it's an all too normal occurrence really, especially in the shower rooms. Nobody cares what you look like and vice versa.
Though I still much prefer nude me in a private space, so I always choose one of the curtained stalls in the shower room. Today, though, it was so crowded, all the stalls were taken and the last one I had my eye on, a wrinkly and wispy lady was also eyeing, so I gestured for her to use it instead. I could wait.
I stood under one of the open spaced showers in my bathing suit, watching for opening stalls, minding my own business, humming a little, waiting, when a white exfoliant cloth was thrust into my face. I look down, startled. A nude, small, but bulky woman with gems for eyes was motioning with her cloth at the soap dispenser, demanding. Striking, shining, almost piercing and wide round eyes. Such intensity, but not without twinkle. She motions again towards the soap dispenser, and then at me again.
"Soap." she says with an accent I don't recognize.
I made modest pumps on the dispenser, while sneaking a glance at her face. She had a shower cap on, spotted with green clovers, hair an unidentifiable colour. Bright eyes.
"More, girl, more." she says impatiently, making fast pumping motions in the air with the hand she was not using to hold on to me. Like I didn't understand her.
I knew she was old. Not from the way she looked, from the way she moved, the way she held on tight to the metal hook for the soap on the wall and then onto me, the way she was slightly bent over. She had not a wrinkle on her body. Her face, somewhat saggy from age, but not completely unfirm. Her eyes though, her unforgettable eyes, like she could see through and into you, like they smile at you.
I held the cloth out to her but she turned her back to me, leaving me to hold her cloth with now an overflowing pool of dripping soap on it. Red from the boiling shower water, I looked timidly at the rolls and folds of flubbery fat on her bare back. With her chubby hand, she made brushing movements on her back.
"Me?" I asked, bewildered. Like I was family, or someone close or at least familiar.
"Yes, girl. Hurry up."
I began to scrub her back, lightly, gently, barely touching her with the cloth... afraid to scratch her. That was the strangest moment.
"Too soft, girl, scrub it. Too soft, girl. Yes, better. Good girl."
She nodded in approval. "Good girl." And her eyes, smiling at me.
A stall opened up and we parted ways, well, I parted from her.
Moments later...
Walking down the hall of the change room, refreshed but lethargic, I had forgotten the encounter, but I turned and caught a glimpse. The eyes that caught mine briefly.
I smiled, hopefully radiantly at her. And her eyes and her face, lighting up to catch mine. Those bright eyes are gems. I nodded and left her, sitting there buttoning her shirt. Round eyes, lovely, lovely eyes.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
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little happies // 8:38 am
A free drink from an apologetic Starbucks waitress and another who looked so devastated when I said no whipped cream and caramel that I
had to say "Alright, just a little." :)
And funnies on the train -- running into and startling friends. The three children who leaned (and sneezed) on me for most of the train ride. Adorable! The mother was relieved that I was not at all peeved and was actually quite friendly to her children who babbled away about some game. She had a fantastic smile and her children were gorgeous.
Delicious happiness.
Riveting.lavender sunset
(Happy birthday, my most darling and most insolent brother.)
Saturday, June 11, 2011
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punctuation // 12:14 pm
being to timelessness as it’s to timebeing to timelessness as it’s to time,
love did no more begin than love will end;
where nothing is to breathe to stroll to swim
love is the air the ocean and the land
(do lovers suffer? all divinities
proudly descending put on deathful flesh:
are lovers glad? only their smallest joy’s
a universe emerging from a wish)
love is the voice under all silences,
the hope which has no opposite in fear;the strength so strong mere force is feebleness:
the truth more first than sun more last than star
—do lovers love? why then to heaven with hell.
Whatever sages say and fools, all’s well
— e.e. cummings
- - -
Quirky, no? I've always like him immensely.
Just let the words wash over me, consume me, sometimes.
Stumbled upon this adorable thing of a website:
Click:
thegladdestthing and love the lonely man under the poettree (pun intended, haha!).
Friday, June 10, 2011
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how i woke up this morning // 7:26 pm
glissandos and pizzicatos and double stops
puncturing puncturing puncturing
slumber with PUNCH punch PUNCH punch
hit hit the hit the notes hit the notes on the spot
hit them on the spot
-
// 3:43 pm
bleary-eyed, I have only the hot water,
and my ever-watching teddy bears to accompany me
And I press on...
-
thoughts in the night // 2:17 pm
The violin storm rushed into me and even hours after it is over, I still hear it. And the laughter and the crazy fast fingers moving over the strings and the picking finishes. Hallucinations? (Good luck, Kenneth.)
And here I am,
once again, strapped for time... struggling to meet some stupid deadline. I'm such a horrible procrastinator, I've already drooled over half the season of Top Chef Canada and now it's 2:23am and I'm stuck with a Case Study on a visually impaired girl and I'm frankly...just too exhausted to care.
I know it's going to be a long day tomorrow, but I shouldn't be ungrateful. It's something I should really do for him, I owe him that. There are many things I should be content with and...
I can actually just do this work tomorrow, but I really can't sleep. This is sounding less and less like my usual posts, more like some teenage girl diary rant attack characteristic of some years past. It's late, so allow me to be less poised. What's to come is just verbal vomit, unedited.
(I feel like it's difficult for you to do this, and to try. I wish there was a better way. I can't tell you how much I miss you, over saying it is only killing the words. But it's so hard. And you know, you don't have to do it. It'll kill me and I don't know how worth it I am. This self-loathing comes out after dark. You don't have to keep the promise, it's a hard one, but it'll kill me. I may have asked for too much, wanted too much. I always want to hear you and see you and smell.... Waiting, wanting. Looking, hoping - better days to come.)And as always, the Hemingway is breathtaking, so romantic and poignant. And so completely cheeseless.
From it, from the palm of her hand against the palm of his, from their fingers locked together, and from her wrist across his wrist something came from her hand, her fingers and her wrist to his that was as fresh as the first light air that moving toward you over the sea barely wrinkles the glassy surface of a calm, as light as a feather moved across one’s lip, or a leaf falling when there is no breeze; so light that it could be felt with the touch of their fingers alone, but that was so strengthened, so intensified, and made so urgent, so aching and so strong by the hard pressure of their and their closed pressed palm and wrist, that it was as though a current moved up his arm and filled his whole body with an aching hollowness of wanting.[/procrastination]
Let's get this thing over with, shall we?
Thursday, June 09, 2011
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pain // 1:54 am
The clouds in your voice... I heard them.
And I want to cry and I want to bring you your sun back.
Keep me close to you.
It'll pass, be strong.
Hold the happy times close.
Dip your feet.
Wednesday, June 08, 2011
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garden of eden // 9:58 pm
I came on to type this post and I've been sitting here for 15 minutes now, speechless, wordless. Sadness bites. Sad bites. Shoulder the sad bites. Biting the sad shoulder.
There are things that are ours now. Things I can never look at the same way without wandering back to you. Fearless, you answered my question without hesitating. You are so certain. Sometimes, I resist, I detach and retreat, so the pain, when it comes, won't devour me. With you, it's like I can't help but stay. But if I do retreat, at any point... always pull me back to you, please. Don't let me escape or forget, I forget and escape too easily. So as long as you don't give up, I will try not to let myself give up either. I will try to brave it with no fear.
There will be much good again. I'm counting on that.
Tuesday, June 07, 2011
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fantastic plastic machine // 3:23 pm
I thought I never had to do this again, churning out words that have become meaningless before they're uttered, written... I need a breath of fresh air. So trapped. I'm like a plastic machine the words are just being stamped out of me. At least they're inanimate, but me! I feel. I am flesh and bones and feelings all a jumble. This is a mess. I'm so behind. I hate this.
WORDS WORDS WORDS WORDS WORDS WORDS
I wish Down Syndrome didn't exist.
In these times, m-flo loves is with me.
DJ play that music louder onegai. BOOM. CLAP.[/procrastination]
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muzukashi ne... // 12:14 pm
Having to say good-bye feels like being forced to cut up a million onions in one go without first running them under cold water... or licking mud... or smelling singed hair... or vomiting memories, not knowing whether to try and hold on to them as much as one possibly can or try to let go so the remembrance won't be so
difficult.
I
hate good-byes.
I loathe them, I detest them.
I hate them I hate them.
Misnomer, they're not "good" byes, damn it.
They make me want to dig a very very very deep hole and hermit forever and onwards and never make any more memories 'cause once they're gone, they don't stay in me, and I think that if I don't make any more of them, they won't make me feel like........ this.
Sunday, June 05, 2011
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poetry in the night // 10:23 am
The stark contrast of the bliss and the withdrawal is intense and has started a whirlwind in me. In five days and four nights I said goodbye to my five years. Things I know, will never be the same again and even if I tried, it would not be the same.
I gave a lot, and so, I gained a lot. But now I feel lost. Will I still be remembered? Will I still remember? Their smiles, our laughter.
It is hard to record smells or sounds or colours or feelings. More difficult to remember them. The gentle brushes of the hand, the lips, the eyes.
"Giver of apples, taker of cores."
Words, words and words... to steal and to love
"Deep down in the depths of forgotten dreams
So far away so long ago it seems
The memory comes of a distant beach
Pale sand stretching far from reach
It was then I found my princess of the sand."
"And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun."
"IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles"
"The earth exhales."
"I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
...
But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
O luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.""Don't be sorry, be grateful." I am so grateful you are here, where I am. Grateful you will help me keep my most beautiful, and most devastating years in our together memory.
