Short Letter to Miss Austen

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters." -(Ch. 1) Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen.

Not that I'm interested in marriage, dear Miss Austen, but...I'll leave out that detail [which almost obliterates your thought-for that I am truly sorry], and simply state that, "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a heart [?], must be in want of a partner of crimes." The problem with my statement, which is not as obvious as the problem with yours [quite frankly], is that...I have found out, Miss Austen, that men who are in possession of this said "♥" tend to gravitate toward oblivion. That is to say, Miss Austen, that I never get them; in your own terms, they are never "my rightful property." No...my "property" usually consists of egotistical narcissists, depraved depressives, and volatile musicians [which, I must admit, at times seems worth it, due to the music].

So, you see Miss Austen: this is why we have never gotten along.
Whereas you believe that, in the end, love will somehow conquer all and make way for wonderful and fruitful ventures, I wallow in sunless lands and somehow wish I knew not of these expectations that excite me so. Perhaps I could be happy then; perhaps if I had nothing to look forward-nothing at all-I would stop wishing upon fire.

Once again, the world has crumbled and there's only rocks and that gut-wrenching breeze. As much as it is my home, I should forget the way to it once in a while. Trust me, Miss Austen, it does infuriate me that I can sense the stairs beneath my feet tremble, as it all falls down-terribly so, for I am helpless regarding their ruins.

Image by Kevin H. via Flickr

It's funny, however, that through all the years I've spent trying to figure this out, it is only now that I finally do. Funny, too, that in understanding it, I must regretfully acknowledge that this fact does little for my own vindication.

How is this meant to exalt me if I am not granted the minimum-at least one speck of forgotten cosmic waste?

And so, quite honestly Miss Austen, I cannot stand you, mostly because I'm not one of your fixer-upper friends.
In any case, I guess all is well with that, for in knowing me, your reputation would be in shambles: I would have been the one that somehow managed to be the serpent, living in a castle by the sea.

Danae

Today I am one of Klimt's muses, held together by golden strands of satin cloth and the glimmer of precious and hard-edged jewels, as I am dreamily submerged in delusions of grandeur.

"These are the soul's changes. I don't believe in aging. I believe in forever altering one's aspect to the sun. Hence my optimism."
-Virginia Woolf


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Maps and Sightings

And here I thought we would last forever...

...Do I ever.
I am not thinking this over-in fact, I am done thinking about this. I take it for what it is without enforcing too much of a burden upon it, not until the moon absolutely asks me to, anyway.

This last week must have been one of the busiest ones of the semester. I still cannot believe I survived it-I still have trouble breathing, and even more so, convincing myself that it is okay to fall asleep, that there is no need to stay up-that indeed: there are enough hours in the day to do as I must. It's funny: once you get the adrenaline going, it is so difficult to tone it down. But, it's good to feel useful, it's good to feel the timbre of life pulsing through from time to time.

So, the list, as it is:
• teaching two sections of Literature classes

• getting up-to-date- with my SCAD assignments [well, as much as I possibly can...until my books get here, grrr!]

• getting a Bloody Mary

• getting my thesis rough draft corrected AND green lighted

• not going into shock

• preserving ¼ of sanity

• managing to not get hurt in the process [evidently excusing insomnia and lack of appetite]

---

And so, suddenly, the desire to lose myself hit again like a bad craving:

Image by .esc.ape. via Flickr

It could be almost anywhere really. So long as I cannot wait to take another step, and as long as the cobblestones underneath my feet tremble with echoes of history, as long as the rail on the bridge can hold me, as long as I feel sorry for bidding the day farewell.

Symbolism Reigns

It's been a while since I've had dreams of falling.
Willingly bringing myself to jump and fall ...
into oblivion, into that darkness.
I never truly know what it feels like to hit the bottom
-or what is it- exactly, for that matter.
This time, however, I know I landed and survived the fall-
when I landed, I was on my feet,
my back: a diagonal line, knees bent, eyes facing forward...
ready to leap again -or run- if I had to.

This time, I didn't fall alone.
There was always somebody there, willing to try it out:
to jump, to fall.
I'd always tell them how to let go.
We would run towards the great opening,
in itself adorned by many a hedera -more often than not-
and we would take a leap, right into it.
Structures stood erect as we began to descend.
As I landed...
I noticed nobody else was there.



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A Bit of Wa[l]king

Image via Wikipedia

I spent the day with my sister of eons [a.k.a. one of my most beloved friends]. We walked quite a bit.
You see, college begins next week, and everything is beyond surreal at the moment.
She's been re-admitted at the Faculty of Natural Sciences [for Biology], and I am attending the Faculty of Humanities for my very last semester.

It's been 9 years ever since I first walked through the shadowy, foliage covered paths; 9 years since I had no voice; 9 years since I first became immune to shells and their echoing protection. I cannot recall a time in which I honestly thought that I went through all this for a good reason-in fact, I rarely believed I'd ever make it through, and yet-once I did-I kept aspiring for more. Well, as a matter of fact...I still do.

It shall be a time of transfiguration and shape-shifting. Somehow, I find myself being calm-too calm, in fact. It makes me wonder if I am truly ready for what's to come, or if I'm simply in denial. In the end, there's always an ironic circumstance in the spaces between change that leaks a wrinkle in time, and somehow certain comforting sounds, scents, or touches sift through.

In my case, today I have returned to a very familiar scent that reminds me so much of me, that after trying to move on, I missed a bit of myself. So, no need to fight it off, I thought. I bought it [and it was on sale, too!]. I am quite happy to say that aside from my make-up brushes, it was the only purchase I needed.

Need.
Next week...
The beginning of an end.
The celebration of a birth that is in fact overshadowed by the disappearance of a gypsy and his strings,
-strings-
that due to lucid exile I thought I would not be able to live without.
In the end,
One must always ask, "is it really necessary,"
to wonder about paths that will eventually turn up forking under your feet?

I know I do.
And I despise not having an answer.

But then again-
...I equally despise having one.


So this is how walking leads to an awakening.

Pas de Deux

As I drove away,
I began to think about a passenger;
and their sweetness embraced me and I smiled.
I took on curves with wings
and passed through highs & lows on the black pavement
as though they were pinnacles of mountains yet to be conquered.

The passenger simply gazed, lovingly-
dozing off while in disbelief of our tangibility.
Our hands met in mid-air,
the cold air framed our smiles.
Suddenly-lamp posts, branches, darkness.
And so I began to descend
until I crossed familiar paths,
and I returned home-
my heart heavy with the motions,
hanging ballet slippers on the wall,
the seat beside me: untouched;
my pas de deux comme les fleurs du mal.



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Of Black Holes and Wormholes

<-Schwarzschild wormhole






There are times in which you know that you may be at fault:::
perhaps a bit of underlying moodiness, or a bit of impulsiveness [or compulsiveness] were the reasons for the whole let down.
Other times however, it may be entirely out of your hands.
In my case: I try -most certainly- to strive for accordance and diplomacy [when my pent up anger doesn't get a hold of me, that is].

This time, I wish to dedicate this lil space to my own little ray of...happiness...:::
MY BEDROOM.

Sure it's tiny and I could probably furnish an apartment with all my belongings already [heads up: this is what I can afford right now].
But, I can tell you:::
•it's pretty
•it's made up just like I want it.
•it's comfy.
•it's oh-so-me.
...But...
OH MY SCIENCE!
it IS a very special vortex.
Perhaps a black hole:

<-Simulated view of a black hole in front of the Large Magellanic Cloud








since objects [or this case, their functionality thereof] can "fall" into it, but cannot come out.

Or perhaps, my room is a Wormhole:

<-Analogy to a wormhole in a curved 2D space







since said disappearing acts of functionality are all related to technological devices, and so I can only assume they're pulling an "out-of-time/out-of-sight" context-fight.

In any case, my point:
You can bring ANY technological device into my bedroom or MY whereabouts [because YES, this sudden vortex effect follows me, too-but we won't get into that now] and rest assured: it'll never work the same way, EVER-again. This warning includes [but it is NOT limited to]: personal computers, lab tops, cellphones, GPS navigators, etc. and their supposed connectivity.

I should hang a signed liability clause on my door, plus one of these:
I...really should.
:"[

Regarding Uncanny Leaves

Image by AlixanaEuphoria via Flickr - Mark Z. Danielewski's House of Leaves

"Through innovative typography and other devices, House of Leaves foregrounds its materiality, which depends on physical properties, though not in a naive or unequivocal way, because the number of physical properties that can be brought into play is essentially infinite. Of all the attributes we might potentially notice about a book, a small number are selected by the semiotic content and mobilized as resources so that they become part of the book's signifying practices. Materiality thus emerges from the interplay between physical attributes and semiotic components.
[...]
Consequently, the story's architecture is envisioned not as a sequential narrative so much as alternative paths within the same immense labyrinth of fictional space-time that is also, and simultaneously, a rat's nest of inscription surfaces. Moreover, these surfaces prove as resistant to logical ordering as the House is to coherent mapping. Locating itself within these labyrinthine spaces, the text enfolds together the objects represented and the media used to represent them. At the same time, the text insists on its specificity as a print novel, showing a heightened self-awareness about its own materiality."
[...]

'Twas a long night.
I be working on it, as I "must."

I think a grilled sandwich for breakfast would be most fabulous.



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10:00 a.m.

I always wake up as soon as he opens the door.
The doorknob turns and I'm already opening my eyes.
I don't get it and it does not matter.

I've always liked 10:00 a.m.
It is a very agreeable hour for me,
perhaps because I'm usually only gaining conscience then,
or because it is right between "it's way too early" and "it's getting late" or "it's already too late".
All I know is: something is usually going on at 10:00 a.m.,
whether I'm here or still vagabonding in sunless lands.
It's the one hour of every day that somehow revives my hope for expectations.


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Commencement

Image via WikipediaA

And so it begins...

What began as a leisurely afternoon delight: finding another blog, finding another space, finding another...led me to this. I should have been writing. I should have been working on THAT massive embodiment of stress and infinite disarmed disarray: my thesis.

Writing, yes.

I wish I could say, "...but at least I worked on/did/ _____ while I waited it out," however, more often than not I will do exactly that: wait it out. Sad truth is, I still don't know why it bothers me or angers me much, since I should already be used to it. This anxiety takes me to the high-contrasted areas of my perfectionism, fear of disappointment, and over-all ...what? "fed-upness? lack of interest?...and yet again..."fed-upness." Sure.

So, very well: a whole Saturday has passed and I didn't even look at my thesis, I did not work out, and certainly, my sketchbook and strings are still gathering cosmic dust.

Conclusion?

Well, none, other than the obvious: Today will serve my head on a plate. [♥] Of course, if it was up to me, I'd probably take my time looking for the plate upon which it is meant to be served.

...I need something to look forward to.

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