It was a warm, solid day when the first letter arrived. She was sick and stayed home, as she usually did. All those kids known to her only by the apparition of their faces on her window passed by on their way to school, as she spent one more day on the sofa, hiding her body under a heavy blanket and burying her thoughts under the TV’s noise. Yet it was her who was the ghost. Skin pale as an unwritten paper, eyes deep, framed by prominent dark auras, cheekbones, shoulder bones and any other bones popping out for attention, fingers and toes long and thin as pencils and as much body fat as a dying being could have. What was wrong with her? you may ask.
I have nothing planned out for this post. I don’t even have a true reason to write, nothing happened to me this past days, nothing but pressure and stress building up inside me and I can as well put it down here, ans then leave it or delete it.
Let’s start from the beginning, shall we? This is the last year of uni, hence all those literature posts, and I am supposed to be graduating in what months? That is quite simply terrifying. Starting with the TFG which is how my uni calls the dissertation + presentation I am requested to do. I don’t like any topics and suggesting one on my own would just be refused because there is a reason British literature has not been included and that’s my only interest. Continuing with the actual day of my graduation which freaks me out for no reason, really no freaking reason.
On top of that, I am doing the arrangements to do an MA in the USA. That means exams, certificates that are expensive plus admission fees, motivation letters (sorry but this is not requested here where I live) and so on. It just doesn’t help with the overall situation of this particular year. And, god, and moving out to a country more than 10h away, leaving my family, leaving everything I know and I just, I’m scared.
And that’s it. Full stop, I’m not feeling ok today and that’s briefly what is happening in my life.
The apparition of these cell phones in the crowd;
Lonesomes on a wet, black coach.
I beg Ezra Pound for forgiveness.
I decided on this new section about two minutes ago, and I am a little afraid that I will regret this. I aim to write about my day, about the good things that happen in my life. I probably will not be very specific to avoid giving away to much information about my life but yeah, I thought it would be nice to share some things that happen from time to time in my life.
22nd September 2014
A warm and soon to be rainy morning, that`s how this morning sums up. Really, the weather was the most interesting bit of today. It seemed as if someone, possibly that someone in an elevated position above the sky, had tripped and smashed a massive clock, resulting in a slow, uneventful morning. My mates at uni where somewhere else, thinking about the past, I mean the past weekend of course, inventing theories for the cure of cancer (anyone explain to me why eaveryone fears that word that much, as if its only mention could cause harm?) from a lingusitic position and obviously, not giving a single **** if Macbeth was actually a good, loyal man, or as wicked as his wife. And it went like that for two hours, thank god for uni and its convenient short schedules.
That’s all, a terrible day to start this section. I know, however there’s been something quite funny. As I walked down the bridgefoot that gives access to my university, a strong, male voice intruded in my already occupied ear. It was something you don’t expect to hear in the street, almost 9 in the morning, as you sadly go to lock yourself in a class: singing, music. I am not going to lie, it wasn’t nice. It seemed a very old song, I mean very old, as one from when my parents where little. Now again, when my parents were tiny here where I live there was a dictatorship, and you know what the music of those regimes sounds like, don’t you? I am not saying he was singing something from those years, as I lack the knowledge to recognize the song, but it really sounded strong, a song more preocuppied about the message than the rythm, a song with a purpose.
Now I realize I called the incident funny, but as I am writing this it seems less and less funny. At the time when I listened to it I grinned and then kept walking just to share a laugh few steps later with an stranger who was as astounded as I was about this man. But the telling of this story seems obscure and somehow sinister, not funny, at all. He did not look as a lad supporting an intolerant ideology, rather he looked more as a teacher than a student but who knows? Am I over reacting? Maybe he was singing a new song I just don’t know about?
Dang, there it was the relaxed and comic tone I set for this post 😦
Let me start this post with a question: have you noticed have quickly my blog is turning into a literature blog? Yeah, me too but I regret nothing though it wasn’t planned. Sooo, here another literature post.
I love Lady Macbeth. If you know anything about the play, never ever in a gazillion years call it book, you’ll know that she isn’t exactly the kind of woman to look up to. She basically pushes her husband into murdering a king by, well basically, by telling him to man up and do whatever needed to be king. What in today’s language translates into “don’t be a pussy and kill the nigga so we are rich, powerful bitches” (pronounced as a white prepubescent going through a fase of cultural identification with a different group, aka, absolutely not genuine).
Beautiful extract from ’12’
I am like another, and another, who has finished learning
And has just begun to learn
An incredibly senseless creation, chaos made poem if you ask me, but all of it is worth it just for this two lines. I love the honesty framed within those simple words.
Reading Shakespeare’s Macbeth:
By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes: [Knocking heard.
One day I shall answer the door with these words
Oh, look at [insert any famous/popular person’s name here]! S/he looks so sad in that picture! S/he was totally upset with her/his girlfriend/boyfriend/partner in crime/husband/wife/or whatever!
I never understood these kind of statements being made when there is a picture on a magazine or whatever other source. They read full novels within the frame of a picture, which often is croped or somehow altered, and by no means, because of the nature of photography, can give us the whole context. People say, or at least an Spanish saying says, that an image is worth a thousand words but I can’t fully agree with it, because I find it hard to believe what I don’t see with my own eyes; and because my eyes often lie.
As I was doing an exercise for English grammar I stumbled across this wonderful and truth be told hilarious article. If you are a learner of Spanish, check it out!! You will not regret it!
From my non-existant boyfriend
I am with her everyday in everything, not matter how tough or funny, and give her as many reasons as possible to choose me but in the end, is her decission if she leaves for her dreams or choses to stay in my arms and dream together with me.