Late to the party, I was reading an amazing book – ‘Whatsapps avec maman’

‘Sometimes I find myself on Fridays waiting for you to wish me a happy weekend, waiting for you to text me from wherever you are. I wait and hope for you to dry my tears with a humourless joke, I wait for you to craddle me like before, that you talk to me about Céline Dion, about the weather, but the truth is that now the wait is very, too long…

I love you’

[My translation]

Hiya Aliens!

Credit below

Credit below

Whatsadoing?? Whatsamedoing? A book review. Oui, Oui, a book review and it is not the only one to come. This little excerpt is from the book I have just finished (in like 5 minutes) which is titled ‘Whatsapps with mom’ by Alban Orsini.

This is a beautiful story about the connection between a mom and a son, their understanding, the little stupidities that belong to them and that make their relationship unique, and yet universal. The story that we read nosily through the whatsapps that they send to each other gives insight into the little perks of mom/son relationships. The Céline Dion drama, the fat cat, the romance and the mom overprotection, money troubles, the good morning/ have a great weekend texts, all have this empathic capacity that makes as giggle thinking “that’s sooo my mom”.

Goodreads sums this book like this:

Whatsapps with mom is the story of daily, routinary whatsapps between a mom an her son (visible on Tumblr and Facebook). Whatsapps with mom it’s a fiction that tells the story of a son and his mother as read over their exchanges text messages. Imagined as a fiction, this story is funny, touching and sometimes surreal speaks parent / child relationship, the shift of generations …Hilarious and exciting, we can not get enough: (…). We also discover a form of dialogue, inventive and full of literary references, dramatic, musical … that allows different reading levels.

The construction of this conversation is prolonged by the drawings of The Blonde Vivi.

[My translation]

However, as I was revising this Goodreads page, the commentary that I found there was what really hit the jackpot:

I thought, why not? I need a book that makes me laugh for a while. It really took me from unstoppable, belly-aching, laughter to intense weeping. For its unexpected ending and situation, I must say I liked this book very much. A simple story that makes you reflect on the little things as the ‘have a nice weekend’ that all of of sudden you come to miss.

E-xact-ly.

Good day, aliens!

Yours,

Mei Mimi: (soon to be) resident alien

Photo credit

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#29 Oh well..

Sitting on my bed. Legs wrapped beneath this computer where I write, again. Arcade Fire is playing on spotify and my head is full of things I would like to say and that I hope they are said. Unplanned writing starts..

Dear aliens,

I have a bachelors degree.

I have no phone but I have a visa. It broke down on the queue for my visa appointment. I droped it and I am lonely, and clueless, and bored, and addicted, so it seems.

Aliens, I am leaving for the United States in 29 days and the feelings inside me are oppressing and confusing. I am wandering desesperately through happiness, excitement, sadness, early nostalgia and unwilingness. And this is why words have failed to be present in this blog. Also I have been busy but I have used that goddam excuse around here so much that I am embarrased to type that again.

I wish not to dwell in those feelings because it is not the time nor the attitude to have when you are graced with an amazing opportunity. But I am not okay aliens, I am not.

Friends. Jeez, I am speechless about my friends. I don’t even know how to write this. There are so many tornados in my head, I just can’t type coherently. I guess that I realized two things lately: who the real people in my life are and how bad of a friend I am. I sinned by omission and I am on the edge of loosing people that are very important to me. And I don’t know if I will do anything about it because I honestly don’t know how to act and both doing something and not doing it suffocates me.

Also I think I suffer from anxiety.

Also I am back to hating my body and hating myself. Have not done that in a long time. I am scared of what it means.

I am not okay aliens.

Mei Mimi: (soon to be) resident alien

#65 #64 – Ovaries, mothers and bribing

My ovary is trying to pop through. I have a small wound in my lip (which feels like death) and I swear I just saw someone pout as she came in to the the library with a giant cup of, what I assume is, coffee. Actually, no, it was a tiny cup but she genuinely was sad to be here at this time in the goddam morning (nine-ish).

I was meant to make these posts everyday until the end of the count-down and as usual failed in my first attempt (jesus christ, did they just switched on the air conditioning? Jeez, welcome to Alaska, Mei!). Anyway, back to what I was saying, I am here to talk.

resident aline writes on paper exampleFirst things first. I wanted to tell you how incredibly annoying creative minds are. Do you have to study ‘ethics’? Here, an idea to write. And since I am not home and I decided to leave all my electronic devices there in pro of my focus in ‘ethics’ and only ‘ethics’ I rsorted to write this in a white sheet meant to stuff principles and virtues (‘ethics’). I blame my friend also. She is late and I needed her to induce me to study. Well, that ain’t happening, right? Lets write this quickly and hope it’s over before she gets here.

Well, that marvelous idea I had and that I told you about was that of the unrealistic portrayal of moms in fiction. I absolutely blame a terrible Sidney Crosby fanfic for making me question the literary value of anything and come across these thoughts. Also, I just noticed that friends in my local library sit apart so they can study better. I don’t get it, friends are supposed to be there in the good and bad and this is terrible, believe me, so my conclusion is that their friendship is crap.

Well, the thing with this mom’s fiction I’m telling you about is that they are sweet, too sweet. I am going to go ahead and say that I have the most wonderful mom in the whole wide world, buuuut what you read in fiction is  just too much that even my mom seems a monster.

Take for instance when I moved back from my apartment in Manchester. To the question “do you need all of these?” in fiction it would’ve been like:

<< My mom turned around and sweetly asked:

Do you need all of these? With an all teeth, perfect and genuine smile in display, with a tone so low that only someone with superpowers could hear it and all her love for me evident in the interaction. >>

You get me? Now, of course this is not like my mother because she is sweeter than candy but if by any chance this was the case, I believe my mom would been more like (this is allllll hypothetical):

<<My mom turned around with her hands full with my stuff and annoyed as usual she asked:

Do you need all these? With a frown in her face, and now by imitation game in mine, a clear sign of her profound dissapointment, with a high-pitched tone and her long forgotten love for me missing in the interaction. To all this I reacted as if mom just invaded my Poland and you know, the Third World War started. >>

If this is familiar to you, leave a comment 🙂

And I get it, it is extremely complicated to translate reality into words, certainly not genres as realism and naturalism, despite the constant attention to detail, could make it happen, but there are limits as in everything in life. Mother and daughter relationships are complecated, usually because we are very alike, also because cohabiting is genuinely tough, especially when all you care about is freedom and mom reminds you of the rule. This happens with guys as well. I can tell you and I can also promise you that when you leave home your relationship with your family, even if its ideal, will improve. It must be something about appreciation of the things that they do for you or something. But jeez, there is people out there, and I don’t mean fanfic writers who honestly do great help to the boredom of this world and the recreational and imaginative necessities of the fandoms, but people out there who would not even try writing seriously and yet, get published.

Well, that’s it.  I gave my rant of the day and I am happy. Back to study. Oh, also, I feel like yesterday bribed the US government to let me in legally so lets hope I can get an interview in the embassy done soon and continue ticking off days of this count-down to fly to town. That’s all, not all I have to do is hide this before my friend arrives and pretend I’ve been a good girl all along. Keep me the secret, good?

Mei Mimi: the (soon to be) Resident Alien

P.S.: Also, if you see this in iadorozu.wordpress.com, no worries, it’s me 🙂

Luke, I’m your father

What is it about showers that get us thinking the weirdest stuff?

Pic not mine. Credit below.

Pic not mine. Credit below.

So here I am, washing my hair, proceeding with my body when this thought assaults me. What if fathers and sons who share the same name, do so as a reaffirmation of his paternal rights? Think about it. We know moms are moms because, well, because they popped the baby out, but  how in the times where technologies could not confirm his fatherhood could possibly dads know the baby was theirs? By claiming it. Surely, if there was a suspicion of unfaithfulness naming your son after you could not possibly make the child yours, in the case your spermatozoon was not the first to land, that is.

However, this theory has a but. What about moms and daughters who are named the same? Is it a sign of equality that women started claiming their right to do, and doing, the same? Is just parenting pride or a sign of kinship, regardless of who produced the baby,  that is being transmitted? Was the watter too hot and am I talking utter bullshit?

Thoughts?

Credit

Superhero duty: the means justify it all

Face to face, I look into his eyes and exchange no words. Here we are, at the end of the world, breathing heavily and exhausted from the fight of the century. The city is destructed and people are scared. I am not winning, nor is he. We just stare at each other and breath.
I have to kill this man and save the humanity.
The duty is clear, how to do it is something different.
I will kill him and end his regime of terror and suffering. I will kill him and end with it all. Children will laugh, moms and dads will hug. The cries this time will be of pure and utter happiness and relief. The world will live in peace.
Will it though? Will it be over? Can I kill a man? Will I save humanity? Do the means justify the goal.
My heavy breathing intensifies and it is hard to breath. I am panicking. I have to do it but, can I? Do I have to do it? I…I…. I run…..

Floure

On articles – In the rain, now rains, now doesn’t

I sometimes don’t understand academia. Odd thought, I know, but this is what happens at the end of the semester; existentialism comes and hits hard on your life choices.

The thing is that I just took a break to watch some videos of Conan and write this post but still cannot completely get my mind off the essay, dissertation and exam that take almost every minute of my weekend (grab the booze and join me in my desperation)

Going back to the weird thought that pushed my hands to write, all started with the most ridiculous, speculative, weakly fact-based and questionable deductionism present in an article recently read. Now, I am a literature student (almost graduate) and reading too much into a sentence, discovering covered meanings and all that inventive stuff is kind of customary, but this one was too much. Also, my patience levels are in a low lately, so I am indeed expecting many people to not share my opinion. Whatever.

And then, as my thoughts lingered around the topic more than it would be healthy, it occurred to me that shall the author of the novel that was being dealt with ever to become a zombie, because lets admit it, zombie apocalypse is a thing and is happening, he (he is a male author, therefore no patriarcal intention in any form intended) would be as offended, if anything more personally but that’s almost impossible because I felt the article as an insult to my mother though there was no mention of my mother, by what it was said in the, by now, well known article.

Is it because of his death status, and the delay in the advent of the zombie apocalypse, from here on to be shortened to Z.A., that these scholars, or scholar prospects, feel legimitated to say literally anything? Or is it the vast amount of hours put in the study of the topic? One way or the other, the article was bad and unhelpful, which is the worst insult in the university arena (leaving aside Chinua Achebe calling Joseph Conrad racist, that was bad too).

This post is absolute crap and non-sense.

Be happy. X

In the rain – soaking my clothes

I like to think of the posts I make as in-promptu, as a thing of the moment, but usually I have a clear idea what I want to say, from beginning to end, even if I dont know the how. This is not that kind of post. As soon as I got to the bus station I started writing this.

image

Look at the picture. Thats me, my outfit of the day. Anything wrong? Maybe you dont like it? Thats fine, really it is, that not what this post is about. Try hard and give reasons as to why those clothes would be reasons enough so that a piece of garbage follows me in the street to say some nasty things.
It’s 13:48 and I leave uni. I am walking to the bus today courtesy of a proffessor who cannot calculate his time suitably and I leave my classroom with an hour left for the next bus. I cross the bridge that gives access to our uni and stop to pull my thighs up. My pitch black, no see-through thighs, my almost pants thighs. And I continue my way to the station.
I’ve noticed a young guyvqith his bike sitting across where I stopped but thought nothing of it. He was dressed in my city’s football club gear and looks as anyone in this city.
At some point along my way while I am shipping on my juice he comes behind me and says something about my legs and my ass that I am trying to forget as quickly as I can. May I refer to the picture above again please? Well apparently it was temptation enough for a young man to grab his bike and follow me to a close distance and say all the things that should never be said to an unknown person, in the middle of the street, making they feel extremely uncomfortable and as usually happens, having to look away as a means of protection (maybe if i show no interest they will leave). Apparently my outfit was not only worth the persecution but also a turning around in the first corner and passing beside me, this time quietly, again.
I need not say what this is, I need not qualify it. I need this to stop.

Floure

Give me a minute

How did we end up here is beyond me. I once hated him. Or so I thought. I knew there was a feeling there that made me erratic and anxious to the point that my chest hurted. I thought I hated him because that is the natural reaction to someone’s bullying and dismissal. I thought I hated him because there was no other feeling to have in such a situation. I hated him because there was no reason for his behaviour but pure and absolute hate towards me; and so, I hated him.

Time has passed and I wished it would be more time so our relationship would be ridiculously justified by the passing of the years, as if all that time would say: things have changed. But the truth is that in a short period of time the feelings remain the same though we might not call it hate. I still feel erratic and anxious, and my chest still hurts, for him.

My dad is holding my hand the best he can, he is as nervous as I am but at least he is not shaking. I am dressed in white, pretty flowers in hand and traditions and superstitions hang on my body. My best friend is a few feet ahead of me, talking to the children and somewhere further away is him.

I take one step forward. Another. One more. Another one. Countless more. And I feel his hand on mine, I see a little glow in his eyes and a gulp down his throat. This is a moment in life and last night, when we were apart, we promised that we cheriss this moment for the rest of our lives, no matter what, this minute counts.

I feel his hand slowly, deliberately caressing my skin from my hand to my waist. My pulse in raicing and I don’t understand what he’s doing, but if this is what he wants, me, his bride, won’t say no. He takes half a step closer and pushes me to meet him halfway. He presses his forehead to mine and breaths happily. I look up at him and quickly wipe that traitor tear and smile at him. His traveling and active hands take my face in warm embrace and he gets close enough that only me can listen him whispering “give me just a minute”.

Like that, memories flood me of all the times that he has said that, and right know the meaning is more evident to me than ever before. He said it before our first I love you. Struggling with his speech, he just took a deep breath looked me in the eye as he hold me close. After a minute of feeling us, there was no need to say it but he still did it.

Before I met his dad, he hold me safely in his arms and said “I’m here, you can have a minute”.

When we told the world about our love we fought the painful shock and surprise as best as we could. By the time we got to the cab hand by hand and sat, he said “I think I need a minute, love” and so I crawled to his lap and hold him tight.

Now, on the day of our union, if he wants me to be close, connected, being one with him, that I give to him. I give him all my minutes.

In the rain – Too dark to see the drops

Hello there…

… I think I am back. Maybe.

It has been an awful amount of time since I last wrote anything here. Damn me. But I am back for a while and with new hopes and illusion, though no ideas on how to translate those into posts. So patience is required my friends, or click unfollow. Please do not. 

So, first I have few things to say.

1) I can now confirm what multiple times suggested in this blog: I will be a semi-permanent individual in the USA for a little under two years. I have been accepted in the Graduate School of a university that for safety reasons I probably should not mention but that I cannot promise that you will not get to know by other means or hints in oncoming posts. Also I will be something that is unknown for is inexistent in my country yet very interesting and also daunting, a Teaching Assistant.

1.5) If you want to know about that in future posts, hey just say it!

2) I am sometimes terrified, sometimes excited, sometimes overwhelmed, sometimes fed up with the prospects of becoming a semi-permanent individual in the USA.

3) Fuck you burocracy.

4) Life is still hectic and I still cannot cope with it.

5) I am about to graduate and I honestly can’t wait. I will miss the people though.

6) My eyes are open, I can see, but can I act?

7) Final remark: keep your voice and use it. Say whatever you need, as loud or quiet you may want it to be, say, talk, speak, do it.

One day you might find yourself in the middle of a fist of agonizing cries that will mute your voice. And by the time you are done crying, a deathly weakness upon your bones will trap your voice in the depths of your silence.

8) I almost wrote your instead of you’re. I want to cry…

9) I discovered hockey. I am an expert of hockey now.

10) Bye

Bye!