#62 Post-data stories and uneventful days

The small details is what matters

The small details is what matters

My dear aliens, what can I say today if my life consists on being recluded between four walls of a hostile environment surrounded by torturous theories and heavily coloured sheets. Nothing. This post has no purpose, no reason to be, no content, no nothing. I apologise for my failure but as my promise stand, I want to report to you on this day and give you something.

I have no words. I am speechless. I’m sorry. My life is boring.

P.S.: At least let me give you an story.

I called him from the hospital. It wasn’t anything serious, I just fell over abd twisted my ankle. You add my inexistent tolerance to pain and it results in me desesperately calling my boyfriend, crying and begging him to come to me. It wasn’t such a big deal, but apparently I made a great freaking job in scaring him and now I was heartfeltly regretting the consequences. Damn.

We got home and after leaving my stuff on the side of the door, he left and went directly to our bedroom and I have yet to see anymore of him.

I open the doow to our bedroom slowly, curious of the why of his reclusion, already feeling that it had to do something with me but too frightened to ask; or knock on the door and expose myself yo his rejection, for that matter. The room is bright with the afternoon sun and our romm seems just like usual, a  little messy maybe but that has nothing to do with the man lying on his belly, with a pillow effectively blocking any sight and his hands clenched over our beautiful bed covers. 

I walk over and sit down next to him, putting a hand in the closest patch of skin I can find and feel his warmth immediately. It doesn’t calm me down but it helps because he is here. I feel I should be grateful that he hasn’t stormed out, even though I do not quite understand how we got here.

I don’t speak because I don’t want to and because I don’t get what are we doing here, why are we feeding each others sore moods in this precise moment, or why we are upset, or over what. Tom is not one to offer deep talk and so I know this is going to be long and exhausting, and because I don’t want to be, because I love this man, who has yet to face me, so much, I don’t want this waful day to turn back like that. 

An hour. 

An hour and  a half.

Almost two hours.

– You scared me.

– What?

– You twisted your ankle and called me as if you were about to die. Are you crazy? I almost lost it thinking you were at risk, that something happened to you, you know…

I run over every fucking terrying scenario of you… I though you…

Silence

– And you just twisted your ankle.

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#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 🙂

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

Better than silence – In the rain on a day when it poured down on me

Pluuff!!
Loud the chair hit the floor. And so did I. My legs were unnaturaly facing north, chest up and down as it struggled to breath in the sock, pain and embarrasment. This was one of those things were if it is going to happen, is going to be in a crowded place, like now, and as noticeably as possible, like now.
I stayed there waiting for a helping hand, a soul crashing reaction or for me to be effectively swallowed, along with my chair of course, by the artificial ground. But none of it happened. Just silence. Many stares and silence.

Yay, I’m back!!! I just finished an exam and it wasn’t good may sweet lord Wordsworth forgive me for incorrectly analysing his poem and so I needed to cheer up.
I woke up this morning to a weirdly quiet house and thought about how awful it is when you fall or do something embarrasing in front of everyone (like showing up naked 😍) and wondered if there is anything more painful than the laughs that follow. Silence. I think silence is worst than any word. When someone ignores you, when you cry and there are no worths of comfort, when something happens and you get no explanations, when you say i love you and you don’t get an i live you too, when you are trying to reach that person but you cannot anymore. Gosh, let me laugh noisily, soundly, dramatically, extravagantly, embarrasingly, obnoxiously. Let me laugh and kill silence.

Floure

Two armies

Non-discriminatory pity for all those involved in fighting.
I stumbled across this quote (all due credit to my professor) revising for my exam on Wednesday yep two days to go and I still find gems like that one in my notes of Stephen Spender’s poem Two Armies.
It is a wonderful quote, innit? Is meaningful, strong and concise, all that is needed to say in just the most elementary words yet still hits you like a convoy.
I am not going to dwell in the topic, but one recommendation I got from my revising:

image

if you don’t care about the sides but the human losses on a conflict and like some poetry, try this fella Stephen Spender.

Picture credit

Floure

Lady M

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).

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