Sometimes she tries. Hard. But sometimes she simply can’t. But she tries again, don’t want to be defeated by a body too weak. And when she gets to it, after sometimes a time longer than usual, she simply feel like staying in bed, waiting for the pounding of her heart to get back to normal.
Sometimes she blames her body she cannot compel to her own will. Sometimes she hates the meds, she hates the little yellow pills. She wish she could do without. But she takes them anyway. She doesn’t want to faint. She doesn’t want to shows people her weaknesses.
So she takes it anyway. With a big glass of water. Every morning. And when she forgets, she hopes she will be allright, and scold herself for being such a light headed girl. And with a little fear, she drinks coffee and tea, hoping the blood pressure won’t play truant.
She senses when the dosage is not enough. Her body works on stand-by and she hardly can find the strength to do anything. She would like better a little too much. That’s how she feels all right, and bouncy. But the doc says otherwise. So she follows. Grumpily, but she follows.
She is afraid, sometimes. Afraid it might get worse. So she thinks positive. She smiles and she stays strong. She seldom cry. And when she does, she does it for every sad event that come across her life. She cries for the sensation of lack, whispering “misshu kita”. But as a rainfall, it passes away. It always does.
Sometimes at night, her body feels stronger. She knows how to trigger the memories that her body recorded on her flesh. She knows what buttons to push. So she tries again, and when it works, she feels relieved.
And a bit sad for not giving all this but to herself.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Monday, July 25, 2005
going "postal" on the Big Screen
Could someone tell me please how come the postal services gather all the most incompetent persons of this country????
Wether it is about sending a package to the Phillipines, or picking up a registered mail sent from Belgium to Belgium, they do not seem to be able to retrieve the items. (aitems ^^).
Had it happened to someone else, I would have said, ok, chill out, keep your cool.... But I can tell you , this morning, even though I was repeating the "don't sweat the small stuff/it's all small stuff" motto pinned on my comp, I got a hard time swallowing the mellow sleepy annoyed i -don't -want-to-help -you tone of the employee.
Wake up, sweet one, it's Monday morning for everyone !!! The sun isn't shining at my place neither !! Hopefully I could get another phone number, and there, holy joy amongst all the earthlian sweetnesses, I could talk to someone willing to do ihis job, and concerned by my story. Sequel to be awaited this afternoon, for that person could not put me trough to the very service (always something amiss I tell you...always .. ^^ )
I feel like Registered Mail Dispatching Department feels like a Quest for the Saint Graal, and that all the enigmas of Da Vinci Cod(e) gonna smell fishy (well, wait they already do ^^) when I finally gonna get in touch with that precious service.
I swear I gonna frame the envelope. And asking for the postman's autograph. Then maybe take pics of us two, happily grinning , holding the marvellous registered mail. the one which would have traveled so far, so strong, and so bravely throughout all the evil postal services.
Then, maybe, I gonna make a movie about it, I can see the big bilboards covering up all the Los Angeles walls :"Going Postal". "the quest of an ordinary girl, for an extraordiary mail". "A Spielberg/Cameron/Lucas production, starring Brad Pitt as the helpful postman, and Nathalie Portman as the damsel in distress". "Storyline by yours truly, and Robert Redford as Director".
I can feel the fever in the Cannes preview. I can sense the heat in the Oscar's celebration. Blockbuster even more godzillesque than the Titanic and Star Wars reunited. Even crushing down little Harry Potter, whose spells prove unable to fasten the postal sevices.
Then , with the royalties brought back by the sequel "The lost package" ("coming out February 2010, your next Valentine's must see", a "heart-wrenching story, of passion and true love") , I shall offer myself the postal services all raw, and I gonna go all muahahahahhahahhahahahhahahahhahahaa and have them fear my power...
Hmmm, wait, maybe this last one is not a good idea, after all....
And all in all, I still haven't got back my precious piece of mail...... ^^
Wether it is about sending a package to the Phillipines, or picking up a registered mail sent from Belgium to Belgium, they do not seem to be able to retrieve the items. (aitems ^^).
Had it happened to someone else, I would have said, ok, chill out, keep your cool.... But I can tell you , this morning, even though I was repeating the "don't sweat the small stuff/it's all small stuff" motto pinned on my comp, I got a hard time swallowing the mellow sleepy annoyed i -don't -want-to-help -you tone of the employee.
Wake up, sweet one, it's Monday morning for everyone !!! The sun isn't shining at my place neither !! Hopefully I could get another phone number, and there, holy joy amongst all the earthlian sweetnesses, I could talk to someone willing to do ihis job, and concerned by my story. Sequel to be awaited this afternoon, for that person could not put me trough to the very service (always something amiss I tell you...always .. ^^ )
I feel like Registered Mail Dispatching Department feels like a Quest for the Saint Graal, and that all the enigmas of Da Vinci Cod(e) gonna smell fishy (well, wait they already do ^^) when I finally gonna get in touch with that precious service.
I swear I gonna frame the envelope. And asking for the postman's autograph. Then maybe take pics of us two, happily grinning , holding the marvellous registered mail. the one which would have traveled so far, so strong, and so bravely throughout all the evil postal services.
Then, maybe, I gonna make a movie about it, I can see the big bilboards covering up all the Los Angeles walls :"Going Postal". "the quest of an ordinary girl, for an extraordiary mail". "A Spielberg/Cameron/Lucas production, starring Brad Pitt as the helpful postman, and Nathalie Portman as the damsel in distress". "Storyline by yours truly, and Robert Redford as Director".
I can feel the fever in the Cannes preview. I can sense the heat in the Oscar's celebration. Blockbuster even more godzillesque than the Titanic and Star Wars reunited. Even crushing down little Harry Potter, whose spells prove unable to fasten the postal sevices.
Then , with the royalties brought back by the sequel "The lost package" ("coming out February 2010, your next Valentine's must see", a "heart-wrenching story, of passion and true love") , I shall offer myself the postal services all raw, and I gonna go all muahahahahhahahhahahahhahahahhahahaa and have them fear my power...
Hmmm, wait, maybe this last one is not a good idea, after all....
And all in all, I still haven't got back my precious piece of mail...... ^^
Saturday, July 23, 2005
~Tao~
Just got a sad sad news, got me crying for real...
to the friend departing:
take care, okay?
you promise okay?
Be strong, be DAI, be forever.
Inu~
to the friend departing:
take care, okay?
you promise okay?
Be strong, be DAI, be forever.
Inu~
ima haruka na yuuhi no naka kage toketeku
ryoute furu yo kimi ga kieru made
Now, the shadows melt into the distant sunset
I will wave both of my hands until you disappear
saraba tomo yo wasure wa shinai
deaeta koto hokori ni omou
bokura no kawari no kibou no tsue ga
hikari no saki michibiku darou
Goodbye my friend, I won't forget you
I feel proud that I met you
In place of you, the staff of hope
will probably lead us to the end of the light
Do As Infinity
(translated by Cori-chan)
Friday, July 22, 2005
Hana-bi
It was the muffled *thud * that go me away from the blogger drama. So I made it to my parents’ room. The one that overlook our garden from the 3rd storey…
Alone in the dark, I peered through the hazy mist. Grey fumes coming out of the Earth, while a tiny rain damped everything around.
That’s when I saw them, glowing from a distance. The tiniest where hidden by the huge buildings, but a few minutes of patience gave me the chance to see the greatest fire flowers ever. Like an explosion preparing in yellows, then exploding, spreading in reds...Before dying in full splendour.
Fireworks always have a kind of sadness inside. Qomething within reach, but that we cannot touch, no matter how wetry... And if we can do it, then it's only to feel the hurting, the burning of the incandescent powder.
I couldn’t think of anything, but the fireworks blooming in front of me. And my mind felt at peace, enjoying the watching, feeling the fresh air on my skin. A moment of peace, as simple pleasure, and the happiness of feeling alive…
Alone in the dark, I peered through the hazy mist. Grey fumes coming out of the Earth, while a tiny rain damped everything around.
That’s when I saw them, glowing from a distance. The tiniest where hidden by the huge buildings, but a few minutes of patience gave me the chance to see the greatest fire flowers ever. Like an explosion preparing in yellows, then exploding, spreading in reds...Before dying in full splendour.
Fireworks always have a kind of sadness inside. Qomething within reach, but that we cannot touch, no matter how wetry... And if we can do it, then it's only to feel the hurting, the burning of the incandescent powder.
I couldn’t think of anything, but the fireworks blooming in front of me. And my mind felt at peace, enjoying the watching, feeling the fresh air on my skin. A moment of peace, as simple pleasure, and the happiness of feeling alive…
Thursday, July 21, 2005
edit: HACKED ?!? HOAXED?!? BACK !!!!!
????????????????????????????????????????
The more I think about it, the more I feel there has been a hoax or something....
Just a feeling, but.....
nevermind...
Happy to see the pink bubbles around again!^^
The more I think about it, the more I feel there has been a hoax or something....
Just a feeling, but.....
nevermind...
Happy to see the pink bubbles around again!^^
Monday, July 18, 2005
Fashion Attraction...
I feel like reading HP6 in English....
And get the previous volumes numbered 1 to 5...
And get the previous volumes numbered 1 to 5...
Sunday, July 17, 2005
"MySpace"
Opening "My Space" and "Friendster", I am amazed at how i still am unable to get out of my shell.. Looks like the forum is the only place where I dare affirm my personality...
I don't know why, but I always feel a bit out of place, out of time... Not that I don't want to talk, or comment, but I feel like I am more a reader than some active member of those communities...
Friendster is so nice to keep in touch though... How many people have I lost in the road. What are they doing now, sometimes I wonder. I imagine them married, having a working life, new friends, new acquaintance. And maybe in the corner of their head, the memory of a girl who sang each year at the school fair.
Singing.
Voicing out a sparkle of my soul. Then again, I make an appearance, then I disappear. I think mostly because, when I listen to the other people singing, I find myslef okay, but certainly not deserving that much attention. So then again, I shy away, ignore the "please sing more", and get to read another thread.
Unless my Mahal asks for it, I seldom indulge in singing for people. Maybe because when doing so, I show too much of myself, I feel too vulnerable.
Maybe Friendster and Myspace do the same to me. I like to stay in touch, but from a distance, I fell like I can never mix in. I do not like it when I feel I unveil myself too much. Only one person has the right to it. Only my loved one knows, and have seen the tiny breaks in my armour.
I made great progress since i have been foruming. But breaking the sheltering bubble around me will take time...
I guess that, up to then, I will be around, watching over from a distance....too reserved to touch the picture, but so happy to stare at it, and to be part of it.
^*^
I don't know why, but I always feel a bit out of place, out of time... Not that I don't want to talk, or comment, but I feel like I am more a reader than some active member of those communities...
Friendster is so nice to keep in touch though... How many people have I lost in the road. What are they doing now, sometimes I wonder. I imagine them married, having a working life, new friends, new acquaintance. And maybe in the corner of their head, the memory of a girl who sang each year at the school fair.
Singing.
Voicing out a sparkle of my soul. Then again, I make an appearance, then I disappear. I think mostly because, when I listen to the other people singing, I find myslef okay, but certainly not deserving that much attention. So then again, I shy away, ignore the "please sing more", and get to read another thread.
Unless my Mahal asks for it, I seldom indulge in singing for people. Maybe because when doing so, I show too much of myself, I feel too vulnerable.
Maybe Friendster and Myspace do the same to me. I like to stay in touch, but from a distance, I fell like I can never mix in. I do not like it when I feel I unveil myself too much. Only one person has the right to it. Only my loved one knows, and have seen the tiny breaks in my armour.
I made great progress since i have been foruming. But breaking the sheltering bubble around me will take time...
I guess that, up to then, I will be around, watching over from a distance....too reserved to touch the picture, but so happy to stare at it, and to be part of it.
^*^
Thursday, July 14, 2005
"Tagalog for Beginners"
Finally found a nice tutorial !!!
Check it out !!!!!
Also check the link down below this page, Miscellaneous section !! ^^
Check it out !!!!!
Also check the link down below this page, Miscellaneous section !! ^^
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Salamat ! ^*^
Thank you for that sweet weekend, Mahal...I feel strong, again...
Now reading "Hoteru Irisu", by Ogawa Yoko...Weird story..O.o
Now reading "Hoteru Irisu", by Ogawa Yoko...Weird story..O.o
Friday, July 08, 2005
Each rose has its thorns…
Never been so out of it since yesterday. Blame it on terrorism, or P. time, I don’t know, but sincerely I never felt so emotional in weeks. I feel like I do not have power upon my words anymore, that they are living by themselves…
Yesterday I been shocked by someone talking about a passed away person, saying, I quote “how she fell like a sh!it”. I swear I could have slapped this person for being so light about death, so disrespectful about an event that has nothing to be laughed about.
And today, when I read messages by people I miss, I couldn’t help but feel sad, sad sad, and longing for days where everything seemed much more easier, much more simple. I feel like impersonating a power, I feel like I must hide my own feelings and do the job. And sincerely I sometimes wish I wouldn’t have accepted the job. I hate conflicts, I hate hate, and I hate being the lesson giver, when I am myself flawed. I guess that the only thing that makes me stay the way I am, the mod I am, is my will to help. To kinda give something back to a community that gave me so much…
It funnily reminds me of some event that happened in my childhood… I have a clear vision of my asking a girl “okay, can’t we simply be friends?’ and her strongly slapping me in return. No more, no less, I cannot even tell why, or when, or how this thing happened. I just can see me clearly asking, I still can see the place, and should I live a hundred years, I would never forget it…
Sometimes, I wish I could detest some people. It would somehow give me a reason to forget about them, and not longing about friends I lost. But then again, maybe I am fooling myself, maybe I took for granted bonds that never existed. I still believe friendship has nothing to do with respecting rules, or authorities. It’s like when you work with your boss, and if he scolds you because your work is wrongly done (a file lost, a phone call you forgot…), it’s not because of you personally, but simply a work mishappening.
It’s been months now that those friends have disappeared from my circle of relation. Ten times have I decided to send them a message, and ten times have I cancelled it, out of pride, must I say. Maybe it’s me making a whole drama out of it, I don’t know….
* * *
Anyway…. It sometimes feel good to vent out what weighs on my heart. Not that I should complain…. I am happily engaged in a relationship with a man I do love, I am lucking to have a caring family…I know that, amongst a lot of people, I shouldn't be the one complaning, and whining…
But like my mother told me some day… “yes, you never say anything, always hiding your most inner worries behind a smile, or a joke, or, worst of all, silence. Ten times have I wondered if I was being a good Mom, when none of my words seemed to reach you, when you seem to refuse even the slightest hug. Then you go on, exploding, venting your anger and your sadness in shouting, then tears. Don’t you know I hurt the same way, when I see you like this?”
Belive me, when your Mom says so, it makes you think twice...And maybe makes you become even more secretive...
So I don’t know, maybe the way I feel now is simply the result of too much stress ?(I tend to over-dramatize things when I feel stressed). I do not have a clue, but I hope this feeling will ease away.
How I long for the weekend to come, and have some time together with my love. Him only seems to know how to soothe me. Him only knows the secret ways to my soul. Him only can see me cry, unashamed.
Yesterday I been shocked by someone talking about a passed away person, saying, I quote “how she fell like a sh!it”. I swear I could have slapped this person for being so light about death, so disrespectful about an event that has nothing to be laughed about.
And today, when I read messages by people I miss, I couldn’t help but feel sad, sad sad, and longing for days where everything seemed much more easier, much more simple. I feel like impersonating a power, I feel like I must hide my own feelings and do the job. And sincerely I sometimes wish I wouldn’t have accepted the job. I hate conflicts, I hate hate, and I hate being the lesson giver, when I am myself flawed. I guess that the only thing that makes me stay the way I am, the mod I am, is my will to help. To kinda give something back to a community that gave me so much…
It funnily reminds me of some event that happened in my childhood… I have a clear vision of my asking a girl “okay, can’t we simply be friends?’ and her strongly slapping me in return. No more, no less, I cannot even tell why, or when, or how this thing happened. I just can see me clearly asking, I still can see the place, and should I live a hundred years, I would never forget it…
Sometimes, I wish I could detest some people. It would somehow give me a reason to forget about them, and not longing about friends I lost. But then again, maybe I am fooling myself, maybe I took for granted bonds that never existed. I still believe friendship has nothing to do with respecting rules, or authorities. It’s like when you work with your boss, and if he scolds you because your work is wrongly done (a file lost, a phone call you forgot…), it’s not because of you personally, but simply a work mishappening.
It’s been months now that those friends have disappeared from my circle of relation. Ten times have I decided to send them a message, and ten times have I cancelled it, out of pride, must I say. Maybe it’s me making a whole drama out of it, I don’t know….
* * *
Anyway…. It sometimes feel good to vent out what weighs on my heart. Not that I should complain…. I am happily engaged in a relationship with a man I do love, I am lucking to have a caring family…I know that, amongst a lot of people, I shouldn't be the one complaning, and whining…
But like my mother told me some day… “yes, you never say anything, always hiding your most inner worries behind a smile, or a joke, or, worst of all, silence. Ten times have I wondered if I was being a good Mom, when none of my words seemed to reach you, when you seem to refuse even the slightest hug. Then you go on, exploding, venting your anger and your sadness in shouting, then tears. Don’t you know I hurt the same way, when I see you like this?”
Belive me, when your Mom says so, it makes you think twice...And maybe makes you become even more secretive...
So I don’t know, maybe the way I feel now is simply the result of too much stress ?(I tend to over-dramatize things when I feel stressed). I do not have a clue, but I hope this feeling will ease away.
How I long for the weekend to come, and have some time together with my love. Him only seems to know how to soothe me. Him only knows the secret ways to my soul. Him only can see me cry, unashamed.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
"The Bridges of Madison county"
Last night...
Why this movie made me so emotional?
Is such a thing called "empathy" enough to explain?
Not that I like dramas, or Clint Eastwood that much...
I maybe needed to cry out what I cannot express.
Anything, but sadness, curiously...
Feelings, missing, longings. And a beautiful story as a medium to let things ease away. Alone in the shadows of my room. Clutching a kleenex, then another, scolding myself for getting such a headache and puffy eyes.
Now gonna try and get The book ^^
Why this movie made me so emotional?
Is such a thing called "empathy" enough to explain?
Not that I like dramas, or Clint Eastwood that much...
I maybe needed to cry out what I cannot express.
Anything, but sadness, curiously...
Feelings, missing, longings. And a beautiful story as a medium to let things ease away. Alone in the shadows of my room. Clutching a kleenex, then another, scolding myself for getting such a headache and puffy eyes.
Now gonna try and get The book ^^
Friday, July 01, 2005
I put my fists in my pocket and left in a smile, I put my hands on my face and I softly cried
Sometimes life reserves you such lovely tricks you just wonder in awe how you can manage to stay quiet, and accept everything in a smile.
Long, tiring day today. Worked hard for even less than peanuts, got back in a overnoisy train, got a cold and a sore throat...
But when i saw the violet of the presento, the smile of Twitty, and those two little buns smiling at me....And that little Kitty pouch reùminds me of such happy moments...I coudnl't help sit down on my bed, clutching the letter and the box, and cry. Cry away my stress, my love and my fatigue. Cry away the remains of the day that Someone's attention and care did make brighther.
The most beautiful presents are not always the most expensives. As the bitter things in life can sometimes be made of tiny events.
As my mood is now rainbowish, I choose to rejoice only and forget about sadness and serious worries. This is the weekend, this is our time. And no one cannot take that away from me.
Not even a salary that haven't been paid.
Long, tiring day today. Worked hard for even less than peanuts, got back in a overnoisy train, got a cold and a sore throat...
But when i saw the violet of the presento, the smile of Twitty, and those two little buns smiling at me....And that little Kitty pouch reùminds me of such happy moments...I coudnl't help sit down on my bed, clutching the letter and the box, and cry. Cry away my stress, my love and my fatigue. Cry away the remains of the day that Someone's attention and care did make brighther.
The most beautiful presents are not always the most expensives. As the bitter things in life can sometimes be made of tiny events.
As my mood is now rainbowish, I choose to rejoice only and forget about sadness and serious worries. This is the weekend, this is our time. And no one cannot take that away from me.
Not even a salary that haven't been paid.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Bye-bye, Kitty !!!
Today on the Mall, how was I delighted to see that AT LAST, the stationery department had finally displayed some "Hello Kitty" products !!!!
I know, I know, it sounds kinda lame for a grown-up like me to love such childish things...But when i see those cute blue or pinkish items, notebooks, pens, boxes, bags and dolls, I just can't help wanting all the stuff, I just can't help wanting to posess those cuteness, which reminds me so much of Japan, of a certain idea of fashion you only gonna fing there..
And I started browse around the products, marvelling at that cute pouch, drooling over this lovely bag... The cute face of Kitty cat seemed to invite me in a world of neverending happiness, where Cute is Beautiful, where Teddy Bears dances with stars under the Rainbow.... But then my heart went to a stop, when I actually realized oh expensive those items where.
Go figure:
-18 bucks for a bag, not even big nor solid.
-5 bucks for a little box filled with stationary paper.
-8 bucks for a small pencil case
-11 bucks (eleven !!!)for a set of 5 plastic rings and a few glirttering stickers...
I would only buy me an eraser and HB pencil, @ 0.65 cents each.... Or more precisely, I totally refused to pay such amounts for accessory items, allowing myself only needful things (those who know me know MANY pencils I use, and how MANY erasers I lose (which is practically all...^^ )
But seem the dissapointed look of the little girl next to me, begging her Mom for this or that stuff, and being told it was too expensive....
What kind of paradise has Kitty to offer anyway, I thought, leaving the shop. what kind of cruel marketing is it, displaying items no one can afford?
I said bye-bye to Kitty with a sigh...
I know, I know, it sounds kinda lame for a grown-up like me to love such childish things...But when i see those cute blue or pinkish items, notebooks, pens, boxes, bags and dolls, I just can't help wanting all the stuff, I just can't help wanting to posess those cuteness, which reminds me so much of Japan, of a certain idea of fashion you only gonna fing there..
And I started browse around the products, marvelling at that cute pouch, drooling over this lovely bag... The cute face of Kitty cat seemed to invite me in a world of neverending happiness, where Cute is Beautiful, where Teddy Bears dances with stars under the Rainbow.... But then my heart went to a stop, when I actually realized oh expensive those items where.
Go figure:
-18 bucks for a bag, not even big nor solid.
-5 bucks for a little box filled with stationary paper.
-8 bucks for a small pencil case
-11 bucks (eleven !!!)for a set of 5 plastic rings and a few glirttering stickers...
I would only buy me an eraser and HB pencil, @ 0.65 cents each.... Or more precisely, I totally refused to pay such amounts for accessory items, allowing myself only needful things (those who know me know MANY pencils I use, and how MANY erasers I lose (which is practically all...^^ )
But seem the dissapointed look of the little girl next to me, begging her Mom for this or that stuff, and being told it was too expensive....
What kind of paradise has Kitty to offer anyway, I thought, leaving the shop. what kind of cruel marketing is it, displaying items no one can afford?
I said bye-bye to Kitty with a sigh...
Monday, June 27, 2005
Dilemma
Looking at that sunshiny day.......
...having two months' holidays but not a single penny
or
having no holidays but earning a living?
Hmmmmmmm....
...having two months' holidays but not a single penny
or
having no holidays but earning a living?
Hmmmmmmm....
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Sunday, sunny Sunday....welll, not that Sunny... and yet another random entry...just for the sake of it...with an awesomely long title...and books^^
Removed some links which were getting on my nerve, and added some new ones...IF someone find "Uranaikko" links, let me know !! ^^
Iridonia feels better. Even if I disagree with her sometimes, at least listening to her was important too.. ^^ Gambatte ne, girl...Let time ease things away...
Fashion is definitely made for rich people. Who can honestly spend 80 euros on a skirt, then Around 40 euros for a matching blouse, and not even searching for apair of shoes that would match it all (not even telling about the bag, mind you), simply to pretend to be the next hype bohemian girl praised by Cosmopolitan?
Not I...
Books.
Mines are invading my room in such proportion i really will have to rethink the whole shelving process... Culprits? JApanese domain books. They are overcrowding the russian ones..^^
So far I found at thrift shops:
Abe Kobo "The Box Man"
Akutagawa Ryunosuke "Rashomon and other tales"
Fukazawa "Narayama"
Ihara Saikaku "Five women who loved love"
Inoue Yasushi "闘牛" (combats de taureaux)
Jin Ping Mei (vol. II)金瓶梅
Kurosawa Kiyoshi "Kairo"
Miyabe Miyuki "Kasha"
Murakami Haruki "A wild Sheep Chase"
Murakami Haruki "After the Quake"
Murakami Ryu "Almost transparent Blue"
Murakami Ryu "Lines"
Murasaki Shikibu "Genji Monogatari" (vol. II)
Ogawa Yoko "沈黙博物館" (le musée du silence)
Soseki Natsume "Kokoro"
Tanizaki Junichiro "Manji" (svastika)
Tanizaki Junichiro "Kagi" (la confession impudique)
Iridonia feels better. Even if I disagree with her sometimes, at least listening to her was important too.. ^^ Gambatte ne, girl...Let time ease things away...
Fashion is definitely made for rich people. Who can honestly spend 80 euros on a skirt, then Around 40 euros for a matching blouse, and not even searching for apair of shoes that would match it all (not even telling about the bag, mind you), simply to pretend to be the next hype bohemian girl praised by Cosmopolitan?
Not I...
Books.
Mines are invading my room in such proportion i really will have to rethink the whole shelving process... Culprits? JApanese domain books. They are overcrowding the russian ones..^^
So far I found at thrift shops:
Abe Kobo "The Box Man"
Akutagawa Ryunosuke "Rashomon and other tales"
Fukazawa "Narayama"
Ihara Saikaku "Five women who loved love"
Inoue Yasushi "闘牛" (combats de taureaux)
Jin Ping Mei (vol. II)金瓶梅
Kurosawa Kiyoshi "Kairo"
Miyabe Miyuki "Kasha"
Murakami Haruki "A wild Sheep Chase"
Murakami Haruki "After the Quake"
Murakami Ryu "Almost transparent Blue"
Murakami Ryu "Lines"
Murasaki Shikibu "Genji Monogatari" (vol. II)
Ogawa Yoko "沈黙博物館" (le musée du silence)
Soseki Natsume "Kokoro"
Tanizaki Junichiro "Manji" (svastika)
Tanizaki Junichiro "Kagi" (la confession impudique)
Friday, June 24, 2005
Lazy blogging day ^^
Okay, so let's talk about a few lil' things, for a while ...
I replaced the blogger orange advertising tag by some cuuuute little bunnies. You can check it out down my link list (and browse away the others hihi)and see by yourself. Oh, and be a sugar, do ask Raistlin what he thinks about it... ;)
Spend a few days reading about some blogger world big deal. A story of breast posted on a journal, about people despising that act, and about others being mistaken for someone else. I read comments, excuses, nagging, seen pics, smiled, frowned... my my my .... Such a fuss for a tit, so said another person...
I also read hatemails a person received about that breast story. To think that peopel could go that far, and vomit their anger at someone they only know through reading a blog.... And how those haters call themselves better people ... My, has this planet gone wild....
And on a more more positive note... Two days ago I received letters. From the most important, the most precious person in my life. And whenever I look at them, I cannot help but forget all the day's little worries. The sun seems shinier, the night cosier. And the life feels so good to be lived in.
Happy Shiny Hippo....
Okay, book thrift shops, here I come !!! Please be kind, and gives me Anais Nin's Diaries, will you?
Sugar !! o(m ^^)(^^ s)o
I replaced the blogger orange advertising tag by some cuuuute little bunnies. You can check it out down my link list (and browse away the others hihi)and see by yourself. Oh, and be a sugar, do ask Raistlin what he thinks about it... ;)
Spend a few days reading about some blogger world big deal. A story of breast posted on a journal, about people despising that act, and about others being mistaken for someone else. I read comments, excuses, nagging, seen pics, smiled, frowned... my my my .... Such a fuss for a tit, so said another person...
I also read hatemails a person received about that breast story. To think that peopel could go that far, and vomit their anger at someone they only know through reading a blog.... And how those haters call themselves better people ... My, has this planet gone wild....
And on a more more positive note... Two days ago I received letters. From the most important, the most precious person in my life. And whenever I look at them, I cannot help but forget all the day's little worries. The sun seems shinier, the night cosier. And the life feels so good to be lived in.
Happy Shiny Hippo....
Okay, book thrift shops, here I come !!! Please be kind, and gives me Anais Nin's Diaries, will you?
Sugar !! o(m ^^)(^^ s)o
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Summer books? What kind of animals are those????
With Summer and its promises of leisure time, come along lots of "summer books". Pages and pages of so said romance, adventures, bound to lead you on some dreamy journeys, while you are burning lobster-red like in some crowded beach. Yes, do not ask why, but I never felt attracted to "mass-tourist", chaters and Torremolinos doesn't sound paradise like to my ears...
Anyway, back to books... I never felt attracted to that kind of literature... The pinkish, sparkling, summer-like covers (why do they ALWAYS put a beach picture to embody summer???), all the blurb in cover page4... What's so summerish in that anyway?
However, I remember books I read during summer, and that still keep a perfume of holidays.... I was around 15, 16, or so... Our friends were leaving their big house (mansion-like, a swimming pool , a small lake and a Steinway in the louge), my parents and I were asked to pay some regular visits on their goods, so that we can deterr any thiefs around ^^ . And use the swimming pool and the terrasse at our heart's content. And as for myself, dive with holy happiness in their library....
The lounge had a big bay overlooking the garden, and the small lake, shadowed by fir trees. Facing the piano, a green sofa, and behind it, encasted in the wall, the library, all in white wood. And on the shelves, books, books, and again books. Pockets ones, Hardcover ones... Talking about painters, Musicians, philosophers... Classic authors such as Voltaire, Diderot, Bernardin de St Pierre, Descartes, Zola, Sartre, de Beauvoir, but also Goncourt ones, which names I forget... I spend countless hours, in the lounge when it rained, or near the pool when it was summer hot... I remember the sensation of peace when reading, and also the nervous heartbeats, when my fingers turned pages that were not mine, browsed a library that was not mine...
I always had that kind of game, still have: guessing a person's habits by the books he/she owns, he/she reads or by the pens he /she uses...Don't ask why, I think it just is... And when I was reading those neighbours books, I couldn't help but wonder about how my friend's mother was feeling about it... I remember one in particular, entitled "Les voleurs de beauté" ("the Beauty stealers")by Pascal Bruckner, it was about a couple deceiving, then makign prisoners young and beautiful women, to steal their energy and beauty. They enclosed those girls in a cave, and watched them dying away from their lounge. Some tubes liking the cave to the upper rooms enables those thief to "suck away " the youth spirit of their preys...... Kinda creepy, I tell you, but also enthralling, marvellous like a venenous flower..
When I think about that book, I can see myself eagerly reading. I can see the yellow cover, the easy-reading font, the blurb on the last cover page. And I think that as long as I live, that very book will always remind me of that summer, spent alone in between books and nature.
This is what are "Summer books" for me... Not your average best selling fiction, but a book, a story, an object that can bring back memories entrapped inside its pages, so vividly that it feels like yesterday.....
Anyway, back to books... I never felt attracted to that kind of literature... The pinkish, sparkling, summer-like covers (why do they ALWAYS put a beach picture to embody summer???), all the blurb in cover page4... What's so summerish in that anyway?
However, I remember books I read during summer, and that still keep a perfume of holidays.... I was around 15, 16, or so... Our friends were leaving their big house (mansion-like, a swimming pool , a small lake and a Steinway in the louge), my parents and I were asked to pay some regular visits on their goods, so that we can deterr any thiefs around ^^ . And use the swimming pool and the terrasse at our heart's content. And as for myself, dive with holy happiness in their library....
The lounge had a big bay overlooking the garden, and the small lake, shadowed by fir trees. Facing the piano, a green sofa, and behind it, encasted in the wall, the library, all in white wood. And on the shelves, books, books, and again books. Pockets ones, Hardcover ones... Talking about painters, Musicians, philosophers... Classic authors such as Voltaire, Diderot, Bernardin de St Pierre, Descartes, Zola, Sartre, de Beauvoir, but also Goncourt ones, which names I forget... I spend countless hours, in the lounge when it rained, or near the pool when it was summer hot... I remember the sensation of peace when reading, and also the nervous heartbeats, when my fingers turned pages that were not mine, browsed a library that was not mine...
I always had that kind of game, still have: guessing a person's habits by the books he/she owns, he/she reads or by the pens he /she uses...Don't ask why, I think it just is... And when I was reading those neighbours books, I couldn't help but wonder about how my friend's mother was feeling about it... I remember one in particular, entitled "Les voleurs de beauté" ("the Beauty stealers")by Pascal Bruckner, it was about a couple deceiving, then makign prisoners young and beautiful women, to steal their energy and beauty. They enclosed those girls in a cave, and watched them dying away from their lounge. Some tubes liking the cave to the upper rooms enables those thief to "suck away " the youth spirit of their preys...... Kinda creepy, I tell you, but also enthralling, marvellous like a venenous flower..
When I think about that book, I can see myself eagerly reading. I can see the yellow cover, the easy-reading font, the blurb on the last cover page. And I think that as long as I live, that very book will always remind me of that summer, spent alone in between books and nature.
This is what are "Summer books" for me... Not your average best selling fiction, but a book, a story, an object that can bring back memories entrapped inside its pages, so vividly that it feels like yesterday.....
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
facts of (real) life
Some people need to hide their lack of knowledge by despising the supposedly lack of it in other people.
Some people are so conceited in their superiority that they believe every people working under them are dumb and less-educated.
Those people better beware, because they do not fool anyone. They offer yet another opportunity to get some fun in our sometimes dull life...
^^
Some people are so conceited in their superiority that they believe every people working under them are dumb and less-educated.
Those people better beware, because they do not fool anyone. They offer yet another opportunity to get some fun in our sometimes dull life...
^^
Friday, June 17, 2005
Beaver
It’s been a few days I started the reading of “Memoirs of a Dutiful Girl”, by Simone de Beauvoir.
I felt like making a big leap in the past. All of a sudden, I felt the exaltation of my sweet sixteen again, when I discovered Sartre, and so many other philosophers that were to open my eyes on a new world, on new perspectives… I keep from this time a taste of peace and fever, countless hours of reading, long after darkness had fallen… I remember essays, passionate discussions with my classmates and teachers (I was your intellectual girl, always reading books ahead of her age, always knowing the writers before the lesson began…Always giving a n opinion, right or wrong, but never afraid of expression herself….). At that time, I felt like my only certitude was the way how my brain worked. I wasn’t popular enough to pretend having all the boyfriends I wanted, and to be honest, I put literature way up above carnal things. I think I was afraid of those things anyway. I couldn’t watch my body without feeling ashamed of it, seeing only graceless flesh and common face. I guess I hid behind a fake feeling of knowledge. I befriended with Baudelaire, Sartre and Celine, naively thinking they had written those books for me to enjoy them. I was not a schoolgirl anymore, but a romantic heroin, promised to great achievements.
How conceited I was…
I think that, blinded as I was by my certitudes, I couldn’t have seen any people genuinely giving me affection, or compassion. I built ivory walls around me, feeling comforted by the admiration I could get from my teachers, or the friends that systematically were outsmarted by my naive genius. I could wrapped ideas in beautiful sentences, using rhetoric and style as a screen hiding my lack of confidence.…. My writings were passionate outburst, swirling and whirling against what I called “the Injustice”. Politics were all fools, and my discussing issues with my friends only led me to heated debates. The only verity was in between kilometers of soft paper, 10 x 18 cm..
I used to say that books were my only friends. That they could not lie to me, could not betray me. Ten times have I found solace in between their pages, forgetting for an hour or two the problems and the sadness of adolescence. I remember my parents looking odd at that dark young girl their daughter had become. Always hiding in her room, while her friends were going out and “having a life”. I couldn’t stand those parties, loud music I detested. I couldn’t stand being the left-over, waiting along the dance floor while my friends were being kissed outside. Of course, I couldn’t tell my parents about it. To them I was perfect. Able to read books they couldn’t understand, able to get by (my parents never studied as I did), writing brilliantly and being appreciated, considered as a young responsible adult.
I think I never known how it was to be sixteen. When it happened, I was in third year of college. At nearly 23, I broke down. Telling my teacher I couldn’t go on. I felt lost, useless, and certainly not as gifted as my highschool teachers had thought. I now despised all the books, all the grades. I hid myself in paradises, struggling with fatigue to learn my lessons, but never being able to get more than the average marks. The one that allowed me to pass, but with a thin margin. Sometimes though, I sparkled a little. Bedazzling my classmate when it was about French classes. I hit 20/20 at my Literature examination. Too bad, for I lost my marksheet. Hence nobody ever believed me… Ironic, don’t you think? Whilst all my friends considered me average, books again were the one saving me….
I think the earnest crisis happened when I was a freshman. I skipped classes to lock myself in dark café’s, talking about literature and rummaging ideas away. Together with friends as academically lost as myself, I was reinventing the world. Mind world again. I keep of that period lots of books, that still make me smile now when I look at them…
And now?
Well, I know that I am not made for major things. I will never be the great writer I wanted to be, unable to plot new ideas, in some innovative way. I think that I am a better reader, anyway. And frankly, I feel happy with it. I think that, back in my longing for some glory, I was chasing after becoming myself, instead of fame and fortune. I always struggled to find some balance. I always felt ill at ease with a world I didn’t asked to be part of. (Not even talking about God issues, this could take a whole thread in itself..^^).
I think that now, I found my reason for living. In the person of a young man who isn’t my mirror, but my complement. Or as we say in French “Complice”, in its Latin meaning (“complex”, as “united, “advocate”. I become friends with books again. I do not want “to be”, I simply am. I irradiate with my qualities, and my flaws, but I think I finally am true to myself. Not afraid anymore of saying “I don’t know”.
It was a long way, though. It went through a lot of important meetings, important breaking up, too… As sad as they were, they made me grow up. They made me grow up feelings I could not have understood ten years ago. I learned to love someone is not possess him. I learned to trust people, at last. And to protect myself, too. To become less vulnerable.
* * *
As I read de Beauvoir Memoirs, I find out the same interrogations, the same worries…. I see her struggling with life, and most important of it, making a meaning out of it.
I think now I can say that I have no regret of the person I have become. I only have hopes, trying to learn more, to understand more, to love more….
To be, more….
I felt like making a big leap in the past. All of a sudden, I felt the exaltation of my sweet sixteen again, when I discovered Sartre, and so many other philosophers that were to open my eyes on a new world, on new perspectives… I keep from this time a taste of peace and fever, countless hours of reading, long after darkness had fallen… I remember essays, passionate discussions with my classmates and teachers (I was your intellectual girl, always reading books ahead of her age, always knowing the writers before the lesson began…Always giving a n opinion, right or wrong, but never afraid of expression herself….). At that time, I felt like my only certitude was the way how my brain worked. I wasn’t popular enough to pretend having all the boyfriends I wanted, and to be honest, I put literature way up above carnal things. I think I was afraid of those things anyway. I couldn’t watch my body without feeling ashamed of it, seeing only graceless flesh and common face. I guess I hid behind a fake feeling of knowledge. I befriended with Baudelaire, Sartre and Celine, naively thinking they had written those books for me to enjoy them. I was not a schoolgirl anymore, but a romantic heroin, promised to great achievements.
How conceited I was…
I think that, blinded as I was by my certitudes, I couldn’t have seen any people genuinely giving me affection, or compassion. I built ivory walls around me, feeling comforted by the admiration I could get from my teachers, or the friends that systematically were outsmarted by my naive genius. I could wrapped ideas in beautiful sentences, using rhetoric and style as a screen hiding my lack of confidence.…. My writings were passionate outburst, swirling and whirling against what I called “the Injustice”. Politics were all fools, and my discussing issues with my friends only led me to heated debates. The only verity was in between kilometers of soft paper, 10 x 18 cm..
I used to say that books were my only friends. That they could not lie to me, could not betray me. Ten times have I found solace in between their pages, forgetting for an hour or two the problems and the sadness of adolescence. I remember my parents looking odd at that dark young girl their daughter had become. Always hiding in her room, while her friends were going out and “having a life”. I couldn’t stand those parties, loud music I detested. I couldn’t stand being the left-over, waiting along the dance floor while my friends were being kissed outside. Of course, I couldn’t tell my parents about it. To them I was perfect. Able to read books they couldn’t understand, able to get by (my parents never studied as I did), writing brilliantly and being appreciated, considered as a young responsible adult.
I think I never known how it was to be sixteen. When it happened, I was in third year of college. At nearly 23, I broke down. Telling my teacher I couldn’t go on. I felt lost, useless, and certainly not as gifted as my highschool teachers had thought. I now despised all the books, all the grades. I hid myself in paradises, struggling with fatigue to learn my lessons, but never being able to get more than the average marks. The one that allowed me to pass, but with a thin margin. Sometimes though, I sparkled a little. Bedazzling my classmate when it was about French classes. I hit 20/20 at my Literature examination. Too bad, for I lost my marksheet. Hence nobody ever believed me… Ironic, don’t you think? Whilst all my friends considered me average, books again were the one saving me….
I think the earnest crisis happened when I was a freshman. I skipped classes to lock myself in dark café’s, talking about literature and rummaging ideas away. Together with friends as academically lost as myself, I was reinventing the world. Mind world again. I keep of that period lots of books, that still make me smile now when I look at them…
And now?
Well, I know that I am not made for major things. I will never be the great writer I wanted to be, unable to plot new ideas, in some innovative way. I think that I am a better reader, anyway. And frankly, I feel happy with it. I think that, back in my longing for some glory, I was chasing after becoming myself, instead of fame and fortune. I always struggled to find some balance. I always felt ill at ease with a world I didn’t asked to be part of. (Not even talking about God issues, this could take a whole thread in itself..^^).
I think that now, I found my reason for living. In the person of a young man who isn’t my mirror, but my complement. Or as we say in French “Complice”, in its Latin meaning (“complex”, as “united, “advocate”. I become friends with books again. I do not want “to be”, I simply am. I irradiate with my qualities, and my flaws, but I think I finally am true to myself. Not afraid anymore of saying “I don’t know”.
It was a long way, though. It went through a lot of important meetings, important breaking up, too… As sad as they were, they made me grow up. They made me grow up feelings I could not have understood ten years ago. I learned to love someone is not possess him. I learned to trust people, at last. And to protect myself, too. To become less vulnerable.
* * *
As I read de Beauvoir Memoirs, I find out the same interrogations, the same worries…. I see her struggling with life, and most important of it, making a meaning out of it.
I think now I can say that I have no regret of the person I have become. I only have hopes, trying to learn more, to understand more, to love more….
To be, more….
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)