Her mind wanders around, always. Whenever she watches a movie or read book, the character come alive in her head and they live forever after. Whenever she sees a photograph of a beautiful place somewhere on this earth or not, she lives there for a substantial amount of time in her mind. Sometimes there places are energetic, filled with interesting people from all walks of life and full of adventures. She lived in London, Tokyo, New York City even, and Amsterdam. Sometimes, however, they are peaceful, quite, tranquil, like Rome's St Peter square at night, or the lake of Geneva in early dawn. The top of the Alps, a small island in the Atlantic. She moves from one place to another in just a split second, with a look at a photograph. I wonder where she lives these days. Her body seated in the park under a tree, her mind might be living in a tiny, dirty apartment somewhere in Moscow with all the characters from Carroll's "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland". I would love to come over for dinner sometimes.
Showing posts with label JustDoll. Show all posts
Showing posts with label JustDoll. Show all posts
I don’t know how to make this sound beautiful, how to write about regrets in a way that still holds some sort of elegance in the words. But regret is not a beautiful thing. If regret was a color, it would be black ... the deepest onyx. So deep that you drown in it. The current pulls you under, and you’re searching for the grasp of an ally to save you. But none come. And as the inky death overwhelms you, you begin to question your choice of friends.
The problem with the narratives inside my head is that they are not logical or well considered. They are not the way stories should unfold, and this is what makes me afraid. The people inside my head are not real. They don't have names and they aren't completely drawn together. But what keeps them alive is that they have the rhythm of a story stitched inside them like vital organs, all moving together in an ancient dance. The people in my head walk with each other and haunt me in the daytime. Do you know what is like to hold a secret inside of you that you can't tell no one? It drives you to become mad. You itch and claw into the deepest recesses of your waking memory to find the words. But you can't find the right thing to say. You are perpetually afraid that you won't do these people's stories justice. And every night it is as though they all stand in the middle of your room and breath in all thrust a pen into your hands. You make desperate scrapes on paper to save yourself from drowning in the oceans of people you harbor. And do you know why I write? I write because if I don't do it, I am not certain that I will live the next day. I wrote because I am helpless at doing anything else. Words are the only thing that my hands understand. And when everything is taken away from me, they are all that I will have.
The Writing
The story is a retrospective from...from...from where? What? Prison. Ostensibly. And yet, there hasn’t been a trial yet--no judgement. Nabakov tantalizes you, “ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” to pass judgement on Humbert Humbert yourself. Are you willing? Or will you just turn your head, wincing?
I have never read another book written quite like Lolita. The writing has depth, layer upon layer, strata against strata, texture among texture, breathless, eloquent, exacting, alluring, inventive, sexy, pleading, conceited, lurid, savory, languid, and slyly self-deprecating. The author is flagrant, unapologetic, a dandy even and he has absolute command of the English and French and Latin language. He invents words. He hyphenates them. He nymphorizes them. It’s a gamboling and frolicking story in the rarefied air of an unrestrained, unapologetic and unadulterated polyhistoric writer. He whiffles the writing in so many little stylistic flourishes. He writes sentences and paragraphs in ways that I would never have guessed to try. It’s insanely periodic writing; I grab my head akimbo in pure awe of the sentences. It’s subtle and raw at the same time; it’s pure. Pure, like what happens in your neighborhood behind closed doors, just before an arrest. He incorporates a dry, brittle sense of humor--even a bit of sass. He taunts the reader to follow. He dares the reader to like and enjoy Humbert Humbert. He pokes you in the eye. He scandalizes you, but with a pen that is at once brutal and sensitive, but always careful. There are echoes of Joyce and Poe.
The Subject
Lolita is supposed to be shocking, revolting even, many people not able to finish it. Titillating, serious fiction about pedophilia is the clear edge of the literary envelope, something banned in many different communities, even today.
This 300+ page book chronicles a crime against a minor. Nabakov makes this an even more difficult sexual arrangement for his readers to contemplate, because the 12 year old is an eager, compliant and willing partner to the crime.
Enter Humbert Humbert. He suffers an atavistic urge to procreate with young nymphets. This is a social problem driven and turbocharged by the midbrain. He understands (his cortex understands) that the culture of the late 1940s and early 1950s find this taboo and perverse, definitely criminal. But our poor Humberto doesn’t care. He reasons with his midbrain, and pleads to us, "the jury." In the not too distant past within our own Western culture, and certainly in modern cultures of tribal peoples, 12 year old girls are ready to mate. Lolita has already menstruated and had sex with a boy her age. In many cultures of the world, Lolita would be given up as a wife in exchange for dowries of cattle, land, political favor. The whole story, then, brings this taboo to a moral question. And its a question that you--modern citizen--find uncomfortable, like I do.
Even more disturbing, Nabakov makes Humby Humberty a caring, loving, protective paternal figure that wishes Lolita the best in life. There is no direct, lewd reference to the act of sex; nothing salacious; nothing pornographic. No, that would be too easy to damn Humbo to the devil. Instead, Nabakov explores the possibility that real love may exist betwain the tween.
And, as much as I feel ashamed for being so taken in by Humby, I was fooled but, believe me, Lolita is a victim and no amount of saddening flashbacks to Humbert's past can change that.
There are 2 version of lolita's movie, one is filmed in 1962 and the other is 1997. When making a film about pedophile and a nymphet you are going to offend someone, The key is not to offend the whole audience. Kubrick's (1962) film cuts out a fair amount of the back story to turn the movie into dark comedy, where's as lyne's (1997) stays true to the story, making the movie much more dramatic.
Not to say that Lolita (1997) is bad. It's a very interesting take on the story and could be great if it was better executed. Its extreme shots shows its lack of commitment to the drama genre and are what ultimately bring down this film. Lolita (1962) is a truly beautiful and original film, so I really recommend you guys to watch Lolita (1962)
You are on the planet with a brain functional enough to formulate a question. True, there are some “What is the point?” days. There are days when everyone in the world has had the same idea you have had. You begin to feel like you’re spinning on the same wheel. The Earth and the sun and the wind are all going about their business but you feel as solid as a stone. Just let it all out. Don’t get yourself another notebook. It’s not a pretty place filled with blank pages. No, that is the worst possible idea. Get a book that’s already been filled with words. Something old, reeking even. Dug up from the mess that is your attic and your basement and every other forgotten room. Write the words that other people have already written. Memorize beautiful passages so that you can imbue them within your atoms. When people invent powerful enough microscopes (or better yet, bother to use their eyes) they will see the good inside of you. Write other people’s words down. Write them wherever there is space. On your arms, legs. I like writing from my elbow up. Write adventures on your ankles and draw on yourself. Put that pen to good use and colour in the empty canvas that is your skin. You don’t need to be the greatest person to figure it out. Do it without restraint. You can thank me when you are all inked up and pretty.
You’ve been awesome, i swear. So full of color, every one, good and bad, each experience I’ve cling to, I’ve learn from. You came and went too fast, I still feel as if it’s merely the first quarter of the year, but it’s not. In a couple of hours our time together will end, but it is what it is. Just tell 2013 how it’s done and maybe, just maybe, if i’m lucky enough, i’ll be as happy and content as I am now.
I took his hand and put it to my mouth, kissed his finger softly and then placed it upon his lips. "Farewell beautiful." Never once I look away from his gaze. Leaning forward, I lay my forehead on his and whispered, "You have my heart."
"Farewell my love. On this journey you take, I can't follow." His words began to break apart, "I must simply let you go. And though your absence will open my chest, please know I will be missing you always. You are everything I touch. You are all that I see. With you, I am whole. Without, I live a false life."
Slowly I took his face in my hands, brushed his tears and repeated, "You have my heart ... and beautiful," I paused "this is farewell, not goodbye."
 |
| Modern art museum - Munich |
It is dangerous and exhilarating. The moment of contact is indescribable, like the crack of illumination that breathes over the horizon at the instant dawn rises.
When he turn his face to me, I feel as if I should hide mine in response, buried in the crook of his elbow, where his cold blood flows so close to the surface. It is too bright a light, too strong a sun. I recoil and retreat ever so slightly into the cave of my feelings that are too dense to decipher. I pick at them and sort then out as a bone collector does. Here is a scapula, my intention to wrap my body around his; here is a calcaneus - my longing to walk beside him; here is a sternum - my desire to give my heart over to him. I sift through my heavy thoughts, feeling the calcium in the ridges of each piece of what draws me to him. But he call me from my sanctuary, and I silently scamper to the doorway, hesitant and hovering. He beckon and I reach out again, hand faintly shaking as it comes close to his smile and the teeth within it.
I say I'm crazy but I try so hard to not sound crazy. I think I want to be crazy so I won't feel bad about not being normal. Or what I perceive to be normal. But is crazy person's perception of normal really worth anything? But then again, perhaps the fact that I even compare myself to a norm means I can't be crazy. Maybe I'm riding the margins, skimming the borders between semi-crazy and crazy-crazy...
The only thing holding me back from the land of returns is the compulsion to fit into society. This will facilitates my facade of normality and restrict the expression of insanity. By pretending to be normal, I can almost convince myself I am, and I can certainly convince the rest of them. Ignorance is my defense. Because without suppressing my swollen mind of self-made complications surely only chaos would ensue.
“We’re all seeking that special person who is right for us. But if you’ve been through enough relationships, you begin to suspect there’s no right person, just different flavors of wrong. Why is this? Because you yourself are wrong in some way, and you seek out partners who are wrong in some complementary way. But it takes a lot of living to grow fully into your own wrongness. And it isn’t until you finally run up against your deepest demons, your unsolvable problems—the ones that make you truly who you are—that we’re ready to find a lifelong mate. Only then do you finally know what you’re looking for. You’re looking for the wrong person. But not just any wrong person: the right wrong person—someone you lovingly gaze upon and think, “This is the problem I want to have.”
Let our scars fall in love.” ― Galway Kinnell
Expectations are a funny thing, you waste so much time guessing what your life could look like. But the thing is you can't really know until the day you open your eyes and see that if you let go and lean into the unexpected it may be something more beautiful that you ever could've imagine. it's not what you've expected, it something even better.
xoxo
I may not have much but I am thankful for what I have, I may can't give much nor don't have much to offer but everything are sincere, I may not a powerful human being but I'm willing to help those who needed the most.
 |
| I'm doing charity in my own time, doing activities my own way, that would extend what I have to the less fortunate, or those who needed my help. |
 |
| I find happiness in children that with every giggle, laughter, and smile, makes my heart melt and want to be with them more. |
 |
| These children are the reason why I work hard. I may not have been solely helping them, but they are the reason I am thankful for whatever I have right now. They opened my eyes to the fact that not everyone is as lucky as me, or as capable as me. |
 |
| It has always been a practice of my family to always lend a helping hand. Up until now that I’ve grown up, I still carry that value that I am truly proud of. |
 |
| My baby brother & me |
Finally, there is compassion. I'm not sure from whom I picked up on the importance of compassion. It is not an attribute that is particularly encouraged in my family. Perhaps it is based upon a collection of experiences, wherein I was treated with unexpected kindness or generosity. Perhaps it is merely a projection of my own frailty, a need to feel that the universe will extend forgiveness for my failures, because I will surely fall to be strong and loyal when I am called upon to be both. Regardless, though listed last, I think compassion is the most important of the three qualities to which I aspire, because it is the most difficult. I sit here, claiming my heart aches for this or that, but I refuse to do anything about it. Compassion entails discomfort and pain, and I abhor both to such an embarrassing degree, I fear I will always be deficient in this regard.
She wake up in a bed. It could be her bed or maybe it belongs to someone else. It doesn't really matter if she opens her eyes alone and shivering, or if she's sweating because of her close proximity to the warm body that still asleep next to her.
She just lay there with her eyes partially open. Her world is just a blur of soft focus and too fucking bright. It doesn't matter how dark the room is, it just always feels a notch too bright. She made it through the night, she's about to face another day.
She sigh, and it's hard to tell if she's relieved or disappointed. It's more like a mixture of both.
So, she coax herself to consciousness, trying to be mindful of all the things that need to get done today. All of those urgent, but not necessarily critical tasks that she has been shuffling from one to do list to the next. She try to bribe herself awake with the intention of breakfast. She try to guilt herself with the notion of responsibility and the undeniable fact that for all of her indulgent bullshit and irrational fears, she's still qualify as a functional human being.
She laugh and it's hard to tell if its amusement or bitterness. It's definitely a mixture of both.
Maybe her physical just lay there for a while longer, or perhaps she's actually shuffle away from the bed. Either way, she is too awake to go back to sleep; she is too asleep to be awake. She pull her laptop over, or sit down in front of her monitor and nudge the machine to bring it to life, because it makes her feels like she has a life, or at least something like it.
This is how mornings come and go. Trying to quite the sulky little voice in the back of her head that keep asking annoying question like: What the fuck am I doing? Don't you know that this is wrong? Why are you doing this? Why bother?
She try to drown that pushy little voice that keeps mumbling in her ear, with the sound of keystrokes and mouse clicks. She try to tell herself that: You are content with your life, even as you're scrolling for something to distract you from considering wether or not that's true. Has that ever been true? Even as she is looking for the next sentence or picture or video or bit of smut; the next thing, a new thrill.
Sure, she has had some laughs, good times, weird experiences. She remembers times when she felt alive, but that feeling always fade ... eventually ... and then she has left trying to suck the marrow out of crack dry bones of the memory.
Truthfully, there's no amount of happiness, sex, intrigue, excitement, money, drugs, love, success or any thing that fills in all the spaces. There's always room for the maddening feeling that she is not really feeling anything. The soul-numbing feeling that she is just going through the motions ...
Sometimes people call this ennui, but maybe she was started to wonder if that's too optimistic of a prognosis
The though that keeps her awake at night, which if part of the reason mornings are so rough for her. Is that maybe this is just what life is: A series of dull moments and tedious tasks broken up by fleeting sensations of something actually worth living for.
For as long as she has been chasing them, she doesn't even know what causes those sensations. But all she can do is keep reaching for them. Sometimes it's impossible for her to name things that are actually worth living for.
All she knows is that she desperately wants to be more than just the measure of an unspecified number of breaths and counting.
She's a prose painter, some of them will like her words, some of them will love her words. Some of them will not stand her words, but then again she's not here to please the faceless maddening crow. To them who truly know her, she's like a European sensibility mixed with the sensual abandon of a woman lost in a world of Pablo Nerudian sensibility. She's the one who likes standing on a moving bus or going into a library and using her outdoor voices. When she go over to the dark side she always bring cookies and tea. Sometimes when she's really wild and crazy, she'll even bite into a piece of fruit without giving it a good rinse first.
Does it taste sweeter? You bet your sweet ass it does. She believes one of the most courageous acts you can do it think out loud. She does it often. Sometimes she does it here. With her own words.
To her, words are sacred as they are profane. Each word is a small story, a thicket of meaning. Words are such sacred objects to her. With words she explore all subject that cross her strange and dark mind from herself to madness, hope, memories, childhood, regret, courage, fear, nature, love, sex, reading, writing, life or what drifts through her cerebral cortex on any random morning or afternoon.
Mostly with cookies and a cup of tea.
He gets excited, when in his drunken wisdom, thinks he knows what it was. But then, clumsily trips over some careless words that were left on the doorstep. He drops the glass and it shatters, leaving wet stains which could be confused for tears.
It's alright because similar to him, it's part of n interchangeable set. We can always buy more at the shop, if the store runs out, they can always order more from the factory. They build them on site, in their workshop.
Once upon a time, there was a girl. She was made of paper. When she was ten, she fell in love with a boy whose smile shook the inner walls of her heart and whose voice inspired her to write the many poems she kept hidden beneath her bed. It was a secret she never told anybody that she was made of delicately woven grains of paper, for fear that they would leave, like the many others who did. So she swore to the stars and the leaves that turned brown that night that she would never tell a soul.
But then there was a boy named Jamie.
When they were fifteen, he held her hand for the very first time. The grey curtain of clouds loomed close by, and when the first drop of rain fell on her face, she tried to pull her quickly to a shelter nearby. He wouldn't budge. He held her hand so tight if he never let do, she imagined how she would crumble into ashes and leave no trace behind. So she stood beside him beneath the rain, and waited for her body to soak and smudge, but it didn't. She was made of paper, yet under the rain, because he held her hand she didn't break,
When they were seventeen, he kissed her for the first time. When their lips met she felt herself burn at his touch, so she pulled away abruptly that when she did, she felt the world sway slightly off balance and the rest of the universe was thrown off alignment. As soon as she pulled away, she'd regretted it. Wide-eyes, she saw the hurt in his eyes, and right then and there, she has longed to tell him the many things she wanted to tell him but couldn't. The she was made of paper. That inside her was a paper heart and a paper soul. But she kissed him again, this time without hesitation. and she didn't burst into flames like how she had pictured it. She was made of paper, but she didn't crumble into ashes like how she had pictured it.
When they were nineteen, he'd written words on her arm and no matter how many times she would rub away the ink with her fingers, they remained. When he left, she didn't cry. Instead she wrote letters to him on her other arm. When there was no more space, she wrote some more beneath his messy handwriting, and then on her palms and then on her feet, and when there was no more space, she wrote about him on her heart and on her soul. Because that was the only way she could remember him.
The girl who was made of paper and fell in love.
Looking someone eye to eye take a lot more effort. And time. Trying to relate not really means understanding someone else; it also means sharing who you are. This kind of give and take - not simply taking, is a measure of true inner strength. It show that we are comfortable with who we are; or at least, ourselves. Dominating makes us feel bigger, but relating is what truly makes someone a bigger, and stronger person.
