“You want to travel with them. You want to see what they’re like going through airport security, on planes, in strange countries. You want to meet their families and charm them to pieces. You want to nestle into their childhood beds and look around in the dark at all their old posters. You want to see all the embarrassing photos of them with braces and socks pulled up mid-calf. You want to hear all the stories about their drunken nights under the bleachers and their best friend’s jokes. You want to read all their journals, see how they took notes in high school. Did they use pen or pencil? What color highlighter? You want to work with them, just to see them work. You want to go out with them. You want to make out with them in the bathroom. You always want to touch them; you want them to always want to touch you. You find reasons to disentangle yourself from them; it’s only going to hurt later, you can tell already. You stay up way past your bedtime for them. You look at the clock and know their schedule. You neglect other people and other things, and beat yourself up about it. But it’s like they have a hold of your hands and your voice, and you don’t mind. It’s like you’re trapped in an hourglass; you know your lungs might fill with sand, but there’s something sensual and comforting about the grains sliding down glass walls and pooling around your ankles, your knees, your waist. You like things about their appearance that the rest of the world may cringe at and call strange, less than perfect. Their broken, reshaped noses; their little teeth or the gaps in between them; the way they pull their hair; their narrow hips; their wide shoulders; the depth of their pores. You can laugh when funny things happen in bed. You usually want to be in bed with them. You think they’re smarter, better, friendlier, fitter, happier, more productive than you are. You strive to be as much as they are, as good as they are. You try to cheat and figure out what it is they’re going to teach you, if they’re going to fall from grace, if you’re going to play a part for them that you never thought you’d play before. You try and pull patterns and threads of meaning from the conversation or the way they looked at you the first time you met; what they did, what they offered. An apple stolen from the bar. Notes from a guitar. Pitchers of free beer. Pieces of bark with writing on them. You cherish snippets of them; paste them up in your memories like old faded scrapbooks clutched to chests for generations. Their skin glows black and white in your head. They star in the little short films of your life that sneak up on you when you’re not looking. Like the walk to the South End for dinner on a quiet corner. The feel of the sun beating down on you both at an outdoor concert. The way they ordered wine on your first date. The slow swing of a hammock near a lake. The back seat of their car. You can see yourself with them in the future you can’t quite see. You build apartments outfitted with all the right kitchen supplies and the perfect bed with two nightstands, each piled with books and magazines. You wait for them patiently while they chase their dreams; they wait for you patiently as you chase yours. You sit in bed eating dinner late at night, drinking tea and wine and whiskey as you tell each other all about the chasing. You create adopted dogs and cats; you have awkward conversations about money; you put up with each other’s crap. You see what they look like standing at the end of a candle-lit aisle in your grassy front yard and wonder if you’ll make it to the other end to meet them or if they’ll just end up in the scrapbook clutched to your chest or flickering on the screen in your brain.”—Talia Ralph, How Do You Know
Day #171: Mr Gaw-det...
… you Americans always butcher the French language. It’s frigging ‘Gow-day’. Mr Gaudet. Tay Tay, back me up.
We’re reading Property in English. It’s a good read if you like books. I don’t. Speaking of, don’t know if I’ve mentioned this, but my phone has whole books on it! Digital copies of course, technologically impaired duck, but a rather good selection! I got Dracula, The Scarlet Letter, Jane Eyre, Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland, A Tale Of Two Cities, and this random one about wolves or something. I’ve had a browse, but words are difficult. I’m tired.
English was a joke. Good old Joyce tried to get us to do an essay after the break but everyone just went ‘NO’ so she gave it to us for homework. Hands up who’s going to do it… no one? Ok! Joycey was all, ‘I’m not normally such a pushover…’ and I was like oh what EVER Joyce! She always lets us go fifteen minutes before the end because twenty minutes in everyone’s suicidal. Three hours of lit on a Friday afternoon is my definition of FML. After my book fell on the floor that was it for me and I spent the rest of the lesson eating cherry drops and drawing a piss take picture of our film class with Pip. If film is a doss subject, it’s a boss doss.
TOTD: quikipedia - ‘Loch Ness is long enough and deep enough to hold the entire human population of the world more than 18 times over’
Please, please, please stop with those posts. You know the ones I mean.
Depending on what you’re reading, I find it highly unlikely that the curtains were just ”fucking blue.”
Granted, I don’t know the story (or poem) you’re referring to, but with several years of upper-division English Lit education under my belt, I feel I’m reasonably qualified to tell you that it’s not that simple. The billboard in The Great Gatsby wasn’t just a fucking billboard. Animal Farm isn’t just a story about some fucking animals.
And, ok, maybethe author didn’t intend the curtains to symbolize depression. Maybe he intended them to represent the protagonist’s latent homosexuality. Maybe they represent the frailty of the American Dream. Maybe they symbolize death. Context is everything.
As long as you can find evidence to back it up, you could argue that those curtains represent all kinds of shit. And each interpretation can affect your experience of reading the work. What’s important is that there is meaning to be found beyond the obvious.
I can only hope that your unwillingness to accept deeper complexities in literature does not reflect how you feel about people, or the world, or life in general. Because there is so, so much more going on under the surface than you apparently believe.
In conclusion, I encourage you to take a class on literary analysis.