Lightness of Being

Books from 1939...

Tue, 22 Dec 2009 06:24:34 GMT

"She saw every relationship as a pair of intersecting circles. It would seem at first glance that the more they overlapped the better the relationship; but this is not so. Beyond a certain point the law of diminishing returns sets in, and there are not enough private resources left on either side to enrich the life that is shared. Probably perfection is reached when the area of the two outer crescents, added together, is exactly equal to that of the leaf-shaped piece in the middle. On paper there must be some neat mathematical formula for arriving at this; in life, none".

- Mrs. Miniver, by Jan Struther.

When a picture indeed worth a thousand words...

Sun, 06 Dec 2009 10:28:21 GMT

I don’t usually do this, but this was too good not to post… :)

(Much love to the person who sent me this… :))

Tue, 20 Oct 2009 07:49:54 GMT

Sigh. Why is it so damn hot in Israel at the end of October?… I went from 8°C in Berlin to 29°C in Tel Aviv in the span of four hours.

Who said that it’s fun to go home??

(Well, I lie. It is fun if someone is waiting for you there and makes you forget what the word “weather” even means).

When self is idiot

Sun, 18 Oct 2009 20:06:35 GMT

Note to self: Hauptbahnhof and Ostbahnhof are not the same station.

Getting off at Hauptbahnhof will result in half an hour of confusion and running around after your own tail. It will also get dark and you won’t be able to see anything of the East Side Gallery.

Dear self: you’re preventing me from being a stereotypical tourist and making me out to be a stupid stereotypical tourist. Please stop.

SIGH.

In a moment of insomnia...

Fri, 16 Oct 2009 20:45:00 GMT

Things one generally doesn’t want to hear while going abroad or being there:

1. “Cosher breakfast! Cosher breakfast!” (A stuardess on a plane at 2:00 in the morning, after everybody fell asleep).

2. “Hrrm. Hrrrrr. Hrrrrrrrrrr”. (A typically huge man, typically snoring in a seat next to you).

3. “Achew! Achoo! Ha-choooo! Prrrrrrr” (90% of the passangers on the plain having a cold and sneezing/blowing their nose intermitently).

4. “I’m sorry, I know you have a reservation, but we’re booked and have no free rooms till 3 in the afternoon” (A hotel receptionist thinking you’re a nuisance after you’ve arrived wet and cold and hoping for a warm bed). rHHHHH

5. “The temperature in Berlin will be 4°C with heavy rain and strong winds for most of the week” (A local weather forecast).

6. “We have a four-hour waiting line, are you sure you’d like to buy tickets?…” (A ticket seller at a local tourist sight, at 20:15 on a very wet evening).

And despite all that, I’m actually resting pretty well and managing to enjoy myself (tfu tfu tfu!). One mustn’t complain about being alive, being healthy, and being abroad :-). I do find some of my experiences though pretty damn funny… At least, in retrospect ;-).

Random...

Mon, 28 Sep 2009 19:31:30 GMT

Sometimes people scare me. I mean, really. There are days on which it seems that there is not a single person in this world who knows what a normal inter-personal relationship is. Or how to conduct oneself socially.

Yes, me included.
But I expect better of other people.

And with no connection, Nemi:

When metaphors are hitting you over the head for two hours...

Sun, 27 Sep 2009 20:21:28 GMT

I can't believe I actually went and watched this movie in a cinema. While being sober.
Just goes to prove that I've totally stopped watching movies because of what they are, but can watch pretty much anything when in company.
Sad, isn't it? :)

Nine objects of desire... One down, seven left.

Fri, 25 Sep 2009 19:58:37 GMT

Maybe a girl will take it
Maybe a boy will steal it
Maybe a shake of the bough
will wake it and make it fall

My favorite plum.

Things that drive one mad...

Thu, 24 Sep 2009 14:12:29 GMT

Moses Hadas’ translation of Aristophanes’ Wasps… Here’s an example:

CHORUS: Clear it is to the humble all

How stealthily does tyranny crawl!

You’d make legal safeguards nugatory,

You reactionary long-haired Tory.

Our city shields the proletariat;

But you choose to be an aristocrat.

I will not nitpick. I will ignore the smaller problems of this passage. But – I am so ecstatically glad that Aristophanes, who lived during the 5^thcentury BC, and who wrote Wasps in 422 BC, was apparently not only a genius playwright but also a genius seer. So genius, in fact, that he cast his inner eye 24 centuries ahead and said to himself, “hmm, Tories! Yes, I will definitely reference a British conservative party in my play, I’m sure both contemporary Athenians and future non-British readers will muchly appreciate this wittisism”.

Why? Why would you, if you’re in the right mind, take an ancient Greek play and translate it so that it will become full of anachronistic mentions of things like “the middle ages”, “dollars”, bizarre slang that no one except perhaps Dickens would understand, and – wonderfully inspiring references to modern politics. Why??

I just realized that I shouldn’t complain about the translation of Harry Potter anymore. That one at least wasn’t a literary classic…

Tue, 22 Sep 2009 18:47:34 GMT

Both of my computers (yes, I have two) are driving me absolutely mad. Especially when I'm trying to work - and earn some money so I'll be able to fix the bloody things. Arrrgh.

On the bright side - sometimes I have dreams like this:

(c) Belittled Bee

:-)

Tue, 15 Sep 2009 17:03:31 GMT

"Nothing crushed him like seeing her not really seeing him...".

- A Day and a Night and a Day, Glen Duncan

It's a Rat's Life, or: another bestseller that left me puzzled

Sat, 12 Sep 2009 18:13:46 GMT

So, I’ve recently finished reading a book called Firmin – A Metropolitan Lowlife. (Well, actually, I’ve recently finished reading quite a lot of books, but I’m being too lazy to post anything serious about them. Um. Perhaps except to say that I wish more people (read: any people) would read the same stuff that I do – the stuff I like, anyway).

I’m not going to post a review of the book, because (as we already established) I’m horribly lazy, and - more importantly - because it was already done in a way that, as far as I’m concerned, leaves nothing more to be desired. So you go read it here and then come back.

What I felt like is posting the illustrations that accompanied Firmin, and which I liked way more than what Sam Savage has written. They were made by Fernando Krahn, a pretty cool Chilean illustrator. I guess seven years of reading graphic novels made me more partial to art than I’ve realized… :-)

To the point...

Sat, 05 Sep 2009 17:23:50 GMT

This was made specifically for Ireland, but I think it pretty much applies to most of the countries (with the exception of Netherlands, Belgium, Spain, Canada, Norway and Sweden).

That’s all I have to say.

Sunday fun...

Tue, 21 Jul 2009 08:37:14 GMT

In a short, truncated way :)

Why I love humanity...

Sun, 19 Jul 2009 20:43:26 GMT

This is what we human beings (and critics in particular, though I’m sure there are some people who will specifically exclude them from the human race) do when we read a really cool book. The kind of book that was smart and wonderful and unique and special and made us love every page of it.

We claim that it is exactly like a lot of other books we’ve read, only all of them together.

Don’t ask me why it makes sense.

Here’s an example (for a Terry Pratchett book that won Carnegie Medal):

“Like Monty Pyton crossed with J.R.R. Tolkien with a dash of Charles Dickens and a pinch of Steven Spielberg thrown in”.

And for another book:

“Like Celtic mythology fused with Buffy the Vampire Slayer”.

Yes, because if god forbid we’ll use our own words to describe something (for instance: great social commentary, wonderful wit, entrancing observations, uniquely imaginative, fun (gasp!) to read), no one will surely understand the merits of the book or be in any way interested in reading it.

Personally, if you’d have offered me to read a book because it was part Hitchhicker's Guide to the Galaxy, part Victorian writer who made all his female characters cardboard thick, and part Tolkien (two dimensional characters of elves and hobbits, yay) - I would’ve shown you the finger.

And yet, I love Terry Pratchett.*

-------
*(Or any other writer who was compared to at least four other writers, directors, tv shows, etc, with as much sense as you usually get in genetically crossing a badger with a sewing machine and a capibara - be it Robin Hobb, Jeanette Winterson or Chitra Divakaruni).

Not cynical for a moment...

Sun, 19 Jul 2009 20:36:09 GMT

IF I WAS DEAD

If I was dead,

and my bones adrift

like dropped oars

in the deep, turning earth;

or drowned,

and my skull

a listening shell

on the dark ocean bed;

if I was dead,

and my heart

soft mulch

for a red, red rose;

or burned,

and my body

a fistful of grit, thrown

in the face of the wind;

if I was dead,

and my eyes,

blind at the roots of flowers,

wept into nothing,

I swear your love

would raise me

out of my grave,

in my flesh and blood,

like Lazarus;

hungry for this,

and this, and this,

your living kiss.

-- Carol Ann Duffy

TLVfest (or, As You Like It)...

Sun, 28 Jun 2009 22:03:42 GMT

So yesterday I ended up watching this. That was tragic. Even having Laura Harring of the “Mulholland Drive” fame kissing a woman again didn’t help any. I had a single, all consuming problem with “Drool” (and I hereby declare that I’m willing to buy expensive dinner to the first person who’ll explain to me this wonderful title in the context of the movie) – the problem being that I was completely, utterly and very painfully sober during its screening. Honestly, film festivals puzzle me. I think the only way to enjoy movies screened on this occasion is to be happily tipsy – either because of alcohol consumption, of love, or of both. From personal experience I know I can enjoy an incredible and mind boggling variety of crap as long as the person I’m in love with is holding my hand, and about 85% of the abovementioned after a bottle and a half of wine (two of the forces combined resulted in a personal record – I’ve managed to watch “Cynara” from start to finish… And until you’ve tried, you can’t appreciate the magnitude of this event).

Anyway, point being – I think they should erect a portable bar in front of the Cinemateque. It’s the perfect solution to everything – festival’s financial problems, audience’s (i.e. mine) enthusiasm for horrible movies (when you’re drunk, you’re incable of such long thoughts as “I wish I was having a root canal instead of sitting here, watching this cinematic traffic accident and wondering what possessed me once again to come to the festival”, you just go, “weee, they have a wooly dog in the movie! Brush fur!”). It would also make the pre-movie interaction much more amusing – watching 50 year old women trying to be funny (and flirty?) with the festival manager in a manner usually reserved for 12 year old hormonal boys, is not something one cares to remember. Fortunately, being drunk usually takes care of that nasty memory thing. So see? Bar. I’m very much willing to pay money for even not-so-cheap drinks.

So… Yeah. Can someone now puleeease suggest it to the festival organizers?…

I rest my case: a scene from “Drool” that wonderfully examplifies the movie’s idea of humor (which by the way is an almost orgasmic improvement from the movie’s drama during the first 30 minutes):

;-)

Tue, 16 Jun 2009 17:06:40 GMT

[...] When I awoke, the moon hung near the western ridge of the hills. Realizing that it had been a dream, I lay there sunk in deep reflection and wished I had never woken up. I composed this poem,

I saw her in my dream,
And now my bed is all afloat with tears.
Tell her how much I yearn for her,
Oh moon, as now you glide towards the West!

-- Sarashina nikki

Thu, 11 Jun 2009 17:12:32 GMT

TEXT

I tend the mobile now

like an injured bird.

We text, text, text

our significant words.

I re-read your first,

your second, your third,

look for your small xx,

feeling absurd.

The codes we send

arrive with a briken chord.

I try to picture your hands,

their image is blurred.

Nothing my thumbs press

will ever be heard.

-- Carol Ann Duffy

Gorgeous...

Tue, 02 Jun 2009 19:23:12 GMT

"Does it mean I'm sane?"... Oh surely not...

Wed, 20 May 2009 21:40:47 GMT

Just music, no video clip...

Wed, 20 May 2009 19:48:34 GMT

Вечер без любви,
Утро без обиды.
Люди-инвалиды -
Люди-инвалиды.

A scientific question

Mon, 11 May 2009 20:39:40 GMT

How many times can your heart be broken before you fucking stop trying to piece it back together?

I used to read this part of SiP thinking it’s one of the best metaphors someone ever wrote/drawn. Which it is. And I used to think that this is such a great description of a relationship between two women, something that transcends both friendship and love and becomes something so rich and complicated you can never encompass it in mere words, and you shouldn’t waste your time trying to define. Which it is.

But it’s also something much simpler. And it took me ages to understand, because I never knew how it feels from the inside. Not the longing, not the bond, not the romance (such a dirty word), not the friendship - but the bareness. The climbing, the ripping your own heart out, and the incredible dumb smile upon getting it back, the stupid, inescapable happiness of falling off the cliff again, readily, believing in spite of yourself and all the logic in the world, that it’s damn well worth it.

Over and over.

(And yes, there is a much simpler name for that, too).

The brilliance of SiP is that I kept re-reading it at so many different stages of my life (at least when I was able to do it and not feel like I’m committing suicide), yet each time I read it differently and each time it gave me something new to hold on to. Even if sometimes the only thing one can hold on to is that one is not crazy.







(c) Terry Moore

"And all you can trust is your body..."

Tue, 05 May 2009 14:34:37 GMT

Why is it that at the rock bottom of your current life, when everything is stale, and slow, and dead, when the sores of the soul are swollen and greasy and right about ready to burst – suddenly, there’s desire? Clean, powerful, sweeping all the sickness aside desire?

And then despair.

Because what desire can withstand shame?

I don’t watch movies anymore, or TV. I avoid certain type of books. I don’t want to see, I don’t want to feel. I don’t want to know. If I can’t have it, I don’t want to be reminded of just how much – oh god how much - I want it.

It’s not just words.

But sometimes. Sometimes I read Jeanette Winterson.

* * *

We talked – what did we talk about? I forget. Whatever we said was lost under the pressure of everything not said. You cannot say to someone you have just met I want to kiss you. Sometimes it is as simple as that.
Not for long. But sometimes.
I wanted to kiss you in the way that I want to eat cherries from the greengrocer’s stall. I don’t want them in plastic boxes half dead from cold, I want them warm, slightly sweating, stalky, random. I want to eat them while I walk round fingerand- thumbing the limes and throwing handfuls of rocket into brown paper bags. I want the smell, the taste, the surprise, the disagreeable stone.
I smiled at you. I remember that, and that you blushed.
We drank pink wine; I remember that.

…

The whole story (with its incredible, powerful language) can be found here in pdf format. And it’s so much more than any excerpt can show. Read!

Occasional rant

Sun, 03 May 2009 05:04:24 GMT

Why is it that whenever any kind of delivery man supposed to arrive at your house between the hour of X and the hour of Y, he always arrives at the hour of Y + 30 minutes? Are there any people out there who actually get to meet the guy in all those hours that slowly drag and keep you confined to the house, or are these companies deliberately hire a lot of men just so all of them will make deliveries right past the time they should be doing it?

Just pondering…

Also why are all of them thin and geeky Russian guys with a hint of a beard they seem to think is so cool, heavy rimmed glasses and a perpetually erroneous idea regarding their possesion of any kind of sense of humor?

Delivery guy: Here’s your package.

Me: Thanks.

Delivery guy: I need to scan you. Heh heh.

Me: Ermm… What?

Delivery guy: I need to scan you. Heh. Heh heh.

Me (puzzled as to the one man show of Beavis & Butt-Head): O-kaay?

Delivery guy (rolling eyes at my utter inability to grasp his witty remark and changing to Russian while punctuating each word): I. Need. To. Scan. The. Package. Nu?

Why the fuck have you given me the package then in the first place, watched me put it away, pay you for the delivery, and then remember that you need to do that? And in which place of the world do the words “package” and “a really pissed off woman” are synonimous?

Gah.