Friday, July 30, 2004

JULY 30, 2004 (FRIDAY)
 
Perhaps An Explanation is in Order

Thank you for the concern. It was highly appreciated and incredibly heartfelt. And yes, I was frustrated and irritated last night and it was because of THE THESIS.

Godawful piece of farking written requirement that is the only thing that is between me and that diploma that certifies that I have come from a good university and that I am trained to think critically and creatively and that yes, I am ready to earn money. (As if I haven't been doing this for most of my college life already, and as if I need a diploma to prove that. If I had a choice, I'd go to school only to attend writing classes and those other interesting subjects like Sex and Writing or Sex and Culture or...okay, never mind.) And while I do not begrudge deadlines, there are just some days when I felt like I wanted to collapse.

Well, actually, I wanted to collapse into somebody's arms and either have a massage or great sex. However, since circumstances have proved that to be otherwise impossible, I will just settle for a nice long 10-hour sleep...as soon as I finish my magazine deadlines for this morning. ^_^ But I am soooo not kidding with the massage. *hint hint to the universe in general* I NEED A HUG. I don't know - for once I want to be taken care of, like a baby, just someone to tuck me in before I go to sleep and then be there, smiling from ear to ear, when I wake up. (Little voice inside my head says, "Yeah right, dream on.")  Maybe, someday... *cue soft, floaty music*

At any rate, I think I'm approaching my burnout point. I am currently running on coffee and potato chips, and the occasional proper meal (which means McDonalds' and up). I sleep in the wee hours of the morning and wake up just in time for a 10.00 AM class. I can't skip the classes I'm not particularly fond of anymore because I've already reached the maximum number of absences - delinquent little me - and of course GRAIL always needs looking after. My only escape are with friends and good music and Bounce Out and Text Twist. I am waiting for my body to collapse because that is the only valid excuse I will have to rest - as in seriously, truly rest without any thoughts interfering with it. Because honestly, I just want the semester to be over.

Random anecdote: everyone's been having weird dreams lately. Of course, Ginny's always been having the strange, surrealist ones that would look better with Salvador Dali's signature somewhere in it. Ruben was always the one who would have the funny, sci-fi dreams. Meia is always sweet/sad when it comes to dreams and while I do not usually remember mine, it always has that feeling of belonging to an indie movie: that grainy, textured, jerky feeling where everything seems almost palpable.

Woke up Wednesday having dreamt of being in a bedroom of a friend of mine. Everything looked as though it was ready for demolishion: his books and bookshelves were already taken out, and the papers on the floor and on the desk were also gone, and so were the posters and the bric-a-brac that usually cluttered his space. The walls were bare, and his closet and dresser was emptied. The only thing left in the room was his desk, his computer table, and his bed.

We were seated cross-legged on the bed, facing each other. We both had plastic plates on our laps, and we were eating dinner. He was animatedly talking about his chicks, and for a moment, I thought he was referring to other women that he was seeing. And then I looked down, and there on the carpet were hundreds of tiny fluffy yellow chicks milling around, cheeping and cheeping all the while.

I Do Not
Michael Palmer

“Je ne sais pas l’anglais.”
-- Georges Hugnet

I do not know English.

I do not know English, and therefore
          I can have nothing to say about this latest war, 
          flowering through a nightscope in the evening sky.

I do not know English and therefore,
           when hungry, can do no more than point repeatedly to my mouth.

Yet such a gesture might be taken to mean any number of things.

I do not know English and therefore
          cannot seek the requisite permissions, as outlined in the recent protocol.

Such as: May I utter a term of endearment;
          may I now proceed to put my arm or arms around you
          and apply gentle pressure; may I now kiss you directly on the lips;
          now on the left tendon of the neck; now on the nipple of each breast? And so on.

Would not in any case be able to decipher her response.

I do not know English. Therefore I have no way of communicating
          that I prefer this painting of nothing to that one of something.

No way to speak of my past or hopes for the future,
          of my glasses mysteriously shattered in Rotterdam,
          the statue of Eros and Psyche in the Summer Garden,
          the sudden, shrill cries in the streets of Sao Paolo,
          a watch abruptly stopping in Paris.

No way to tell the joke about the rabbi and the parrot,
          the bartender and the duck, the Pope and the porte-cochere.

You will understand why you have received
          no letters from me and why yours have gone unread.

Those, that is, where you write so precisely
          of the confluence of the visible universe with the invisible,
          and of the lens of dark matter.

No way to differentiate the hall of mirrors
          from the meadow of mullein, the beetlebung
          from the pinkletink, the kettlehole from the ventifact.

Nor can I utter the words science, séance, silence, language and languish.

Nor can I tell of the arboreal shadows elongated and shifting
          along the wall as the sun’s angle approaches maximum hibernal declination.

Cannot tell of the almond-eyed face that peered from the well,
          the ship of stone whose sail was a tongue.

And I cannot report that this rose has twenty-four petals, one slightly chancred.

Cannot tell how I dismantled it myself at this desk.

Cannot ask the name of this rose.

I cannot repeat the words of the Recording Angel or those of the Angel of Erasure.

Can speak neither of things abounding nor of things disappearing.

Still the games continue. A muscular man waves a stick at a ball.
          A woman in white, arms outstretched, carves a true circle in space.
          A village turns to dust in the chalk hills.

Because I do not know English I have been variously called
          Mr. Twisted, The One Undone, The Nonrespondent,
          The Truly Lost Boy, and Laughed-At-By-Horses.

The war is declared ended, almost before it has begun.

They have named it The Ultimate Combat between Nearness and Distance.

I do not know English.

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