A song I’ve been listening to, when I’m feeling less than exultant, is “Full of Grace” by Sarah McLachlan, from her album Surfacing. I seem to be listening to Sarah’s music quite a lot these days – I now have three of her albums. Perhaps Sarah will be the musician to get me through my 40’s – just as Jeff Buckley got me through my 30’s, REM got me through my 20’s and Pink Floyd/Alice Cooper (I was a very morbid teenager) got me through my teens. Actually, Pink Floyd has been a constant through each decade but they made a huge impression on my psyche when I was 12 or 13 (when I discovered them).
“Full of Grace” is at its most powerful when heard with the music and Sarah’s voice, here are some of the lyrics:
the winter here’s cold, and bitter
it’s chilled us to the bone
we haven’t seen the sun for weeks
too long, too far from home
I feel just like I’m sinking
and I claw for solid ground
I’m pulled down by the undertow
I never thought I could feel so low
oh darkness I feel like letting go
if all of the strength and all of the courage
come and lift me from this place
I know I could love you much better than this
full of grace
And when I was a teenager, and feeling less than exultant, here is what Alice Cooper would sing to me:
I wake up in the basement
I'm so hungry
I'm dry
I must be here sleepwalking
mustn't I?
Getting up from my easy chair looking for my wife
following a trail of crimson spots
that lead into the night
suddenly I realize
I see it all through real eyes
these crimson spots are dripping from my hand
and ooh it makes me feel like a man
(“The Awakening” from Welcome to my Nightmare)
Oh Alice…you big cuddly teddy bear.
Sunday 29 March 2009
Wednesday 25 March 2009
Maniacal Plans
Last week this blog mentioned that I was working on maniacal plans (Banalities from my life). Since then there has been a barrage of interested mail from psychopaths all over the globe, wanting to know more about my maniacal plans. Unfortunately, I won’t be reprinting any of the letters – well…they’re pretty kooky…but not in a cuddly eccentric way, more in a I-want-to-eat-your-beating-heart-while-it’s-still-in-your-chest-cavity-while-I’m-wearing-my-dead-mother’s-favourite-dress way. And I’m hoping this blog might make it into the “1001 blogs you must read before you die” list, so I need to keep it at a PG-rating.
I do appreciate the effort made by the psychopaths in writing their letters – some didn’t have access to pens so chose to write in their own blood (at least I hope it was their blood) and some, apparently, didn’t have access to their hands (I’m not sure what they wrote with, maybe their feet, maybe someone else’s hand – perhaps it’s best not to think on this for too long) – but I’m not yet ready to publicly divulge my maniacal plans. I need to get everything ready before I start…negotiations.
To all the psychopaths who sent me letters…I’ll be in contact.
I do appreciate the effort made by the psychopaths in writing their letters – some didn’t have access to pens so chose to write in their own blood (at least I hope it was their blood) and some, apparently, didn’t have access to their hands (I’m not sure what they wrote with, maybe their feet, maybe someone else’s hand – perhaps it’s best not to think on this for too long) – but I’m not yet ready to publicly divulge my maniacal plans. I need to get everything ready before I start…negotiations.
To all the psychopaths who sent me letters…I’ll be in contact.
Saturday 21 March 2009
Into the Night
Will you ever need my shoulder…to rest your head, while you weep with despair?
Where are your thoughts this evening? And where is your body? Have you taken them into the night? To the shadowy bar or the glittery club? Are you weaving through the crowd? Are your vapours mingling with the vapours of others? Is this where you seek intimacy? Are you laughing with some of the people you’ve just met? Flirting? Do you know the script? Have you rehearsed the manipulations you like to exhort upon the others? And the way you hold yourself, the angle of body, your position in the group, a studied stillness…do these things maximise your beauty, your allure?
But what happens when you sense the tears? Will you be able to stop them? Hold them inside until you’re alone? Or will they seep through? Will you need to run…back into the night? Can you outrun your sadness? Do your tears etch into your face, eroding your flesh; scarring and reshaping? Building a haven? Or an armour? Are you shielded from truth? Are you safe now?
Where are your thoughts this evening? And where is your body? Have you taken them into the night? To the shadowy bar or the glittery club? Are you weaving through the crowd? Are your vapours mingling with the vapours of others? Is this where you seek intimacy? Are you laughing with some of the people you’ve just met? Flirting? Do you know the script? Have you rehearsed the manipulations you like to exhort upon the others? And the way you hold yourself, the angle of body, your position in the group, a studied stillness…do these things maximise your beauty, your allure?
But what happens when you sense the tears? Will you be able to stop them? Hold them inside until you’re alone? Or will they seep through? Will you need to run…back into the night? Can you outrun your sadness? Do your tears etch into your face, eroding your flesh; scarring and reshaping? Building a haven? Or an armour? Are you shielded from truth? Are you safe now?
Wednesday 18 March 2009
Talking to a Stranger
A couple of years ago, I was walking down the stairs of the Regent Theatre in Collins St after seeing a very intense film (during the film festival). A man suddenly appeared at my left. He began talking to/at me:
Man: “Have you just seen Bug?”
There’s an urgency in his voice and I jump a little. I’m also still reeling from the intensity of the film (no pun intended – film reel, get it!). I decide against making eye contact with the man, for the moment.
Nicole: “Yes” (no, I just like walking up and down the Regent Theatre stairs).
Man: “How many films have you seen at the festival?”
Nicole: “Just this one, so far.”
Man: “You certainly picked a good one.”
I certainly did. I decide I need to look at this man…
…he has 5 heads and tentacles instead of arms!…no, wait, that’s a different story…
…he has 1 head and 2 human arms. He doesn't look evil. He's maybe late thirties to early forties, medium build, a bit taller than me. I decide I could take him if things get violent. I’m pretty sure they won't.
Man: “I saw three films today and seven over the weekend.”
I’m impressed. This guy’s crazy – good crazy, maybe. He continues talking. I get the impression he doesn’t want to allow any gaps into the conversation. We walk up Collins St, avoiding numerous pavement repairs. The man seems intelligent and knowledgeable about film. And polite, despite an insistency over the continuation of our conversation. It's possible I don’t mind talking to him. I raise my conversation level.
My mind is working hard, though. It’s past 11 on a Tuesday night, the film crowd has dispersed, and I’m virtually alone with a man I don’t know, enmeshed in a conversation with no gaps. I've just seen a claustrophobic film about disturbed, paranoid people. I’m not completely at ease. I’m beginning to think I might feel more at ease alone in my car, which I’ve sensibly parked in the most deserted part of town. I wonder if the man will follow me to my car. I don’t know if he wants more from me than just conversation. Maybe he wants a lift home, maybe he wants sex, maybe he wants to dance beneath a full moon draped in my internal organs. I suspect that he is single. I think he’s looking for love. I think he’s hoping to find love with me.
But love is not something I can offer at 11pm on a Tuesday night, in the middle of Collins St, to a stranger. Nor is it something that can be extracted from me against my will - being in public, whilst simultaneously being female and alone, isn't licence to 'cold' approach a lone lady.
Now I’m uncomfortable. I need to turn left into Exhibition St. If I don’t turn soon, I might not be able to find my car. We cross Exhibition St. He’s still talking. I stop walking. He walks a few paces ahead then stops and turns around. He looks at me with some sadness.
I say: “I have to go this way," (I also point), "it’s been nice talking to you”, (and it was, mostly, but it was not a conversation I had sought out, but rather one which was imposed upon me).
His look of sadness seems to intensify, maybe a hint of bitterness creeps in. I walk away quickly. When I’m about halfway down the block I turn around to make sure he hasn’t followed me. He hasn’t.
I believe the majority of men on this planet are decent and I don't like to interact with them in ways that would suggest anything less. But on this occasion, I’m a 5-ft 4-inch, medium build, unarmed woman (who likes to pretend she has slayer-strength but knows she actually doesn't), walking alone late at night, through a deserted city. I need to be cautious.
A few days later I’m in town again to see another film. I search the crowd. I can’t find him.
If I find him I will tell him why I had to walk away. I will have a proper conversation with him, full of gaps. I sometimes wonder if he is in the crowd but is hiding from me. I don’t know. He struck me as someone who might watch Buffy. He might also be someone who watches violent and degrading pornography. It’s difficult to tell from one conversation.
Man: “Have you just seen Bug?”
There’s an urgency in his voice and I jump a little. I’m also still reeling from the intensity of the film (no pun intended – film reel, get it!). I decide against making eye contact with the man, for the moment.
Nicole: “Yes” (no, I just like walking up and down the Regent Theatre stairs).
Man: “How many films have you seen at the festival?”
Nicole: “Just this one, so far.”
Man: “You certainly picked a good one.”
I certainly did. I decide I need to look at this man…
…he has 5 heads and tentacles instead of arms!…no, wait, that’s a different story…
…he has 1 head and 2 human arms. He doesn't look evil. He's maybe late thirties to early forties, medium build, a bit taller than me. I decide I could take him if things get violent. I’m pretty sure they won't.
Man: “I saw three films today and seven over the weekend.”
I’m impressed. This guy’s crazy – good crazy, maybe. He continues talking. I get the impression he doesn’t want to allow any gaps into the conversation. We walk up Collins St, avoiding numerous pavement repairs. The man seems intelligent and knowledgeable about film. And polite, despite an insistency over the continuation of our conversation. It's possible I don’t mind talking to him. I raise my conversation level.
My mind is working hard, though. It’s past 11 on a Tuesday night, the film crowd has dispersed, and I’m virtually alone with a man I don’t know, enmeshed in a conversation with no gaps. I've just seen a claustrophobic film about disturbed, paranoid people. I’m not completely at ease. I’m beginning to think I might feel more at ease alone in my car, which I’ve sensibly parked in the most deserted part of town. I wonder if the man will follow me to my car. I don’t know if he wants more from me than just conversation. Maybe he wants a lift home, maybe he wants sex, maybe he wants to dance beneath a full moon draped in my internal organs. I suspect that he is single. I think he’s looking for love. I think he’s hoping to find love with me.
But love is not something I can offer at 11pm on a Tuesday night, in the middle of Collins St, to a stranger. Nor is it something that can be extracted from me against my will - being in public, whilst simultaneously being female and alone, isn't licence to 'cold' approach a lone lady.
Now I’m uncomfortable. I need to turn left into Exhibition St. If I don’t turn soon, I might not be able to find my car. We cross Exhibition St. He’s still talking. I stop walking. He walks a few paces ahead then stops and turns around. He looks at me with some sadness.
I say: “I have to go this way," (I also point), "it’s been nice talking to you”, (and it was, mostly, but it was not a conversation I had sought out, but rather one which was imposed upon me).
His look of sadness seems to intensify, maybe a hint of bitterness creeps in. I walk away quickly. When I’m about halfway down the block I turn around to make sure he hasn’t followed me. He hasn’t.
I believe the majority of men on this planet are decent and I don't like to interact with them in ways that would suggest anything less. But on this occasion, I’m a 5-ft 4-inch, medium build, unarmed woman (who likes to pretend she has slayer-strength but knows she actually doesn't), walking alone late at night, through a deserted city. I need to be cautious.
A few days later I’m in town again to see another film. I search the crowd. I can’t find him.
If I find him I will tell him why I had to walk away. I will have a proper conversation with him, full of gaps. I sometimes wonder if he is in the crowd but is hiding from me. I don’t know. He struck me as someone who might watch Buffy. He might also be someone who watches violent and degrading pornography. It’s difficult to tell from one conversation.
Sunday 15 March 2009
Banalities from my Life: Home, Work, Love and Karamazov
I hope my new neighbours in the front flat stay for awhile. The last tenants/ssssss kept changing every few months, eventually numbering about 15 people over a year. They were nice an’ all, but I found it unsettling not knowing who was living right next door to me (our front doors are very close – they’re practically married).
I’m inappropriately lusting after my married neighbour (speaking of married), who lives (with his wife!) in one of the flats on the other side of the building. My bouts of lust are sporadic. I only get to see him if I catch him putting clothes on the line or when he takes his bike out for a ride.
I live in a square block of 4 flats, 2 facing north and 2 facing south. I don’t see the people on the south side very often, but I can hear the people with whom I share a corridor wall. They are a family consisting of: one 40-something mother, one 20-something daughter, occasionally her identical twin sister, often the 20-something’s passionate, but obnoxious, boyfriend and another, pre-teen, daughter. And a pug-dog. In a compact 2-bedroom flat. And they fight a lot. All of them. Loudly and with bad words. Even the dog. I haven’t watched the Australian show “Packed to the Rafters”, but a much better and more realistic show would be one based on my neighbours.
The pre-teen daughter (I think she’s 10 or 11) tries to play with my cat. It would be nice if my cat would play with her, instead of running away – my cat is a little neurotic (much like her owner).
Sometimes, when I’m at work, I feel claustrophobic and experience a strong desire to run away.
Sometimes, when I’m at work, I’m bored shitless and feel a strong desire to run away and find something meaningful.
Sometimes, when I’m at work, I enjoy being bored and not having to run away or to think about meaningful things.
I keep finding myself attracted to men with idealistic views of romantic love
I keep finding myself attracted to men who won’t get involved in romantic love because they don’t want their idealism shattered.
I’m comfortable being on my own – this doesn’t make me evil – it does, however, make me a weird loner.
My maniacal plans for the destruction of planet earth are what make me evil.
I used to be sad that I didn’t have children. Now I’m slightly relieved:
-I don’t have the HUGE responsibility,
-I don’t have to worry that I’ve brought children into a world that seems to be racing into destruction (even without my maniacal plans),
-I don’t have to follow societies' “rules” quite so much,
-My attitude to this world is radically different, and much more comfortable, to what it was when I wanted children (although this may have alienated me from some people/friends)
-I have more time to work on my maniacal plans
My internal flame isn’t warming me the way it used to, it’s beginning to flicker and fade. I think it needs a new wick.
Karamazov count: page 16 - ahead of schedule - bonus.
I’m inappropriately lusting after my married neighbour (speaking of married), who lives (with his wife!) in one of the flats on the other side of the building. My bouts of lust are sporadic. I only get to see him if I catch him putting clothes on the line or when he takes his bike out for a ride.
I live in a square block of 4 flats, 2 facing north and 2 facing south. I don’t see the people on the south side very often, but I can hear the people with whom I share a corridor wall. They are a family consisting of: one 40-something mother, one 20-something daughter, occasionally her identical twin sister, often the 20-something’s passionate, but obnoxious, boyfriend and another, pre-teen, daughter. And a pug-dog. In a compact 2-bedroom flat. And they fight a lot. All of them. Loudly and with bad words. Even the dog. I haven’t watched the Australian show “Packed to the Rafters”, but a much better and more realistic show would be one based on my neighbours.
The pre-teen daughter (I think she’s 10 or 11) tries to play with my cat. It would be nice if my cat would play with her, instead of running away – my cat is a little neurotic (much like her owner).
Sometimes, when I’m at work, I feel claustrophobic and experience a strong desire to run away.
Sometimes, when I’m at work, I’m bored shitless and feel a strong desire to run away and find something meaningful.
Sometimes, when I’m at work, I enjoy being bored and not having to run away or to think about meaningful things.
I keep finding myself attracted to men with idealistic views of romantic love
I keep finding myself attracted to men who won’t get involved in romantic love because they don’t want their idealism shattered.
I’m comfortable being on my own – this doesn’t make me evil – it does, however, make me a weird loner.
My maniacal plans for the destruction of planet earth are what make me evil.
I used to be sad that I didn’t have children. Now I’m slightly relieved:
-I don’t have the HUGE responsibility,
-I don’t have to worry that I’ve brought children into a world that seems to be racing into destruction (even without my maniacal plans),
-I don’t have to follow societies' “rules” quite so much,
-My attitude to this world is radically different, and much more comfortable, to what it was when I wanted children (although this may have alienated me from some people/friends)
-I have more time to work on my maniacal plans
My internal flame isn’t warming me the way it used to, it’s beginning to flicker and fade. I think it needs a new wick.
Karamazov count: page 16 - ahead of schedule - bonus.
Wednesday 11 March 2009
Call Sign: Karamazov
If I ever become an elite fighter pilot (like those thrill-seeking wild boys in the movie Topgun) my call sign will be “Karamazov”.
Yes…my obsession with the, when-too-many-words-are-barely-enough, novel “The Brothers Karamazov”, by the hypergraphic Fyodor Dostoyevsky, continues. I’m thinking about trying to read it again. I thought I’d extracted it from my consciousness with the cathartic Incomprehensibles list, but I was wrong. Foolishly, I decided to look up The Brothers Karamazov on the internet and my obsession has been rekindled. I admit that doing an internet search on the novel is probably something I could have done some time ago, but unfortunately, ‘some time ago’ I viewed the internet only as a tool which provided me with cheats and walkthroughs for my playstation addiction (go Tomb Raider). It’s only recently that I’ve discovered its other uses.
But getting back to Karamazov – 3 things:
“Aleksey Fyodorovich Karamazov was the third son of a landowner in our district, Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, so noted in his time for his tragic and fishy death…he was a strange type…the type of man who is not only empty and depraved but muddle-headed – belonging, though, to the class of muddle-headed men who are perfectly well able to handle their little property affairs…he had persisted all his life in being one of the most muddle-headed madcaps in the whole of our district…the bulk of these madcaps are really quite sharp and clever – but plain muddle-headedness, and, moreover, of a peculiar, national variety.” (pg 3)
If I read one page per day (which is about all I can handle), I’ll have the book finished in 893 days or 2.45 years – I think that’s do-able.
Yes…my obsession with the, when-too-many-words-are-barely-enough, novel “The Brothers Karamazov”, by the hypergraphic Fyodor Dostoyevsky, continues. I’m thinking about trying to read it again. I thought I’d extracted it from my consciousness with the cathartic Incomprehensibles list, but I was wrong. Foolishly, I decided to look up The Brothers Karamazov on the internet and my obsession has been rekindled. I admit that doing an internet search on the novel is probably something I could have done some time ago, but unfortunately, ‘some time ago’ I viewed the internet only as a tool which provided me with cheats and walkthroughs for my playstation addiction (go Tomb Raider). It’s only recently that I’ve discovered its other uses.
But getting back to Karamazov – 3 things:
- Apparently, The Brothers Karamazov is held in high esteem by many people and is considered, by some, to be the greatest novel ever written. I’m not fond of the expression: “The greatest…novel/song/movie/device…ever…written/sung/made/invented”. I think it’s limiting and parabolic…no…inflection point…no…hyperbolic…over-the-top. And we, the semi-literate masses, need many authors writing great novels, novels that speak of the myriad themes of various lives. Although, there are some who think Dostoyevsky covered everything in Karamazov. I don’t think it’s wise to get my entire myriad themes of life from one person (unless it’s from me).
- Apparently, Fyodor Dostoyevsky suffered from bouts of hypergraphia (an obsessive need to write and write and write down every synapse-crossing electrical impulse traversing his brain), possibly brought on by his epilepsy.
- Apparently, there are a number of english translations of The Brothers Karamazov and it’s important to read the best one. Wikipedia recommends sampling different translations before deciding on which text to read. And this would be fine if I was going to live to be 250. I think the best thing to do is to read it in its original language – so I will have to learn Russian.
“Aleksey Fyodorovich Karamazov was the third son of a landowner in our district, Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, so noted in his time for his tragic and fishy death…he was a strange type…the type of man who is not only empty and depraved but muddle-headed – belonging, though, to the class of muddle-headed men who are perfectly well able to handle their little property affairs…he had persisted all his life in being one of the most muddle-headed madcaps in the whole of our district…the bulk of these madcaps are really quite sharp and clever – but plain muddle-headedness, and, moreover, of a peculiar, national variety.” (pg 3)
If I read one page per day (which is about all I can handle), I’ll have the book finished in 893 days or 2.45 years – I think that’s do-able.
Friday 6 March 2009
Braindead
Effulgent13 is experiencing some brain-numbness at this time and can't think of anything to blog about. Well...there are some things on my mind but my "it's going on the internet where, potentially, anyone on the planet, with internet access, could read it" veto keeps kicking in. And I think it's pretty evident that "Effulgent13" will soon become a worldwide phenomena - much like yo-yos and trainspotting.
And, speaking of excellent and challenging films - Trainspotting and Braindead - I was surprised, but happy, to see that this vampire film from Sweden, "Let the right one in" (or "Lat den ratte komma in" as it's known in Sweden), has been given a cinema release in Australia. I saw it at last year's film festival, where I enjoyed it's graphic depiction of blood and unsettling 12-year old leads. It also uses the northern European climate - the mid-winter excess of snow and darkness - to enhance the supernatural quality of the story. Apparently, it's going to be remade by Americans...blah! See the Swedish film; with subtitles, Swedish snow and young actors who understand genuine creepiness.
This blog entry ended up being significantly longer that I thought it would be. Apparently, if I just keep typing, I can fill in the empty spaces. If only that would work for all my empty spaces. Arrrggghhh...I don't want to end on such a maudlin note...so...um...:)...and...%# (this is a happy face as Picasso would type it).
But wait, now I've thought of something else. In my self-appointed role of bringing artistic culture to the masses, here is a picture of a not-so-famous painting titled "Vampire" by the eerily evocative Edvard Munch:
And, speaking of excellent and challenging films - Trainspotting and Braindead - I was surprised, but happy, to see that this vampire film from Sweden, "Let the right one in" (or "Lat den ratte komma in" as it's known in Sweden), has been given a cinema release in Australia. I saw it at last year's film festival, where I enjoyed it's graphic depiction of blood and unsettling 12-year old leads. It also uses the northern European climate - the mid-winter excess of snow and darkness - to enhance the supernatural quality of the story. Apparently, it's going to be remade by Americans...blah! See the Swedish film; with subtitles, Swedish snow and young actors who understand genuine creepiness.
This blog entry ended up being significantly longer that I thought it would be. Apparently, if I just keep typing, I can fill in the empty spaces. If only that would work for all my empty spaces. Arrrggghhh...I don't want to end on such a maudlin note...so...um...:)...and...%# (this is a happy face as Picasso would type it).
But wait, now I've thought of something else. In my self-appointed role of bringing artistic culture to the masses, here is a picture of a not-so-famous painting titled "Vampire" by the eerily evocative Edvard Munch:
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