Today has been quite lovely. Got ut at around 9, after approximately an hour of reading Dickens in bed - page 243, and counting. Proceeded, post-breakfast, with making notes on the American electoral system, the parties, interest organisations, Presidential elections and a few lines on checks and balances (fondly christened "checks and fucking, or bloody, balances" by yours truly). Due to previous frustrations I now feel particularly accomplished on account of my most recent feat: I understood American Presidential Elections, by reading the woebegone explanation "Tapestry" offers on the subject. Applause, darlings?
And so, feeling all intelligent and confident, I went to school to sit through psychology. Most fruitless endavour of today, seeing how my teacher complained of a terrible headache - she was quite confident she would be going blind if she had to teach us - and informed us that she simply couldn't stand us today. Spent an entire 45 minutes there, and got home after an hour and a half's worth of break from the work.
Ended up skimming through the catalyst of my current situation - the "Module 2" project, my "On Outsiders" - yesterday, and I am vehemently annoyed at school in general, and Vigdis in particular. I wrote beautifully! And now it seems I'll never write that way again. God, I miss it! I miss my creativity; I wish I had Nabokovian promise and ability. I want to write again! I want to publish something, entirely void of point, and to stir people. And I want to write an afterword so irresistibly charming in its arrogance that no one dares analyse a word. (I sound like a spoiled brat, don't I? For, however little it may seem that way, I am horrendously grateful for the opportunity the school, and particularly my teachers, are offering me; I just wish it wouldn't be at the expense of my creative abilities.) I have a few wonderful paragraphs in there, the parenthesis - almost Nabokovian -, the wonderful flow of it all. - I feel like a Romantic, writing about his affection for children's innocence and how "we murder to dissect", orbed to the present and blended with a few cups of "emo".
I think Dickens is bad for me, he makes me long to write magical fiction. He makes me dream of writing like Nabokov did; of writing a Lolita of my own. Yes, Dickens is decidedly bad for me. Nabokov is worse, but they are both so gorgeous. Dickens admittedly a little tedious, and none too great with characters in shades of grey - he prefers them black, white or dis-coloured. And now I'm getting entirely off-track, I set out to write a short post, ending with a "bottom-lined" version of American Politics behind a gracfeul cut, to keep any poor readers from a very boring death, but it didn't quite turn out that way. Now I want to go see Beauty of the Beast or some other Disney movie. Anastacia, perhaps?
My French inabilities annoy me. I need
to learn French. 5 years of lessons, and I can hardly compose a text. Much less a sentence without a dictionary. Learn French, or create the theatrical RPG I've been toying with lately?
PS: I can't believe I was compared to this woman
on Saturday. If that is even close to how I come off when dressed up, I'll be utterly delighted. But then again, red lips tend to do peculiar things to people.
PPS: It's adorably windy outside tonight. Wind is generally great fun if it's not winter, and I'm not freezing several semi-vital body parts off.
This post has turned ridiculously and pointlessly long. And it is high time I end it. Perhaps I might one day rival Woolf on stream-of-consciousness?