nirinia: (christmas)
The world did revolve slowly sometime between Saturday and Sunday this weekend, when we were piled on the floor and nothing moved. We re-had old conversations, concluded that men ought to read and be beautiful, and I'm told we had a serious popcorn fight. I pulled out Father's old atlas of human anatomy last week, and poured over it, cross-legged and with a steaming cup of coffee. There are endless bones, crevices and tissues connecting my arms to my torso, and torso to the brain. The linea mediana anterior is without a doubt my favourite anatomical feature, and now I know what it is called. Although it will always be the 'dividing line' in my head. I wonder what it feels like to trace it with a scalpel, through skin and fat.

I'm working on a new theory of friendships: there is a point where you need to have drunken conversations about life, the universe and everything at 3 am. This stage must be passed, along with exposing any embarrassing, or not easily visible, tattoos.

Sleepwalking through A Passage to India (E.M. Forster for a class, attempting to savour Point Omega (DeLillo), haven't had the heart to start Monsieur Pain (Bolaño) yet. Supposed to read Waiting for Godot, but I never succeeded in falling asleep during the play – I think I can pass that off as seeing it? – and am relying on sparknotes. And a poor friend for whom I took notes on 'Combray' (Proust, part one of In Search of Lost Time), who feels she owes me something in return.
nirinia: (christmas)
The world did revolve slowly sometime between Saturday and Sunday this weekend, when we were piled on the floor and nothing moved. We re-had old conversations, concluded that men ought to read and be beautiful, and I'm told we had a serious popcorn fight. I pulled out Father's old atlas of human anatomy last week, and poured over it, cross-legged and with a steaming cup of coffee. There are endless bones, crevices and tissues connecting my arms to my torso, and torso to the brain. The linea mediana anterior is without a doubt my favourite anatomical feature, and now I know what it is called. Although it will always be the 'dividing line' in my head. I wonder what it feels like to trace it with a scalpel, through skin and fat.

I'm working on a new theory of friendships: there is a point where you need to have drunken conversations about life, the universe and everything at 3 am. This stage must be passed, along with exposing any embarrassing, or not easily visible, tattoos.

Sleepwalking through A Passage to India (E.M. Forster for a class, attempting to savour Point Omega (DeLillo), haven't had the heart to start Monsieur Pain (Bolaño) yet. Supposed to read Waiting for Godot, but I never succeeded in falling asleep during the play – I think I can pass that off as seeing it? – and am relying on sparknotes. And a poor friend for whom I took notes on 'Combray' (Proust, part one of In Search of Lost Time), who feels she owes me something in return.
nirinia: (xkcd)
Could really be good at this hermit thing I've got going. I read (currently more Bolaño than American History), eat, drink litres of water, play some PS3, play with the monster dog, post the occasional update on Facebook on my lack of academic prowess, eat some more. And I have a face mask I need to get rid of, so by the end of the exam period, I'll hopefully have really great skin.

Can't bring myself to read The Original of Laura edition I have, it's too pretty to spoil. I'll wait for a paperback, or it to go on sale and buy a second one. We partied ridiculously on Saturday: too drunk, too tired to do much, enough booze and coffee to stay up all night. We did stay up far too long, I think we slept a collective half hour. At some point I held court in bed, I think I was fully clothed, or hope I was. Very heart-felt conversations with lovely people, and then a pathetic discussion with a very nerdy boy of 14 (I don't think he was 14, he might have been 16, or 18, even) about discipline. He could not argue to save his drunken hide, so I promptly informed him that he could return to talk to me when he had learned to think. Harr, harr. We had far too much fun with scathing remarks, and I was in horrific form from having bitten my tongue for weeks. It ended in a cuddle-fest of a naschpiel. Everyone piled into bed, and got up hungover and miserable a few sleepless hours later, with sprained arms and stiff necks.

*Naschpiel, a word for after-party. Alcohol and coffee pre-requisites, sofas and good music almost as crucial.

Where I rant about an epiphany )
nirinia: (xkcd)
Could really be good at this hermit thing I've got going. I read (currently more Bolaño than American History), eat, drink litres of water, play some PS3, play with the monster dog, post the occasional update on Facebook on my lack of academic prowess, eat some more. And I have a face mask I need to get rid of, so by the end of the exam period, I'll hopefully have really great skin.

Can't bring myself to read The Original of Laura edition I have, it's too pretty to spoil. I'll wait for a paperback, or it to go on sale and buy a second one. We partied ridiculously on Saturday: too drunk, too tired to do much, enough booze and coffee to stay up all night. We did stay up far too long, I think we slept a collective half hour. At some point I held court in bed, I think I was fully clothed, or hope I was. Very heart-felt conversations with lovely people, and then a pathetic discussion with a very nerdy boy of 14 (I don't think he was 14, he might have been 16, or 18, even) about discipline. He could not argue to save his drunken hide, so I promptly informed him that he could return to talk to me when he had learned to think. Harr, harr. We had far too much fun with scathing remarks, and I was in horrific form from having bitten my tongue for weeks. It ended in a cuddle-fest of a naschpiel. Everyone piled into bed, and got up hungover and miserable a few sleepless hours later, with sprained arms and stiff necks.

*Naschpiel, a word for after-party. Alcohol and coffee pre-requisites, sofas and good music almost as crucial.

Where I rant about an epiphany )
nirinia: (Default)
This entry is brought to you by Reduced Alex, with exams and a party coming up. Will get back to pretending to be interesting in a few days.

I've spent 7 hours in the kitchen today, cooking. Which is remarkable for me: I very rarely cook, besides helping my mother out. Today it was a joint effort. An entrée, main course, cakes and various desserts, all for 15 people. From the recipes of a Norwegian haute cuisine persona. If this this is not good I will take an oath never to return to the site of cooking ever again.

Was the antithesis of chic yesterday: a jacket that is a cross between a duvet and a parka, no make-up, stringy wet hair and a backpack. I take a lot of space when I'm 'me', and it entails looking composed. Someone in some tv series spoke of women who 'wore heels at 10 am', I do. And I'm used to catching mens' eyes, not being overlooked as a plain girl in a huge jacket. Good to know that I can blend in, a kind of city camo.

There was never a recounting of our beautifully drunken Halloween, was there? Better late than never. I feel like reliving it to drown my Russian sorrows. Kristine and I spent 8 miserable hours not sleeping on the bus to Trondheim, to visit Katrine. We were cheap and decided to take the bus, at 11 pm so we would arrive fresh-faced and happy the next morning: no important classes lost, and optimal time spent drunk with Katrine. No sleep was had, whatsoever. And do you think Katrine had steaming cups of coffee waiting for us? We had to go buy instant coffee. The horror! Though Trondheim did have something called 'Sweet Chili Coffee', a cappuccino sweetened with some sort of chili syrup, divine for approximately five sips.

We spent Halloween in the company of a very drunk, lovely boy named Ali. He dressed up in bad drag: a sequined dress thing that reached to approximately the top of his thighs, the kind of stay-up stockings that plummet down when you move outside your door and really bad red lips. We had to teach him how to walk, talk and be girly. I had a sort of out of body, meta experience with my own femininity: by the end of the evening we had him sitting beautifully, and me getting comfortably wide-legged. Ali turned out to be better at flirting than the rest of us combined: he stole hugs from all the men in sight. I don't quite see how he got through the evening without taking a few punches to the head.

And I cannot stop listening to 'Sexy Bitch', no clue why. I don't particularly like it.
nirinia: (Default)
This entry is brought to you by Reduced Alex, with exams and a party coming up. Will get back to pretending to be interesting in a few days.

I've spent 7 hours in the kitchen today, cooking. Which is remarkable for me: I very rarely cook, besides helping my mother out. Today it was a joint effort. An entrée, main course, cakes and various desserts, all for 15 people. From the recipes of a Norwegian haute cuisine persona. If this this is not good I will take an oath never to return to the site of cooking ever again.

Was the antithesis of chic yesterday: a jacket that is a cross between a duvet and a parka, no make-up, stringy wet hair and a backpack. I take a lot of space when I'm 'me', and it entails looking composed. Someone in some tv series spoke of women who 'wore heels at 10 am', I do. And I'm used to catching mens' eyes, not being overlooked as a plain girl in a huge jacket. Good to know that I can blend in, a kind of city camo.

There was never a recounting of our beautifully drunken Halloween, was there? Better late than never. I feel like reliving it to drown my Russian sorrows. Kristine and I spent 8 miserable hours not sleeping on the bus to Trondheim, to visit Katrine. We were cheap and decided to take the bus, at 11 pm so we would arrive fresh-faced and happy the next morning: no important classes lost, and optimal time spent drunk with Katrine. No sleep was had, whatsoever. And do you think Katrine had steaming cups of coffee waiting for us? We had to go buy instant coffee. The horror! Though Trondheim did have something called 'Sweet Chili Coffee', a cappuccino sweetened with some sort of chili syrup, divine for approximately five sips.

We spent Halloween in the company of a very drunk, lovely boy named Ali. He dressed up in bad drag: a sequined dress thing that reached to approximately the top of his thighs, the kind of stay-up stockings that plummet down when you move outside your door and really bad red lips. We had to teach him how to walk, talk and be girly. I had a sort of out of body, meta experience with my own femininity: by the end of the evening we had him sitting beautifully, and me getting comfortably wide-legged. Ali turned out to be better at flirting than the rest of us combined: he stole hugs from all the men in sight. I don't quite see how he got through the evening without taking a few punches to the head.

And I cannot stop listening to 'Sexy Bitch', no clue why. I don't particularly like it.
nirinia: (Default)
"In a Sation of the Metro"

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

That, Reader, is why I love modernism. Pound allegedly wrote this after being startled by the glimpse of a beautiful face on the subway. I desperately hope I get a task about modernism on the am. lit. exam. Considering that the lecturer wrote her dissertation on Stein's sensuous, very modernist semi-poetry. Chances are, I will get to write about modernism. I also half-envy English students at high school, now they get an entire chapter devoted to modernism. The book even quotes Eliot! All I ever got was Romanticism.

The title is, by the way, from the film Quills. If I can get through the rest of the curriculum, I'm going to indulge myself with Taxidermia (or however much of it I can stomach), and then Quills. "My writing lives!" might be the most beautiful scene in the world.

We were at a friend's birthday party yesterday. And while it was hilarious, and lovely to see people again, there is a but. I missed some serious discussions! It might have something to do with the fact that I didn't drink much (I couldn't afford a hangover today), and that no one else really did, either. Late-night discussions, fuelled by too-much-alcohol and coffe, that evolve into outright popcorn wars are really very charming. Particularly when you're dealing with socialists.
nirinia: (Default)
"In a Sation of the Metro"

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

That, Reader, is why I love modernism. Pound allegedly wrote this after being startled by the glimpse of a beautiful face on the subway. I desperately hope I get a task about modernism on the am. lit. exam. Considering that the lecturer wrote her dissertation on Stein's sensuous, very modernist semi-poetry. Chances are, I will get to write about modernism. I also half-envy English students at high school, now they get an entire chapter devoted to modernism. The book even quotes Eliot! All I ever got was Romanticism.

The title is, by the way, from the film Quills. If I can get through the rest of the curriculum, I'm going to indulge myself with Taxidermia (or however much of it I can stomach), and then Quills. "My writing lives!" might be the most beautiful scene in the world.

We were at a friend's birthday party yesterday. And while it was hilarious, and lovely to see people again, there is a but. I missed some serious discussions! It might have something to do with the fact that I didn't drink much (I couldn't afford a hangover today), and that no one else really did, either. Late-night discussions, fuelled by too-much-alcohol and coffe, that evolve into outright popcorn wars are really very charming. Particularly when you're dealing with socialists.

October 2012

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