(no subject)

I find that the most comforting thing in the world is that I am energy. If the particles I consist of were to encounter their respective anti-particles, I would become energy. Energy through annihilation.

"You have a gift for literature", I was told today. "You see it for what it is, and do so very quickly." Happy, me? While I think law would be amazing, and surgery incredibly challenging, my heart lies with literature. Dahl stole it when I was 6. Writing something as simple as this, reading critique or theory, takes me back to when I read Dahl and cackled as Grandma shot through the roof. Or when the room spun as I read my first Feist book. The first time I cried over a novel's end. When I got dissy as I read T.S. Eliot: "We are the hollow men/We are the stuffed men/ Leaning together/ Headpiece filled with straw. Alas! / Our dried voices when ..." And "Do I dare disturb the universe?", though it holds a different meaning for me than it does for Prufrock. At least, I think it does.

My room is looking more and more like that of a deranged academic. Books strewn everywhere, in stacks on the floor and on top of those in the shelves. And then there are clothes, make-up and shoes. A bit of cleaning up might be in order, but who cares.

And now I sort of regret not going out to celebrate halloween tonight. I could have been frost (and played with MAC pigments to my heart's content). Oh, well, next year. This will be nifty, too. There is red wine involved.

(no subject)

I find that the most comforting thing in the world is that I am energy. If the particles I consist of were to encounter their respective anti-particles, I would become energy. Energy through annihilation.

"You have a gift for literature", I was told today. "You see it for what it is, and do so very quickly." Happy, me? While I think law would be amazing, and surgery incredibly challenging, my heart lies with literature. Dahl stole it when I was 6. Writing something as simple as this, reading critique or theory, takes me back to when I read Dahl and cackled as Grandma shot through the roof. Or when the room spun as I read my first Feist book. The first time I cried over a novel's end. When I got dissy as I read T.S. Eliot: "We are the hollow men/We are the stuffed men/ Leaning together/ Headpiece filled with straw. Alas! / Our dried voices when ..." And "Do I dare disturb the universe?", though it holds a different meaning for me than it does for Prufrock. At least, I think it does.

My room is looking more and more like that of a deranged academic. Books strewn everywhere, in stacks on the floor and on top of those in the shelves. And then there are clothes, make-up and shoes. A bit of cleaning up might be in order, but who cares.

And now I sort of regret not going out to celebrate halloween tonight. I could have been frost (and played with MAC pigments to my heart's content). Oh, well, next year. This will be nifty, too. There is red wine involved.