Sustained Criticism

I look, almost desperately, forward to when I am old enough to throw dignified Christmas parties. I want to throw parties that are the very stuff of legend. With torches outside, liquer trickling, gigantic wine-glasses, lavish amounts of food, fruit and cheeses. From the morning on I shall prance around in a horrifying apron, cooking and singing, badly, along to the Christmas music I play, too loudly, in the living-room. Like Clarissa, I shall buy the flowers myself - white lillies perhaps, my current favourite. There would be a long table either in the kitchen or dining-room (depending on the housing), decorated with candles, flowers and perhaps some greenery - Ivy is very pretty for this kind of thing.

An hour or so before the guests arrive, I would rid myself of my apron and slippers, shower and put on a pretty dress, my Christmas Louboutins with bows, do my hair and make-up and await the guests. Mulled wine (gløgg, in Norwegian) would of course be served upon arrival, with champagne for those that prefer it. I want my Christmas parties to be tradition, much like the ones I occasionally attend now is. Parties thrown on roughly the same date every year, with more or less the same attendants, who would not miss it for the world.

Sadly, I cannot really do this sort of thing while I am still living with my parents.

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Also, I want this outfit: skinny jeans, white (a bit starched) shirt - perhaps a man's shirt, the ones for us women are hopless, mostly -, boots, perhaps a pair of bracers, the 3/4-length leather gloves, red lips and a very strict, straight bob. I want to be androgynous.

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I want to decorate my Christmas presents with real bows this year, and ribbon. Should I? Most of the family will most likely think me mad, but it would be nice. Oh, and I found a nice gift-idea for dad: a book about exclusive wines. The only catch is that he might be too well-versed on the subject to enjoy just any book.

I got the heavier moisturiser I needed, and couldn't help myself when I found this lipstick I just couldn't help myself. Justified by my needing something new when my favourite lip-gloss empties. This lipstick feels just like a gloss, and is wonderful on. And now I really must get hold of myself.

And, I have an idea for a story of sorts. I love Christmas, and I can't wait till I can start buying gifts for people.

Note to self: do not leave keys for home at home when weather equals freezing fingers and toes off if you are outside for more than a grand total of four minutes, much less twenty.

Other than that, I think the Ghost of Christmas Past came to visit me when I sat reading Lessing outside, waiting for Mother to return so I could get in. 5 weeks til Christmas, and I can start thinking of presents again. And we're planning a Christmas work-shop of sorts, with liquer gingerbread and carols.
Lessing writes beautifully, I am so grateful to grandmother for bringing me a few of her books. I read the first of four very short novels in The Grandmothers, called, fittingly, The Grandmothers. She is a master of insinuation, I can't help but admire her. I hadn't realized I needed a cure after The Meaning of Night, but I obviously did. The clock's short arm has not yet passed five, and it is already dark, I do love this time of year; I can read and do nothing without feeling bad about not being more productive.

And, we're in London in mid-January, that means SALE. I am deliriously incoherent. Marc Jacobs, United Nude, Irregular Choice, Alexander McQueen, London.


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Addendum: I have to marvel a bit about my Norwegian and History teacher. He is so knowledgable, I can't quite believe it. And he said something wonderful about learning languages today, those of us that can truly call ourselves bilingual, do not only know two languages, but partake in two cultures. The world, is to the bilingual, double the size to that of the monolingual. I can't quite help but marvel at both the opportunity to become bilingual, and the opportunity to be exposed to such a wonderful teacher.

I had the great presence of mind during spinning class yesterday to phrase what I dislike about classics: classics are classics for their importance, not great writing or stories. They can be important in a number of ways and for a number of reasons, but that does in no way equal great story-telling or phrasing; Great importance does not equal great art. And, figuring skinnebein'd kill me if I handed her an essay on why I think "Hunger" is a bloody awful book, I analyzed Hedda Gabler.

And I saw "Shakespeare in Love" with Line, well, we finished what we started. It's good, very charming, and there's rows upon rows of pretty people. I hate having to admit the fact to Vigdis when she asks.

Christmas break is more or less here - omitting a French exam - and I shall read. If I can't write, then damn it, I shall read! I shall drown in books till I can write again.

I've, most probably, had my final class with Margrethe. It must feel much like this when The Grand High Witch (from Dahl's "The Witches"), rids the world of a child, or when George cooks up his plan to get rid of Grandma (Dahl again, "George's Marvellous Medicine"). No more, I'm done. No more idiotic childish classes.