Sustained Criticism

I got MAC's Lavender Whip (you know you've been obsessing over references too long when you instinctively stop and ask "should I italicise Lavender Whip?") lipstick today images here. The collection grows with my obsession, and with the new vanity I have somewhere to store it all.

The Introduction to Philosopy/Beauvoir essay is a blank page, going nowhere. The bibliography is blank as well, which might very well come to bite me in the ass when it's graded. I need to write, and go find some bullshit books to skim through. The problem is that I would much rather write about feminism in general, not just Beauvoir. And what source material I have is so scarce.

Being near-sighted might just be ok, after all: I found a beautiful pair of Chanel frames. The arms have embedded pearls! I just have to work up the courage to check it. Apropos, I was very sensible and bought a pair of Hunter wellies, rather than go amok in the new candy-coloured spring/summer shoes Shoe Lounge had on display. But I think I might need a new pair of summery flats. Right? And perhaps the gorgeous, blue suede Patrizia Pepe pumps.

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.

Certain people have profound impact on us, at given points in life. Would they have the same had we encountered them at any other?
An aspect of a person can be enough. A single conversation can leave marks that last for years, or a friendship just a moment. We're never aware of those with the greatest influence on us till they are gone, and their touch revisited - be it as another, a book, film or idea. What once meant something, when revisited means nothing to us - the emotion is gone, and the evocation no longer holds true. Why? Have we changed so much, been influenced by such a number of others, or such a facet of those that we no longer remember what it meant?

Will I be remembered hundreds of years, like Beethoven or Bach, or will I fade like the thousands of anonymous graves?

(And no, I'm not depressed, should you wonder. I am merely a tad pensive.)