|DA features - part II|
2008-09-05 21:49:12 ET
August 13, 2008
"'Betrayed you? No.' She directed the dart of her cigarette, index tapping rapidly upon it, toward the hearth exactly as her mother used to do, and then, like her mother, oh my God, with her fingernail scratched and removed a fragment of cigarette paper from her underlip. No. She had not betrayed me...Yes...Elbow in palm, puff, exhaled smoke, darting gesture. Waxing reminiscent. He saw - smiling - through everything and everybody, because he was not like me and her but a genius.
She closed her eyes and opened her mouth, leaning back on the cushion, one felted foot on the floor... Somewhere beyond Bill's shack an afterwork radio had begun singing of folly and fate, and there she was with her ruined looks and her adult, rope-veined narrow hands and her goose-flesh white arms, and her shallow ears, and her unkempt armpits, there she was (my Lolita!), hopelessly worn at seventeen, with that baby, dreaming already in her of becoming a big shot and retiring around 2020 A.D. - and I looked and looked at her, and knew as clearly as I know I am to die, that I loved her more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth, or hoped for anywhere else. She was only the faint violet whiff and dead leaf echo of the nymphet I had rolled myself upon with such cries in the past; an echo on the brink of a russet ravine, with a far wood under a white sky, and brown leaves choking the brook, and one last cricket in the crisp weeds...but thank God it was not that echo alone that I worshiped. What I used to pamper among the tangled vines of my heart...had dwindled to its essence: sterile and selfish vice, all that I canceled and cursed. You may jeer at me, and threaten to clear the court, but until I am gagged and half-throttled, I will shout my poor truth. I insist the world know how much I loved my Lolita, this Lolita, pale and polluted, and big with another's child, but still gray-eyed, still sooty-lashed, still auburn and almond, still Carmencita, still mine..."
- Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov
I had this horrible dream where a lot of my hair had fallen out (I know, this happens in real life, too, but really). I suddenly reached up my hands to my head and noticed that so much of it was gone, there were only a few straggled clumps, and my scalp felt/looked all sickly, kind of pale, too white, lumpy, and kind of bloody, like the hair had ripped out or fallen, sickly, like dead leaves in clumps or something - like I was really sick in a grotesque horror-movie way, in short. I thought it was probably because of some drugs I had taken. It reminds me of one of my favorite ghost stories, the Ghost of Yotsuya. It is truly eerie. In one of the old (1950s?) movie versions (I think it's probably this one), which I only heard about but can imagine, she (while still alive) is sitting in front of a mirror combing her long, black, Japanese-ghost-story hair, her face disfigured by poison. As she combs it, it starts coming out, in large clumps, streaked with a little blood, and she keeps combing it, and sobs, combing and combing, sobbing, sobbing, looking into the mirror. I can imagine the whimper that came out of her.
On y passe toutes... by junglecookie
Epatage by KatjaFaith
Fishy by KatjaFaith
Lollipop by KatjaFaith
Post-apocalyptic by KatjaFaith
L'echapee by bonbon-A6dule
Mutter by KunstlerDGenocide (Mariana Urzua)
Writer by siudajSTEJ (Anita Zofia Siuda)
Epiphany - In progress by Orion Fisher
Cometa by Antonio Insulla
I Am said The Queen by Allan Amato (again, Ulorin Vex, reminding me of Cate Blanchett)
the bird without wings by streetQueen
Pulling Sky by Artismo69 (Daniel Huenergardt)
Soft by freckledshoulders
Licorice by Obscurae (Anja Millen)
Slowly Upward by Elif Karakoc
At the Window by kathrynstar (Katie West)
Joico - IX - Lisa by kevissimo (Kevin Rolly)
Lonely doll by pourquoipasmoi (Quentin Deschamps)
Instant Moments by Sarachmet (Malgorzata Maj)
2008-09-05 21:48:11 ET
August 12, 2008
A man had a cardiac arrest and died in the building where I work. I heard about his cardiac arrest around 11:30, and then when I went out, I knew he was dead. I saw him, covered by a white sheet, as I edged past, with a group of police officers gathered around and talking to someone, one female officer staring harshly at me, with a couple of movable bulletin boards drawn to cover the sight from the other side of the hallway. This was about an hour after it happened. I felt kind of blasphemous passing by somehow. Disrespectful of human life and death, as I forever am. Last night, Nick heard, "This is the police! Come out with your hands up," in the hallway outside his apartment; apparently they were arresting his neighbor, who he's seen once and we've heard playing bad music once, because there were gunshots in his room; there were bullet holes in the wall. That must have happened right before Nick came home. I saw a woman using an electric toothbrush in her car at the intersection. Wtf? I can't understand it. I fully consider this an "odd happening."
|Haven't done this in a while - (Deviant)Art features!|
2008-09-05 21:47:20 ET
August 11, 2008
Mind creating diseases by E-invoked
Death of Thought by ekstatis
Cutthroats by likeatinglass (Adam Berry)
The Weeping Willow by ennil (Rengim Mutevellioglu)
Lullaby by Alyz
Venezia by Eugina (Daniel L. Adam)
Chris VII by Dosis (Rebeca Saray)
242 by volute (Julien Lehembre)
The Queen Feasts by Taslimur (the model's Ulorin Vex...what a surprise)
Breaking Rules by maxbal (Maximino Balatbat)
Serenity by pekthong
The Warrior by Obscurae (Anja Millen)
For Magritte by Katerina Belkina
of being absurd. by mute-n0face (Maria de la Puente)
Escaped Conviction by Alex Pardee
To be continued...
|Throwback to the past, the march of technology and human curiosity, monstrous desires|
2008-09-05 21:45:09 ET
Actual date of entry: August 9th
I watched the Olympics opening ceremony last night with my mom. It was pretty cool. My mom was all proud, but like, even objectively, it was a really nice show. Note: at one point, when the commentator was mentioning the 1989 Tiananmen Square Massacre, my mom just said, "Those students were stirring up trouble," in a strangely motherly/harsh way, like "Those rascals were causing a ruckus and deserved to be put down." I know why she does it. She's trying to present the country to me, maybe to herself, too, in a way that won't make me dislike it. She's still trying to cover it up, or excuse it, twist it in a certain way. And I was like (in my head, but I almost said it), "They were just protesting. And it doesn't matter what they were doing. You don't bring in tanks and shoot them down. And they (China) are still denying it and repressing the knowledge or desire to know. Even you. I mean, they're trying to move away from that and the past. You can't pick and choose progress, choose some elements of capitalism or whatever that you like and ignore and not develop the rest, not even trying to get out of these bad habits of bad human rights and repression. But they still can't even admit it. Do you know they even banned it in the Chinese Wikipedia? Why do you think it makes China seem less bad or something, to repress it in some misplaced sense of patriotism? What's worst of all isn't that it happened, but that you ignore it and pretend that it didn't happen."
My mom doesn't respect my opinions. She always kind of bulldozes them over with her own kind of indignation and makes it out to be selfishness or ignorance or something. That's why we have no intellectual or emotional basis. People who are surprised by that always assume that you have some rights to your parents or something. Not so with me and mine.
I was watching a couple of videos on YouTube that are very related to the X-Files movie. I wonder if that was even the case used in the movie - it's definitely based on it, anyway. Anyway, they're experiments done in the 1950s by some Russian scientists (the ideas of Vladimir Demikhov) involving making two-headed dogs and keeping only a dog's head alive, after the rest of the body has been severed. They're horrible. And I am horrified by humans' curiosity. Of course, I would be curious, too, but it's a different kind of curiosity; I wouldn't even think of doing that; theirs is an applicable curiosity, a scientific and "human" one, whose purpose is always to serve to benefit humans.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NJC5-G7KnKY (dog's head attached to another intact dog)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rSrIkUXwsNk (just a dog's head being kept alive; even worse)
[Nick and I had a long conversation about it that I failed to paste here; it's too long without an LJ-cut.]
Is anyone else annoyed by that "I kissed a girl and I liked-ded it, the taste of her cherry chapstick" song?
|Oh, give me a home where the buffalo roam|
2008-08-07 11:15:12 ET
I got back from Montana. We took a bus to Spokane, and then his dad drove us the rest of the way. That Greyhound station always looked kind of sketchy to me from the outside, and inside, it's kind of a dump, with a pho restaurant attached.
It was nice; it's always nice to go to a different place. It's dry, hot, and dusty. I almost went mad with the heat sometimes. It's so much quieter than here. A lot of bear-, moose-, buffalo-, huckleberry-, cowboy-, Western Frontier-, and Native American-themed things. People there seem to be kind of slower, more easygoing, a little nicer, to me, I guess. Less of that clipped, professional, outgoing manner thing. And it's just one of those obscure states that nobody knows anything about, and where, supposedly, "nothing is," second only to Wyoming. And all the kids who live there either want to get out as soon as they can or die there. (They complain about a lack of culture or excitement or something.) I think it's funny how people assume that living in a different place will make your life better, or that any place is different really. There are a lot of old people there; like, actually proportionate to the population. Is it a place you go to die or something? When I think of Montana, I just think of horses freely roaming across the sorrowful, brazen plain in all their unbridled majesty or something. Not so. There were some horses in a dismal dry dusty bumpy yellow little plot next to Nick's house, and there were always a couple that were lying hot like dead on their sides, always exactly in the same position, it seemed. They're probably there still. Of course, the scenery is not much compared to Western Washington's. Oh, the trees and greenery. I practically fell in love with it the moment I saw it, aesthetically speaking. I think it helped me feel less depressed when I moved here. It's hard to feel so hollowed-out when you go out and are surrounded by a landscape like that.
We went on a tour of the old Governor's Mansion, which was pretty cool. There are a lot of kind of neat-looking old houses in that area. We went up Reeder's Alley (just a preserved old little frontier-town area from the 1800s). I wanted to see a production of The Secret Garden at the Grandstreet Theatre, but we never did. We went boating, hung out with some of his friends, and I ate some Dippin' Dots (!). It sucked that I got a really bad bladder infection about halfway through and didn't feel that well for a while. I almost cried in the store at one point because it was taking so long for them to fill out my prescription - not really just because of the physical discomfort but because of the emotional stress. My poor little Lisa-body.
I dreamed that I had a murderer, a man that was somehow a sort of little strange-looking mouse-like creature, all visceral in a way. And, though it was kind of against me, I kept stabbing him/it with pins or something, all over, over and over, in all kinds of places on his strange little body, where it bled, and he was pained but never died. He would just shiver alive again. Never quite dead. Strange and kind of mangled, never uttering a sound, moving slightly, almost gently, as if just sighing at his wounds or something. (His body just sighed and turned over and stirred at his wounds). I wanted to make sure, to know he was dead. A little emotional as I did it (like, why did it keep making me keep doing it?). (Punishment, punishment.) It was kind of against me, to do that to him. And this police investigator or someone, a woman, was coming to me and asking me about it. Did she suspect my heart? And I was kind of squirming, trying to hide the thing behind my back or something, to not let her know, because it was against even me, and I bit my lip, about to cry.
We went to Yellowstone Park. I felt pretty bad in the early morning, and kept thinking I probably shouldn't even go, while I was sick. I didn't enjoy it enough; I suffered too much. It was sometimes tinged with a melancholy, and hinted at the psychosomatic depression of previous summers. Such an incredible kind of depression. The best thing about it was the water, which I loved, the little streams and rivers. And I've seen this throughout Montana. They're just so pure-looking, moving between those clean, green sides carved around them, with that unnatural nature-silence. I just totally wanted to throw myself in it, be absorbed by it; that impulsive and somehow impossible feeling of wanting to be immersed in it, part of it, soaking it in, the calm and cool and moving blue. I also liked a waterfall, the place before the fall, fluid motion. I wasn't so interested in seeing all the geysers and "sights" (I kind of just wanted to lie back in the water, to be in the water, and play in it, alone with Nick, and be happy) and going around to see everything, and was annoyed by the tourist areas, swarming with stupid, annoying, fat, unattractive, repulsive (yes, I am so pettily unkind sometimes) strangers, and gross fast food. I got kind of tired of hearty, all-American food during the trip. Isn't there something a little more subtle, something between "American" and their parody of "Chinese," "Thai," "Continental," etc.? I think buffalo are more interesting than bears or elk seen at a distance, trying to get a glimpse of them through binoculars, effort, etc. Everybody was trying to see the bears, and not the buffalo right next to them and all around. They're sort of silly-, melancholy-, yet empty-, old-, worn-out-looking animals.
Lately I've been thinking about what I really want to do, kind of small things in my scheme and nebulous mind, about what/how I want to eat, if I want to have a child (I'm almost absolutely certain I would never really want to have one physically; I don't want to put my body through all that; it is unnatural to me)... I've always kind of not cared about what happens to me, in my life. It's always just been the mental life. The outside seems almost incidental. Because the pressure outside was too great, the esteem too low, it all just totally inverted itself, so that now it reflects only inward. As far as I'm concerned, in my mind, I've lived every kind of life I wanted. (Isn't that enough? That I will always be me.) And there is no perfection. Nothing would ever content me, anyway. I am still fully convinced that the world isn't good enough for me (that doesn't mean exactly what it sounds like); no kind of life would ever be good enough. But I'm, I, who have never pursued anything in a lifetime, realizing more that soon I won't be young anymore and, doesn't it still matter, what happens?; that all those things I missed in high school, I will never experience and have experienced. Those experiences to form my inner turnings about. So what do I want to do? What can I do? Does it really matter? But we try to approach happiness as nearly as we can. We never really do all we can. And does it really matter?
We walked and got lost around a tiny lake in the town, on this misleading trail that was really clean and trim at first, stroll-like, but then branched off into these little difficult maze-like paths with gray thorny branches arched curving over us that kept leading back to the edge of the lake (it was kind of spread out in pools with little island-type areas). It was nice, like being in a secret garden or something. At one point we met a smiling young ranger trying to find her way through the branches and maze, making her way as we were, to some people she wanted to talk to, whom my whimsy fancied was like a ghost eternally lost and trying to find her way, cheerful, good-natured, unaware of horror, asking people about her way, and dubbed the Lost Ranger. I got a piggyback ride through the mud on Nick, with me squealing like an animated pig.
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