Remember the teacher who hugged me out of nowhere a couple of weeks ago? I’m just coming from one of her lectures and this grin on my face won’t fade. She was going through the class checking up who’s present. She said that people who have small handwriting (and she knows my handwriting is miniature size) are control freaks and told me to ask my boyfriend if I didn’t believe her. I straightened her by saying that I don’t have one and not going to have one. Her reply was something I didn’t expect: “Darling, you have to have sex.” I was so dumbfounded that my comment of not needing men to have sex was gone with the wind. I mean, I grew up in a family where two the most essential parts of life were considered a taboo (death and sex, that is). I’m not used to some stranger tell me something even my parents never said out loud.
Suffering Sappho, I’m still grinning…
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The Shakespearian quote is, by the way, from All's well that ends well, scene three in the last lines of the king of France. And the picture underneath this text is by the glorious Markus Mayer.
I just had an interesting gossip with a male friend of mine. He’s writing his master’s thesis at the moment about the language in a certain field of gay culture. He mentioned that he has a working gaydar. He seemed a bit surprised when I told him I was gay. But I suppose it doesn’t exactly damage his maleness since his already engaged. Good for me, usually men seem offended by me after this.
I don’t think this can be classified as “coming out” for I’ve never really been in the closet in the first place; I’ve never claimed to be straight. If someone asks me if I’m gay I answer truthfully but I have absolutely no intension of making a huge fuss about it. I mean, since when has a heterosexual emphasised their straightness unless it’s relevant to the matter at hand (unless their homophobic, of course)?
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I saw Her today again. I shouldn't have my mind filled with lewd thoughts every time She comes (note the pun) anywhere near me.
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And in case anyone is wandering, the title is from Shakespeare's play, King Henry III if I'm not mistaken. I'm probably wrong since I was just reading Julius Ceasar and Shakespeare has numerous King Henry plays so I might confuse them. I'll check it for tomorrow's entry unless someone corrects me before that.
I just had to spend half of the week at my parents’ house. Last night I finally got home. People kept asking me at the end of the week why I was being so rude. I wasn’t being rude; I was just feeling thoroughly miserable. The second I cross the threshold of that house I become fifteen again (and start behaving the same way, too), and that’s certainly not what I want to be ever again.
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The first thing I did when I got to my hometown was to go to Combat (it’s a gym class). God it felt good. Ever since from Thursday I counted hours to the moment when I could hear the warm-up songs again (the other one being Nirvana, by the way).
She was there too. She’s there almost every Sunday. Not the reason why I go there, just for the record. Actually it was a coincidence she goes there as well. I joined the gym before I had even met Her.
The definition of stalking can, by the way, be checked from www.laki24.fi; I’m not, fortunately, qualified to the district of restraining order.
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I found Roxette again last night. If someone had seen me they would have thought I had escaped a mental institution. I was arranging my room dancing and singing Roxette (“Don’t bore us, get to the chorus!”) while wearing a Children of Bodom -shirt. Talking about the ability to contradict (can you spell Nietzsche?). At this moment I have The Look playing in my inner jukebox. If I cared what some people think I would be embarrassed.
“What does it matter what anybody thinks? Most people don’t think.”
(Grady Tripp, Wonderboys)
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I have a small snake fixation, hence the picture. This has nothing to do with Potters, though I may be slightly Slytherin-ish. I'm very fond of my Kalevala snake ring. I got Her initials carved inside it last spring. A little memory of Her (as if I needed anything to remind me...).
It does eventhough I've never been nothing but kind and patient towards it. The bloody thing keeps printing my creative writing's paper so that the text on the other side of the paper can be seen from the other side. The marginals were both 3 cm but still about 0,5 cm is diaphanous. It's annoying!
I've been writing on my creative writing's short story the entire weekend and today even more. On Saturday it seemed like an excellent idea, on Sunday it was nothing but bullocks, and now I'm somewhere in the middle (for now, anyway). I've tried so hard to make it the way I wanted it to be but as all children, they are never what you expect they would be.
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I have now spent the past... three hours writing the story in a place I know for certain I will see Her. Err... I'm not stalking Her, am I? What the definition of criminal stalking in Finnish law? I have to remember to check that. Nonetheless, She looked so amazing and her voice... I could listen to her talking a whole day. I am just utterly and thoroughly enchanted by Her voice.
I think I might have made a mistake, though. Next spring I will have the chance to see (and hear) Her every week regularly but what if I have no concentration left? Well, should be interesting if nothing else.
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The picture's name is Frozen silence, from misanthropia.net (the grammatically correct form is of course 'misathropy' but who cares?). This picture reminds me of Her eventhough my feelings are nothing but frozen. One can also consider this as a very subtle tribute to the foregone Sentenced. I have just spent the weekend listening to their album Frozen, which gave me the mood and subject of my short story.
Changed the title. It was too close to Rain's blog (which is, by the way, very interesting). So, I replaced the Crow quote with a reference to Silent hill. I saw it almost a week ago and I have to say that they've made one hell of a movie. It has made me paranoid even in broad daylight. Besides, no other film has ever managed to make me sleep with a knife before. Not that the knife would've been any help, the creature's acid blood would've just melted it and then me... I know, I'm being ridiculous, I know they don't exist.
The movie itself (not the aftermath alone) was extremely good when I watched it. I have to give them credit for one thing, though: I was actually half seriously considering to close my eyes couple of times. For the record, that takes a lot.
From a lesbian point of view... well, until I saw Silent hill I was quite sure I have a tiny little fetish when it comes to long hair. Laurie Holden as Cybil Bennett proved me wrong (she can prove me wrong any time she likes...). And the leather... dear god... If you're not into horror movies, Holden alone is worth watching the film.
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We're also having a Researcer's Night in town tonight, I may see Her there (now I'm beginning to sound like she's a goddess... but then again, she is one to me, the perfect woman, the goddess..)
Splenetic
3
What a day! It's been so interesting (you wouldn't believe that based on the last paragraph of the previous entry...). Or more like "what a week it's been so far".
On Monday some kid playing in the playground located right in front of the main entrance of the library I was headed acted very weirdly: first he plays there like every other child would play, but the second he lays his eyes on me walking by, he runs to his mother (well, like a toddler "runs") and hugs her legs without blinking like I would bite his head off if he closed his eyes even for a second.
On Tuesday my English teacher hugged me just out of nowhere (might have something to do with me asking seconds before were others freezing, too). It was strange because I had met her one week before and I'm used to no one, including my mother, to hug me more than four times a year.
On Wednesday I had the opportunity to express my X-phile side: I can write my Translation theory I’s multimedia translation analysis on the X-Files. I chose to analyse ‘Eve’, 1st season’s tenth episode if you don’t count the pilot (which is, by the way, called ‘Bellefleur High’). In this certain episode Scully looks extremely attractive for some incomprehensible reason.
Today I had one interesting creative writing lecture. I think that teacher will always remember me as “the girl who suggested that I should write a bestseller about masturbation”. Well, it is a taboo so I did answer the asked question correctly. And besides, someone else suggested that the topic could be zoophilia (sex with animals, that is). Now I have one week to write a masterpiece about anything. I have many ideas but none of them is developed enough to give away for any kind of evaluation, let alone a native English speaker whose primary interest is literature and went to school I happen to appreciate highly (well, not as highly as Oxford, but close enough). In addition to that, he’s slightly scary.
Actually, I think I’m lying (“Saved the best for the last”). I’m not in such a good mood because things have gone the way I planned. In the morning I just received a smile from a woman I’m very attracted to… my impossible love, my Julija Primic… now you know why I can understand France Prešeren so well… god, she’s gorgeous… and intelligent… and kind…
“Just one look into your eyes
One look and I'm crying
'Cause you're so beautiful
Just one kiss and I'm alive
One kiss and I'm ready to die
'Cause you're so beautiful
Just one touch and I'm on fire
One touch and I'm crying
'Cause you're so beautiful
Just one smile and I'm wild
One smile and I'm ready to die
'Cause you're so beautiful”
Morning. I have a little spare time so I decided to try this again. I'm on my way to my Literary methodology lecture but the teacher is chronically late, hence the spare time. I'm really not that interested in John Keats poems at the moment but I have to say it's nice when the stanza is so regular. Unfortunatelly, the meter isn't. How are you supposed to be able to tell if a poem has iambic pentameter if the meter is irregular and changes from tetrameter to hexameter?
For those who have absolutely no idea what is a iambic pentameter (it was a mystery to me as well two weeks ago): iambic meter has one unstressed syllable and then a stressed syllable and when these two are repeated five times (pentameter) and they create a line in a poem, it's called iambic pentameter.
I really do like the way Keats uses words, he's very clear, but I still prefer France Preseren and William Blake. I mean, Preseren's story is so sad and romantic. He was madly in love with a woman he saw once (Julija) but couldn't have because of the class differences. He wrote 15 sonnets about her with an amazing technique (check Wikipedia).
I really did. I wrote a perfect and quite a long entry to start this blog with and it erased because I used too much time to write it. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!!!
