Friday, July 31, 2015
Sometimes the world seems dreary. Humanity like a lost thing. Your life a predictable unraveling of events, study-work-marry-die. And you bury your face into your pillow and crawl deeper into the huge black hole developing in the center of your chest.
Why feel like this in a world with
Why feel like this in a world with
,animals of all sorts
and plants that give off shade and colour.
Why feel like this when you can
or ice cream
alone, in your room, to your favourite music.
Sometimes, I am startled by beautiful things. As if they hadn't been there, at arms reach, all along. The news and politics aim at our despairing over the world's suckiness, but, honestly, it doesn't really suck.
Friday, July 10, 2015
If you have the privilege of understanding Spanish, please do listen to Jorge Drexler. He's an Uruguayan musician, and perhaps his music is good, but I really just listen to him for the lyricis.
And, as many people before me have said, the charmiest of charms about the Spanish language is its gentle sensuality, its poetic musicality and rich sounds and words. I will never know if my love for Chilean folkloric music comes from the beauty of its lyrics, or from the earthiness of its sounds. Honestly, it's a conflict that doesn't need resolution.
English is a harder deal. There's beautiful lines such as Between the click of the light and the start of a dream to which I owe Arcade Fire eternal gratitude. And, so, so many Fleet Foxes aphorisms that I would tatoo all over my body in order to become a more beautiful human being. And, of course, the immortal Smiths, with their treasure chest full of enigmatic lyrics, and oh, why not quote the most clichéd and gorgeous of 'em all, To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die.
Please, dear readers, do recommend songs that vibrate with the words woven into them. There is nothing I enjoy more than poetry made music.
Thursday, July 9, 2015
The first "grown-up" book I ever read was Anne of Green Gables, in third grade. Thereupon beginning a new epoque in my life.
Years later, whilst roaming my school library, I stumbled upon a most surreal reality: Anne was not one book, but many.
And so, the "mere epoque" spun out into many years of reading and re-reading, of discovering the Emilys and rebelling against associating the Anne from the movie to the Anne from my dreams.
The Anne from my dreams became my imaginary friend, the one whom I whispered secrets to at night. And then the Anne transmuted into the recipient of my diary's letters, dear old Anne, because she surely understood.
Understood about dreams and about fairyland and about crazy assaults of the imaginations which make you cringe with the unspeakability of them. Oh, Anne, she was wont to understand how my love for the sea hurt, how flowers had a joy elixir within their petals that I craved all winter long, how the raindrop on the roof was the music that fairies danced to at their balls, and how trees had souls and were infinitely, infinitely wise.
It's been over a year since I last read a truly bewitching book. It was Metaphysics of the Tubes by Amélie Nothomb, in May of 2014. And I was beginning to fear for my reading habits, for my reading needs, when I decided to crack open the Emily books again.
Last night, I read for hours after going to bed. I had almost forgotten that books are stronger than circadian cycles.
After an hour or two of traipsing through Prince Edward Island, I broke into tears and reiterated "Thank you God"s.
And thank you, LM Montgomery, for letting me discover through the pages of your literary daughters a passion for reading (and a passion for nature, and for learning, and for home sweet homes.)
And thank you, LM Montgomery, for reminding me of this passion for reading when I feared for it the most. (Damn you Law School.)
Sunday, July 5, 2015
Friendships are confusing because, as most things, they're things of gloss and sprinkles when first acquired
and full o' flaws when already gone through the washing machine several times.
And after all that wear,
all them flaws you've come across,
to take out the calculator,
Is the sum o' these flaws just what make it your favourite sweater
or a mere piece of clothing you have to wear less often.
(I have friends who are not perfect, in fact, are far from perfect, friends who live continents away, and friends whom I have to constantly be consoling. But it's worth it.
And I have friends that have not as many flaws, but oh the pointedness of the ones they indeed have, make of them the people whom you would depend on for no more than "hanging."
This is not groundbreaking.
But it's the kind of thing that every so often
needs to be said.)
PS. Clarification: Just as poetry can be written in prose, I sometimes attempt to write prose in verse. I wasn't really trying to write poetry. I just like to press the enter bar.