Thursday, July 21, 2016
If I ever wrote a book worth of publishing, and that book were to be read by many a people, and those readers for some reason were of diversely coloured backgrounds, and all of them read my books in different ways and in different places.
Shouldn't I have the right to imagine what my ideal reader could be?
Well, it wouldn't be the intellectual sprite that would boast of reading me at a downtown coffeehouse.
Nor the fangirl who'd even retweet the succinct aphorisms regarding my pooping status.
But the shy young thing that reads all scrunched up in a corner and then can't get off her eyes so she takes it on the bus and on the metro and the books gets to see all around town because the young thing can't take her eyes off of this shit that makes her feel just so alive.
Which, of course, says more of the ideal book I would like to write than anything else.
Tuesday, July 5, 2016
Pardon the shouting. I get exited.
Could I be a fashion blogger? No. For one, I like words more than I do looks. For another, Chile is a conservative country that is hard on those that defy the norm, including the aesthetical norm. I could never be all Tavi Gevinsonish or whatevs (I would get too many weird looks on the subway and I'd rather read tranquilly during my commute). But that doesn't stop me from trying to look confident, from dying my hair red or cutting bangs or dressing in men's clothes every once in a while. I love the infinite possibilities, which is probably why Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli was one of my favourite books growing up.
I could never be anything close to a fashion blogger, but I do want to start taking more pictures of my outfits and sharing them with you guys to make me feel like I have an actual reason to look so lovely every day.
Love to all those who will not be shamed for their love of clothes,
PS. And, of course, my "hungover and on my way to buy breakfast" look:
Monday, July 4, 2016
The Chilean expression día redondo (literally "round day", metaphorically a full yet nice day) is what my past 24 hours of winter vacations were.
I woke up thinking that I had nothing to do but go to the gym and read.
ALAS, NO! Sometimes life has other things in mind for you.
<3 .="" p=""> As the day developed, I:3>
- Went to a three hour meeting regarding my University's future Gender Issues Visibility Group (I'm a horrible translator of quotidian things like this one, mind you.)
- Had lunch at my current crush's faculty cafeteria. This would've been uneventful as most life-things, had I not spent the whole time with my nose pasted to the window in case I spotted him. (If I had, I probably would've scrammed. Like, solitary noodles from a tray in a Uni cafeteria are as unglamorous as you get.)
- Spent an hour or two reading in a lovely winter park amidst teens smoking pot.
- Called on a friend who lives downtown and has the most adorable kitty cat. She made me coffee and we chatted about politics and men.
- Bought two dresses. If I'm going to destroy the patriarchy, I'm going to do it in a fabulous dress.
- Went to my beautiful literary workshop, where I was lovingly complemented on my story and where I started cooking ideas for a maybe future novel.
- Took the subway and bus home, listening to Miike Snow and smiling at the winter city lights.
Saturday, July 2, 2016
I've redeveloped the habit of reading thanks to one Elena Ferrante, and thus wrote the following review on Goodreads about the phenomenon that her Neapolitan series have created: (It contains a few spoilers, nothing serious though.)
Probably what spurred most of the readers of this book to give it a try is the "Ferrante phenomenon." She is everywhere. My Instagram and Twitter feed, several magazine articles, my stuck-up intellectual aunt's recommendations. Through the first hundred and so pages of the novel, though, I was confused; what does it have that has made all sorts of readers declare it to be a marvel? Answer: Nothing, really.
It doesn't have an amazing plot. It isn't written in an otherworldly style. It's entertaining, but no Game of Thrones thriller.
It is at most a fairly good book: So why the phenomenon? The Pyschology major in me had to give it SOME theory or other, so here it is:
What is endearing about Lenu and Lila's story is that we have all, particularly women who have lived through the intricacies of best-friendship, felt at some point or another like a Lena and/or a Lila. It is what most cheap magazines are wont to call FRENEMIES.
I, at least, saw myself reflected in Lenu's obsession with Lila, Lila's infinite love and envy for Lenu, their endless and competitive habit of comparing oneself to the other, the sexual undertones of their relationship, their mutual dependancy and dread of said dependancy, etcetera etcetera. It is the classical frenemy story but set in the novel landscape of a poor Neapolitan neighbourhood.
Yes, I enjoyed this book, and yes, I caught myself getting *feels* over it, and yes, I want to read the second book. But, no, I will not share a picture in Instagram declaring it the greatest book I've read so far in 2016. I'm sorry, Ferrante, but the hipster in me wants to rebel against your mainstreamness.
Friday, July 1, 2016
I've got five weeks of blankness ahead of me. (Aka, vacations.) I'm not sure what I'll dedicate myself to, besides reading and writing.
I'm not a big fan of lazyness. What I like is deserved rest: Arriving home at 8pm, exhausted, getting into my very unsexy pijamas and burying my headache under a pillow or a Friends episode.
This was supposed to be a fun month. There was going to be some traveling with friends, for one.
But now that's not happening and I'm a little bit scared about the blahness of my life.
When did I get so old that I forgot how to have fun?
Saturday, May 14, 2016
If you have been reading my blog since the olden age of 2013, you might know that I went to a literary workshop. Rather, I go to a literary workshop. Yes, I've been wasting my time writing silliness for two years now, going on three.
Ricardo (fake name), the only dude in our very feminine sessions, is gay. He's also hilarious, very warm, and a great writer. I generally don't feel a need to specify someone's sexual interests, but I did it for two reasons: One, it's a big part of his identity, in the sense that he's always talking about it. Two, it's relevant to the story.
Our homework this week was writing letters. I wrote a letter from the subway to the subway users. As in "Dear Subways Users" "Yours truly, the Subway." Ricardo's letter started with "Dear friend."
The letter described how close they had been. All the hobbies they shared. How Ricardo loved him.
I thought the letter was directed to his ex boyfriend. They had been a couple for seven years and only broken up a few months earlier.
When he finished reading the letter, he broke into tears. Ina, our teacher, explained to whom and why the letter was written.
To his best friend, who died from an AIDS-related sickness a few days ago at the hospital. He was going to marry (the saccharine and legal Chilean version of gay marriage, though) his couple in the hospital on Tuesday. He died on Monday.
He told us his couple was the HIV carrier. They had been strictly monogamous.
I can't remember the last time I'd been so moved. Not only because the story was heartbreaking, though. Also because I couldn't let go off the feeling of unfairness. After all, heterosexuals are less likely to go through shit like this, are less likely to get stigmatized for shit like this. How unfair can a life be where love can hurt us, in ways one never expected it should.
And because the story was wrought with impotence and heartbreak.
I don't know why I'm telling you this, but I had to tell it to someone. Because HIV, although no longer a deadly disease, is expensive as fuck to treat, and expensive as fuck to carry around with your social baggage. Imagine knowing you have HIV and searching for a partner, a real partner whom to love and care for. Even if great people do live out there, who will be willing to sacrifice some aspects of sexual life for other emotional ones, the person who has to hunt for said person is put surely through calvary.
I'm sorry but I'm being particularly inarticulate today; this isn't an easy topic to be articulate with.
Love you guys,
Wednesday, May 11, 2016
I hate depressive blog entries. That is why I'm going to write a huge post about ALL THE DE ZINGS THAT I'M GONNA START DOING TO BE HAPPIER.
I'm gonna get my nails done and I'm gonna spend quality time with my best friends. I'm gonna stop looking at my phone for hours on end. I'm gonna go to all my classes. I'm gonna force that smile.
I want to be happy.
But winter months make it so *insertfilthyadverbs* hard.
Monday, May 9, 2016
|The icy skies of winterland|
Do not get me wrong, dear reader. I am of the ardent spring 'n' summer lovers. But since I have no option and must live through the grey and boring winter months, might as well make the best of it.
I like the love that bed covers are wont to give you during the best eight hours of the day.
I like the singular richness of toast during winter, and the romance of its smell wafting through your sleepy senses.
I like hugs especially during these months.
And the pleasure of lazyness.
I like huge and lovingly knit scarves, coats with dainty buttons, smart boots, and sweaters with arms long enought to cover your knuckles upon insistence.
I like holding hands. But then I can like that through the sweaty summer months too.
I like the dancing rain on my rooftop, and the orchestrating wind on the trees.
Winter doesn't have to be too bad.
Monday, April 25, 2016
I am now in the know of the fact that I am a person challenged by severe stereotypes. Not in the "you're black, therefore you're violent" or "you're of Asian descent, therefore you must be an academic genius" sense. But rather, of the "you're a rich and privileged white kid and dress like it, therefore you must be an insufferable piece of shallow trash" kind.
And I have discovered that rich, privileged white girls and boys can be interesting, funny, intelligent, and think their own minds too.
Over and out,
Thursday, April 21, 2016
BUT THAT IS OVER. GONE. I AM THE TINDER GODDESS.
Anyhow, I've lost many an hour of sleep over Tinder this past week, because it's just so much fun. Yet the first few hours were by far the most exhilerating, because, dear readers, I, Ana Ruiz, found the love of my life.
Or, sort of. At least I'm pretty infatuated, which is nice because Psychology majors tend to hang out with other vagina-ridden Psychology majors, and I miss my daily dose of penis attraction.
To the point: This guy's an architect, which, let's be honest, is oh so sexy. And this guy, in some sort of "I'm flirting with a stranger" maneuver is really emphatic about his work and sends me pictures of his diagrams and crap and I understand NOTHING.
Fast forward: Today I was flipping through a magazine, and an article about architecture showed up. I would generally never read something like this, in spite of the fact that I do aprecciate them pretty buildings and hate on them ugly ones, but now I was really intrigued and started reading. A few paragraphs in, I realized how ridiculous I was being, laughed, and turned the page. As Hamlet would say: What be this reading an article 'cuz a crush thing? To be or not to be pathetic, that is the question?
Truth: I am, up to a point, a mashup of all the interest my crushes have had. These past few months I've been really into philosophy because that's what the guy I dated last year digged. In eighth grade, I became a pubertal punkhead, listening to Metallica & Co, because that's what the guy I liked digged. In fourth grade (that is, eherm, ten years old), I became a fan of a soccer team that I would never have payed attention to where it not for the fact that it was my current crush's team.
What the fuck.
Do I have no personality? Am I just a hole where my romantic interests deposit their current interests? AM I THAT OF A SUCKY FEMINIST?
Well, no. The music I've been the most passionate about, I started loving on my own (in spite of the fact that I did fall hopelessly in love with a guy that liked exactly the same music.) I've always been a bookworm, and there's a slight chance that I might find fellow bookworms to be a turn-off. Most certainly feminism was something that came from the contagiousness of Rookie, and my ideals were of my own making (and of the needs of the people and the proletariat and the revolution!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!).
But, honestly. Thank the beautiful Lord that I'm generally into interesting guys because I'm apparently prone to liking what they do, and it would suck an awful lot that I were induced into liking douchey shit like partying or whatever. Thankfully I'm into guys that like philosophy. (Please do note the irony.)
Over and out, much love to y'all,
Ana <3 div="">3>
Saturday, April 9, 2016
The girl you see in the picture above is me, Ana Ruiz, a psychology student.
"Whatever happened to Law! Or to Literature! When the fuck did you get the notion that you wanted to be a psychologist."
Dear readers, the truth:
I started Law School (remember, the Chilean system works differently) about a year and a half ago in the midst of an agonizing existential crisis where I was like oh fudge my ideals where arst thou, where ist all that I've thought to be true. Who are my friends, what do I want.
I knew NOTHING, so I joined Law School and even sort of liked it. There were a few points of my 2015 that were thrilling. And I learned oh so fucking much.
But I did not want to be a lawyer. I sort of still wanted to study Law, 'cause I was having a fun time and 'cause I was learning so much, but I did not want to be a lawyer. (In spite of the fact that I don't believe that lawyers are suit-wearing thugs. They're actually very important in the making of a just society.)
Anyhoo, I also knew that I no longer wanted to be a writer and teacher. Just because I didn't. It does not appeal to me at all.
And it clicked.
It's a topic that I'm truly interested about, and it gives me a chance to do some good unto the world, AND, I get to work with kids, which are my very favorite thing and the reason I wanted to be a teacher in the first place.
I am extremely happy that I took this decision, but, boy, does starting university twice SUCK.
Much love to the readership,
Sunday, March 6, 2016
Today I broke up with a guy I'd been dating for about half a year. It wasn't a real break up, because it wasn't a real relationship. (Not much physicality. No formalities. Just the shared knowledge that we weren't just friends.)
I'm not a break-uper. I'm a "please get the message"er. But, along the road of maturity, a little bit of enlightenment has come upon me: It is better to get broken up with than to be ignored endlessly. It is at least less awkward.
So I """broke up""" with a guy with which I'd only kissed. I sort of felt like I owed him that and wanted to spare the awkwardness of future encounters in a tiny country such as Chile.
I'm just not that involved in this, and I thought it would be unfair to continue stringing you along.
It was quick, it was easy, and I was a little bit too happy about that while he wallowed over his coffee. Oh bitchy unsensitive me.
Alas! Lesson learned: One must break up.
Even if one is not sure why one is breaking up.
Even if one faintly suspects that one has severe psychological traumas that will not allow us to settle.
Even if one suspects that said psychological trauma has left us pining for the same guy who does not love us back for a number of years.
Bye, lovely readers,
Thursday, March 3, 2016
This school year I will have lots o' time, for reasons that deserve a blog post on their own.
Unlike most people, I hate free time. It makes me feel guilty and useless. But for two consecutive years I've read oh too little and this is my opportunity to get up to date with all the books I've bought at fairs and never read.
If you would like to add to this list, please do. I love book recommendations.
- Eichmann in Jersualem by Hannah Arendt
- Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami
- The Dinner by Hermann Koch
- The Price of Salt by Patricia Highsmith
- I want to read essays so that I might replicate the arguments and seem smart during debates.
- The Hunting Gun by Yasushi Inoue
- Literature Classes by Julio Cortázar
- Poetry! By Edna St. Vincent Millay, Sylvia Plath, Mary Oliver, Emily Dickinson, and all the gals that prove that poetry is wiser when written with feminine pens, and fuck all of my gender principles on this one.
Remember: I love recommendations!
Tuesday, March 1, 2016
You guys might have noticed that I'm Chilean. Fact: In Chile the school year starts in March, so 2016 feels like it really started today. And I want 2016 to rock. In fact, I'm full of goals and plans for this beautiful blog.
But right now I'm burning up in fever. Send noodles.
For now, I'm just going to say that because I sucked at posting every day during Febs, I'm gonna try to do it in March, but a notch more elaborate than just a bunch of pseudo-philosophical pseudo-poetical posts.
Love ya guys.
Friday, February 12, 2016
Why do people take pictures of the art at museums.
It makes no sense.
Neither does the way we pursue the ocean and then shriek at its cold touch.
Neither does the way we imprison ourselves in claustrophobic rooms to ride stationery bicycles and hate it every step of the way.
But seriously, why do people take pictures of art at museums.
Options: To upload it to social media. To have and to hold within their phone's memory. To manifest physically the aprecciation for something as abstract as aesthetical pleasure.
Why do people take pictures of art at museums.
It makes no sense.
And I like it that way.
Not everything has to make sense.
Not even human behaviour.
Particularly, not human behaviour.
Thursday, February 4, 2016
Some boys are so perfect. And yet they commit the imperfection of just not captivating you.
Some boys are highly imperfect. And yet they haunt your brainspace so often that they start defying your natural human egotism and its tendency to only think about its own self, forever.
Sometimes you fall in love. You laugh at how ridiculous it all is.
Because you can fall in love with the drugaddict
The dude that kisses like a slob
The one that is ugly as shit
The narcissitic nerd fuck
The one that's never ever spoken to you
The one that makes you suffer ever so much
And yet you love them.
You know what I find alarming about this? I've only fallen in love with five boys in my life.
And I'm afraid I love each of 'em still.
Tuesday, February 2, 2016
Things taste different when had under starlight. And by “taste“ I mean feel, look, hear, impress.
Thoughts appear like vivid realities. We think it to be an actual possibility that we'll read all the books and then somehow learn ourselves out of being flat and predictable people.
Theaters work their magic at nighttime. So do jazz concerts. We get drunk and high when the sunlight is gone partly because we have hope during those hours that this will somehow lead unto charmingly funny stories.
Insomnia hits at night not because those are the times when we are supposed to sleep, but because they are the times when we dream the most.
Food tastes better, in spite of our knowledge about how calories kick the hardest when you don't have a number of hours of activity to burn them through.
Kissing feels less awkward. In fact, it feels sorta magical. The saliva on your chin isn't as terrible. Your Mom is less likely to recognize you if she drives through that park.
You feel thinner and your pimples tend to dissappear.
Revolution appears attainable and doesn't even scare you.
Life seems wonderful.
And then the sun comes up.
Good news: It can sometimes be pretty cheersome during the day.
Monday, February 1, 2016
What is this person (center of this blog's universe) reading, watching, and listening to?
I‘m reading and falling in love with Kurt Vonnegut and his sadly beautiful black humour. I tried reading Jeffrey Eugenide‘s The Marriage Plot and found it to be worse than The Virgin Suicides and a few universes and parallel dimensions worse than Middlesex (hearts.)
I‘m watching Twin Peaks and craving more David Lynch. I also watched The Revenant and Hateful Eight to find them, erm, sufferable. Sad fall for my Tarantino love.
Listening to a lot of reggeaton. Not at all classy or hipstery as my previous pop culture life dimensions. In case your anglo butt doesn‘t know what I‘m talking about, think Pitbull, or Google search Daddy Yankee, Don Omar, Nicky Jam. Guilty pleasure much.
On the subject of podcasts, one called Marxism Today. Dear readers, this is one high browed and very beautifully left winged blog writer you have here.
Ah, yes, I‘m writing this entry from the lands of Spain. You know, where rain falls mainly on the plain.
I wanted to write an entry a day during February, just like last year, but I‘m thinking this Spain thing is going to make it a little bit harder than I thought.
Sunday, January 24, 2016
Lists give Ana the illusion of efficiency, happyness, and control. Here are a number of lists that Ana and the readers of yours trully could enjoy elaborating:
1) To do
2) Things I‘m greatful for
3) People I love the most and can trust unconditionally
4) Memories that make me happy
5) What I love about my body
6) Things my dream home would have
7) How to be a better person
8) How to be an interesting person
9) How to make life interesting
10) 16 concrete things to do in 2016
11) 16 Abstract goals for 2016
12) Books to read before some pseudo intelectual asks me if I‘ve read it
13) Things I want to learn
14) Instruments I would love to play
15) Places where I can‘t die withot having had sex at
16) Bad habits that I must quit
17) Movies that I must watch before some pseudo intellectual asks me what I thought about them
18) How to be happy
19) How to make your mother happy
20) How to make this world a better place
Any suggestions or additions my beloved readers would care to make?
Wednesday, January 20, 2016
My BFF's birthday was coming up, and so were a million due dates.
We were High School seniors
which entailed a "privilege" where we could leave school during lunch hour,
on one condition: Our timely return to the next class.
I had a wonderful idea but a million due dates.
1) Skip class that day. Mom and Dad shouldn't know about this, so I woke up at the normal, heart-breaking hour of 6.30 am, put on my school uniform, but rode my bike to a nearby Starbucks instead of the institution that expected me.
2) Breaking the rules is fun. Starbucks isn't, in spite of the muffins. Working on a History paper during the wee hours isn't either.
3) At 11 am, I rode my bike to a nearby supermarket. I bought frosting, muffins, lots of sweets and salts, a birthday crown, candles.
4) At 11.30 am, I called the pizza parlor. They had a 2x1 deal but on the condition that I went to the store to get my cheese 'n' sauce covered bread.
5) At 12 pm, I was back home, frosting the muffins, puffing into balloons.
6) I wasn't there to give complete faith of it, but the story goes that five other friends kidnapped my friend June and brought her to my house on a friend's car. The story makes sense, as that was the plan I had so astutely connived. June was blindfolded and had no idea where she was going.
7) June arrived at my home.
8) We sang happy birthday and ate lots of crap.
9) That night, we got shitfaced and all Friendshiplandia lived happily ever after.