This moment I find N nice, candid and friendly; and then the next I feel like rolling my eyes at her. She is okay as a person, but I can also understand why so many people in the course don’t fancy her much. Anyway, who am I to judge? We all have something that places us out of the ‘norm’.
March 10 2014
Finally managed to do some personal writing and reading this weekend. I’ve read 2.5 books since January. I hope I can finish at least one for each month.
Books that I want to finish reading by the end of this year:
1. Haruki Murakami, Dance Dance Dance
2. Frank Lentricchia, The Sadness of Antonioni
3. Albert Camus, The Fall
4. Laura Esquivel, Like Water For Chocolate
5. Susanna Kaysen, Asa, As I Knew Him
6. Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca
March 10 2014
It is somehow March. Winter has been warm and friendly, passing without any spells of biting winds. Last night, after a jovial dinner at Eat Tokyo, with our bellies almost bursting, and our cheeks flushed from the Sake and plum wine we drank, the four of us walked leisurely from Holborn to Covent Garden, passing historical residues and modern buildings that flanked continually and inseparably on either side of the streets. The intensity inside us gradually calmed down as we moved through the sedateness and eeriness of the city, which was intervened by ecstasies of Friday evening.
Small groups of people, either dressed in suits or leather coats and pointy shoes, gathered in front of Georgian pubs and bistros to talk and smoke. Behind sash windows, I saw bulky English men, basking in dim orange lights, cramped around low small wooden tables, each with a glass of beer in hand as words revolved invisibly around their lips. We halted in front of this soundless movie as Fern stopped by one middle-age smoker and his friend to ask for wrapping papers and lighter. Natasha and I chuckled as we watched the men stared at her dubiously. With her tiny figure and petite face, Fern looks at most ten years younger than her real age. It seemed that her classy outfit has failed to convey any sense of maturity.
We turned left onto Long Acre and headed towards Apple Market. We were looking for a place to pause for the blueberry cheesecake that Fern has made for us. It was almost eleven, the shops all locked up, few pairs of lovers lingered aimlessly on the pavement, pausing and peering into pretty display windows, whispering, chuckling, walking, leaning and leaning against each other like stray kittens as the ghostly beauty of the night loomed listlessly over them.
We entered the mall as a breeze of air brushed behind our backs. The stalls shut, hibernating like tortoises under gleaming lampposts that brought the glaring frozenness of the mall to rigorous details. We settled on one of the stalls near the main entrance, in front of the plaza where people gather around to watch street performance during the day. On the flat wooden board, Max slid the cheesecake out of the paper bag and I passed the plastic forks around. Everyone instantly huddled around and dug their forks into that glistening lump of indigo. I licked the cream on my fork, and wanted to laugh. We looked like homeless, hungry kids who just snatched a pie from a bakery shop, I said.
When finished, Fern and I climbed onto the wooden board while Natasha and Max leaned on its edge. Max pulled out a small Evian water bottle from his coat, took a few gulps and passed it around. We talked and bantered intermittently, facing the emptiness of the plaza, luxuriating under the smoky sky and the vastness of midnight, with the tip of our adolescence ripping into something else. Is this the right number, right people? I thought to myself. Tonight, I wanted to live in this short flare of fullness forever.
The four of us have all in some way gone through a desperate phase during our time here; I don’t know about others, but for myself, I know what’s making this on-going fortitude works resolutely (and also tremblingly) today. In my heart, I believe that I’m receiving care, encouragement, inspiration and recognition in Goldsmiths more than anywhere else I’ve been. I remember in my foundation and year 1, there’s Martin, like a jovial grandfather. For this year, I’ve Joanne, Matt and Jimmy. After a year of continuous self-doubting, now I’m always glad I made the decision to come here.
I wonder, in what ways can I get hold of this loveliness in my cupped hands, and preserve the frailty and fluidity of it upon the opening of another unknown phase? Even when writing about it, I can feel much of it has already slipped away.
“If people routinely post grand photos of clothes, food and their seemingly harmonious relationships on Facebook to express their love for life, then trying to write down every ounce of melancholy, rapture and paradoxical feeling meticulously is my way of expressing it.” (June, 2013)
March 9 2014
“Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything it is because we are dangerously near to wanting nothing. There are two opposing poles of wanting nothing: When one is so full and rich and has so many inner worlds that the outer world is not necessary for joy, because joy emanates from the inner core of one’s being. When one is dead and rotten inside and there is nothing in the world: not all the women, food, sun, or mind-magic of others that can reach the wormy core of one’s gutted soul planet.”
P.193, Journals of S.P.
March 9 2014
“I can do this, and must do this. I hoped in a night of terror that I was not bound to you with that irrevocable love, forever. I fought and fought to free myself as from the weight of a name that could be a baby or could be a malignant tumor; I knew not. I only feared. But although I have gone crying and battering my head against spikes, desperately thinking that if I were dying, and called, you might come, I have found that which I most feared, out of my weakness. I have found that it is beyond your power ever ever to free me or give me back my soul; you could have a dozen mistresses and a dozen languages and a dozen countries, and I could kick and kick; I would still not be free.”
P.218, Journals of S.P.
March 8 2014
some favourite words:
11:17 pm 1 note
March 5 2014
Chana Bloch, Duck/Rabbit
“We remember the rabbit when we see
the duck, but we cannot experience
both at the same time.”
—E.H. Gombrich, Art and Illusion
March 3 2014