Naughty or nice?
A little of both, perhaps. I finished everything today! Now I can die and no one will be put out. NO, that is not a poor attempt at self-deprecating humor, it is good to be done, the weight is temporarily released. So what did I do?
Here's the naughty part. I returned to the bookstore. I know, devilish. But I didn't just buy the book I need for next quarter, but one of the coveted anthologies of short fiction. A best of American... Now I have to say I did buy the 2003 collection (being way cheaper - on sale $5.99 instead of $14) I figure next year I can buy the 2004 version when it gets reduced... There were still a few left, of the "non-required reading", but I also had to laugh. The 2002 edition claimed to be a collection for people 25 and under... now, what happens when you become 26... or 36... or god forbid... 46? Do you stop
enjoying sexy short fiction? Do you somehow become out of touch with what you once were? Fuck. I hope not.
Then... I took my book and my music and I walked to the beach. I contemplated just changing into my swimsuit on the beach, not caring if anyone saw me naked in the few seconds between removing pants and donning swimsuit. My better judgment won today, but mostly because the water was "wicked" cold. Maybe not by NH standards, but enough to make a shiver run up my spine, perking my nipples and suggesting that today was not the day... If I were to die, that is, to end my life, it would be in water. Not a Woolfian river, it would have to be the ocean. I would swim out beyond the limits of reason, and just keep swimming. There was a story that I wanted to write once about a woman (not me _exactly_, but mostly) and a man. Not the ones that we might expect, but different ones, with a cat in common who was dying of feline AIDS... I didn't ever feel like doing the research on the feline illness and the story never emerged, despite encouragement from the aging Uruguayan poet that I met in Paraíso, and almost let myself fall in love with. I say almost, but really it was more like, I almost let him fall in love with me. Funny, later, after he moved, I ran into him at the Cineteca with a Japanese woman, a photographer, I think (no, not to be stereotypical) and I was glad that I never called on him again at his home. (Not because of her - she was cool, if a little flaky.)
No, my watery death would be like the end of "Cadáver a solas" (Agustín Cadena) which in terms of sheer power to change the course of my life, may be the most responsible. So very strange. The relation is not a direct one, and therefore, will not be explicated here, but let's leave it at the fact that its ending was so satisfyingly tragic that it pushed me over the edge of fear, leading me down a path of pleasure from which there was no return... And then my life did a sommersault.
And now, here I am again, right side up. Bobbing, wobbling, but still trying to maintain my balancing act. The island was a good place to sit today. It let the pain that has been waiting to manifest itself wash over me. I finally cried for the loss that I feel, the mourning a natural and useful step towards renewal.
I don't fool myself into beleiving that I am totally ok... just a little tiny bit closer.
Tonight I don't have to think about what I must read or write, and maybe I can start...
Here's the naughty part. I returned to the bookstore. I know, devilish. But I didn't just buy the book I need for next quarter, but one of the coveted anthologies of short fiction. A best of American... Now I have to say I did buy the 2003 collection (being way cheaper - on sale $5.99 instead of $14) I figure next year I can buy the 2004 version when it gets reduced... There were still a few left, of the "non-required reading", but I also had to laugh. The 2002 edition claimed to be a collection for people 25 and under... now, what happens when you become 26... or 36... or god forbid... 46? Do you stop
enjoying sexy short fiction? Do you somehow become out of touch with what you once were? Fuck. I hope not.
Then... I took my book and my music and I walked to the beach. I contemplated just changing into my swimsuit on the beach, not caring if anyone saw me naked in the few seconds between removing pants and donning swimsuit. My better judgment won today, but mostly because the water was "wicked" cold. Maybe not by NH standards, but enough to make a shiver run up my spine, perking my nipples and suggesting that today was not the day... If I were to die, that is, to end my life, it would be in water. Not a Woolfian river, it would have to be the ocean. I would swim out beyond the limits of reason, and just keep swimming. There was a story that I wanted to write once about a woman (not me _exactly_, but mostly) and a man. Not the ones that we might expect, but different ones, with a cat in common who was dying of feline AIDS... I didn't ever feel like doing the research on the feline illness and the story never emerged, despite encouragement from the aging Uruguayan poet that I met in Paraíso, and almost let myself fall in love with. I say almost, but really it was more like, I almost let him fall in love with me. Funny, later, after he moved, I ran into him at the Cineteca with a Japanese woman, a photographer, I think (no, not to be stereotypical) and I was glad that I never called on him again at his home. (Not because of her - she was cool, if a little flaky.)
No, my watery death would be like the end of "Cadáver a solas" (Agustín Cadena) which in terms of sheer power to change the course of my life, may be the most responsible. So very strange. The relation is not a direct one, and therefore, will not be explicated here, but let's leave it at the fact that its ending was so satisfyingly tragic that it pushed me over the edge of fear, leading me down a path of pleasure from which there was no return... And then my life did a sommersault.
And now, here I am again, right side up. Bobbing, wobbling, but still trying to maintain my balancing act. The island was a good place to sit today. It let the pain that has been waiting to manifest itself wash over me. I finally cried for the loss that I feel, the mourning a natural and useful step towards renewal.
I don't fool myself into beleiving that I am totally ok... just a little tiny bit closer.
Tonight I don't have to think about what I must read or write, and maybe I can start...
posted by ilana at 2:10 p.m.
2 Comments:
So, you read my book! Nice to find a reference here!
Claro! Y de alguna manera me propició mi primer intento novelístico. Es un decir porque es un libro que nunca escribí, ni el cuento, aunque ahora que lo pienso, creo que voy a escribir el cuento y te lo dedico ;)
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