September 1, 2008 Flowers, for me? Well I do declare, Mr. Beauregard. You are my Hero.
I have to say I was incapable of waking up at seven, but I’m entirely proud to have made it on time, still, even before half capacity. I think I shall never miss another of Neil’s lecture again. He makes three pages of noteworthy, pseudo-cryptic talk and comments like “Assignment details at 10:31am” for flavour. Or maybe I attended because it was a Márquez lecture. Whatever it is, Neil is saving me from the irreparable depths of theory. Sometimes it’s hard to remember, (or perhaps more accurately) easy to forget the road back to the aesthetic, form and unfamiliarity. The word of the day is: Rhapsodic.
I like it, and if I may be so bold to say, could almost immerse in its metaphorical entirety, of plague, black flags, cargo ships suspended in dilapidated tributaries of time and space. In spite of the weight of an ocean resting above my head, I was just guessing the numbers and figures, pulling the puzzles apart. Questions of science, science and progress; do not speak as loud as my heart. Urbino had to die. Neil said much of it is a post-apocalyptic condition or context but I think it also becomes prelapserian at the same time, in a poignant, iridescent way. Then he read one of my favourite pages, among other things; and to hear them first thing in the morning was like watching a fortuitous butterfly land at my feet with perfect, immaculate grace. (#Abrupt Interjection: I’m in the canteen now and I’m about to lose my hearing from the overwhelming (and awkward) Americanized commentary from Sounds of the Underground, from the Underground? Or something like that. I don’t like. You guys are too fucking shrill okay? And the answer of the game is Coldplay’s Yellow.) Of Neil’s reading, it reminds me of a girl I saw, reading a passage from a book to a boy while I was in the store one afternoon. And it reminds me of good things, happy things.
Joyce says, “I’m going to join a writing contest, I need cash.”
They’re playing Stockholm Syndrome now, and that’s the only good thing I’ve heard so far this afternoon (+Orgiastic solo means yes.) Craig’s wife is a lost case, another Lady Audley. John Boles reminds me of Clark Gable (with that pervert ‘stache) but I think I prefer Boles. He does look the part of one being in love. Sadly, I’m not quite sure what I’m supposed to make out of the cinematography, except notice how much vaseline they’ve used on the lens to make Mad Harriet look exquisitely sane. There’s something about female hysteria that makes everyone overtly sensitive, like the Freudian penis envy or a Cixousian signification of unmarked writing in the form of the Body, or breast milk, or Medusa’s orgasm…somewhere along those lines. By overt, I think I could mean mildly ridiculous at some point. Why so serious?
I don’t know if I can cope. I listen to Faulkner and it feels like I can’t anymore. Alice takes my mind off momentarily, I can only hope for the weekend to come. Line 549 from Milton, for no particular reason, perhaps to end with a subtle musicality to what has been three and a half paragraphs of so much less and more:
Anon they move
In perfect phalanx, to the Dorian mood
Of flutes and soft recorders.