Monday, 17 November 2008

The Smiths!

Oh, how could I forget?!





I decree today that life is simply taking and not giving
England is mine and it owes me a living
Ask me why and I'll spit in your eye
Ask me why and I'll spit in your eye
But we cannot cling to the old dreams any more
No we cannot clings to those dreams
Does the body rule the mind
or does the mind rule the body
I don't know
Under the iron bridge we kissed
And although I ended up with sore lips
It just wasn't like the old days any more
No it wasn't like those days
Am I still ill?
Am I still ill?
Does the body rule the mind
or does the mind rule the body?
I don't know.
Ask me why and I'll die
Ask me why and I'll die
And if you must go to work tomorrow
Well if I were you I wouldn't bother
There are brighter sides to life
And I should know because I've seen them
But not often
Under the iron bridge we kissed
And although I ended up with sore lips
It just wasn't like the old days any more
No it wasn't like those days
Am I still ill?
Am I still ill?

Thursday, 13 November 2008

Largely unrelated.




I am most anxious to enlist everyone who can speak or write to join in checking this mad, wicked folly of "Women's Rights," with all its attendant horrors... Were women to "unsex" themselves by claiming equality with men, they would become the most hateful, heathen, and disgusting of beings and would surely perish without male protection.
Queen Victoria, 1870


Haha!

Geeks bearing gifts ...

I got a B on my Muses exam. That's just about acceptable, I'd say.

I don't have many words, but I have things to look at.

Carl Spitzweg, The poor poet

(The resemblance to the way I've nested myself into my bed with my scripts and books in order to study for the exam on Monday is uncanny. I wish I had a green stove and I am tempted to hang an umbrella under my ceiling!)


Carl Spitzweg, The hypochondriac


Carl Spitzweg, The bookworm


Carl Spitzweg, The butterfly hunter

Just to bring a little cheery, cheeky atmosphere into these grey metropolitan days, and relativise our own biedermeier graveness/quaintness with satirical images of it!
It's a fact that nothing ever really changes. It's just hard to make up one's mind if that's a good or a bad thing.
It's so puzzling where music comes from. The emergence of amazing music from nigh unexpected sources has revolutionary potential.
How can I let the scales grow again?

Tuesday, 11 November 2008

Questionable.


Back in summer.


Back with curls.

As far as I'm concerned ...

You can either live life, or dream life. The former will feel spectacular at the moment you're experiencing it, but it will hollow you out and leave you with a stale taste, and empty hands. The latter will mean you're bored most of the time, but will leave you with a beautiful catalogue of glittering, fake memories which will be hard to refute.



A city romance for two moping expatriates -
Eyes meeting across a crowded city square.
Cigarettes hanging from mouths being flicked onto kerbsides.
Mutual, mute recognition.

Two facts I'm trying to get my head round with difficulty:

1. Just because you care about nothing but knowledge, it does not make you an intelligent person.
2. Just because you're incredibly social and likeable, it does not make you a nice person.

Again a manifestation of the axiom that things are not only not what they seem, they're also not what they are. I am not sure how.

Saturday, 8 November 2008

Extended Reading on Ida Pfeiffer

For Alex:
I've found out that some of her works are available in English on Project Gutenberg:
'Ave a look!
Obviously it's very unromantic to read books online, but maybe quite handy to get a first taste. In any case, yes, there are translations! :)

Thursday, 6 November 2008

Victory!



MY LAURELS! MIIIIINE!!
Muahahaha.



And I shall call it ... La Nouvelle Domesticité!

I write uneducated lovesongs.

Historical Schmistorical!
Oh why am I so underwhelmed?
Oh why am I so disenthused?

Maybe because 1 day of cleaning and 1 day of 7 machines full of laundry do your head in and kill any emergent original thought in the bud?

I found a radio amongst the debris of my flatmate's room, and spent the afternoon listening to Ö1. Radio is good for you.
So belatedly, I caught up on the latest news on the election and Mr. Obama's triumph (finding it slightly ridiculous how the entire world is behaving like an amorous teenage fangirl towards him - it's sad how extraordinary we find the fact that a halfway reasonable and sensible person gets elected for an important political office ... shouldn't that be the norm?)
Also, I learned something about Ida Pfeiffer, who seems to have been an admirable person. She was a woman from Biedermeier Vienna who travelled the world, and wrote about it. It sounds almost boring written down like this, but it was obviously an immense achievement, considering her time, her sex, her circumstances. She also was friends with Alexander von Humboldt. :)




Zeitgenossen beschrieben Ida Pfeiffer als eine kleine, schmale Person von leicht gebeugter Haltung, mit langsamen, kontrollierten Bewegungen. Sie verfügte über eine robuste Gesundheit und war ungewöhnlich ausdauernd. Sie urteilte nüchtern und fasste, wenn nötig, rasche Entschlüsse. Im persönlichen Umgang war sie so zurückhaltend, dass es schon genauerer Kenntnis bedurfte, um ihre abenteuerlichen Reisen glaubhaft zu finden. Obwohl sie viele Jahre ihres Lebens auf höchst unkonventionelle Art verbrachte, hatte sie über die eigentliche Rolle der Frau in der Gesellschaft absolut konventionelle Ansichten. Auf gelegentliche Gesprächspartner wirkte sie „wie eine tüchtige Hausfrau, die über ihre häuslichen Angelegenheiten nie hinausgekommen war“.


Whatever that means, it sounds strangely appealing. I like it when people do amazing things without making a great fuss about it.

Unrelatedly, I like the band. But it's all so relative, and nothing special is in my life or in my person compared to all you beautiful birds of paradise, who effortlessly know how to think and act and love like you were born simply to be adored.

Tuesday, 4 November 2008

Brilliant.

Well, I wish I was as switch-on-and-off-able as some people seem to think I am.

Monday, 3 November 2008

Flowchart for the Afterlife


Early Modern Christian Art is fun!

These dreams are made of twine.

Shite-poetry written during the Ladytron concert. My mind was elsewhere, it seems.

How do you break the rules when there are no rules?
How do you find your way when you're neither here nor there?
When nothing matters, who will mind when it breaks?
You've got no grip on me as long as I can't touch you.
Are we truly two ends of a spectrum, between us only Foucault on a power slide?
Oscillating mildly with no definite direction, no ambition to sign this with our blood?
My blood is ink
Your pulse is metre
These sheets are pages
What could be sweeter?
We're going into press tonight, with illiterate delights.
Written down means left unspoken.
Boneless spines too can be broken.


It's no good, of course. I don't mind though. Let your criticism be harsh and cruel.


Why does Michel Foucault look so much like Moby?

Sunday, 2 November 2008

Bona-Party ...

I have to say, I dig this song:




And this one too:




But I'm not going to the concert.


"You know politics, I know party-chicks."

Saturday, 1 November 2008

Bloomsbury.

If only ...





They lived in squares, wrote in circles and loved in triangles.