You are currently browsing the category archive for the ‘complaints’ category.
So people, what’s happening? I can tell you. Spring has sprung and oh my day, what a nuisance. People are walking around smiling. For nothing I’m sure, except that the sun is out. They gaze at the roof tiles glistening in the sunshine from their office windows and cram themselves into nasty little parks with their prêt sandwiches and sushi on their lunch hour. I have nothing against sunshine per se, it is just depressing to see how people let weather control their lives. Evenings are better here in da hood. The sun sinks below the buildings and the air, vibrant with car fumes, fills with smells of the Mediterranean as the Greek restaurants open up their doors to the world: “Come, come, souvlaki and tzaziki awaits you. Meze with ouzo, with wine, red and white. Come, come, let us relive our old nights of bacchanalias” I ignored their calling, went home and made porridge instead (to the great delight of my bank balance) but had to chuck it because the milk had gone stale. Isn’t life grand?
I’m trying to get on with my work (it is only three or four weeks left now, I have stopped counting) but I keep getting distracted. First I was slightly inconvenienced by Easter. I’m not complaining, not at all, it was a marvellous Easter. But more in the shopping-dinner-park-pub kind of way than in the intelligible-relevant-words-producing way, which is the only activity I should be engaged in. Then I watched the BBC-biopic of Enid Blyton which has kept me upset for a few days. Not because it shattered my childhood delusion of Enid Blyton as a Mary Poppins like creature of flawless character, no because it shattered my adulthood delusions of the absolute ingenuity of the BBC. I get that they want to tell the ‘untold’ story, draw out the dark secrets, tell the truth behind success etc etc. But no one, I mean no one, deserves to have a film made about them where they are portrayed so narrow and unsympathetically. Satan himself would have been treated with more consideration. Appalling, BBC, appalling.
The one good thing was to see Helena Bonham Carter (who I don’t hold responsible at all) back in her old style a la Merchant/Ivory.
Finally, to the most disturbing thing I happened upon. Collateral Murder. I have no words. It makes me want to dig a hole in the ground, crawl down and never surface again.
Hello dear blog, do you think someone timed our tutorial week with the Winter Olympics on purpose? Like someone actually wants me to fail? No of course not, but pretty typical huh? It is also at times like these that one grieves that one is not in one’s Home Country. Here, no one seems to be particularly interested in what goes on in Vancouver. Except the sports that aren’t really sports at all, like luge and ski jump (it’s funny how TV here tries to sell the winter games trough brain scans of head injuries). I am trying not to get too caught up in it, or in anything else except school work. It’s going…uhm, not so well.
On the reading front I have just finished If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller, which is the kind of book I used to love. I think Calvino might even have played a tiny part in my decision to do an English degree (actually, that’s a complete lie. I don’t think there ever was a decision being made about that. If there was, I sure wasn’t there when it happened). Reading it now, again, makes me realise how much I have changed as a reader. Gone is the curiosity, the naïveté, the wish to be impressed by the book. Now I’m critical, judgemental and trying more to impress myself and others with my reading. What used to be an intimate relationship between a book and a reader, quietly seated opposite each other, is now a chaotic dance party where both the book and the reader is drowning in loud beats and overwhelming commotion. It’s a crowded dance with contexts Historical, Cultural and Political. Arrhythmical shouts of recommended readings, essay-questions, course-criteria and grade requirements fill the air around us. Deconstruct relatively, psychoanalyse pragmatically, romanticise inconsistently, all of us are raving uncontrollably. Think, don’t think, think again, respond, react, compare, contrast, extract value, apply value. Don’t let stylistic flair deceive you, always be critical. But hey now, wait a minute. What if I want to be deceived, to be tricked, to be fooled? All this criticism, bordering on scepticism, bordering on destructivism. I don’t want to hear of narrative techniques, gender biases or underlying sexual repression. Ignorance is bliss. Leave me and my book alone.
(It is such sights I want to dream of also, regardless of the poet being gay, or mad, or antisemitic. I want to be able to see such scenes mirrored in the glassy lake without Jakobson or Lacan splashing around the water to ruin its effect by explaining how the effect is achieved. I want…actually, now I started picturing Freud hopping around that lake, pretty funny. Ok, Freud is allowed for comedy value only.)