Current contents of The Clear Folder a.k.a. Hallowed Companion for Summer
Class:
2 conversations between Jonathan Safran Foer and Robert Birnbaum
2 Amanda Palmer journal entries ("news from the crippled front" January 16,
2007 and "On Not Taking Home A Stranger" January 9, 2007)
10 pages of Friedrich Nietzsche
6 pages of Margaret Atwood
"Free Will: Now You Have It, Now You Don't" by Dennis Overbye for the
New York Times, January 2, 2007
"A LIST -- which I have no name for because I can't think of one" by Rachel
Lau
1 drawing of unidentified person with big smile, by Tania Chong
"Yours Truly's Timetable Schedule" by Lady Betty and evidently
invaded by Jude Nesbit
The Color Thing
(Queen of) Nostalgia strikes again. This clear folder is the same gray
transparent folder that I spray painted on, the home my first product of Clear
Color markers and black ink pens. Obviously, from the last three items on the
list, I never really cleared it out. All I did was refile the the then-school-related
things and replaced them with much more interesting reading material. They
were in need of filing anyway, I can't have Nietzsche lying around in this Very
Catholic House.
But just that bit of reading and the file is already full, so I have a bit of a
problem, what with summer class lasting a month, what with summer class
only starting a week ago, what with me having an odd attachment to the
folder leaving no room for replacement.
Articles related to author of The Book have proved to be indispensable, partly
because he has said so much of what I have ever wanted to express about
writing, partly because this the only way I will feel like I know him / have
talked to him. One day, I will.
One day, I will, I am going to, I have so much hope and belief in everything
that has not happened and does not exist, in the little or much time I have. To
rephrase and give an example: "being in love with the idea of love."
(paraphrased from a paragraph in The Book, excerpt of which can be found
under the cut in the second post from the bottom here)
The Ilocano dialect of the Philippines has three words for the word "this"
:
1) For things in view
2) For things not in view
3) For things that do not exist
And this is where the English language fails.
Asking around has not been productive because I keep getting the same
answer, "daytoy", which is a general "this", most probably first definition,
rather than the two other specific "this"s I am looking for.
Where else the English language fails:
Fernweh : (German) The deep desire to be somewhere else, far
away.
Toska : (Russian) "No single word in English renders all the shades of
toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual
anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache
of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague
restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire
for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest
level it grades into ennui, boredom." - Nabokov
Onsay : (Boro, an Indian dialect) To pretend to love
Ongubsy : (Boro, an Indian dialect) To love from the heart
Onsia : (Boro, an Indian dialect) To love for the last time
Litost : (Czech) A fusion of self-pity, regret and fear
I have more, if you are interested, I will tell you where I got them personally.
It feels somewhat odd to link it.
----------------
For the sake of my future self saying, "why did you never talk about what
really Happened to you, I get enough of your thoughts already!"
Dear me, at this time you are into the fifth week of summner vacation. You
started summer class last week, and have a girl named Tabatha in your class,
who made an incredibly ignorant speech of why she failed Social Studies: "I
mean, why do we have to study DEAD PEOPLE? It ain't important to me!"
But lately you found out that she only woke up on the wrong side of the bed
that day, so she is okay now. Paul is the boy your age who is one of the
biggest flirts you have ever met ("How big is your hand?" and then aligns it
with mine and attempts to lock fingers), Gideon is the odd boy who has
emo-boy hair but probably has no idea what that means and keyed in his
number in your cellphone, Ian is here albeit a week late and his genius-complex
is starting to annoy you again. The classroom is very warm (THE WEATHER
IS VERY WARM), without air-conditioning, but the corridor is a nice home to
wind eddies. Chris visited you after class last week on his bike. Last weekend
you slept over at Cara's house and consumed a million calories, excluding the
lunch at T.G.I. Friday's. You had some fun, missed the same people, the
feeling is less shocking but never gets any easier, counted airplanes, and are
thinking how you can make an airplane pendant for a necklace or dogtag,
because you cannot find it at the malls you have been to.
----------------
What books do you read? Are you into literature?
I am not very sure how to answer that first question. Do you mean, genres? I
was never good with genres. (I have filled the "Genre" column of my iTunes
list with the year the song or album was released.) How do people stick to
genres, confine themselves to such a tiny space when there is still such a vast
area of whatever to be acquainted with?
I could give you a list of the books I have read. I would be more than happy,
you sound interested and that is not very common anymore. A funny story: on
the second day of summer class, I was re-reading one of the conversations in
my folder while waiting for class to start. "Reading is considered an act of
self-improvement. Work. Homework. Probably something you are not smart
enough to do and enjoy. If just the act of reading were more present," I read,
a line from Jonathan; and right after that I looked up to find my teacher
standing nearby and he said, "What is that? Why are you reading, are you
studying?"
That has happened before, and when I say "I'm just reading because I want
to," I get a weird look.
But, that list would be nowhere near in showing all that has influenced my
writing and has inspired me to do so. (Assuming that the question was posed
for that reason.) All I can say about the books I read is that it always finishes
by taking something from me in exchange for what it gave. It's that slightly
breathless feeling when you finish a book, when you turn the rest of the blank
pages (or advertisments of the author / publisher, depending on the book. My
personal preference would be the blank pages.) to the back cover, close it, turn
it over to the front, and think about the whole book you've just digested while
staring blankly at the cover.
My The Book is Jonathan Safran Foer's "Everything Is Illuminated." I put a
link to an excerpt earlier on, and will leave you with that excerpt, because any
attempt to describe or worship this masterpiece will not even come close to
what it is worth. Jonathan Safran Foer breaks hearts beyond our own repair
(and then promptly does just that) for a living.
Novels, short stories, poetry, journals, philosophy, news and magazine articles.
I read everything. If you're interested, there are some very awesome places
online...
In English class,
my very fab English teacher taught us, according to the
syllabus, that prose appealed to the mind, and poetry to the heart. I didn't
exactly agree because it was such a defined line separating the two. The
writings I read easily fall in both categories.
An explanation for inspiration would be incredibly futile. The word "inspiration"
comes from "inspirare", Latin, meaning "to be breathed into". How would one
explain what keeps her breathing, feeling, seeing, being? Forget scientific
analysis (something amazing just happened: as I wrote the phrase before this
parentheses,
Natasha Bedingfield sang "questions of science, science in
progress, do not speak as loud as my heart" through my speakers. I live
for moments such as these, really.) of any sort, Science can not explain how
one lives on through others after death, how would one explain what drives her
to creation, everything we do is creation, reading a book is creation, Picasso
said "Everything you can image is real", destruction is creation, how would one
explain how
an apple rolling onto the road inspired the ending to a
story, and how would one explain how even something that does not
exist is inspiration? "Everything you can imagine is real."
You should be a writer.
Thank you for that. I have been thinking a lot about that lately, because these
years are definitely not passing by any slower. I need to decide, because it
may or may not make a dent in my parents' decision on where to go for my
mother's next assignment (which is late next year). I thought I had already
narrowed down my choices to the different writing courses, but the thought of
going into serious art just keeps knocking on my skull at regular intervals to
make sure its presence is not forgotten. And Hugh Jackman on Inside the
Actor's Studio just backed that up lately, describing the arts school where he
took his course in theatre. This is really not fair.
Help, anyone? Writing is only thrilling when I can come up with something. I
am constantly distracted by the thought of having a dead-end desk writing job,
slumped in an old chair, staring at the computer screen, thinking of how to start
an obituary; half-hoping to be able to surprise myself and the public with a
haiku so amazing it will land me in a publisher-sponsored white empty
apartment with agents waiting for me to write my next masterpiece.
Me and Art (this would include photography) would have the same situation,
except imagine my grubby basement-turned-living-quarters, newspaper spread
on the floor half-coated with every single shade of every color of paint, art
paraphernalia everywhere, paper paint glue pencils crayons markers scissors
pens gift-wrapping paper more and more and more paper canvas several easels
several tables lyrics hastily written on paper dried flower petals cameras empty
film canisters patterns on walls photographs on walls drawings on walls ... ...
With me in one corner, face lit up by the dim glow of a computer screen,
complaining about my shitty
pseudo manqué-artist life into this very
journal.
Oskar, how about something that will manifest our thoughts when we fail to do
so ourselves? Here is a blank white wall, here is a clean sheet of white paper.
Take what's in my mind and paste it there, my hands don't do enough of a
good job.
Maybe that's too much, though. What if we had a machine that could transport
us anywhere in the universe, at any time, Oskar? Something a la The Glass
Elevator, except with really good ventilation. Inspiration is everywhere, and
the very grand problem is, we aren't.
Post anything that you want. A secret, a confession, a fear, a love, your
opinion about me...anything, but be sure to post anonymously and honestly.
