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[28 Oct 2009|09:39pm] |
I had way too much fun with picnik today, making myself a vampire with jacked up fangs.
Before:
AFTER!
( Read more... )
I look so forced when I smile; maybe it's because I have big teeth.
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| Battle of the Beards: Tolstoy vs. Dostoevsky |
[28 Apr 2009|07:20pm] |
vs.
I just reread The Kreutzer Sonata. My own copy is in the hands of a certain ex-manager of a certain coffee shop. I read it when I was 17, and never thought much of it. I read Anna Karenina and didn't think much of it. War and Peace frightened me and bringing myself to purchase it was an amazing psychological experience. I had just finished my summer Turkish program and desperately needed another undertaking to stave off immense boredom. While pacing around the bookstore, I decided to bite the literary bullet and heaved War and Peace from off the shelf. The physical dimensions of the novel are comparable only to the Rosetta Stone. I dragged it to the register and attempted to place it lightly, discreetly on the counter, and I immediately avoided eye contact with the sales associate. I eyed my escape through a gaggle of old hags who were preventing my ability to abscond upon receiving my change. I was interrupted by a cheerful, "Find everything alright?" I looked at her out of the corner of my eyes and said, "Yes." I was certain that she gave me a questioning look, as though no one like me would ever be interested in Tolstoy or perhaps she thought I suffered from ADHD because of the way my eyes were shifting around the store. I wanted to tell her that I had just learned Turkish and was therefore capable of everything short of conquering Vienna -- if the Turks could never do that small task, neither could I.
I'm trying very hard to not quote Napoleon right now, but fuck it: If you start to take Vienna -- take Vienna! The Turks should have hired Napoleon.
I read half of War and Peace and tossed it aside soon after for something French, I'm sure. Now it sits under a small statue of Buddha wearing a Hizballah necklace. Make of that what you will, but I've never been fond of Tolstoy. I am more impressed with his biography than bibliography. There's something so self-righteous about composing 1,000 page novels. I've said it before and I'll say it again: you know the whole story of the Titanic sinking because it hit some rogue iceberg? False. I'm convinced that someone brought War and Peace on board.
Tolstoy is my ideal St. Francis figure, not unlike myself in 40 years. Hell, what about Quinton Compton? I wrote an essay for fun about St. Francis allusions in The Sound and the Fury that was the result of painstaking research on Francis' life, as well as some poking around on the Catholic Encyclopedia. Anyway, I'm trying very hard to understand my relationship with Tolstoy. After reading This Side of Paradise, I learned to praise his forehead and brooding brow, his sex diary and penchant for serf women. I also didn't know whether to spell his name with an 'i' or a 'y' at the end. Too much effort; I'm a lazy person, a descendant of peasants myself, so it's quite natural. I can't decide which spelling is less pretentious, or if speaking of Tolsto_ is the epitome of pretension. After much self-reflection, I believe that I like Tolstoy in other authors' works. I liked The Unbearable Lightness of Being, for instance. Or my personal favorite, in Bukowski's Tales of Ordinary Madness, there is a mention of a character who, after failing to be able to please himself orally, picks up War and Peace, because why the hell not? And, like I said, the honorable mention in This Side of Paradise.
I haven't got the musculature of mind and arm to finish War and Peace. I think another issue in my relationship with Tolstoy is that I'm a Dostoevsky devotee. I'll never forget reading Crime and Punishment when I was 16 and how it overtook my entire body. Hunched over it in study hall, I distinctly remember the line, "Thought tortures me." When Raskolnikov fell ill, I was even more ill. Soon after, I resolved to read every novel that Dostoevsky had written. In case anyone is curious, I got as far as The Brothers Karamazov, Demons, The Idiot, and Notes from Underground. I read the first one in between my breaks while I was taking the SAT. I did terribly on the SAT, but that's beside the point. Notes is quite possibly one of the most hysterical things I've ever read, and just to ensure this as fact, I skimmed it a few moments ago and indeed, I lol'ed.
Tolstoy's Kreutzer Sonata mystifies me. Like others I'm sure, I question the necessity of the other man in the conversation with Pozdnyshev. Why can't P.'s ideas serve as a monologue? I have all sorts of unarticulated thoughts regarding the public, the newspaper's account of the trial and murder, the concept of confessing, but again, why? There is a lack of scenery and backdrop in the novel. Consistent with Tolstoy's role as Jesus Freak, the story is very much like Christian literature, like Pascal, in that it is a man confronted with himself alone. I'm wondering if P.'s point of view is supposed to be a criticism of modernity. The very conversation is happening on a train, after all. He praises peasants, the marriage falls a part after the move to 'town,' contraception is horrible, etc. Really, I found this entire thing a misogynistic mess, but I'm willing to accept this criticism of 'feminine society.' Besides, I despise marriage.
Barring the fact that Dostoevsky was an anti-semite, he always wins because his books never sunk ships and never led me to physical pain due to its sheer mass. And the first paragraph of Notes is worth a kingdom alone. Perhaps this is the problem -- I find no humor in Tolstoy. Plus, Rousseau's Confessions would K.O. Tolstoy's Confessions in a cage match, let's be honest. I use his novels as paper weights or more appropriately, door-stops. They offer my bookshelf legitimacy to the untrained eye and I can lift War and Peace and Anna Karenina when I can't make it to the gym. Tolstoy and I, we have a relationship of convenience. The thrill is gone, and I'm more happy in a love triangle with Verlaine and Rimbaud. I'd prefer to be shot in the wrist than stabbed below the ribs.
War and Peace Facts:
1. There is no theory of evolution. Just a list of creatures War and Peace has allowed to live.
2. War and Peace does not sleep. It waits.
3. War and Peace counted to infinity. Twice.
4. War and Peace can lead a horse to water AND make it drink.
5. When War and Peace does a push-up, it isn't lifting itself up, it's pushing the earth down.
Tolstoy is like that kid at the playground who punches you and then runs to his mom crying and says it was your fault, while you're kind of just sitting there on the ground, utterly confused and wondering if it really is your fault. Then you realize it isn't, but it's too late because your mom is already dragging you by the arm back to the car.
Tolstoy, we're breaking up. You keep the kids, all 93748473 of them, while I go slumming with Fyodor behind the stables. I leave you with a quote from Chekhov because it illustrates what is missing with Tolstoy and why I need a man who makes me laugh:
Medvedenko: Why do you always wear black?
Masha: I'm in mourning for my life.
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| a closed letter |
[21 Apr 2008|02:39pm] |
True friends stab you in the front.
I've had some grand illusions in my life. I've imagined myself as a poet, an ex-revolutionary, a potential national security threat, and a great historian. In my less than proud moments, I'm nothing. But, do you remember the last line of This Side of Paradise?
"I know myself and that is all."
I am confidant that while I currently attribute the world's crises to a lack of water and warmer weather, and that while I may not know everything, I know myself. It's a big fucking world, and I haven't even seen shit and the places I've been can only serve as a microcosm of the rest of it. I'm certain, however, that London is not the center of the world, no matter how you spin it.
The problem is, however, that it is the center of your world. And you're obsessed with dual images and personalities and metamorphoses as you traverse the Atlantic, but in reality, you're just confused and you don't know where you fit in. Istanbul has a population of 10,291,102. London has a population of 7,512,400. I found my place in Istanbul, and I was there for 3 months. And guess what? It's a hell of a lot bigger, it's a hell of a lot harder, and I had to change languages, and all you have to do is put on a phony accent and pretend that you're British because you can't deal with the fact that you are an American. Sure, you get shit from your friends and everyone can laugh about it. But in the Middle East, in Turkey, anti-Americanism is fucking real. So I can't really hear any excuse about that other than your own insecurities.
I'm tired of you holding Ohio on a supposed pedastol when all you do is ignore the truth about it. We are Ohio for you; Ryan, JM, Dustin, me, your family. But we are not stuck in some sort of pastoral, static fantasy that you can escape to when you feel like it. Why? We change, we've all changed. You have, too, and for the worse. I've said this before, and I was serious then, and I'm serious now and more angry than sad that I am forced t say it again. You are immature and ignorant. I don't give a fuck about who you know, and I'm tired of drowning in your endless verbal nonsense of first names and narcotics. Everytime you open your mouth, nothing of worth comes out. It's how fucked up you were or who did what and who is fucking whom in London. Guess what? You are no better than the frat boys who talk about their kegger for weeks afterward and how much beer they drank and how hungover they are. No fucking difference.
Do you honestly think that I find your life so damn fascinating and wonderful because you lead it in London? That you can get away with talking at me and others, rather than having an actual conversation? You just wait for the chance to mention London, you don't listen to anything that anyone has to say. You are the most self-centered person I know. When we were at ZenCha, you didn't ask Huma a single fucking question about who she is and what she does. You didn't care. And she is the single most brilliant individual in my acquaintance, not to mention my best friend. And you didn't care. But, I'll be damned if I didn't make an effort when Lloyd was here or when I spent time with Jack. Did I ask them about what it's like to be in London? NO. I asked them about their studies, about their families, their character, their interests outside of a club. And you couldn't even shut up for 5 seconds to care about the person sitting to the left of you because you were to be busy trying to impress her -- no -- YOURSELF to give a damn. Huma has lived in Dubai, New Delhi, London, Damascus, and has traveled to places that you've only seen paintings of. And she had a British accent before you even dreamt of moving there.
You need a reality check. A big one. Because you graduate next year, and you have no internship, no plans. I doubt your parents are going to pay for you to stay in your shitty shoebox you call home. You think you can go to graduate school? I'll tell you now that you do not have the discipline or focus to make it. Maybe, just maybe, with a little amphetimine you'll manage. But I doubt it.
It pains me that you still consider me your soulmate. I can tell you that you are not my soulmate. Maybe I'm still yours, but that speaks volumes of the people that you call your friends if you haven't met anyone that you relate to better, that you see daily, and so forth. I have. You clearly haven't. It's pretty clear that we have nothing in common. But you wouldn't know that because you don't bother to hold an actual conversation with me. You talk at me like I give a damn about MDMA and neo-naturalism. And I shut down completely. And this is the difference this time around. I'm aware of it. I know we aren't really friends. This is not friendship. Me and JM? That's friendship. Me and Huma? Friendship. I don't think you know what that is anymore.
Even though I knew this, and have been pretty damn sure of it since December, you seem to ignore it. But, guess what, I have repeatedly made the effort. I made the effort to go to London when I didn't need to. And I made the effort when I was ill to go to Paris. You made the effort to get ready and go to a club. You made the effort to see me when you were crashing from your high. You made the effort to accuse me of eating your pesto when I hadn't eaten for days, and you made the effort to tell us that we would miss our flight. But you couldn't quite make the effort to actually contact us when we went to Oxford St. that night because Jack fucking texted you that night when we were at KFC. And when Jack and I returned, we were in his room with the door open, and I saw you walk by. You don't make any effort unless it benefits you. You, you, you, you. It's all about you, isn't it?
You could've made the effort to get out of your car last night and say goodbye, but you didn't. You made the effort to come to Cincinnati, but you didn't make any effort to salvage our fucking relationship the entire time we were together. I spared 25 dollars and a pack of cigarettes, but will you give me 1,000 dollars for my fucking airfare? You take, and you take without asking, but you don't give shit. You don't pay it back and you sure as hell don't pay it forward.
My question to you is, why come back at all? Why did you come here for a root canal? If you can get cortizone shots in London, surely they have dental services. Why did you blame your jet lag? It's bullshit. It's because you didn't have your precious drugs for a few days and your body is trying to adjust. Why are we so fucking dull that you had to risk your personal safety to retrieve a few pills? Why did we even wait for you?
I pity you. You are lost and trapped and you don't even realize it. You are fucking yourself over so badly with your attitude and your outlook on life. You think you're at the cultural center of the world, and that you're so free and brilliant? You're not; you're in a fucking bubble. It's a shame. But I remember the first time I ever talked to you and you told me that you were good at using people. Congratulations. You are damn good at it, but what will you do when those people become smarter and better at it than you?
I'm tired of these traditions and this pageantry because I can't do it; I just don't care. Why should I be ashamed of myself and furthermore, ashamed for you and your shitty disposition? You don't even consider the consquences; do you know how much it will cost your mother because you had to call London for 2 hours? To do what? What did you talk about? Drugs? Drainpipes? How you would sell your soul to be at Nuke them All? Great. I would've sold my soul to be studying in my apartment at that very moment.
You're so concerned with taking it to the next level, well why don't you heed your own advice and grow the fuck up.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rayban_wayfarers
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[14 Apr 2008|03:48pm] |
My night shall be remembered for a star
That outshone all the suns of all men's days.
Shall I not crown them with immortal praise
Whom I have loved, who have given me, dared with me
High secrets, and in darkness knelt to see
The inenarrable godhead of delight?
Love is a fame: -- we have beaconed the world's night.
A city: -- and we have built it, these and I.
An emporer: -- we have taught the world to die.
So, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence,
And the high cause of Love's magnificence,
And to keep loyalties young, I'll write those names
Golden for ever, eagles, crying flames,
And set them as a banner, that men may kow,
To dare the generations, burn, and blow
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[16 Mar 2008|01:18pm] |
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لا احب عربية بسبب صعب جداً
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| ich will; ich kann alles. |
[12 Mar 2008|06:14pm] |
I was at the library until midnight, went home, stayed up until 7 a.m., went to bed and woke up an hour later, went back to the library until 3 p.m., went to class, and I want to die.
I have no food and no money and sold The Pinochet File for $2.50 after class. I pulled that and some quarters to get cigarettes.
I hope I get at least an A- on my essay, but I feel like it was total shit and I'll do worse than I did last time.
I have to read 4 books now and prepare an outline for my 15 page paper due on Friday. jwoieruw8o35urekjrksfjsklereklrjjjjjjjj.
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| i fly like paper, get high like planes. |
[10 Mar 2008|10:09pm] |
I've decided to join the CIA after reading an incredibly depressing report on covert operations in Chile during the Pinochet regime. And I've simultaneously become an anarchist? I'll delete this asap so as not to ruin my chances with the CIA in the next few years.
Viva Marxismo?
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| is your heart made out of stone, or is it lime, or is just solid rock? |
[06 Mar 2008|09:43pm] |
Skipped Arabic, spent all day at the library correcting my Research Proposal and making an outline of my thesis. I came home, opened up a bottle of merlot, cleaned up, and kept procrastinating. I will do work eventually (it's more sincere if I type it out).
JM is coming tomorrow! I can't wait, but I've already warned him that this weekend is nothing but homework and hell. And also lots of alcohol and cigarettes.
Here is a bunch of pictures of my apartment so you can live through me vicariously, if you feel like it. And some other random ones. I need to renew my lease soon. I miss Paris and Istanbul.
( Read more... )
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[04 Mar 2008|11:33pm] |
Hillary winning Ohio just made my night; our state has it right! Now back to the Cuban Revolution and my all night essay-fest.
This goes out to my girl:
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[03 Mar 2008|09:34am] |
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صباح الخير
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| visions of johanna |
[24 Jan 2008|04:32pm] |
Why do I ever stop listening to Bob Dylan? I own almost every one of his albums, and yet, I will go for months without hearing the Freewheelin' or Blood on the Tracks. I'm a faithful sort of person, so I do return and it's mostly when something is missing, when I'm unsatisfied, or when I'm sad. I can't stop listening to Blonde on Blonde and dreaming about being his muse.
I learned that my real last name is Sefczik and that my father's side of the family is actually Czech.
I've been damn sick the past few days, and Huma is bringing me dinner. I wish I could have a cigarette without feeling like hell afterward.
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[06 Jan 2008|02:41am] |
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It's about time Hillary blatantly attacked Obama on his resume, which proved to be quite simple since it's shorter than mine. Every damn word she said was true. His campaign manager is a lobbyist for drug companies, he's voted 'present' more times than 'yay' or 'nay,' and rhetoric means absolutely nothing. I hope that Obama supports stop chugging the change kool-aid long enough to realize the horrifying consequence of Obama being the Democratic nominee. Additionally, I find it quite convenient that the true blue populist Edwards was balancing himself on Obama's balls and has officially gone against his original campaign message of being positive in favor of another potential vice presidental nomination; dream big, buddy. I've read reports from the NY Times, Washington Post, Concord Monitor, and the Boston Globe; thankfully, they acknowledge Hillary's brilliant performance. She took a risk tonight, and losing in IA was the best thing to happen to her. She was finally able to put her guard down, and question the hollow nature of Obama's campaign. Honestly, how naive are we going to be? I cannot stand that my generation is so overwhelmingly ignorant as to support this absentee Senator and not look deeper into the issues. Hillary was the only candidate to say recession. And let's be realistic, if anyone else watched the Republican debates, whoever the nominee is, particularly Romney or McCain, they are going to blow Obama out of the water. Either of them are far more qualified to be the president than this guy. I'm also disgusted by reports of Hillary being "shrill" or "erratic" or "raising her voice." God forbid a woman be passionate, else she is portrayed as overly emotional or unstable, while a man is viewed as fiery or regal or taking a stand. Maybe this country is not prepared for a woman president.
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| donedonedone |
[20 Dec 2007|10:54pm] |
That's it. Khalas. I'm fucking done. Now back to reality. To the fact that I've fucked up, to the fact that I killed my GPA this quarter by getting an F in Phys. Anthro. It's now at a 3.2, which isn't bad but is going to take forever to raise.
Seriously, what is wrong with the past few months? They've been the worst that I've endured for awhile now, and to think that things might improve? I sure fucking hope so.
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| yoldaşım! |
[12 Dec 2007|10:01pm] |
I leave tomorrow afternoon and will return to my beloved şehir, Istanbul, on Friday morning. I am crossing my fingers for a smooth trip, void of Long Island overnights and meal vouchers, and hope for a long, long nap on the way induced by wine and xanax and Spanish novels.
Hoşça kal arkadaşlarım!
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| til the birds return for spring cleaning |
[09 Dec 2007|07:26pm] |
I used to have a sign above my bed that said Princeton. At the time, it reminded me that if I wanted to go to Princeton, that I would have to wake up at 6.30 every morning to make it to German class on time. It sufficed; I only missed 3 days. That was also 2 years ago, and since then I've lost Princeton ambition.
I'm used to telling others that they're good enough for what they want to accomplish. I've constantly reassured Huma that she will get into NYU or MIT or the year long Arabic program in Damascus, and I've told Karen that she's got wonderful things ahead of her after graduation, to not worry. I believe in them more than myself. I surround myself with brilliant people, but when I'm alone I'm nothing. Without other people to tell me who I am, I don't even know.
I'm tired of being the nonchalant scholar who praises her supposed intelligence, but fails physical anthropology, ignores deadlines, and drinks vodka before noon. I bullshit research proposals to get 2 grand so I can visit my friends for 2 weeks in London and Paris and get drunk in Istanbul again.
I want to believe in myself, but I don't know myself anymore.
I wish I was in my apartment again, reading "Self-Reliance" to Huma, and believing every word. Or perhaps 3 years ago, reading it with Kendall and then scrawling its words in gold spraypaint on the bridge in Delaware. Do not seek yourself outside yourself.
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| slow night, so long |
[17 Nov 2007|10:12pm] |
I just spend the past 4.5 hours studying Arabic, mostly catching up on vocabulary. Now I'm officially exhausted and contemplating bed at 10.14 pm on a Saturday night.
Last night, Huma brought over a few Indian dishes and we ate and drank vodka and watched a few films. She slept on the couch, and in the afternoon we prepared for, yes, the Michigan/OSU game. We won, of course; the only football game I've watched for a year.
In less than a month, I'll be back in Istanbul. I can't believe it! I'm starting to get nervous -- thinking about how I'm going to find the hostel, worrying about my luggage (I can only take one large suitcase, and it needs to resemble some sort of duffle bag; it needs to be worn on my shoulder because I am not lugging a wheeled suitcase through Taksim), and everything else. Of course, I'm also excited, but now I'm mostly anxious.
Tomorrow, I must begin work on physical anthropology and do more Arabic. I've been boycotting class the past week or so. I didn't attend geography at all this week and haven't gone to phys. anth. in 2.5 weeks. I couldn't make it on Tuesday because I was too drunk; class was at 11! That's awful. Additionally, I've halted my research until this winter. I may work on it during Thanksgiving, but I doubt it. I'll have too much to do as it is.
I can't believe that the mob still exists. I wonder if there's ever been comparative work on low crime and high crime, or differences between interworkings of street gangs and more elite crime syndicates. Yeah, good night.
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[02 Nov 2007|08:59pm] |
flectere si nequeo superos, Achaeronta movebo
If I cannot move heaven, I will raise hell. Virgil
Agreed.
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[15 Oct 2007|09:54pm] |
I'm thinking about cutting my hair? y/y?
P.S. I'm flying to London now on the 16th arriving at like 11.45 am, and then we have to go to paris that same day cos i need to do research n shit.
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kissingverlaine's journal