Complicated

There is something about this evening that is uncanny.

I learnt that word in a Prac Crit class - see what Cambridge does to you!

Uncanny. Freudian. Homely - not. Definitely not.

I've smoked a cigarette, with coffee. Attempting to be and enact the stereotype that everyone loves but it's not that great, really. 

And now I cannot work. There's a burden in my chest and it makes me thing of home.

Unheimlich. 

Freud's thesis: unheimlich, the uncanny = revelation of what is private and concealed, of what is hidden.

I do not feel a revelation coming on. I feel degradation. Asphyxiation. 

And what is up with all these theories that are named bizarrely opposite to what they want to convey. 

Why can't we all write simple essays, have simple ideas, that are nonetheless intelligent?

Why should it always be that words that sound complicated are given so much gravitas and that plain, straight forward theses are rejected?

Obsession with the complex. That's my complex. 

the frustration

As far as I'm concerned, there is only one issue here. The fact that I'm being intrinsically extremely passionate.

And there is nothing wrong with that, to be frank.

God forbid I were a cynic, like some. But I can't help raising the cynic-front in matters as such.

It is a natural defense system. And to be honest it works pretty well. Just act all uninterested and look hot something like that I think that's how it works but I don't want it to work not with me and not with this. 

Ah all the fucking mistakes I've made and all the idiots I've given a part of me to.

It's just seems so fucking unimportant when my room smells so wonderfully pink and ethereal. I walk through the door and it strikes me again and again and it seems so bizarre that there's such an aroma and its origin is temporarily unknown to my juvenile brain until it's there - flourishing and pretty before me. 

And when it blends with the smoke of a cigarette, one particular cigarette, it's even better.

Makes me happy. 

Greek mythology mix up

There is a problem. In fact, there are many problems.

I just keep on relapsing into them.

I guess it's what the Greeks referred to as a 'tragic flaw.'

Despite my flaw, I have failed to become tragic.

In fact, to the contrary, my life is more like a play by Aristophanes.

Full of dirty jokes.

And phallic symbols. From literature, of course.

Damn the person/power/man/woman/God/being/nothing that programmed our brains.

There's a short circuit somewhere, some neurons are getting fried up as I get really worked up for no reason at all. 

Yes yes yes. I like him. Yes. I know it. Yes.

Breathe heavily and sigh occasionally.

Is that all there is?

Zut alors!

Just let me be simple. Let me even be thick. 

Maybe for a day idleness isn't such a bad thing. 

"Ate*", the Greeks said, and not in any way egging you on just a mere reference to the goddess that blinds you turns you into an ignorant rubber chicken and then lets you fry, preferably pulling your eyes out.

Oedipal. He lies on her breasts. 

And he smells so sweet, it's a shade of blue, you can't really put your finger on it, he claims it's clear but what do men know about definitions, she thought. 

Search: glib or smug but etymology was never the point whereas memory, recollection, that's spot on.

I want your loving and I want your revenge she sings. Isn't it strange that Eros is always accompanied by Nemesis? 

She is the royal eagle, he the baby sparrow flying around with a toy arrow. 

You've been pricked! 

*Greek goddess or spirit of blind folly and delusion

OR An exclamation in Greek which means "Come on!"

Monologue

What! Just think of it. Just – think about it! [Flails her hands around in an expressive, Mediterranean manner]

There we all are, we’re dancing and strobing and flashing and laughing and a circle, jumping up and down.

Smiles. He – she – everywhere – they, I mean even I, smile, too. They’re grinding.

I’m not. I’m thinking. They are physical. I am mental. And I mean really, really out-of-my-brains kind of mental.

I’m thinking: these are the days, the best days, the days which I’ll talk about in twenty years time, always prologue-ing my antic monologue with the same, dusty opening line: “When I was young…” etcetera, etcetera. Always, of course, tactfully omitting the really fun stuff. I mean - I’m sure my mum smoked up at some point in her life.

And I look at us, in this moment, when we in fact are young; and before it’s even over I feel nostalgic.

Nostalgia. A hot mass in my stomach. A poem by Duffy. Pain for home. I feel it even though I haven’t departed.

[Lapses into frantic mode again] What sort of a fucked up, existentialist freak am I? I don’t want to do this to myself. Hell, I don’t want to do this to the people around me who just look at me with their eyes and mouths wide open whenever I try to articulate even the most truncated version of my thoughts.

“You think too much for your age,” they say.

Well, yeah I do. And I like it.

Ten steps ahead, that’s me. Always rushing, always eager to be able to rewind. The reflection of today from some mirror river of tomorrow. That’s my craft.

[Pauses; she slows down]

And today? On this dance floor? Now?

What of it.

It’s not significant. We’ll all be left with souvenirs of it anyway. I just make mine on the spot. 

Amazing Fashion mum

I never cease to be impressed by what my mum creates.

Twenty years plus in the industry and she's still going strong with collections that only get better every year.

It's a shame that talent such as hers gets lost in a country like Cyprus. To be fair, it doesn't 'get lost' per se but the mediocrity and averageness of a small island like Cyprus is painfully limiting.

My mum has taught me to appreciate creativity, to be fascinated by texture and colors, to be drawn by the magic of art and, without particularly wanting to, she has cultivated inside of me a tremendous passion for fashion.

I use the cliche because it has become so banal to be a 'lover of fashion' nowadays. Back at home I see all the sixteen year old girls attempting to copy the looks in Vogue and Harper's Bazaar and to some extent it is sad because they actually can - their parents' affluence enables them to actually have that Chanel bag or those Balenciaga boots - but I don't see how they can fully appreciate the skill and art and craft behind magazines and clothes when all they can link it with is Gossip Girl and The Hills.

Don't get me wrong I am one of the biggest fans of Gossip Girl but what it's imposed on us, especially in a country like Cyprus where nouveau-riche is the new chic, is a bunch of airheads that fail to see beyond clothes and handbags and accessories. It's imposed a lifestyle of minimum responsibility, and it's created the expectation that everyone MUST have all the designer goods in order to be happy. Not to mention the tremendous pressure put on parents to provide and therefore purchase this merchandise for their sweet, 'innocent' girls.
Innocent is a deceptive word.

I was shocked when I found out that two girls had been talking about one of their 'friends' in a very derogatory manner, and the only conversation they could muster against her was: We should buy her that Balenciaga bag already! Not everyone can afford ten types of Louis Vuitton, but that doesn't mean they can't afford to love what they see. 

Too much power has been given to the monstrous moguls that snatch the Birkins from their mothers' closets.