丁丁の家

I have recently started reading a novel by John Updike, Couples. It is very much to my interest to discuss what marriage, sexuality, and loyalty really means to people in the current setting. Reading novels in English can be a drag, and can be tedious when there are nouns and refererences that I am alienated by the cultural differences. However, the sensuality of the content drew my attention and nostalgy to the days when I could actually sit down for hours and study a novel's use of language. It is visual, "her steamy breast smearing his shirt," "he would be a gentle lion bathing in her river," "Sighing, immersed in a clamor of light and paint, the Hanemas dressed and crept to bed, exhausted."I have always had a penchant for imageries in language, and of course imageries created by the lighting, sound and acting on stage. Novel is an artform. In a sense that it vorociously compounds one's imagination (of course based on his own visual memories) and set up a scene, with lighting, music and space, and directs the scene through ink and paper. This made it especially important when the author really intended to incorporate multi-dimensional elements to his language, to stir senses and feelings. I have never been a advocant of minimalism. It is can have a creative impact if it is used wisely and minimally, as opposed to massively. In the end, we communicate predominantly using expressions, not all obscure symbols/spaces/pauses/absurdities...

I can't believe I was locked out of butler 301 at 9:00 pm while I was informed by the staff literally half an hour ago. I can't believe I spilled over oil on my white sweater again after I stained sisi's chair this afternoon. Why am I always so absent minded? It should be a good time to fix my attitude.

I was searching through Butler stacks 10th floor. It was quiet, damp, pressing with the smell of books. The familiar sense of longing and searching for solitude, literature, and words. Words to ponder, to think, and to remember. Somehow I winked at myself as if I could see my mirror image, a light and empty body that has been floating on the surface of self-contentment for almost three years. I stopped writing and reading a long time ago, and entered a world of triviality. It was two and half years filled with endless discussion about growing/shrinking boob size, endless complaint about the empty others, endless loging in and off facebook. It was addictive, to distant myself from true improvement. I had excuses, that those "improvements" I attained from learning and reading is just too impractical to survive. I did become more restless, to be wanting to be recognized and to prove myself. But to whom? My mother no longer has a good sense of my achievements and failure, things she used to have a clear quantified grasp. Perhaps I was indeed released from the subconsciousness to make her proud, or at least recognize my excellence. I wanted to do it now perhaps only to justify my lost eagerness for self-advancement.

ブログはとても楽しかったですね！今、一人です。寂しくない。解ったから！

原来大家都是写博客的。我以前好像从来没有写的必要，总是有志同道合的男朋友聆听我每天对生活的看法。现在终于有机会与社会接轨了。也是一个很好的自我再教育的过程。东西写下来了就心里踏实了。以前雷蒙德也说过，自从和我在一起，就没有太多写的东西了，仿佛精神上想发泄的东西已经通通泻出。这样写写也是好的实现精神独立的方式。只可笑我这么多年为止自豪的独立性格却偏偏只是我的臆想。原来自己是这么地依赖别人。