I never asked to be born. It was forced upon me by a moment of mindless lust, later sugarcoated by religion with the phrase “the gift of life.” The problem is, unlike an unwanted Christmas gift, I can’t simply toss it away. Both nature and society have made sure to hold me hostage as long as possible and to produce further victims of this vicious circle. Now that I’ve finally realised this, I know why Merry Christmas sounds like an insult.
I promised myself that I would write something in this journal every day. That’s why I call it a journal and not a diary. But yesterday I got so into the anime series that I couldn’t stop watching it until I watched the entire first season. It’s called Horimiya. I’ve seen it at least three times this past winter, when I had a period of fascination with the anime genre and watched nothing but anime for about six months. I have to admit, I like it just as much as I did when I first saw it.
Later, in the evening
So, I finished watching the second season, which is new, and I’m disappointed. Not that it was bad, but I expected something different—a continuation or something along this line. Instead, it was like watching footnotes to the first season or miscellaneous. I think sometimes it’s better to leave a story where it originally ended rather than try to squeeze some extra cash out of it with artificial prolongations.
I have always had this funny feeling that when someone accuses remote workers that they “don’t work as hard,” there is more to it. But it’s not rocket science to figure out what’s behind such words coming from the mouth of someone like Steve Schwarzman, the boss of the world’s biggest commercial landlord—it’s money. It’s always money. Welcome to the world of the one percent. I bet Mr. Schwarzman doesn’t give a damn about the productivity of those working from home. The only thing he cares about is the hard cash that he loses when his office buildings are empty because no one needs to rent them if the staff of many companies work remotely. And just so you know, Mr. Schwarzman, not only do we work as hard, but we are actually more productive when finally free from all the unnecessary distractions inherent in the office. But that would be enough about Mr. Schwarzman. He doesn’t deserve even that much airtime.
I watched Jenny’s Wedding today. Nothing special, really. Apart from the fact that it’s about a lesbian couple, it’s just another romcom spiced with a pinch of light drama. But there was one thing there that made me think. The protagonist’s sister, played by Grace Gummer, realises that the grass in front of her house is always dead, and then she has an epiphany: “Happy people do not have dead grass.” It ends badly for her husband (not that I pity him—he was rather obnoxious). The problem is that I hate grass. Not in general, as there is nothing more pleasant than a stroll on the meadow in summer, but the lawn in front of the house is the essence of artificiality. I hate Saturday gymnastics with a lawnmower and the endless fight with moss and so-called weeds. When I lived in a house with a lawn, I envied my neighbour’s elegantly tiled front yard. But does this make me a bad person, a social outcast, or a less desirable life partner? I’m a city dweller, that’s all. Suburbs are not for me.
What do you do when you realise you are not going to be a great poet one day? After thirty years of writing poetry, you finally give up, make a note of it in your journal, and move on. Simple as that. After all, there is more to life than putting together a stanza, even a great one. And if, in your case, it’s decent at best, what’s the point? Instead of wasting hours in your room trying to find the right onomatopoeia, wouldn’t it be better to listen to the sound of the waves while walking on the beach?
I adore Helena Bonham Carter, but for whatever reason, any time I see her, I picture a crazy cat lady. But this aside, I just watched Conversations with Other Women, and there is a one-liner there that I just love. It goes like this: a woman played by Bonham Carter says, “You’re just a dirty old pervert,” to which a man played by Aaron Eckhart replies, “Yes, I am. But I’m your dirty old pervert.” If only I had a chance to say something like that.
“Since Ronsard and Du Bellay have given reputation to our French poesy, every little dabbler, for aught I see, swells his words as high, and makes his cadences very near as harmonious as they: ‘Plus sonat, quam valet.’ [‘More sound than sense’—Seneca, Ep., 40.] For the vulgar, there were never so many poetasters as now; but though they find it no hard matter to imitate their rhyme, they yet fall infinitely short of imitating the rich descriptions of the one, and the delicate invention of the other of these masters.” (from The Essays of Montaigne—Volume 05 by Michel de Montaigne, translated by Charles Cotton)
Reading his words, I wonder what Montaigne would say about the state of poetry in our times, as not only has it evolved in form but it has also democratised, and today in France alone, probably more people write poetry than were educated in that country in his time. But reading this passage, I feel that they are as relevant now as they were then. If I happen to stumble upon a poem, especially one published online, I almost never find any satisfaction in reading it, let alone being impressed, and that’s also why I’ve stopped writing poetry myself. But enough about that because the sun finally came out after the storm Babet, so it’s time to go outside.
Sometimes I need a hug, or I miss soft-spoken words amid the cries of seagulls. Sometimes there are not enough colours in a watergaw that I spot over the sea. Sometimes I want to shout, “Let’s all pretend we live forever and stop asking what the exchange rate is.” But most of the time, I simply sit on a bench on the promenade by the beach and watch the strollers passing me by, hoping one day someone notices me. I guess everyone should have their own little impossible to cherish.
I hate smoking; I really do. For example, even the most beautiful woman, who normally would attract me immensely, the moment she reaches for a cigarette, I’m done with her. I will see her as a monster. And yet there was one time in my life when I was infatuated with such a woman, and her smoking, the way she did it, was something that added to her sex appeal. She was a friend of a friend, a bit of a tomboy, with her close-cropped blonde hair, tight jeans, an oversized men’s sweater with rolled-up sleeves, and a tough-guy attitude. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. We had both just turned eighteen and met in a pub, and I knew straight away she was not interested in me, not one iota. She was just being polite, and after that evening, I never met her again. Now, I don’t even remember her name.
Perhaps if I had met her under different circumstances later in life; or maybe my perception was distorted, like in the case of my friend, who one day admitted that she had been madly in love with me for a very long time—I just didn’t see it while chasing big-breasted bimbos. I never understood why she told me so many years later, when she was about to marry someone else. It was like a goodbye kiss, except without a real kiss. How stupid I was in my youth. Now I know that this was the first time I missed a chance at happiness because of my obsession with large breasts. I guess one never learns. At least I didn’t, and now it doesn’t matter anymore.
hidden pilcrow 