A Splatter Of Paint / Visualising The Dreamer
February 18th 2010 16:53
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Category: No Category
She hesitated above the page - where to put the final mark? Was it even needed, or would this 'final mark' be only a new beginning to a new series of lines, dots and curves? Frustrated - was she ever going to finish an artwork? - she moved onto another blank sheet, but she was too haunted by notions of how she should be going about the blank page to pay tribute to her most revolutionary vision... she needed a new outlet, at least for the time-being.
What's in a name? she thought, giving his photo another extended glance. Why was she always looking for a new reason to long for him, when she knew very well that he wouldn't suit her needs? She couldn't reconcile this immature penchant for a style in some way similar to her own with her studiously high standards for people.
*
A chapter on China in a book by one of her favourite authors: fine preparation for revisiting the land that had given so much to her, and taken so much out as well. China was impossibly rich, largely inaccessible, confoundingly complex and soothingly out of the norm. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to run to it or away.
She was appreciating more and more that the best way to appreciate English-speaking texts was to immerse herself into non-English texts as far as was possible. A world so vast and so increasingly networked was evoking notions of long treks through areas where urbanity had not yet had a chance to be fostered. Journeys in carriages, caravans and on top of camels danced in her imagination, and she once again imagined dining on pho at sunset on a busy Saigon street, a luxury that she had long discarded the desire to recall with pleasure.
In search of a connection, she flipped another page
In need of communication, the author was at another stage
His perplexity reminded her of her own
Even though the systems he described had faded away or been outgrown
She looked in the mirror and was simultaneously transfixed by and scornful of her facial features. This was the face that was her method of transportation. She had learnt to keep it still and devoid of turbulence a while ago, and what was left was a rich, sprawling tapestry, lacking depth. She was waiting for somebody to recognise themselves in her, but at the moment all she could do was wait and try to fuse together the few parts of herself that felt in control.
Thailand looked like a splatter of paint on the map, caused when the opening of the paint bottled was pressed tight to the paper and the last remains of its substance was squeezed out, she had decided years ago, trying to invest into it a sense of poetry. Last year, she had discovered some genuine examples of Thai verse, and now they informed her approach to its smooth lines and colour-cluttered awnings.
She wanted to be back in touch with her instinctive understanding of her love for postmodernism... total, unswerving self-apprehension. But she had taught herself to be a stranger to herself whenever possible so as to appeal to more people.
It's gonna be okay, she realised, as she thought back to Simon and realised why she didn't feel comfortable with the people behind the counter: They had missed out on getting in touch with their most serenely wild compulsions and were reluctant to stare themselves in the eye until they couldn't take any more self-inspection. On Oxford St, she expected more.
Perhaps she ought to move to Darlinghurst, immerse herself in the city mentality, and let the greys speak of ambiguity, not a lack of natural abundance.
Just another idea, waiting to be utilised at the time it was needed the most. Until then, she would make her home in far-flung lands, until this nearby stretch seemed almost irresistable.
What's in a name? she thought, giving his photo another extended glance. Why was she always looking for a new reason to long for him, when she knew very well that he wouldn't suit her needs? She couldn't reconcile this immature penchant for a style in some way similar to her own with her studiously high standards for people.
*
A chapter on China in a book by one of her favourite authors: fine preparation for revisiting the land that had given so much to her, and taken so much out as well. China was impossibly rich, largely inaccessible, confoundingly complex and soothingly out of the norm. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to run to it or away.
She was appreciating more and more that the best way to appreciate English-speaking texts was to immerse herself into non-English texts as far as was possible. A world so vast and so increasingly networked was evoking notions of long treks through areas where urbanity had not yet had a chance to be fostered. Journeys in carriages, caravans and on top of camels danced in her imagination, and she once again imagined dining on pho at sunset on a busy Saigon street, a luxury that she had long discarded the desire to recall with pleasure.
In search of a connection, she flipped another page
In need of communication, the author was at another stage
Even though the systems he described had faded away or been outgrown
She looked in the mirror and was simultaneously transfixed by and scornful of her facial features. This was the face that was her method of transportation. She had learnt to keep it still and devoid of turbulence a while ago, and what was left was a rich, sprawling tapestry, lacking depth. She was waiting for somebody to recognise themselves in her, but at the moment all she could do was wait and try to fuse together the few parts of herself that felt in control.
Thailand looked like a splatter of paint on the map, caused when the opening of the paint bottled was pressed tight to the paper and the last remains of its substance was squeezed out, she had decided years ago, trying to invest into it a sense of poetry. Last year, she had discovered some genuine examples of Thai verse, and now they informed her approach to its smooth lines and colour-cluttered awnings.
She wanted to be back in touch with her instinctive understanding of her love for postmodernism... total, unswerving self-apprehension. But she had taught herself to be a stranger to herself whenever possible so as to appeal to more people.
It's gonna be okay, she realised, as she thought back to Simon and realised why she didn't feel comfortable with the people behind the counter: They had missed out on getting in touch with their most serenely wild compulsions and were reluctant to stare themselves in the eye until they couldn't take any more self-inspection. On Oxford St, she expected more.
Perhaps she ought to move to Darlinghurst, immerse herself in the city mentality, and let the greys speak of ambiguity, not a lack of natural abundance.
Just another idea, waiting to be utilised at the time it was needed the most. Until then, she would make her home in far-flung lands, until this nearby stretch seemed almost irresistable.
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