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More Margaret Atwood: The Blind Assassin
May. 6th, 2004 08:56 pmReverie intrudes at intervals.
She imagines him imagining her. This is her salvation.
In spirit she walks the city, traces its labyrinths, its dingy mazes: each assignation, each rendezvous, each door and stair and bed. What he said, what she said, what they did, what they did then. Even the times they argued, fought, parted, agonized, rejoined. How they'd loved to cut themselves on each other, taste their own blood. We were ruinous together, she thinks. But how else can we live, these days, except in the midst of ruin?
Sometimes she wants to put a match to him, have done with him; finish with that endless, useless longing. At the very least, daily time and the entropy of her own body should take care of it - wear her threadbare, wear her out, erase that place in her brain. But no exorcism has been enough, nor has she tried very hard at it. Exorcism is not what she wants. She wants that terrified bliss, like falling out of an airplane by mistake. She wants his famished look.
The last time she'd seen him, when they'd gone back to his room - it was like drowning: everything darkened and roared, but at the same time it was very silvery, and slow, and clear.
This is what it means, to be in thrall.
When exactly am I going to be able to write like that? Can I get an estimated date or something? :P
She imagines him imagining her. This is her salvation.
In spirit she walks the city, traces its labyrinths, its dingy mazes: each assignation, each rendezvous, each door and stair and bed. What he said, what she said, what they did, what they did then. Even the times they argued, fought, parted, agonized, rejoined. How they'd loved to cut themselves on each other, taste their own blood. We were ruinous together, she thinks. But how else can we live, these days, except in the midst of ruin?
Sometimes she wants to put a match to him, have done with him; finish with that endless, useless longing. At the very least, daily time and the entropy of her own body should take care of it - wear her threadbare, wear her out, erase that place in her brain. But no exorcism has been enough, nor has she tried very hard at it. Exorcism is not what she wants. She wants that terrified bliss, like falling out of an airplane by mistake. She wants his famished look.
The last time she'd seen him, when they'd gone back to his room - it was like drowning: everything darkened and roared, but at the same time it was very silvery, and slow, and clear.
This is what it means, to be in thrall.
When exactly am I going to be able to write like that? Can I get an estimated date or something? :P
"Yesterday I went to the doctor, to see about these dizzy spells. He told me I have developed what used to be called a heart, as if healthy people didn't have one. It seems I will not after all keep on living forever, merely getting smaller and greyer and dustier, like Sibyl in her bottle. Having long ago whispered I want to die, I now realize that this wish will indeed be fulfilled, and sooner rather than later. No matter that I've changed my mind about it."
"It snuck up on you, it grabbed hold of you before you knew it, and then there was nothing you could do. Once you were in it - in love - you would be swept away, regardless. Or so the books had it."
"The real danger comes from herself. What she'll allow, how far she's willing to go. But allowing and willing have nothing to do with it. Where she'll be pushed, then; where she'll be led. She hasn't examined her motives. There may not be any motives as such; desire is not a motive. It doesn't seem to her that she has any choice. Such extreme pleasure is also a humiliation. It's like being hauled along by a shameful rope, a leash around the neck. She resents it, her lack of freedom, and so she stretches out the time between, rationing him. She stands him up, fibs about why she couldn't make it - claims she didn't see the chalked markings on the park wall, didn't get the message - the new address of the non-existent dress shop, the postcard signed by an old friend she's never had, the telephone call for the wrong number.
But in the end, back she comes. There's no use resisting. She goes to him for amnesia, for oblivion. She renders herself up, is blotted out; enters the darkness of her own body, forgets her name. Immolation is what she wants, however briefly. To exist without boundaries."
I love the last one, especially.
"It snuck up on you, it grabbed hold of you before you knew it, and then there was nothing you could do. Once you were in it - in love - you would be swept away, regardless. Or so the books had it."
"The real danger comes from herself. What she'll allow, how far she's willing to go. But allowing and willing have nothing to do with it. Where she'll be pushed, then; where she'll be led. She hasn't examined her motives. There may not be any motives as such; desire is not a motive. It doesn't seem to her that she has any choice. Such extreme pleasure is also a humiliation. It's like being hauled along by a shameful rope, a leash around the neck. She resents it, her lack of freedom, and so she stretches out the time between, rationing him. She stands him up, fibs about why she couldn't make it - claims she didn't see the chalked markings on the park wall, didn't get the message - the new address of the non-existent dress shop, the postcard signed by an old friend she's never had, the telephone call for the wrong number.
But in the end, back she comes. There's no use resisting. She goes to him for amnesia, for oblivion. She renders herself up, is blotted out; enters the darkness of her own body, forgets her name. Immolation is what she wants, however briefly. To exist without boundaries."
I love the last one, especially.
disjunct. odds. ends.
Apr. 8th, 2004 01:58 amI feel like I'm at such loose ends lately. So many loose ends just flailing about.
I've watched the snow fall from my window, watched it cover the ground as the sun came up, as it turned from black to grey to blue to white. I saw thousands of footprints, betraying every step of every person who came by, no longer allowing their travels to remain invisible.
Somehow, it became April. Soon I will be old, soon I will die.
I'm rereading The Blind Assassin, because I love it so, and because I couldn't stomach The Waves. It's a lovely book. You should read it, especially if you are a writer.
I don't like being alone, but lately I'm having trouble with people. A disconnect. Nervous hands, fluttering voice. I want to embrace everyone I see while simultaneously running, fleeing, driving far away. I could leave, but I'll just stay.
Anti-feminists really bug me, especially when they're female, and I've been hearing and seeing a lot of them around me lately. How can you be a woman in today's society and not be a feminist? It's too late, I'm too tired to espouse any opinions right now, but maybe a post will be forthcoming.
I finished my story. I hate the ending. It's ridiculous and comes out of no where and then just ends abruptly. Maybe I'll just tell everyone that isn't the ending, but I don't know where to go yet. Or maybe I just won't show up for class for the rest of the semester and then they can't ever workshop it. Also, my characters are flat and boring, the storyline is boring and no one will care about it, and I don't even have any good description to make up for any of its problems. Writing is too stressful.
I should take a shower, clear my mind, go to bed. I need to get out of here. Out of Westminster, out of Maryland, out of my current life. If only for just a little while.
I've watched the snow fall from my window, watched it cover the ground as the sun came up, as it turned from black to grey to blue to white. I saw thousands of footprints, betraying every step of every person who came by, no longer allowing their travels to remain invisible.
Somehow, it became April. Soon I will be old, soon I will die.
I'm rereading The Blind Assassin, because I love it so, and because I couldn't stomach The Waves. It's a lovely book. You should read it, especially if you are a writer.
I don't like being alone, but lately I'm having trouble with people. A disconnect. Nervous hands, fluttering voice. I want to embrace everyone I see while simultaneously running, fleeing, driving far away. I could leave, but I'll just stay.
Anti-feminists really bug me, especially when they're female, and I've been hearing and seeing a lot of them around me lately. How can you be a woman in today's society and not be a feminist? It's too late, I'm too tired to espouse any opinions right now, but maybe a post will be forthcoming.
I finished my story. I hate the ending. It's ridiculous and comes out of no where and then just ends abruptly. Maybe I'll just tell everyone that isn't the ending, but I don't know where to go yet. Or maybe I just won't show up for class for the rest of the semester and then they can't ever workshop it. Also, my characters are flat and boring, the storyline is boring and no one will care about it, and I don't even have any good description to make up for any of its problems. Writing is too stressful.
I should take a shower, clear my mind, go to bed. I need to get out of here. Out of Westminster, out of Maryland, out of my current life. If only for just a little while.
(no subject)
Mar. 2nd, 2004 12:14 amThe serious part is their bodies. I sit in the hall with the cradled telephone, and what I hear is their bodies. I don't listen much to the words but to the silences, and in the silences these bodies re-create themselves, are created by me, take form. When I am lonely for boys it's their bodies I miss. I study their hands lifting the cigarettes in the darkness of the movie theaters, the slope of a shoulder, the angle of a hip. Looking at them sideways, I examine them in different lights. My love for them is visual: that is the part of them I would like to possess. Don't move, I think. Stay like that. Let me have that. What power they have over me is held through the eyes, and when I'm tired of them it's an exhaustion partly physical, but also partly visual.
Only some of this has to do with sex; although some of it does. Some of the boys have cars, but others do not, and with them I go on buses, on streetcars, on the newly opened Toronto subway that is clean and uneventful and looks like a long pastel-tiled bathroom. These boys walk me home, we walk the long way around. The air smells of lilac or mown grass or burning leaves, depending on the season. We walk over the new cement footbridge, with the willow trees arching overhead, the sound of running water from the creek beneath. We stand in the dim light coming from the lampposts on the bridge and lean back against the railing, their arms around me and mine around them. We lift each other's clothing, run our hands over each other's backbones, and I feel the backbone tensed and strung to breaking. I feel the length of the whole body, I touch the face, amazed. The faces of the boys change so much, they soften, open up, they ache. The body is pure energy, solidified light.
--Margaret Atwood, Cat's Eye
Only some of this has to do with sex; although some of it does. Some of the boys have cars, but others do not, and with them I go on buses, on streetcars, on the newly opened Toronto subway that is clean and uneventful and looks like a long pastel-tiled bathroom. These boys walk me home, we walk the long way around. The air smells of lilac or mown grass or burning leaves, depending on the season. We walk over the new cement footbridge, with the willow trees arching overhead, the sound of running water from the creek beneath. We stand in the dim light coming from the lampposts on the bridge and lean back against the railing, their arms around me and mine around them. We lift each other's clothing, run our hands over each other's backbones, and I feel the backbone tensed and strung to breaking. I feel the length of the whole body, I touch the face, amazed. The faces of the boys change so much, they soften, open up, they ache. The body is pure energy, solidified light.
--Margaret Atwood, Cat's Eye
(no subject)
Feb. 25th, 2004 12:59 pmThree things before I go back to my reading.
-- There was a message on my machine this morning from Martine Motard-Noar. Apparently I'm still eligible for the foreign language honor society (even though I've only taken two Spanish classes here!), and I'm also apparently only one class away from a Spanish minor. I suspected this but wasn't sure, and I was going to be more than happy to let it just slip under the radar if no one else noticed. Now I'm again wondering if I should just take the last class. I feel kind of silly, because I still won't be fluent in Spanish, and what's the point of minoring in a language if I can't speak it? So now I'm back at square one with the Spanish dilema that I thought I had resolved.
-- My dad also called me at 9am this morning, and I'm wondering if I should call him back. I'm getting so sick of the thing he does. He is forever leaving me hanging and then calling me days after the fact and turning it around like it's my fault. He's been doing it my whole life, and I just don't have the energy to fight with him. He's like me and gets defensive and just tries to let it go, rather than dealing with whatever it is. So I don't know if I'll call him back or wait until he calls me again.
-- Cat's Eye is a really disturbing book. I have a bit more to finish for today's class, and I just don't know if I want to. I want to finish this book, but it's something I want to be able to put down and come back to, rather than just reading on when the main character has been practically buried alive by her friends. It's all about childhood and mean evil evil girls. And it makes me never ever want to have children.
And now I really should finish my homework. I've stalled long enough.
-- There was a message on my machine this morning from Martine Motard-Noar. Apparently I'm still eligible for the foreign language honor society (even though I've only taken two Spanish classes here!), and I'm also apparently only one class away from a Spanish minor. I suspected this but wasn't sure, and I was going to be more than happy to let it just slip under the radar if no one else noticed. Now I'm again wondering if I should just take the last class. I feel kind of silly, because I still won't be fluent in Spanish, and what's the point of minoring in a language if I can't speak it? So now I'm back at square one with the Spanish dilema that I thought I had resolved.
-- My dad also called me at 9am this morning, and I'm wondering if I should call him back. I'm getting so sick of the thing he does. He is forever leaving me hanging and then calling me days after the fact and turning it around like it's my fault. He's been doing it my whole life, and I just don't have the energy to fight with him. He's like me and gets defensive and just tries to let it go, rather than dealing with whatever it is. So I don't know if I'll call him back or wait until he calls me again.
-- Cat's Eye is a really disturbing book. I have a bit more to finish for today's class, and I just don't know if I want to. I want to finish this book, but it's something I want to be able to put down and come back to, rather than just reading on when the main character has been practically buried alive by her friends. It's all about childhood and mean evil evil girls. And it makes me never ever want to have children.
And now I really should finish my homework. I've stalled long enough.
(no subject)
Feb. 9th, 2004 01:44 amIs it bad that I have no motivation to do anything?
I mean anything. Work work work work is piled up. And I have no motivation.
I was home all weekend, can't say that that helped with the problem. I finished The Handmaid's Tale, but I didn't finish any of my other reading or writing or anything. And I think I've basically decided to drop Prof Comm and just feel stupid all semester for only taking 3 classes.
More later.
I mean anything. Work work work work is piled up. And I have no motivation.
I was home all weekend, can't say that that helped with the problem. I finished The Handmaid's Tale, but I didn't finish any of my other reading or writing or anything. And I think I've basically decided to drop Prof Comm and just feel stupid all semester for only taking 3 classes.
More later.
