24 hours (translated)
Feb. 26th, 2007 02:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
notesinbluei wrote a cryptic entry in my public journal. saved here, lest i forget, is the translation.
A flash. The sting of a palm across my cheek. Spit in my eye. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows... Whether 'tis nobler... Nobler... Noble. Nobility. Another royal in my crowded house.
i discovered the princess of cups' slander.
Papers written. Papers mid-progress. Papers looming. All but one pushed out through tired fingers. It can wait until morning. It can always wait until morning. So says the weary to the morning sunrise.
i wrote some, but not all, of my papers, hindered by depression and exhaustion.
Restless night. I tell the mouse in my wall everything. He chitters something about Dickinson and leaves birdseed in my laundry. I don't like Dickinson. Or birdseed. I evict him.
i discover a mouse has built a nest in my dirty laundry. Dickinson is also the poet the princess revers the most, and i dislike. we argued about it during our last lunch together.
Dusty orange juice morning. A paper written in haste. And then flying. Muddy road. Squeaky gate. Twisty pavement. Engine roaring above speakers. Foot flat to the floor. Hands looser than they have been in years. A long held sigh released.
i hurry down the mountain to class and the drive centers me. i realize the anxiety i acquired after my car accident has finally dissipated.
A walk through sunlight. Choices weighed. Invisible smoke rising from the depths of imagination. Nocturnes echoing in my ears. Always Nocturnes. My other name means turning point. And I turn. A flat. E major. F sharp. Always F sharp.
i walk to class and consider what to do about the princess as i listen to Chopin. my 'other name' refers to my old journal name, which translates as turning point in German.
A sunspot. A flare. Scales tip. To take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them... Take arms... Oppose... End. A decision is made. Swords must be blocked or parried. Everything I have learned, I have learned through either love, literature, or war.
i run into the princess in Eddy Hall. she avoids me and is cold. i get so angry i shake through the rest of my class. i decide i'm not willing to put up with her anymore, even though it means giving up what was once a dear friendship.
A workshop. The first I've ever been apathetic too. The only. An emptiness. A hollowness. A silence. Words withering on the vine. Overripe or too green? So many words written and still a drought. Such a drought. A dustbowl.
i sit through a workshop in CO301a, but don't absorb anything because i'm still so angry. i feel creatively sabotaged because the princess used to be my main support as a writer but she attacked my words when she became angry. also, even though i've been writing tons of papers my own works have been neglected since the semester began.
Substitution brings rain to end the drought. A Romanian from Jersey. Words reborn. Notes taken. Lecture ignored. I only hear the diction, the colloquialisms. You know? See. Look, look, see. I don't know. Whatever, right?
a substitute teacher in logic reminds me of the main character in my second novel. i take notes on his speaking style and get re-energized to work on revisions.
The creak of leather as arms encircle me. So many I'm sorrys. Always I'm sorrys. From both of us. But this time they are not his to give, nor mine. But they are welcome. They are the only ones I will get. I keep them close. I will stop apologizing.
the emperor stops by to cheer me up. he tells me he's sorry about the princess. i decide i need to apologize less, both to him and her.
Another hug, this one so soft I'm surprised by the feel of it beneath my fingers. Laughter. Seriousness. Talk of the past, the present, and even more of the future. All before the soup is even gone.
i have dinner with the king of disks. we commiserate since our situations are so similar. it feels good.
A proposal. Worded in neutral terms. Yet there is something in it. The veiled question. Are you different? Are you bluffing? Do you want to run? Do you want to run with me? And I'm unsure of my answer.
the king asks me if i want to drive to Boston with him. he seems to be testing me somehow, gaging my response carefully.
A return to the past to see a face of the present. The devil on my shoulder. One of the better ones. One of the true. As opposed to so many of the others. All the angels were liars. The devil speaks the truth. And I leave laughing.
i visit the prince of disks at my former workplace. he suggests i do what makes me happy, even if that means driving to Boston with the king when we are both in no state to be in a relationship. i tell him he's a devil on my shoulder. he has been a good friend since my split with the emperor.
More roads, these dark. The turns hidden but well traveled. I drive from memory. Like playing a now forgotten melody. Brandenburg played through wheels and combustion. My fingers itch for strings and keys. I decide to recover the first and acquire the second.
going home i drive fast and by instinct. Brandenburg concerto was the first piece i really nailed on my cello and could play without the sheet music. i decide to pick my cello up from the house and to finally get off my ass and get a piano.
A place to call home. Better, perhaps, than the last. I whisper French to the glowing city lights, even though I don't know a word of it. Except for cest la vie. Such is life. Such is life my childe. Such is life.
i'm more loved in my current home. i watch a show with the queen of disks about Paris homes. it makes me adopt an accent as we talk. i decide i'm finally getting comfortable, both here and with myself again.
A flash. The sting of a palm across my cheek. Spit in my eye. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows... Whether 'tis nobler... Nobler... Noble. Nobility. Another royal in my crowded house.
i discovered the princess of cups' slander.
Papers written. Papers mid-progress. Papers looming. All but one pushed out through tired fingers. It can wait until morning. It can always wait until morning. So says the weary to the morning sunrise.
i wrote some, but not all, of my papers, hindered by depression and exhaustion.
Restless night. I tell the mouse in my wall everything. He chitters something about Dickinson and leaves birdseed in my laundry. I don't like Dickinson. Or birdseed. I evict him.
i discover a mouse has built a nest in my dirty laundry. Dickinson is also the poet the princess revers the most, and i dislike. we argued about it during our last lunch together.
Dusty orange juice morning. A paper written in haste. And then flying. Muddy road. Squeaky gate. Twisty pavement. Engine roaring above speakers. Foot flat to the floor. Hands looser than they have been in years. A long held sigh released.
i hurry down the mountain to class and the drive centers me. i realize the anxiety i acquired after my car accident has finally dissipated.
A walk through sunlight. Choices weighed. Invisible smoke rising from the depths of imagination. Nocturnes echoing in my ears. Always Nocturnes. My other name means turning point. And I turn. A flat. E major. F sharp. Always F sharp.
i walk to class and consider what to do about the princess as i listen to Chopin. my 'other name' refers to my old journal name, which translates as turning point in German.
A sunspot. A flare. Scales tip. To take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them... Take arms... Oppose... End. A decision is made. Swords must be blocked or parried. Everything I have learned, I have learned through either love, literature, or war.
i run into the princess in Eddy Hall. she avoids me and is cold. i get so angry i shake through the rest of my class. i decide i'm not willing to put up with her anymore, even though it means giving up what was once a dear friendship.
A workshop. The first I've ever been apathetic too. The only. An emptiness. A hollowness. A silence. Words withering on the vine. Overripe or too green? So many words written and still a drought. Such a drought. A dustbowl.
i sit through a workshop in CO301a, but don't absorb anything because i'm still so angry. i feel creatively sabotaged because the princess used to be my main support as a writer but she attacked my words when she became angry. also, even though i've been writing tons of papers my own works have been neglected since the semester began.
Substitution brings rain to end the drought. A Romanian from Jersey. Words reborn. Notes taken. Lecture ignored. I only hear the diction, the colloquialisms. You know? See. Look, look, see. I don't know. Whatever, right?
a substitute teacher in logic reminds me of the main character in my second novel. i take notes on his speaking style and get re-energized to work on revisions.
The creak of leather as arms encircle me. So many I'm sorrys. Always I'm sorrys. From both of us. But this time they are not his to give, nor mine. But they are welcome. They are the only ones I will get. I keep them close. I will stop apologizing.
the emperor stops by to cheer me up. he tells me he's sorry about the princess. i decide i need to apologize less, both to him and her.
Another hug, this one so soft I'm surprised by the feel of it beneath my fingers. Laughter. Seriousness. Talk of the past, the present, and even more of the future. All before the soup is even gone.
i have dinner with the king of disks. we commiserate since our situations are so similar. it feels good.
A proposal. Worded in neutral terms. Yet there is something in it. The veiled question. Are you different? Are you bluffing? Do you want to run? Do you want to run with me? And I'm unsure of my answer.
the king asks me if i want to drive to Boston with him. he seems to be testing me somehow, gaging my response carefully.
A return to the past to see a face of the present. The devil on my shoulder. One of the better ones. One of the true. As opposed to so many of the others. All the angels were liars. The devil speaks the truth. And I leave laughing.
i visit the prince of disks at my former workplace. he suggests i do what makes me happy, even if that means driving to Boston with the king when we are both in no state to be in a relationship. i tell him he's a devil on my shoulder. he has been a good friend since my split with the emperor.
More roads, these dark. The turns hidden but well traveled. I drive from memory. Like playing a now forgotten melody. Brandenburg played through wheels and combustion. My fingers itch for strings and keys. I decide to recover the first and acquire the second.
going home i drive fast and by instinct. Brandenburg concerto was the first piece i really nailed on my cello and could play without the sheet music. i decide to pick my cello up from the house and to finally get off my ass and get a piano.
A place to call home. Better, perhaps, than the last. I whisper French to the glowing city lights, even though I don't know a word of it. Except for cest la vie. Such is life. Such is life my childe. Such is life.
i'm more loved in my current home. i watch a show with the queen of disks about Paris homes. it makes me adopt an accent as we talk. i decide i'm finally getting comfortable, both here and with myself again.
