I haven’t written that sort of diary-ish post (which blogs were initially meant for, anyway) for the past year or something, so here comes a random, uninteresting attempt.
Can’t believe it’s basically three days until everything’s sorted out with school; it’s been a crazy week and I can’t wait to go back to all those lovely books piling up on my desk, under my table, under my keyboard and more recently on my bed, due to lack of space, to go cycling, to manage to play Chopin’s Petit Chien properly, to go cycling, to make a matchbox pinhole camera, to send postcards, to receive a certain letter :P, to go to all those cool places where we said we’d go, eat all those awesome things, see all those awesome films, do all that awesome stuff, time to write and sing, to laugh, to listen, to discover, to cry, to love music. : )
It’s been a crazy week, one during which I’ve read virtually nothing, I’ve taken my last philosophy exam, been to my first interview, fell asleep hugging my cat, got weird stares from this famous person while on the bus… and then there was Bookfest. 😀 I love book fairs. I bought myself Archipelago of Insomnia, by Antonio Lobo Antunes (completely random and on the spur of the moment, totally looking forward to it) and desperately tried to find some Barthes, but failed. Finally got myself the mother of all books on Romanian literature and, surprisingly, two book by our ehm trendiest author, Mircea Cartarescu.
I’ve only read a few poems of his, and hated them, but then I’ve heard him talk and there’s certainly something about him. He has that… writer’s it. A friend and I decided to buy one of his books (we’re developing this funny habit of buying one book/two people, it’s fun, it’s cheaper, we can discuss them after reading) because he was going to launch another one, his latest, right then and there, and then have an autograph session. I listened to him talk and, while it was mostly the average self-praising-under-a-modest-cover-combined-with-pseudo-philosophical-opinions, there were these short moments when he… slipped. Fell out of it. And then it was so very real, the writer’s anguish, the writer’s passion, the self-awareness, the way his eyes glistened. That was something else.
… So we bought his new book as well, and got autographs on both of them. Still need to read three others before I get to them, but I just can’t wait. Happy days.
Also, has it ever happened to you to discover a band/an album and to start reading a book and realize they really, really, really fit? It’s happened to me and it’s amazing. It’s hard to explain without sounding utterly nuts, but it feels as if there’s this lovely fictional universe that’s just a bit closer than usual, and you open your book and enter its world, then listen to the music and just realize how they emphasize and beautify each other, how they weave this incredible universe which you’re so luck to experience so vividly because you picked up the right book and the right album at the right time. I know it’s just me and my childish brain, but it makes me a happy panda and all that. 😀
I keep thinking of all the stuff I could write about around here, then wonder if it makes any sense if no one reads them. No, not fishing for compliments from my 3 loyal readers, just being honest; I could write a post about every postcard I receive, its story, its place, its art, I could write book reviews, film reviews, the Book challenge (which I will hopefully do anyway), Liverpool rants, incredibly in-depth research on why one would like purple and so on, but then I wonder if it’s worth it. Oh well. Here ends my random train of thought. Oh and I should get a tumblr!