January 14th, 2007

Sea dragon

C is for Cookie, that's good enough for me

I decided to take an LJ holiday yesterday. Collapse )

Dang. It's gorgeous outside. Makes me not want to blog, but instead go catch the two pound breakfast at the Wetherspoon's up the street and then go for a bike ride. I'm really just blogging to try to wake up (ever wonder why I have so many grammar and spelling mistakes?). I'm going to get distracted and look at a map of the future earth for a bit - the New York Times article that recommended it couldn't animate itself on the sheaf of paper I printed it out on, so I'm going to "try it from home."

Living now, blogging later.
Sea dragon

I finally finished book one of Remembrance of Things Past!

I really like splendid_geryon's suggestion of a Tour de Proust, with stages. I've reached the end of the first big book, Swann's Way, which makes up half of Volume One of the Penguin/Terrence Kilmartin edition of the book. Reading this has been kind of an insane sensoria leavened with very subtle descriptions of French society of, I think, the period around the 1880s. I've occasionally got lost in the sentence structure, but mostly I've just been kind of caressed along in this rich overindulgence of flowers, smells, shadows, clouds, and the various ephemera that clog our neural passages, making Lagerfeld the scent of teenaged love, mown hay the smell of my grandmother's house in the summer, reading the comics over breakfast all of the mornings I've shared with shadowdaddy, years and years of memories connected by threads woven unknowingly by the happenstance of my body passing through time. I saw my hyacinth spoiling from the top today and it reminded me of Proust talking about the lilacs in Combray. Will I ever see the world the same again?

I've never liked posting song lyrics, but I do love good poems and literature, and in that vein, I give you this quote from Proust:

How paradoxical it is to seek in reality for the pictures that are stored in one's memory, which must inevitably lose the charm that comes to them from memory itself and from their not being apprehended by the senses. The reality that I had known no longer existed... The places we have known do not belong only to the world of space on which we map them for our own convenience. None of them was ever more than a thin slice, held between the contiguous impressions that composed our life at that time; the memory of a particular image is but regret for a particular moment; and houses, roads, avenues are as fugitive, alas, as the years.

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