"A heart that sighs, has not what it desires."
The thing about the Science of Sleep that appeals to me is that there is nothing that doesn’t appeal to me in it.
The girl in it is my ideal, she is creative, she is kind, she is realistic in that she shows no real intrest in the man who feels as if there is a major connection there.
For they both have Parellel Sycnhronized Randomness. That seems to be my life. Stephane is a dreamer, obsessed with controling his dreams, though he never can.
Work is never what he wants, and that is to be creative and intresting.
Vunerable, the two, both afraid, and he holds it as evident and virtuous of his humanity. She is of grand stock, but not grand enough to accept it with trust, choosing instead to demand a traditional earned love contingent upon his acting properly in the ways of courtship. Truly ironic this, as she herself says that it is that his work is strange which makes it wonderful. How can one’s work be strange and wonderful, yet the source of sweat and toil of the creative scape not truly be one and the same?
Perhaps this is why I have always wanted an artistic soul in my life.
If I could never make my soul be it, would another share theirs?
Or is it that subconciously my first love was artistic and I am chasing it forever.
The foreigners that create art and honor it highly perfer that to the ugly pragmatisim of the American, and in the same way they have distaste for work. I have never found a day of work that was bareable, but I have found great pride in the works of form, and not of function, that I have accomplished. Perhaps in this way I have the zest for art.
Maybe it is that every girl goes through an artistic phase and I am but a girl who won’t grow up.
Or maybe I want to be immortal, and if my soul fails my ideas shall survive.
Surely it is just a cry for help, for a pathology of pathetic pity, oh girl of my dreams see my tourtured artistic soul and weep silently, then make passionate love with me.
For certain it is that when the light hits the colors and your ears hear it, your eyes percieve that which the drum plays, and you can taste the metered strokes of some unseen mental paintbrush before one speaks, then all becomes true.
Truefully, it is with elitest hopes we can hold high our heads and dangle our deep seeded desires with three notes, a square yard of canvas, or the edited indie flick scene, in a way no conversation can convey.
Romantically.
Sadistically.
Troublesome.
Perfect.
Or…
If there was a form to all things, the form of Art, the form of beauty, the form of creativity. These would be the forms that hold our world up. Like the legs of a tripod, that forever stand us up, lest we fall down.
This is why I love that movie.
It is amusing.
I talked to my cousin today, she wishes to be a writer. She writes well, though she writes as a girl of her age. I cannot wait to speak to her after she ascends through the literary ranks of university. Her knowledge of the mechanics of great writing is limited, and her life seems strangely simular. Speaking to her, I realized it would not be that way for long, and I would charish the moments I still had to say things to her and have her take these bits as wisdom and not knowledge. I realized that she had what I wanted, the eyes of the future.
She looked at me with those eyes of the future, and they floated on a current of empty air. She knew not what I said, or at least she knew no meaning in the words.
I asked her if her travels brought her ideas, I asked if her trip to Germany in these exact words, “was amusing”.
“What do you mean?” She asked.
She, like most people, knew nothing about the enytomlogy of the word. It used to mean literally that it was a- muse –ing, or to induce a muse into a person through stimulation. That is, to inspire the artistic verve into a person through a muse or god of a particular art. So if something is amusing, it inspires you to be artistic in a simular fashion. However it has been bastardized, simular to the word sophistication, to mean a fraction of its orginal meaning.
She said she was writing about it, and I was happy to hear that. She said she also was writing a blog, and that it was just something she did when she was mad and angry about something, a medium in which to rant.
I thought about the story I wrote when I was her age, about George Bush leading to a second civil war for cheating us by stealing an election and being a horrible person and even worse president. I wrote this in 2001, and I know it was crap. The Creative Writing teacher told me as such. I still feel I was right, but it was not creative. It was hopeful, and it was hateful, and it was something a 17 year old would write. I was forever a 17 year old because of Bush, I hope now to move on.
I laughed inside, because she was me, and I was her. At least in one aspect of our lives, because of some common thread. I knew she would be alright, because the rest will fall for her. I hoped I would be alright, because I could always be her for that moment, for the rest of my life. And even though I would kill to change places with her.
I would be that person that did not know that Germany could be amusing.
So when I watched that movie, which I loved the first time. Netflix brought me a muse that was lost on me before.
The third French film in as many weeks, made me realize that I like the French more then ever, and that I would like to be amongst them. I want to learn French and go to Paris, and live amongst the union rousers fighting for their Sundays.
Or maybe it is just that all girls go through a wanting to go to France phase…
“If an idea is any good, it is on the verge of being stupid.”- M.G.
