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ink_splotchThere's this advert for a newspaper in Copenhagen right now, which reads: "Your Every Day is Stressful Enough. Shouldn't Your Newspaper Be Simple?" Does reading the newspaper actually de-stress anyone? Or am I extrapolating the fact that I can't read a newspaper these days without wanting to cry and assuming everyone feels the same way?
In other news, George Bush continues to make me see red. I. Just. He renders me speechless. Terrorists see America as weak because of Vietnam? The mind boggles, it really does. And what pisses me off is that I can't stop reading the newspaper. I keep swearing I will, because it stresses me out and because it makes me feel guilty for not doing political science or something - not at least attempting to change the world, which I don't need. But I keep doing it, and every time I pick up a newspaper George Bush, Pia Kjærsgaard, Rupert Murdoch or someone will have said something that will make me sad and pissed off again. And I can't *stop*. Seriously. I'm beginning to think I like imaging the world sliding towards dystopia.
On a less depressing note, visited my Gemma and my house this week.
Firstly, although I was worried sick about seeing Gemma again, it was amazing. Knees-going-weak type amazing. I always forget how happy she makes me and how easy it is; it sounds silly, but it's a different emotion I feel for her when I'm with her, more concrete, less achey. When we're apart, it hurts - not, I don't think, in a bad way, but in an aching way, a constant remembering. But when we're together, it's peaceful. My stomach flutters and my heart speeds up, yes, but at the same time, it's this overwhelming fondness and gladness. It takes me by surprise each time - it's like I can't remember it until I feel it again. Weird, but good. (And now I miss it and I miss her and it's ridiculous since I'm back in England in a week, but I miss waking up with her. Help!)
I'm also oddly enthused about my room now. It needs quite a few things - bookshelves being the most important of these things. My window turns out towards the yard, which gives a really nice light, actually - it turns towards the south, I think. Currently all it has is a bed, a wardrobe , a desk and my carpet, which makes it quite sparse-looking, but I can *see* it becoming really nice, once I raid an Ikea and move stuff around. The house is pretty cool, too - I'm really fond of our kitchen/living room area, which has these awesome stuffed chairs and sofas which are dreadfully comfortable and cosy and the kitchen is - easy? I guess is the word. Useful.
Only problem is that the house is really, really cold. I am so investing in a rug or two.
Finally, today I visited Copenhagen with the express purpose of buying a bridesmaid's dress (I have one, so now all I need are tickets home), which was oddly depressing and made my head ache (it was too warm and too muggy, just on the brink of rain and thunder) and so I bought a book I've been eyeing up for a long while, The Thirteenth Tale. It is incredible - the descriptions are very real, incredibly evocative. It's a mood book, definitely, incredibly gothic; it takes place in a mansion, with a engimatic lady of the manor; the house is full of rainy nights and the scrape of pen against paper, open fires crackling in every room and, of course, ghosts. Part return to the classic novel in the style of the Brontë sisters, part a tribute to books and the power of stories, it is a beautiful book. I'm in love.
In other news, George Bush continues to make me see red. I. Just. He renders me speechless. Terrorists see America as weak because of Vietnam? The mind boggles, it really does. And what pisses me off is that I can't stop reading the newspaper. I keep swearing I will, because it stresses me out and because it makes me feel guilty for not doing political science or something - not at least attempting to change the world, which I don't need. But I keep doing it, and every time I pick up a newspaper George Bush, Pia Kjærsgaard, Rupert Murdoch or someone will have said something that will make me sad and pissed off again. And I can't *stop*. Seriously. I'm beginning to think I like imaging the world sliding towards dystopia.
On a less depressing note, visited my Gemma and my house this week.
Firstly, although I was worried sick about seeing Gemma again, it was amazing. Knees-going-weak type amazing. I always forget how happy she makes me and how easy it is; it sounds silly, but it's a different emotion I feel for her when I'm with her, more concrete, less achey. When we're apart, it hurts - not, I don't think, in a bad way, but in an aching way, a constant remembering. But when we're together, it's peaceful. My stomach flutters and my heart speeds up, yes, but at the same time, it's this overwhelming fondness and gladness. It takes me by surprise each time - it's like I can't remember it until I feel it again. Weird, but good. (And now I miss it and I miss her and it's ridiculous since I'm back in England in a week, but I miss waking up with her. Help!)
I'm also oddly enthused about my room now. It needs quite a few things - bookshelves being the most important of these things. My window turns out towards the yard, which gives a really nice light, actually - it turns towards the south, I think. Currently all it has is a bed, a wardrobe , a desk and my carpet, which makes it quite sparse-looking, but I can *see* it becoming really nice, once I raid an Ikea and move stuff around. The house is pretty cool, too - I'm really fond of our kitchen/living room area, which has these awesome stuffed chairs and sofas which are dreadfully comfortable and cosy and the kitchen is - easy? I guess is the word. Useful.
Only problem is that the house is really, really cold. I am so investing in a rug or two.
Finally, today I visited Copenhagen with the express purpose of buying a bridesmaid's dress (I have one, so now all I need are tickets home), which was oddly depressing and made my head ache (it was too warm and too muggy, just on the brink of rain and thunder) and so I bought a book I've been eyeing up for a long while, The Thirteenth Tale. It is incredible - the descriptions are very real, incredibly evocative. It's a mood book, definitely, incredibly gothic; it takes place in a mansion, with a engimatic lady of the manor; the house is full of rainy nights and the scrape of pen against paper, open fires crackling in every room and, of course, ghosts. Part return to the classic novel in the style of the Brontë sisters, part a tribute to books and the power of stories, it is a beautiful book. I'm in love.
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Date: 2007-08-30 10:41 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-09-04 11:21 am (UTC)