kind of like tumblr!

I've been looking up untranslatable words for the past half hour. These are interesting.

"No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom."--Nabokov

Mamihlapinatapai- "a look shared by two people with each wishing that the other will initiate something that both desire but which neither one wants to start."

l'ésprit de l'éscalier- "thinking of a really good comeback after the moment has passed." (when you're half way down the stairs and thinking of the conversation you've just had in the drawing room)

l'appelle d'vide - the urge to jump from high places, into a canyon, etc.. literally, "the call of the void."

"Istories me arkoudes" (this is a phonetic. or "Greeklish" rendering for a phrase meaning "stories with bears"), to refer to narrated events that are so wild and crazy it seems that they can't possibly be true.

shlemazl-- the sort of black cloud Eddie who asks after your mother just after she died, or parks in the exact spot where the piano's going to fall.

Fernweh - a longing to be away, the desire to simply be somewhere far distant.

duende (my favorite, i think)- http://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/Spanish/LorcaDuende.htm it kind of reminds me of the whole-body feeling of l'esprit (de cyrano!)

mokita: the truth which no one speaks

razbliuto: the feelings you have for someone you once loved, but now do not

ocurrencia: sudden bright idea or witty remark

Mana-- an indigenous word may be the concept of an impersonal force or quality that resides in people, animals, and inanimate objects. (sounds *kind of like* Weber's description of charisma, I think. The rest of the entry on 'mana' goes on to describe that it could be considered the pre-cursor to modernized religion, similar to Weber's 'charisma'? whoawhoawhoa.)

Lagom-- Swedish word meaning 'just the right amount' or 'perfectly in balance'. Sort of similar to Aristotle's 'golden mean'.

débrouiller- to improvise a solution to a problem, or to manage things on your own. A less polite synonym is 'se démmerder' (literally, to unshit yourself). A 'schéma directeur' is a kind of high-level strategy document that seems to have no other purpose than bureaucratic ass-covering.

limerence- 'pre-love', or, my life. solidly accurate summary: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Limerence

I'm not entirely sure why I posted all of these (most likely so I'll be able to re-find them and build my vocabulary when I'm less tired, whoo!) I'll probably write something about limerance and duende at some point. Yaaay. Now, I'm going to memorize declensions and kill myself.

and to top it off, i'm dirt poor!

Empathy or, the subtle, arrogant, asserting feeling that you know people has been invading my personality and encroaching on your personal space, people of America. In this basement apartment with black furniture and a bookshelf of philosophy, one that my fifteen-year-old self would've gone simply gaga over, before she learned the cliche (I'll write you a letter, no! a note! a note from the underground! ha-ha), I've been thinking of myself and mourning the loss of 'good intentions' as an explanation excuse. See what I did there? (Good Lord, I sound like Mike Kramer.) It's really strange, seeing how the things that you've felt and seen most truly are the things that fit most perfectly into the stereotypes you always thought you were repelling (or that you thought you were better than or that you blahblahblah). I end up sitting in a strange place between questioning my own thoughts' validity and cozying into a ____-fueled realization that I am genuinely just that kind of person. Is it enough to like what you like, even if what you like falls line by line into an accepted definition, or do you have to be original-- perhaps by forsaking 'doing what you want'-- to be considered Something Unique or Validated or whatever my self-psychology tells me I'm 'looking for'?

This is dumb, because and I'm being honest, but who the hell is really reading? I'm sitting in a tiny room and listening to music that I thought was grrrrreat six months ago when I thought I was in love with a feline boy who I thought I knew, which brings me back to the beginning and the realization that, despite having good intention to blabber on and on about it, I did not, in fact, even scratch the surface.

double edged sword

I spend my time trying to figure out the people who can't do it for themselves- or won't do it for themselves- because I don't understand how I've become my own self. Let me make you happy because you're just like me, and I'm not sure how this train-railing underbelly of a smile came whamming and slamming to my face on the top of an Alabama rooftop. I'll make my life an indie film, a French novella because I've been thinking that I'm the ubermensch or that silly girl you could write a book about, the one with all of the understanding but none of the confidence. Ironic, isn't it, our layers of insecurity and arrogance, piled one after the other, that we peel away to seduce or befriend or comfort others, claiming that 'oh no, I understand, I've been there before, and I know how to make it better' or 'don't judge me, I don't pretend know what I'm talking about, not with my racing thoughts and my expanding waist and my complete inability' to focus and step outside myself and be anything other than this stack of pages or peeling skin. I'm looking for validation in you and in everyone, even though I shouldn't be online when the sun is still out. I want to speak for our generation, make people feel like I've felt, alone at movie theatres, moved to sit alone and scribble and cross my fingers and hope for my life to be Important and Interesting one day.

I know I'm a cliche, but I mean it, I mean it, I really do mean it. Doesn't that count for something? Perhaps I sound like someone I tease, but I can't name five famous critics.

because we breathe in sound (opening lines)

The smell of music pounded on the speakers. It was soft, like downy, and rocked Andrew into sleep. He began to hum a lullaby. Lullabies had always reminded him of grandma, though he could hardly recall more than her wrinkles and whispers; the murmurs and the songs about kings and plagues and bathtubs would cross his mind every so often, like her fingers would’ve crossed his brow and brushed his eyes closed before bedtime. Now her hands were replaced with cords and scents, ever since the memes became the mothers and the mothers became obsolete.

But his memories never lasted long at all.

Curry splayed through the sensors and marched into his nostrils, troops of red armies sent to wake him. They were strong. He was late. He was at least seven minutes late-- the intense seasonings didn’t start until exactly 8:36 am, and curry was always the second. The navy pin-striped suit sat ready, and showering was not an option as water could only be turned on before 8:34 and was shut off at 8:40. Tripping to the dresser, Andrew half buttoned his shirt and shrugged his pants on, grabbing a piece of automatic toast before hitching out the door.

excuses, excuses

It's a lot easier to write about things when you're miserable, so the last year has been literarily difficult. I'm going to start writing stories, one a week at least. They won't be very good. It's strange thinking of what to write about. Every idea has a flaw.

Examples, problems:

-'Write what you love!' I love people. Should I write about my friends? The multitudes of people I'm secretly (or not so secretly) attracted to? Strangers? I dated a boy once who had written a bunch of songs about girls at our tiny high school that he had once 'loved' (he was a drama queen), but he didn't want to play them at school because that'd be strange. Instead, he waited until college and released them (including an awful one about how much of a bitch I am-- see 'Boar in the Woods'. I'm sure posting this link doesn't help dissolve that reputation, but back to the sentence!), and some of my high school kids heard it, and everyone laughed. Maybe that's an exaggeration, but I laughed, and I am insecure enough with my composition abilities and embarrassingly open enough about my personal life to make writing about people seem like some sort of suicide.

Also, I totally love myself, but writing about 'neuroses' or whatever is soooo sophomore year.

-'Write about anything, but make it so cryptic that no one knows what you're talking about!' Self-indulgent/coy with annoying overtones. Maybe a good way to circumvent the problem of wanting to write about people.

-'Write creatively!' But what if I suck, and then people don't take me seriously? I am a critic to everyone, so I am due some mean karma, BUT I DON'T WANT IT.

-.....Grow up. See: BUT I DON'T WANT TO. Just kidding, but I am afraid of being artistically vulnerable because I probably suck lalala.

Side note: Alejandro sucks.

OKAY. So I'll write stories or something about an unknown subject-- and I'm mostly saying this because I can't think of anymore things to add to that list, and I also live for the airport in about two hours, so I don't want to think anymore. Hopefully, one story a week. Maybe someone will read them?! Unlikely, but I can hope, you know? Maybe I'll write poems, too, if I get my emotions back. (read: if I start crying all the time again!) We'll see, we'll see.

an explanation

'jennifer' is a welsh, english, or celtic (but aren't they all kind of the same?) name meaning 'fair one' or 'white wave'. it's derived from guinevere, king arthur's floozy of a wife who falls in love with lancelot and leads to arthur's ruin; legend says that the king of england must have her at his side to be successful, but other legends contradict.

i sometimes wonder how many of the mothers who named their daughters jennifer in the 70s (when the name was at its height of its popularity) knew the history behind the name. hell, i wonder if my mom did. i kind of doubt it. in fact, i'd be surprised to find out she even properly knew who arthur was. i wonder if any of the mothers would feel odd, having named their baby girls after one of the most prominent sluts in european history. (i guess i should clarify here that i don't have a problem with guinevere's romantic choices; in fact, i wish i had her exact same name, instead of this silly derivative.) in the end of the affair, bendrix hires a private detective who, i think, names his son lancelot after 'the man who found the holy grail'. bendrix corrects him, saying that galahad had found the grail, as lancelot wasn't able to touch the grail because he was an adulterer. after hear this, a look comes over the detective's face 'as though he had betrayed his son.' would any of the other jennifers' mothers care as much as this detective? would mine? i kind of doubt it.

regardless, this is my blog, and that's where all of the 'white wave' business comes from. the 'confessions of a... widowed' is from lolita; i feel like i shouldn't have to explain that connexion. i'm not sure what i'll have to write about (and i think that problem is precisely why i'm starting this) because i doubt i'll care enough in three years to read about my god-awful haircut or how much glee i've been watching, but i do want to write something. writing used to be my 'thing'. the president of my high school would always compliment my newspaper articles, and i do have an almost-finished dystopian novel hiding somewhere in the crevices of my macbook. i ought to get back in practice-- short stories, poems, everything. we'll see what happens.

i'll leave you with a picture of guinevere and lancelot. oddly enough, a few pictures of otters showed up in the search; i love otters.