Legends

I am sitting on the floor of my bedroom in darkness. I feel tired, though I cannot sleep. I tried to for an hour. I gave up. Before my first attempt into the world of obscurity, I reread the short story "The Gift of the Magi" by the writer O'Henry. I remember reading it in the days of middle school. I did recall the overall message... and even the feeling I felt whilst reading it. A woman by the name of Della cannot afford to buy a Christmas gift for her husband Jim. She decides to sell one of the two most valued possessions they own... her hair that swiftly moves from a tight-knit knot into sheets of gorgeous, long hair. She then scours stores in order to find the perfect, in-ornate, classic gift for Jim. She discovers a simple, yet dignified chain for the second valued possession of their family-- the family heirloom, his self-assertive watch. At 7 pm, he comes home to find her in short "Coney Island Chorus Girl" curls... and he cannot physically react. He sold his watch in order to purchase combs that she had admired obsessively from a window on Broadway. They both retire and decide to put away their gifts until they can be of better use. Then O'Henry digresses and begins discussing the magi who visited "the Babe at the manger" and the purpose of their gifts. This bit somewhat vague. I believe that Della and Jim should not have rid their most valued possessions in order to purchase gifts for one another. I would hope that which binds them together, whether it be love, or something else, would connect them. I wish that they could have just collapsed onto one another on the couch and embraced... but it is somewhat childlike and sweet that they both sold their valuables in order to make the others' Christmas special. 

O'Henry is the pen name of William Sydney Porter. He wrote 381 short stories whilst living in New York City. 381 worthy short stories. Oh... Henry. 

If you'd like to listen to "A Gift of the Magi"...

Sylvia!

Anita Ekberg! Oh, my! What a beautiful woman. This film still depicts her in the Trevi Fountain, before she is joined by the journalist Marcello (La Dolce Vita). In the film she plays an American actress by the name of Sylvia. I hope Anita was just like Sylvia in real life. She is so free-spirited and wild and...ravishing, really. I have a lady crush and a lady aspiration. She was deified by men for her 40D bustline. I would deify her for her feral nature!

A small clip from La Dolce Vita 

My Favorite Christmas Songs

Do They Know It's Christmas Time At All?

Santa Claus is Coming to Town

Snoopy vs. the Red Baron

March of the Wooden Soldiers

Psyche and Eros

Psyche and Eros 

On the aeroplane sky-soar from Miami to New York, I decided to be the one to do the crossword puzzle in the back of the American Airlines Magazine. Yes, I am that girl. One of the few answers I knew was "The lover of Psyche"... Eros! 

In the Greek language, the word "psyche" means the human mind or the soul. In the New Testament, sometimes it appears three times in the same sentence- meaning "wind" "breath" and "spirit." It's a beautiful word. 

In Greek mythology, Psyche was a young woman who was loved by Eros (also known as Cupid). He had sexual and emotional relations with Psyche, but only visited her at night and insisted that she never see his face. Psyche's sisters urged her to attempt to see him. She agreed, and lit a lamp whilst Eros was sleeping one night. She fell in love with him immediately. Shaken by his beauty, she spilled a drop of oil on him and he awakened. He left her angrily. In order to win him back, Psyche had to perform superhuman tasks set forth by Venus (his mother) before she could be united with Eros. The final task was to open a casket that supposedly contained beauty. Psyche was overcome by a deadly sleep. She was rescued however by the intervention of Jupiter. She was elevated to goddess-ship and was reunited with her godly man.

Psyche is often depicted as a figure with butterfly wings. She symbolizes the human soul, suffering in life, but emerging through death in a new, more beautiful existence. 

The lover of Psyche? Eros. Mother of Eros? Venus. Jupiter = Zeus (same gods, different names). 

I wish time travel were possible. 

First Post

I have not used blogging websites since high school. In the days of Livejournal, I used Deadjournal. After a few weeks of fervent type-typing and illustrating my moods with emoticons and song lyrics, I decided that I did not like to air my laundry, whether it was dirty or folded crisply. Brittany addressed me and stated that my thoughts ought to be mine own. 

My thoughts are mine own, they always have been mine own. I may learn something more about them if i write them before me; you, reader, may learn something about you if you read them before you. 

 

It is Friday morning and I am eating Kashi oatmeal, drinking orange juice, and watching TCM. The film I am watching is called "Knack, and How." It is a strange British film from the 1960s. I caught the tail-end of it so I cannot explain to you, reader, what it is completely about. It seemed like there was a sexually knowledgeable man who "raped" (but did not actually rape) a young country girl who just came into the city. She described his handsomeness and ruggedness to him and then he fell in love with her. The film ended with them walking along the Thames River in the dark. 

Yesterday was a day filled with strange feelings. When I wrote an extensive bit last night, it was deleted by Safari. Of course. I am trying to get back to where I was when I wrote it last night. I remember describing the way I like to dig my toes into my ivory-with-speckled-harvest-colours carpet. I remember describing my mood-- somewhat sad, but not melancholy. Excited, curious... a petri-dish of tentative emotion. I then continued to express my happiness of hanging out with Kevin! The cold wind that accompanied us on our walk contributed to the mood. We discussed Nietzsche, religion, relationships, philosophy, professors, and art. I learned from a mere conversation with him, and that's a great kind of friend. What I liked most was our conversation about Vincent Van Gogh. Apparently, Paul Gaughin stole his woman. He then went to Tahiti to paint bright, vivid canvases of Tahitian native women. In a letter to his brother, Theo, Vincent said, (I am paraphrasing Kevin) "I would go to Tahiti to see him, but I am afraid my paper-mache ear would melt." Hilarious. Most people choose not to see the human Van Gogh, they simply reduce him to madness. I am generalizing, but I feel as though it is a common tendency to do so. My former French teacher, Madame D'Amore, loved to take our class to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in order to see the Gaughins and the French Impressionist work. I have always loved the work of Manet.

In London I saw an incredible painting entitled "A Bar at the Folies-Bergere." It was riveting to look at. A woman occupies the foreground, behind her is an expansive mirror in which mens' faces are reflected. The drab men are not painted by Manet. The viewers of the painting are reflected in the mirror- we are illegible, we are dark, we are ordinary; there are masses of us. 

On exhibit at the Courtauld Gallery is Walter Sickert's Camden Town Nudes. I first became familiar with Sickert's work when I was researching Francis Bacon. I only saw them online, unfortunately. They are strikingly real. The nudes transcend the painting, the world of art confronts reality.