An Open Letter To TFioS

The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.

F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby  (via sunst0ne)

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When I was sixteen I read The Great Gatsby, and oh - Oh! I said, how it flows, how does this gorgeous iambic pentameter work its way through the valves of my arteries? ‘Within and without’ runs in my blood. Everything sounds like money to me. I wandered lonely as a cloud, only, no, old sport, I don’t wander, I plan. I lift weights like Benjamin Franklin. I gaze out, out, out, I am the poet. I am the huntsman. I lie in wait. I have for years. Sometimes I forget about The Bell Jar, but I remember The Iron Giant. Let me tell you, I’ve watched that movie every year of my life since I was seven years old, and I fell in love with the robot from a children’s story book to the big screen. I have since studied Metamorphoses and watched the hawk fly through the rain, but choking to death on my own breath? A touchy subject. What does F. Scott Fitzgerald have to say for himself when his wife’s journals lay strewn across his back catalogue? Where was Ted Hughes when Sylvia Plath collapsed in the kitchen? Boasting about his own work, or belittling hers? In 2008 The Times ranked Hughes fourth on their list of ‘The 50 greatest British writers since 1945’. Where is Sylvia Plath? Where is Zelda Fitzgerald? Where are the women? Where are the gentle hands, the voices that clink like coins, where are the dangerous curves, where is the soaring fire of our generation? Show me your nails, filed to claws. Give me your ragged hearts, give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, give me your words. I want to hear your voices, louder and more insistent than ever before. I want The Times to write a new list. I need to hear the murmurs of agreement of every lecturer in the Arts and Humanities department of each university as they turn it over in their hands. To see a split between every gender so even that no one remembers where the line is, where the line ever was. This wave’s classic writers are gone, so bare your teeth and show me your fighting stance.

we are still behind the yellow wallpaper | ishani jasmin (via ishanijasmin)

So beautiful, so complicated, so problematic...

Tarsem’s The Fall #1 - Resonating

The Fall is my favorite movie, so on many occasions I was confronted with the question, ”What do you like about it?” In this series that I’m starting right here and right now I’d like to investigate the reasons behind my connection to the movie. I want to start by the most personal tie.

When I first saw the movie I had no more than a vague idea what it would be about and a brief sample that I had watched just to know if it’s as beautiful as promised. As the story unfolded I was, of course, swept away by the beautiful imagery and the generous and unpretentious way a child’s imagination is translated to film but of course this wasn’t my first time seeing gripping visuals.

At the bottom of my experience there lay a powerful component: Much like Alexandria uses an avatar in the form of nurse Evelyn at one point of the story, I too have found a character to embody me. Prior to my first viewing I had had a very unpleasant happening with my heart and I was still far from having a ready medical report, so I was compressed into a two-dimensional state, consisting of uncertainty and fear, these very efficiently feeding each other. Later I turned out to have a manageable condition but at that time I was thoroughly afraid of dying. As a twenty-one-year-old this was my first time of facing mortality in its reality and eventuality. To me the way Roy took the defeatist standpoint was a familiar attitude, as I was also regarding my state very grimly.

Roy: “ It was the natural order of things... all things must die.”

The catharsis at the end of the movie, with the idiosyncratic added heartbeat-sound, could really move me. Although I saw no analogy there with my life, I still felt lifted up and hopeful, which was something I craved.

Months later, when I revisited The Fall, I had had new developments and I finally knew considerably more about my health. I was in no imminent danger but I was ordered to keep away from a very long list of kinds of physical exercise, which made me morose. I, a young person, had known the world most profoundly through times spent with the thumping in my ear, signalling that I was at my top speed or at the limits of my strength. Sports have been to me, what I’m sure is easily relatable, the place to feel very clearly that I was alive.

Deprived of this physical but pure joy I felt, and to a certain extent still do, that I had been handicapped, robbed of my physical future. I saw that I was restrained to the bounds of moderate movement and I was filled with the hateful expectation that my life, however distant from actual danger now, would undoubtedly be deemed to be shorter than what I had originally hoped for.

Over time my fears had somewhat dissipated but whenever I watch poor Roy struggle with his very physical inadequacy and his hopelessness I also see myself. The Fall is a story, in which people use a story to shape reality (had I no medical issue I’d probably love this movie most for being so meta) because stories, however escapist, have actual impact on the audience’s reality. I had always been invested in fiction because I understood that it has the potential to be almost supernaturally powerful, however, no story had cut deeper than this and none had treated me with more care than this.

You: I could say it's complicated but then...

Forget the People

The news having spread quickly and having reached the last poor, unemployed soul, a miserably thin crowd came up to Mr Dis App’s door. As he walked out with his humble luggage, they overwhelmed him.

He had thought he had braced himself against the jeering and scolding and ridiculing. But the judgmental people were shouting wishes of safe passage, the cynics wailed without any comment and his loving mother said her heart was breaking for him.

Nothing too predictable but still, all acceptable from people with no fate and spirit. This would be, Dis App pondered, a gesture unconserved.

He had one backpack, one messenger bag and--what he knew no one would know is a piece of luggage to his new life--a watch.

“Where is Scott?” he asked himself.

But he knew, fate is no mirage, it would not dissipate if he blinked or looked away.

And the used car was indeed parked at the end of the street.

Cottages with unmanaged surroundings. Weeds and poppies all the way to the city limits.

Let your love be strong

"Falling down like broken satellites..." This is what Jon Foreman felt at some point in his life. I bet this wasn't just a one-time-experience, for I know it befalls on me over and over again.

I know where I'm headed, I know what I should do right now but I'm constantly wasting time from my life. It's when I don't shoot for the goal. Then it doesn't matter if I'm just sitting around, doing nothing or I'm purposefully transgressing morals, rules, anything... The effect is always the same: emptiness, being burn-out...

As I've said, I know where I'm headed. I know what I should do. It's so easy to picture myself as being an acknowledged novelist, director or such. I just sit here and imagine... And I also have great plans of finishing my first novel AT LAST. It's so clear what road leads there, what action is required now. But I'm just not on the right path. Momentarily...

However, as I said above, this is a temporary state, ergo, there is a way out. My momentary "crisis" can be settled, I can be revived very easily. There's this solution, which Jon Foreman sings about, he asks the Great I Am: Let your love be strong!

My world has to be resting on His love, and then I'm immediately out of the pit. Simple as that. Why? Because no matter what you're telling me, I feel His indescribable love, so I'm being moved externally. My miserable minutes are over, and maybe I can sing tomorrow's song earlier than expected :)

some fly free as birds