A momentous occasion for me, isn't it?
First things first- the nose. The nose has been fixed. Facebook already knows about the nose, mainly because it appears that when I am drugged I think it's perfectly okay to mention blood and pain and angst in regards to my face, rather than demurely dealing with it with the appropriate amount of Endone.
Okay, so perhaps I don't need drugs to do that, but whatever.
My experience of septoplasty was surprisingly pleasant, considering my low pain threshold/fear of pain. We arrived at the hospital at 6:30am, and at 8:30, I was escorted to a bed to await the anaesthetist. This is where I began to panic. I wish I could say I did my panic is a refined and quiet way.
I panicked with tears. Lots of tears.
The anaesthetist's assistant peered at me. "Is everything okay?"
"I... don't... want... a... needle," I blubbered. "I don't like needles!"
I can only imagine she was thoroughly appalled at me; twenty years old and still reacting as well as I did when I was three. But she casually put the cannula in my hand and hooked up the drip.
I was still in tears when the surgeon's assistant came to see me. "Oh no," she said. "You're a stresser, aren't you?"
I nodded, to which she grabbed my hand. "You'll be fine. You'll be knocked out, and there's no need to cry."
She reminded me of my mother. I had not requested my mother's presence at the operation, but my soothing father's.
The surgeon then came in, and beamed at me. "We're going to slash up your nose!"
That shocked me out of crying.
When they put me in the operating theatre, I guess they started pumping the anaesthetic in pretty quickly. It's the only explanation for the following conversation:
Surgeon's assistant: "So you're at uni?"
Me: [giggles]
Surgeon's assistant: "The drugs are clearly working. What do you study?"
Me: "Media and Communications!" [giggles]
Surgeon's assistant: "Is it fun?"
Me: "It's pretty hard! Haha!" [giggles some more]
That's all I remember, and then I recall waking up and trying to hide under my blankets because Dad was peering at me. I couldn't exactly hide, however - there was too much going on around my nose. It was packed with gauze and splints, and had a bandage taped underneath it. As far as noses went, I didn't quite like it. The bandage under my nose was used to catch blood, and it took an hour before that bandage was saturated and bright red. Changing the bandage got less frequent during my stay; by 3am, my right nostril had stopped bleeding completely.
There wasn't much pain with it, but that could be because I was still coming out of the anaesthetic. I didn't really feel like taking painkillers, but the nurses ensured I had it. For the first part of the day, when the anaesthetic was still existing, I was given Panadol in drip form; once it had worn off, I was given Endone. This was against my will initially, but Endone is a lovely drug (please don't lock me up. Please); it also led to some amusing text messages which I still can't figure out.
I already gave a disclaimer saying I'd make jack-all sense premed I made it to you
I want all the oainkollets though
Sorry just got Ll woozy and nearly fainted bathroom tulsa are fun.
Oh, another thing - dizziness and fainting are expected, apparently.
The next morning, my surgeon returned to pull out the initial gauze packing. The nurses had given me more Endone ("Honey, you might want it. You're actually coping really well with the pain, much better than most, but you still might want it") and I was told to suck on some gas.
Still did not lessen the really, really uncomfortable feeling of getting something pulled out of my nose, and did not lessen the woozy feeling of blood pouring out of my face. It wasn't much, probably, but it sure felt like heaps. I nearly passed out then and there, much to my mother's disgust. "Tash, I'm not opening the window," she said, when I begged her to open SOMETHING because it was so hot and I felt like I was going to die. "You'll be fine."
I was, after seeing black spots for quite some time, and then falling asleep.
When I got home, I was holding tissues to my nose for quite some time, and I fell asleep in awkward positions everywhere. That night, I slept - blood caked all over my face and I freaked out upon seeing that delightful image at 2am. Gradually, the bleeding stopped and the sneezing/face attacking began. I am uncoordinated, and routinely hit my face. It was not very clever to do at this point.
Today, I went to the surgeon's offices, where he pulled out the splints. The faintness I felt was mainly due to hyperventilating upon seeing his surgical instruments laid out and his going, "So pain is good for you!" as he snapped scissors at me. Getting the stitches cut was painful, mainly because scissors were hitting my septum, and getting the splints out just killed. It was more the initial tugging that hurt, as they too hit my septum.
Right now? I feel fantastic. I can breathe through my nose! It's a seriously awesome feeling, and now I've got to train my body to do it automatically after 20 years of doing otherwise.
Secondly, crafting things for the new place has begun! I've made three pillowcases for our new place, and tomorrow am making curtains. The curtains are plain red ones with some heavy blockout underneath (I WILL DEFEAT YOU SUNROOM). I'm also making some blue pillowcases for Trina's couch, which will involve patchworking a fair bit.
Anyway, now all the bad stuff's over, let's get to posting regularly!
I'm also going to get more of the story done, very very soon.
Monday, June 18, 2012
Saturday, June 9, 2012
I'm sort of lost now I'm not writing essays...
As of yesterday, I did my last essay for this semester.
Begone, five units of absolute torture and wenchness! (Actually, the fifth unit - my Creative Writing one - wasn't so bad. I seem to recall a post where I lamented writing a story, but that's me being dramatic.) Hello, holidays and relaxation!
I'm back down in NSW, which basically means that it's freezing. Freezing cold everywhere. It's a bit of a change from Brisbane. Brisbane, I'd be wearing shorts and a tee and be huddled under a blanket, complaining that I was about to get frostbite. NSW, I'm rugged up with jackets aplenty and socks that basically look like I've stolen an entire sheep to make them, while huddled under a blanket with the heater on.
and she thinks she's going to cope in London and Melbourne, I hear you all saying.
I also hear your raucous laughter.
So, plans for the holidays?
- Getting a new nose for starters. No, I'm not attempting to look like Michael Jackson/Crazy Cat Lady. I can't quite breathe through the nose, which I've probably mentioned at some point or another. Anyway, I'm getting that sorted on Tuesday apparently. Going to be slightly strange actually being able to breathe through my nose and smell things...
- I'm going to beg my Nana (and possibly bribe her) to finally pass her recipe for empanadas and sopapillas onto me. I don't get such delicious things in Brisbane, and no one, and I mean no one, has ever been able to make empanadas that rival my Nana's. However, she's always been extremely secretive about her recipes, and basically all I've ever been permitted to do is put the filling (which she's made before I've come over) in the empanadas, and fold them appropriately. Oh, and eat them. Eating them is always good.
Brisbane buddies, expect this at some point or another, because I am not going back up to Brisbane until I have me some recipes. - Because I've been asked to do it, I'm continuing on with chapter 2 of the aforementioned story. This can only happen once I get a laptop again. Stanley has officially kicked the bucket and I'm looking forward to welcoming Minerva to the group once Dad finds me a decent laptop. Currently, I'm writing on my Tata's laptop, borrowed for the purposes of writing my final essay.
- Sew some things for the new house. Oh, yeah. Trina, Nick and I have moved! We're now living in a lovely house with gloriously large rooms, a gloriously large garden, and a gloriously large kitchen. My room was once a sunroom, making the room delicious in winter... but, oh man, does that sun shine brightly! At 6am for the two nights I was there, I ended up having to flee to the living room (compared to my room, it's coffin-like darkness) to keep sleeping. I'm also going to do up a few cushions, and maybe find a pretty new seat for my sewing room. Yes. I get a sewing room. I'm going to put my desk and stuff in there too.
- Figure out a decent recipe for Dulce de Leche cupcakes. I have a jar of the stuff that isn't really getting used... so why not?
The Spanish fest is also coming to Brisbane, so I'm going to embrace the quarter-heritage (or is it eighth? It's not a huge amount anyway, but I'll claim it) and have a fun weekend of shenanigans and win when I'm back up in Brisbane. Trina is coming with me and I'm fairly certain we'll end up dragging some more awesome folk along.
Time for me to pass out, I think. I'm dead tired (unusual, really, but it seems down here I end up with my grandma's sleeping habits) and should probably curl up for the night.
finally finally holidays
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
My Tata, Ramon.
My grandfather is my favourite person.
He scoffs when I tell him this. "I'm your only Tata," he says, scowling. "I have to be your favourite." In the same breath, however, he'll also wail that I'm the only person that loves him and that at least I won't dance on his grave.
He often tells me stories of his uni experiences. "One of my friends got a chicken from his mother," goes one such story. "He forgot about it and left it under his bed in the package. We were hungry the next day, and even though that chicken smelt more terrible than your grandmother's feet, we ate it."
"Did you get sick?"
"Pah, no. We'd eaten worse."
Chile, he says, is a land where they protest for the sake of protest. "Natashitaitaita, if you go to Chile and don't protest, I will disown you."
"Did you protest?"
"Of course. I don't even know what for, but I did." One time, he says, he narrowly escaped arrest out of sheer laziness. "The university students were protesting... ah, I don't know, something. I got bored halfway through and went home. I didn't live too far away. The next thing I know, my friends have been arrested."
He knows, or at least knew, a fair variety of languages. Spanish, of course, was his first language, but he also knows snippets of French. He has learned Italian from watching operas. German, I don't know how he picked it up. In fact, no one really knows how he picked it up. My grandmother nearly died of shock when they were travelling Europe and suddenly Tata's having a nice old chat with some German folk. His English, for a non-native speaker, is better than mine. This could bother me, I suppose, but it more awes me and makes me want to learn more. My mother tells me I must get my taste for words and languages from him because I clearly didn't get it from anyone else in our family.
However, he knows these languages in a manito de gato way - he knows their shortcuts and goes about them the easiest way. He taught me to speak "like a true Chilean". Apparently doing so means chopping 's' out of all your words and chewing on the words before you let them loose with a blase roll of your tongue.
No matter where we go, he has a book. He's sort of forbidden from taking them shopping, but he has, on occasion, hidden them under his shirt until Nana has pushed her trolley into Woolworths. On Mondays when I lived at home, he used to pick me up from work because he was also picking up my cousins. I would have a book on my phone (he always sneered at that) and he would reach into the pocket behind the passenger's seat and pull out the latest JD Robb/Nora Roberts.
Nora Roberts is one of his favourite writers, and I like her too. However, she does romance and crime separately. Tata saw me reading one of her romance novels and beamed. "You like Nora Roberts?"
"Yeah," I said.
"Me too!"
Surprised, I closed the book. I'd read it before. "Have you read this one?"
I'm not sure what Tata thought Born in Fire was going to be about, but he snatched it up eagerly. "No! I've never heard of this one!"
"Borrow it then."
The next day he picked me up for work, and Born in Fire was resting on the dashboard. He levelled me with a glare the second I opened the door.
"Romance? You read romance?"
"... didn't you realise?"
"I read through the night, waiting for the murder! It never happened! They got married!"
The other day, Dad was over at Nana and Tata's fixing Skype. (My cousins are over in Argentina/Chile at the moment, and it seems Nana can't go 8 weeks without talking to them.) Dad texted me, knowing I'd be on my phone, and asked me to Skype-call Nana.
Dad's there discussing the program with me, and Nana's leaning far too close to the webcam for me to actually see her, when I hear a shout. "Ay? Is that my Natashitaitaita?"
Nana and Dad got pushed out of the way and Tata filled the screen, saying, "IT IS! Finally someone I want to see! Did I tell you it's boring without you here? I miss you!"
My Tata is a man of crazy.
But he is also a man of excellence.
And I miss him something chronic.
He scoffs when I tell him this. "I'm your only Tata," he says, scowling. "I have to be your favourite." In the same breath, however, he'll also wail that I'm the only person that loves him and that at least I won't dance on his grave.
He often tells me stories of his uni experiences. "One of my friends got a chicken from his mother," goes one such story. "He forgot about it and left it under his bed in the package. We were hungry the next day, and even though that chicken smelt more terrible than your grandmother's feet, we ate it."
"Did you get sick?"
"Pah, no. We'd eaten worse."
Chile, he says, is a land where they protest for the sake of protest. "Natashitaitaita, if you go to Chile and don't protest, I will disown you."
"Did you protest?"
"Of course. I don't even know what for, but I did." One time, he says, he narrowly escaped arrest out of sheer laziness. "The university students were protesting... ah, I don't know, something. I got bored halfway through and went home. I didn't live too far away. The next thing I know, my friends have been arrested."
He knows, or at least knew, a fair variety of languages. Spanish, of course, was his first language, but he also knows snippets of French. He has learned Italian from watching operas. German, I don't know how he picked it up. In fact, no one really knows how he picked it up. My grandmother nearly died of shock when they were travelling Europe and suddenly Tata's having a nice old chat with some German folk. His English, for a non-native speaker, is better than mine. This could bother me, I suppose, but it more awes me and makes me want to learn more. My mother tells me I must get my taste for words and languages from him because I clearly didn't get it from anyone else in our family.
However, he knows these languages in a manito de gato way - he knows their shortcuts and goes about them the easiest way. He taught me to speak "like a true Chilean". Apparently doing so means chopping 's' out of all your words and chewing on the words before you let them loose with a blase roll of your tongue.
No matter where we go, he has a book. He's sort of forbidden from taking them shopping, but he has, on occasion, hidden them under his shirt until Nana has pushed her trolley into Woolworths. On Mondays when I lived at home, he used to pick me up from work because he was also picking up my cousins. I would have a book on my phone (he always sneered at that) and he would reach into the pocket behind the passenger's seat and pull out the latest JD Robb/Nora Roberts.
Nora Roberts is one of his favourite writers, and I like her too. However, she does romance and crime separately. Tata saw me reading one of her romance novels and beamed. "You like Nora Roberts?"
"Yeah," I said.
"Me too!"
Surprised, I closed the book. I'd read it before. "Have you read this one?"
I'm not sure what Tata thought Born in Fire was going to be about, but he snatched it up eagerly. "No! I've never heard of this one!"
"Borrow it then."
The next day he picked me up for work, and Born in Fire was resting on the dashboard. He levelled me with a glare the second I opened the door.
"Romance? You read romance?"
"... didn't you realise?"
"I read through the night, waiting for the murder! It never happened! They got married!"
The other day, Dad was over at Nana and Tata's fixing Skype. (My cousins are over in Argentina/Chile at the moment, and it seems Nana can't go 8 weeks without talking to them.) Dad texted me, knowing I'd be on my phone, and asked me to Skype-call Nana.
Dad's there discussing the program with me, and Nana's leaning far too close to the webcam for me to actually see her, when I hear a shout. "Ay? Is that my Natashitaitaita?"
Nana and Dad got pushed out of the way and Tata filled the screen, saying, "IT IS! Finally someone I want to see! Did I tell you it's boring without you here? I miss you!"
My Tata is a man of crazy.
But he is also a man of excellence.
And I miss him something chronic.
Obligatory procrastination post
If you're in Australia, it's Tuesday.
(My American readers, I have no idea what your crazy time zone is doing, but I'm sure it's going swimmingly and that the past hasn't changed much. The future is pretty darn swell.)
I digress; it is currently Tuesday, and I have a 3000 word draft due on Thursday.
My current total of words is sitting at, ahem, 0.
BUT THIS IS TOTALLY FINE.
I mean, it's completely reasonable to procrastinate, right? Doesn't my best work come from procrastination? Well, I wouldn't know otherwise, it's sort of hard to remember back when I was studious, but I'm pulling fairly decent marks and such and - oh man I'm screwed.
Anyway, because I'm screwed, I figured I'd write you a post which will probably total 3000 words of drivel.
Things that I have been doing to procrastinate:
Trying on jeans that fit me when I was basically a twig.
It happened once, I was a twig. I lived where there were massive hills and lots of steps and I was poor so I rarely ate.
Result, 10 kg dropping off.
I put said 10kg on again when I moved down home (because at home, parents pay for food and you forget that this food is a regularly occurring thing so you eat ALL the food out of fear it's your last good meal ever and you'll be back to eating microwaved puff pastry), and have probably lost five kg if I examine photos. I am scared of scales, so I wouldn't actually know.
Anyway, I ran up and down the stairs in our house 20 times each way today. It was a feat of skill and excellence, and one that has my legs cramping just thinking about it. For some reason, I think I must have thought it meant that the last five kilos would simply admit defeat and storm out of the place.
I can fit into the jeans better than I did before, though my gosh, my black jeans that were too small for me when I bought them?
NEVER AGAIN. Far out, and I used to rue the CorsetJean then.
I have also discovered that I no longer like bootcut jeans, and am extremely grateful for my straights and vaguely skinny jeans for their ability to go well with heels.
I have also had a stern talking to my hips, and have politely asked them to start storing their excess baggage somewhere less noticeable, like my ears or perhaps on someone else's body.
Dancing around to The Jezabels
I say that as though I have many of their songs, but I really don't. I have Hurt Me and nothing more. Does my listening to Sigur Ros make me any less of a musical pariah? Apparently the abundance of Aqua and Simple Plan in my iTunes playlist is something I should be ashamed of.
So dancing around to the Jezabels is a lot of fun, until you dance past a mirror and realise you look like you're strangling a monkey. I apologise, airmonkeys, for continuing anyway. I also apologise for the rampant punching of your airhabitat, but the song demanded it.
Trying on all the shoes in your cupboard
I have some extremely high heels, and they are fantastic.
However, I think my wardrobe has changed slightly and the shoes no longer suit.
Dismay!
I would use this as an excuse to buy new clothes and/or shoes, but apparently I have bought enough dresses recently and I should probably take out shares in Bardot to make up for my spending (okay, I bought two dresses, but if I can make money on it I should do it).
If anyone has a saucy dress that could go with khaki heels, send it along to me. 10 and I get along.
Also, military boots of any variety are pretty much on fun-par with pirate boots. Get ye some of them boots.
Watching things with Nathan Fillion
So new episode of Castle came out yesterday/today/some day. I watched it today.
SWEET BISCUITS THAT WAS BRILLIANT.
Simmy, one of my lovely pals, tells me that this is the last episode this season (if I was good at things I'd know this myself, but that's what friends are for - succeeding where I crawl under tables). This isn't so good, but it did prompt me to finally start watching Firefly. And what a good show Firefly is.
Aw, man, now I want to watch Doctor Horrible.
Downloading Doctor Horrible Soundtrack to accompany the blitherings
I can't really comment on this, because I've just started doing it. But I imagine it'll be legend- wait for it - DARY.
See what I did there?
... did I even do anything there besides make a really terrible NPH reference? No. I did not. Let's all pretend that totally made sense, mmkay?
Oh man, I just said mmkay. Twice.
But speaking of NPH references, this Avengers-slash-HIMYM post is just gold.
Glaring at every other book on your bookshelf
Well, why shouldn't I? They had the resolve to write 3000 words. Heck, they wrote more than that. Then they had the resolve to get the flipping thing published.
This is the point where I just fall flat on the floor, my legs mutiny after being forced up the stairs too many times, and the Alsatians come for me. Trina, Nick and Glen should expect this as a thing. I will be dead by morning (I think the Alsatians will find me quickly; no three-week wait here. I'm a despondent uni student going into a career where deadlines are a thing and procrastination is not. Oh gosh, I'm screwed.)
Try and find the Bridget Jones screenshot of the Alsatians
Just for reference, it doesn't exist.
I WILL MAKE IT EXIST.
Finally realise that downloading All The Movies doesn't make the essay appear.
Can I just go to sleep instead? It seems more logical.
Darn it, it's a story, not an essay. Your future career in words and non-procrastination (there's a word for that, isn't there? Gah!) is looking bleak.
I sincerely hope that any future employer sees this post and goes, "She's a funny one!" rather than phoning Richmond Clinic and asking could they please prep the straitjacket.
Resort to washing up.
When all else fails, there's always dishes to be washed.
Dangit.
(My American readers, I have no idea what your crazy time zone is doing, but I'm sure it's going swimmingly and that the past hasn't changed much. The future is pretty darn swell.)
I digress; it is currently Tuesday, and I have a 3000 word draft due on Thursday.
My current total of words is sitting at, ahem, 0.
BUT THIS IS TOTALLY FINE.
I mean, it's completely reasonable to procrastinate, right? Doesn't my best work come from procrastination? Well, I wouldn't know otherwise, it's sort of hard to remember back when I was studious, but I'm pulling fairly decent marks and such and - oh man I'm screwed.
Anyway, because I'm screwed, I figured I'd write you a post which will probably total 3000 words of drivel.
Things that I have been doing to procrastinate:
Trying on jeans that fit me when I was basically a twig.
It happened once, I was a twig. I lived where there were massive hills and lots of steps and I was poor so I rarely ate.
Result, 10 kg dropping off.
I put said 10kg on again when I moved down home (because at home, parents pay for food and you forget that this food is a regularly occurring thing so you eat ALL the food out of fear it's your last good meal ever and you'll be back to eating microwaved puff pastry), and have probably lost five kg if I examine photos. I am scared of scales, so I wouldn't actually know.
Anyway, I ran up and down the stairs in our house 20 times each way today. It was a feat of skill and excellence, and one that has my legs cramping just thinking about it. For some reason, I think I must have thought it meant that the last five kilos would simply admit defeat and storm out of the place.
I can fit into the jeans better than I did before, though my gosh, my black jeans that were too small for me when I bought them?
NEVER AGAIN. Far out, and I used to rue the CorsetJean then.
I have also discovered that I no longer like bootcut jeans, and am extremely grateful for my straights and vaguely skinny jeans for their ability to go well with heels.
I have also had a stern talking to my hips, and have politely asked them to start storing their excess baggage somewhere less noticeable, like my ears or perhaps on someone else's body.
Dancing around to The Jezabels
I say that as though I have many of their songs, but I really don't. I have Hurt Me and nothing more. Does my listening to Sigur Ros make me any less of a musical pariah? Apparently the abundance of Aqua and Simple Plan in my iTunes playlist is something I should be ashamed of.
So dancing around to the Jezabels is a lot of fun, until you dance past a mirror and realise you look like you're strangling a monkey. I apologise, airmonkeys, for continuing anyway. I also apologise for the rampant punching of your airhabitat, but the song demanded it.
Trying on all the shoes in your cupboard
I have some extremely high heels, and they are fantastic.
However, I think my wardrobe has changed slightly and the shoes no longer suit.
Dismay!
I would use this as an excuse to buy new clothes and/or shoes, but apparently I have bought enough dresses recently and I should probably take out shares in Bardot to make up for my spending (okay, I bought two dresses, but if I can make money on it I should do it).
If anyone has a saucy dress that could go with khaki heels, send it along to me. 10 and I get along.
Also, military boots of any variety are pretty much on fun-par with pirate boots. Get ye some of them boots.
Watching things with Nathan Fillion
So new episode of Castle came out yesterday/today/some day. I watched it today.
SWEET BISCUITS THAT WAS BRILLIANT.
Simmy, one of my lovely pals, tells me that this is the last episode this season (if I was good at things I'd know this myself, but that's what friends are for - succeeding where I crawl under tables). This isn't so good, but it did prompt me to finally start watching Firefly. And what a good show Firefly is.
Aw, man, now I want to watch Doctor Horrible.
Downloading Doctor Horrible Soundtrack to accompany the blitherings
I can't really comment on this, because I've just started doing it. But I imagine it'll be legend- wait for it - DARY.
See what I did there?
... did I even do anything there besides make a really terrible NPH reference? No. I did not. Let's all pretend that totally made sense, mmkay?
Oh man, I just said mmkay. Twice.
But speaking of NPH references, this Avengers-slash-HIMYM post is just gold.
Glaring at every other book on your bookshelf
Well, why shouldn't I? They had the resolve to write 3000 words. Heck, they wrote more than that. Then they had the resolve to get the flipping thing published.
This is the point where I just fall flat on the floor, my legs mutiny after being forced up the stairs too many times, and the Alsatians come for me. Trina, Nick and Glen should expect this as a thing. I will be dead by morning (I think the Alsatians will find me quickly; no three-week wait here. I'm a despondent uni student going into a career where deadlines are a thing and procrastination is not. Oh gosh, I'm screwed.)
Try and find the Bridget Jones screenshot of the Alsatians
Just for reference, it doesn't exist.
I WILL MAKE IT EXIST.
Finally realise that downloading All The Movies doesn't make the essay appear.
Can I just go to sleep instead? It seems more logical.
Darn it, it's a story, not an essay. Your future career in words and non-procrastination (there's a word for that, isn't there? Gah!) is looking bleak.
I sincerely hope that any future employer sees this post and goes, "She's a funny one!" rather than phoning Richmond Clinic and asking could they please prep the straitjacket.
Resort to washing up.
When all else fails, there's always dishes to be washed.
Dangit.
Saturday, May 5, 2012
My heart
I've probably mentioned Neruda.
Maybe.
You know, once or twice.
Recently I've been losing myself in his poetry again. I am a sucker for love poetry, and his take all the cake and perhaps the entire bakery.
My heart dances when I read this. If a man was serious and told me this, I would quite possibly faint from sheer overload of awesome and happiness. Of course there comes that he better be saying even cooler things to God, but that goes without saying. Regardless, because it's 2:05 and a poem sort of seems like a good idea, this is Neruda's Sonnet XVI as translated by Stephen Tapscott.
I love the handful of earth you are.
Because of its meadows, vast as a planet,
I have no other star. You are my replica
of the multiplying universe.
Your wide eyes are the only light I know
from extinguished constellations;
your skin throbs like the streak
of a meteor through rain.
Your hips were that much of the moon for me;
your deep mouth and its delights, that much sun;
your heart, fiery with its long red rays,
was that much ardent light, like honey in the shade.
So I pass across your burning form, kissing
you -- compact and planetary, my dove, my globe.
Maybe.
You know, once or twice.
Recently I've been losing myself in his poetry again. I am a sucker for love poetry, and his take all the cake and perhaps the entire bakery.
My heart dances when I read this. If a man was serious and told me this, I would quite possibly faint from sheer overload of awesome and happiness. Of course there comes that he better be saying even cooler things to God, but that goes without saying. Regardless, because it's 2:05 and a poem sort of seems like a good idea, this is Neruda's Sonnet XVI as translated by Stephen Tapscott.
I love the handful of earth you are.
Because of its meadows, vast as a planet,
I have no other star. You are my replica
of the multiplying universe.
Your wide eyes are the only light I know
from extinguished constellations;
your skin throbs like the streak
of a meteor through rain.
Your hips were that much of the moon for me;
your deep mouth and its delights, that much sun;
your heart, fiery with its long red rays,
was that much ardent light, like honey in the shade.
So I pass across your burning form, kissing
you -- compact and planetary, my dove, my globe.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
30 Days of Writing, Day 3
Explain your Point of View and Writing Style Used
Two things:
Two things:
- That list that I copied and pasted is really badly phrased. Must go and fix that.
- Yeah, I felt guilty, and this one was an easy one.
So I'm a huge fan of first person POV. I think in stories like this, it's much easier and it allows you to see more of the character. As this story charts Carmen's self-discovery and journey (wow, that sounds so douchey, but I hope there isn't too much judgement being passed), it only makes sense for her to personally narrate. It also allows me to show her to any readers in a more subtle way - so, for instance, I don't have to blurt it out that she does xyz, I can just sort of show it through the way she tells things, through what she says and doesn't say, whatnot.
It's also fun, because I'm toying with the idea of Carmen being a slightly unreliable narrator. She's a book-child. She gets swept away in fantasy and in what the best way of telling this story would be. So first person unreliable narration would very simple.
Writing style.
I get told that most of my stories are stream-of-consciousness style. Apparently this is just a nice way of saying I blather on and should edit.
I can't quite explain how it is in one word, but basically I try and write things that are colourful and that are realistic. If I'm writing scenery, which I hate doing (Romanticism ruined me), I don't want it to be full of cliche and metaphor. I want it to be vibrant and realistic, so you shut your eyes and can see the balcony I refer to. You can see Carmen's hair, you can see Lorena's skin, you can see the party. I personally never described things with huge amounts of metaphor consciously when I spoke as a teenager, and I write as though the words are being spoken. (I am a huge fan of onomatopoeia as a result.) Dialogue is something I love doing, because I come from a family where I am the quiet one (anyone who knows me is choking on their spit right now) and words were something we always had. It's also extremely fun working out someone from the way they speak, and why it frustrates me no end trying to work out people who say very little.
Summary:
- First person POV.
- Little consciously-used metaphor.
- Onomatopoeia is fun.
- Writing as realistically as possible.
- Writing as though it's being spoken.
- I'm wearing a hat.
I didn't post for two days.
Okay, okay, hate me.
Or not, I'm really not sure how you guys feel towards my lack of posting.
I assume apathy is heavily involved.
Anyway, because I haven't posted for two days and I can't remember what I'm meant to have posted, I am on a dialogue-ish roll that I intend to share with you.
Yes, it'll probably read like a script. This is me on an unedited dialogue-ish roll (repeating words gah) and...
Also, the Spanish will be bad. I haven't spoken it in two years. Don't judge me.
SCENE
"Carmenita."
I say what.
She glares at me. "Porque tu no hablas como una niña..."
"Una niña linda, proper, what?"
"Polite."
"Because," I say, knowing full well how it sets her off when I start with because, "I am not linda, proper nor polite."
"You could be," she insists. "Ay, mi Carmenita, you'll never be married."
I reach for the cheese she's been carefully cubing, and get my hand slapped instead. "Maybe I don't want to be married."
"Don't be ridiculous," she says. "What will you do otherwise?"
"Travel. Read. Wake up at noon and go back to bed at 8."
She exhales.
"There's more to life than being married."
"For men, yes." She puts the fly net over the cheese, then begins to roll out the dough. "For you, no. Do you think that you'll be able to work?"
"It's not 1953, Nana, I can work if I want to."
"I only worked until I married your grandfather. He provided enough for me, and I never went without. Yet you and Ana, ay, both of you! Your hermana knows what's best. Why do you think she is marrying David?"
"Because Magdalena," I say, "is a gold digger and for some reason found a man who was stupid enough to not figure that out, and realised how rare a find that was."
"Your sister is clever," Nana says.
"She doesn't love him," I say, though I'm not entirely sure if it's true. "She saw lawyer and ran towards it, eyelashes fluttering."
"Cristian would be a good boy for you."
"Cristian? Nana, are you crazy?"
"He's studying medicine, niña, and he's a good boy. He thinks you're pretty enough."
Pretty enough, the compliment to last me through the fortnight and back to Melbourne.
"And your mother likes him, and his mother seems to like you. Well, no wonder, you're just like her."
I wonder if Nana sees my life playing out as Tia Camila's has. Spontaneously married, unhappily allowing affair after affair, reluctantly divorced and then probably dying bitter and alone.
"And do you know why she got the way she is?" She looks around the otherwise empty kitchen, as though suspecting Tia Camila is hiding in the pantry, and whispers, "Why she's divorced?"
"Because she married a horrible pile of idiocy who didn't understand til death do us part meant not banging every woman he came across?"
"Carmen!"
Oops.
"Don't use that language!"
I can't actually tell which part of my sentence most appalled her.
"She got that way, niña, because she was too fussy. She thought he would be perfect, because she had been with so many other fools." She leans towards me and gestures with her rolling pin. "Don't be a fool like her, Carmenita. There's no prince until you make him your prince, he won't ride in and save you, and the sooner you stop being foolish and thinking that you can exist by yourself and that a husband is only a maybe, the sooner you'll be married."
I remember now why I avoid visiting my grandmother.
Or not, I'm really not sure how you guys feel towards my lack of posting.
I assume apathy is heavily involved.
Anyway, because I haven't posted for two days and I can't remember what I'm meant to have posted, I am on a dialogue-ish roll that I intend to share with you.
Yes, it'll probably read like a script. This is me on an unedited dialogue-ish roll (repeating words gah) and...
Also, the Spanish will be bad. I haven't spoken it in two years. Don't judge me.
SCENE
"Carmenita."
I say what.
She glares at me. "Porque tu no hablas como una niña..."
"Una niña linda, proper, what?"
"Polite."
"Because," I say, knowing full well how it sets her off when I start with because, "I am not linda, proper nor polite."
"You could be," she insists. "Ay, mi Carmenita, you'll never be married."
I reach for the cheese she's been carefully cubing, and get my hand slapped instead. "Maybe I don't want to be married."
"Don't be ridiculous," she says. "What will you do otherwise?"
"Travel. Read. Wake up at noon and go back to bed at 8."
She exhales.
"There's more to life than being married."
"For men, yes." She puts the fly net over the cheese, then begins to roll out the dough. "For you, no. Do you think that you'll be able to work?"
"It's not 1953, Nana, I can work if I want to."
"I only worked until I married your grandfather. He provided enough for me, and I never went without. Yet you and Ana, ay, both of you! Your hermana knows what's best. Why do you think she is marrying David?"
"Because Magdalena," I say, "is a gold digger and for some reason found a man who was stupid enough to not figure that out, and realised how rare a find that was."
"Your sister is clever," Nana says.
"She doesn't love him," I say, though I'm not entirely sure if it's true. "She saw lawyer and ran towards it, eyelashes fluttering."
"Cristian would be a good boy for you."
"Cristian? Nana, are you crazy?"
"He's studying medicine, niña, and he's a good boy. He thinks you're pretty enough."
Pretty enough, the compliment to last me through the fortnight and back to Melbourne.
"And your mother likes him, and his mother seems to like you. Well, no wonder, you're just like her."
I wonder if Nana sees my life playing out as Tia Camila's has. Spontaneously married, unhappily allowing affair after affair, reluctantly divorced and then probably dying bitter and alone.
"And do you know why she got the way she is?" She looks around the otherwise empty kitchen, as though suspecting Tia Camila is hiding in the pantry, and whispers, "Why she's divorced?"
"Because she married a horrible pile of idiocy who didn't understand til death do us part meant not banging every woman he came across?"
"Carmen!"
Oops.
"Don't use that language!"
I can't actually tell which part of my sentence most appalled her.
"She got that way, niña, because she was too fussy. She thought he would be perfect, because she had been with so many other fools." She leans towards me and gestures with her rolling pin. "Don't be a fool like her, Carmenita. There's no prince until you make him your prince, he won't ride in and save you, and the sooner you stop being foolish and thinking that you can exist by yourself and that a husband is only a maybe, the sooner you'll be married."
I remember now why I avoid visiting my grandmother.
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