The female 'Yes'
Yes, I remember quite well how i started to love writing. I wanted to write his words, his sentences, i thirst every punctuation there is of what some considered as one of greatest novels of all time, his greatest work, ULYSSES.
Yes, this would be a better comeback post, I figure. This is a new beginning. I shed away my body and have awoken from my reveries. I wanted a fresh eye to scope not only the beauty of films but the beauty of literature. So i started: I opened the books of James Joyce and the fruitful Virginia Woolf to imagine a new life.
A few days ago, I realized: is this what makes a life? To be crossed upon by mishaps and tribulations, or to be reminded by the arrival of one's extinction, to be pleased by death, death as we know it for what it is, for how it will be, to be visited by splitting atom of the mind, to be restrained from the daily life you always live: to be sick. How calm this morning! When i woke up, when i started my own ritual to open a book and read a line or two and shut it up, and i heard the morning breeze banging through my window shaking my own life, waking me up, lifting me up, up towards that fine old morning beside the sea. I jumped. I plunged into my day, into the hours that i counted, and sighed, and blushed, and fled, and hopped. There is this sense of possibility, the breaking of the waves, the toiling of my reveries, and all i wanted to do is write, write up there on the wooded branch, on the concrete bay window, on the sea with the waters rushing towards you, and you could hear immensely the beating of my heart, the waves as you know it, the floating and singing jellyfish flying through the shoals, the wind, my heart and you together.
I would love to continue this stream of consciousness, but i have to break it. I used to write good ones when i was young at heart. Now i couldn't. I don't have the power to write beautiful, free flowing thoughts, to flesh out characters and stories. Four years ago I started this large project, a novel that, according to my diary last March 2005, would be 'one of the greatest of all time equivalent to that of Ulysses.' It is shaped and structured by thoughts from character to character. I never imagined myself writing that. But i did. I am still at Chapter five.
Anyway, im still in remission from the Sickness which ate up a week of my life.
The clip above is from the film Bloom (2005). It is a soliloquy by Molly Bloom and it marked the the ending of Ulysses. I quote from Joyce:
Yes, this would be a better comeback post, I figure. This is a new beginning. I shed away my body and have awoken from my reveries. I wanted a fresh eye to scope not only the beauty of films but the beauty of literature. So i started: I opened the books of James Joyce and the fruitful Virginia Woolf to imagine a new life.
A few days ago, I realized: is this what makes a life? To be crossed upon by mishaps and tribulations, or to be reminded by the arrival of one's extinction, to be pleased by death, death as we know it for what it is, for how it will be, to be visited by splitting atom of the mind, to be restrained from the daily life you always live: to be sick. How calm this morning! When i woke up, when i started my own ritual to open a book and read a line or two and shut it up, and i heard the morning breeze banging through my window shaking my own life, waking me up, lifting me up, up towards that fine old morning beside the sea. I jumped. I plunged into my day, into the hours that i counted, and sighed, and blushed, and fled, and hopped. There is this sense of possibility, the breaking of the waves, the toiling of my reveries, and all i wanted to do is write, write up there on the wooded branch, on the concrete bay window, on the sea with the waters rushing towards you, and you could hear immensely the beating of my heart, the waves as you know it, the floating and singing jellyfish flying through the shoals, the wind, my heart and you together.
I would love to continue this stream of consciousness, but i have to break it. I used to write good ones when i was young at heart. Now i couldn't. I don't have the power to write beautiful, free flowing thoughts, to flesh out characters and stories. Four years ago I started this large project, a novel that, according to my diary last March 2005, would be 'one of the greatest of all time equivalent to that of Ulysses.' It is shaped and structured by thoughts from character to character. I never imagined myself writing that. But i did. I am still at Chapter five.
Anyway, im still in remission from the Sickness which ate up a week of my life.
The clip above is from the film Bloom (2005). It is a soliloquy by Molly Bloom and it marked the the ending of Ulysses. I quote from Joyce:
"...and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes"xxxxxxxxxxxxx
