I was intending to make a tumblr account and then write about relating to Madame Bovary. There would be heaps of intertextuality.
But no I have decided not to because there is quite a strict word limit on tumblr and so why would I do that when I am going to be a writer???
What better practice than a proper blog?
Everything is going so downhill these days. Tumblr is replacing the orthodox medium of the blog.
Anyway, you need to hear all about my life crisis.
Ever since I turned seventeen, I've been really cynical and disillusioned about life.
Dude, I'm listening to some hip-hop right now and I'm starting to get really annoyed. I'm going to turn it off.
Oh, that's good now.
I kind of feel like I'm totally over the stage of irateness. But I'm not calm, I'm just flat. Life is like a bubbly drink that's been sitting out for too long. And I'm not saying that life was actually bubbly at first. It's just like the stage after the bubbles. But there never were any bubbles.
And I'm not just talking about the state of Australian politics and how the reality of the world is not fixable.
So anyway, the other night I was watching The Virgin Suicides. For the first time. I was planning to wait until I shall be an adult to watch it. But I just couldn't. And then I plunged even deeper into my life crisis, which had been already turning into an identity crisis.
I was like, why do I totally not relate? Why do I get so angry about these people? Why can't I buy into the romanticised fantasy internal existence thing? Was it because I spent too much time writing about Madame Bovary?
Dude, how annoying is this - there was this book that I read last year that was bloody long and bloody pissed me off. It was called My Name is Red by this author, obviously, called Orhan Pamuk. And he was thanking Flaubert for his doctorate, which he wrote about Flaubert. And he wrote "The derisive and belittling Flaubert that I have just now conjured up, is not at all too distant from this Flaubert of great compassion. It is not difficult for the reader who admires him to imagine these two Flauberts as lobes of the same heart. I have always wanted to identify with this author, who on one hand felt boundless anger and resentment toward humanity, and on the other hand, nurtured a profound compassion for the same and understood men and women better than others. Whenever I read his work, I am urged to say, “Monsieur Flaubert , c’est moi!”" http://flaubert.univ-rouen.fr/etudes/pamuk_anglais.php?imp=1
Back to the point.
Maybe I would have totally found The Virgin Suicides totally overwhelming me if I had been thirteen. Because, you know, you don't know what it's like to be a thirteen year old girl.
And then I feel really sad for Tavi Gevinson. Just because she's alive.
For some weird reason, the fact that I can't relate to Tavi's obsession with The Virgin Suicides makes me feel like I relate to Gevinson.
I hope I'm not feeling too distinguished from life.
Passe is such a reality.
Actually, the more I think about myself and my experience with this film, the more inspired I feel. I think I might do a post-Catholic revival. Which doesn't make sense but I'm cool with that.
Oh yeah, my identity crisis!
I was not happy about the creative part of my assignment. And then the teacher, who should be a really important person to me because you know, white people, was like that's really surprising because I thought that being creative would be your thing. Then I was like having an identity crisis. Because how can you truly know whether or not you are living in denial.
But before that episode, my first stage of the identity crisis was when I was wondering whether or not I am close to myself. Wait, that was just before I turned seventeen.
And then the other day someone at school was like do you ever think before you open your mouth because shit just comes out. And then of course I denied it. And it shook me, not in a bad way like being offended or anything. Hell no. It was like identity crisis.
Then later that day, I made a joke and then it was really deep. But I didn't think about it before I said it. And then it was a massive thing in my head for a couple of days because I was sure that what I said was true. But I didn't know what I meant.
I briefly opened a copy of Vogue that was on a table. The page that it flopped onto was about how Tavi Gevinson is coming to Australia on tour. I think it's a sign.
Duuuuude. I've forgotten my Wordpress login!!!
