Thursday, July 24, 2003
I am glad. My doctor's appointment today revealed that my heart is in perfect condition. The faint systolic "breath" I was born with and which seems to pop up and down throughout my check-ups is probably due to fatigue and/or a Calcium deficiency. Which can be easily corrected.
Now, here's a round-up of the week's news. Presented by a midget wearing a swimsuit.
I have, once more, realized that heels are for the bedroom, not the street. For inexplicable reasons probably related to my huge crush on Lorelai Gilmore of "Gilmore Girls", I wore my high black heels today. And was not happy.
***
The woman who reports the Glamour article about ladies loving their sex lives thought my submission was "fabulous". Glamour have not gotten in touch with me yet, though.
***
In about an hour I will be going to a tres mondaine reunion, occasioned by the launch of three books (biographies of John Lennon, Ozzy Osborne and a local band named Iris) written by a friend. He very proudly calls himself a "professional writer" -- which, to me, sounds like having the tool but not the material. I have always viewed writing as a way of conveying a particular meaning; form is only important inasmuch as it helps one tell what they need to tell. If what you need to tell is only related to your current assignment, and your involvement only lasts as long as the book is in progress, how much is your work worth to you? My translation job is a form of "professional writing", but I do not count it among my achievements; it simply performs a task, and my contribution is almost non-existent.
I think the core of the matter is that I have always regarded writing as a semi-sacred occupation. Talent is a gift, and it must be channeled towards fulfilling the need it creates. It should not be wasted on things that hold no personal significance. You may be able to write about "anything", but would you really want to?
... or maybe I just need to relax.
Now, here's a round-up of the week's news. Presented by a midget wearing a swimsuit.
I have, once more, realized that heels are for the bedroom, not the street. For inexplicable reasons probably related to my huge crush on Lorelai Gilmore of "Gilmore Girls", I wore my high black heels today. And was not happy.
***
The woman who reports the Glamour article about ladies loving their sex lives thought my submission was "fabulous". Glamour have not gotten in touch with me yet, though.
***
In about an hour I will be going to a tres mondaine reunion, occasioned by the launch of three books (biographies of John Lennon, Ozzy Osborne and a local band named Iris) written by a friend. He very proudly calls himself a "professional writer" -- which, to me, sounds like having the tool but not the material. I have always viewed writing as a way of conveying a particular meaning; form is only important inasmuch as it helps one tell what they need to tell. If what you need to tell is only related to your current assignment, and your involvement only lasts as long as the book is in progress, how much is your work worth to you? My translation job is a form of "professional writing", but I do not count it among my achievements; it simply performs a task, and my contribution is almost non-existent.
I think the core of the matter is that I have always regarded writing as a semi-sacred occupation. Talent is a gift, and it must be channeled towards fulfilling the need it creates. It should not be wasted on things that hold no personal significance. You may be able to write about "anything", but would you really want to?
... or maybe I just need to relax.
Tuesday, July 22, 2003
Today I have navigated among public masturbators -- a young man sitting next to me in the internet cafe, looking at pictures on girl-next-door sites --, bus brawlers -- two guys fighting, very loudly, over a woman in the bus that took me home -- and girl pick-uppers -- as I was heading towards my parents' building, the girl walking behind me was stopped, twice within the space of 2 minutes, by extremely insistent men; she wasn't even that hot... but I kept close to her for as long as my road permitted, just in case she needed help. Solar explosions, maybe?
