So for now I'll call this the Wandering Dog, though *glimmering*, Sunrader, Bedrock or Bedlam all sprang to mind. I am not so good at naming things, especially if I don't know how it will turn out.
I wonder if my mother would have named me Cynthia if she had known how I'd turn out. Perhaps "Cynthia" is a fantasy of her 24-year-old heart, who wore all white and did some kind of Emily Dickinson type thing. BUt I don't feel like a Cynthia, and people who don't know me will often end up calling me something else. Elizabeth, Theresa.
Anyway, I feel like I've been responding and reacting to my own name my entire life. Other people make assumptions about you based on previous Cynthias, or whatever that name sounds like to them. Inevitable first impressions. And you want to please people, so you learn to behave the way other people might like you to behave. Though I don't like to wear all white, or wear superhero boots, or put on wings, play goddess.
Well, the name just sprang up, Wandering Dog, and I don't know what it means yet. Though now that I think about it, it does make me think of a dog off its leash, escaped through the backyard fence, sniffing flowers and digging its nose into particularly interesting patches of grass. Impassioned, frenzied sniffing of people's knees and tree trunks. Peeing on things. And for the moment, it doesn't particularly care about going back home.
So the main reason why I started this blog is to talk about music and film and books, though I'm not interested in reviewing things as much as I'm interested in the way it ties into my life. I imagine Murakami and Caetano Veloso will figure large, as well as the words "soft", "gentle", "warm", "melt", and "heart". I apologize in advance for the liberal use of the word heart. And if the currently inescapable drama and sore mistakes of my own life are mentioned, hopefully they will only be mentioned in passing. Wandering dogs don't lament their life.
Currently, I am in the middle of the end of The Wind-up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami. Ideally I'd hole up somewhere and read the end in one go, sit all tense in one position for a good two hours. As it stands I will probably read the end of the end tonight, the last breath before its death is what the end of the end is like. I'll probably finish, and fall asleep, slightly discontented. At the end of novels, I usually feel a period of discontentment as the experience drifts away. Like I'm mourning. Laying something to rest. I do things like vacuum afterwards, and wonder what is wrong. So I will sleep tonight like something is wrong.
Here is a quote, from page 588. "Just living was itself an act of prophecy."
I wonder if my mother would have named me Cynthia if she had known how I'd turn out. Perhaps "Cynthia" is a fantasy of her 24-year-old heart, who wore all white and did some kind of Emily Dickinson type thing. BUt I don't feel like a Cynthia, and people who don't know me will often end up calling me something else. Elizabeth, Theresa.
Anyway, I feel like I've been responding and reacting to my own name my entire life. Other people make assumptions about you based on previous Cynthias, or whatever that name sounds like to them. Inevitable first impressions. And you want to please people, so you learn to behave the way other people might like you to behave. Though I don't like to wear all white, or wear superhero boots, or put on wings, play goddess.
Well, the name just sprang up, Wandering Dog, and I don't know what it means yet. Though now that I think about it, it does make me think of a dog off its leash, escaped through the backyard fence, sniffing flowers and digging its nose into particularly interesting patches of grass. Impassioned, frenzied sniffing of people's knees and tree trunks. Peeing on things. And for the moment, it doesn't particularly care about going back home.
So the main reason why I started this blog is to talk about music and film and books, though I'm not interested in reviewing things as much as I'm interested in the way it ties into my life. I imagine Murakami and Caetano Veloso will figure large, as well as the words "soft", "gentle", "warm", "melt", and "heart". I apologize in advance for the liberal use of the word heart. And if the currently inescapable drama and sore mistakes of my own life are mentioned, hopefully they will only be mentioned in passing. Wandering dogs don't lament their life.
Currently, I am in the middle of the end of The Wind-up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami. Ideally I'd hole up somewhere and read the end in one go, sit all tense in one position for a good two hours. As it stands I will probably read the end of the end tonight, the last breath before its death is what the end of the end is like. I'll probably finish, and fall asleep, slightly discontented. At the end of novels, I usually feel a period of discontentment as the experience drifts away. Like I'm mourning. Laying something to rest. I do things like vacuum afterwards, and wonder what is wrong. So I will sleep tonight like something is wrong.
Here is a quote, from page 588. "Just living was itself an act of prophecy."
posted by cynthia @ 12:19 PM
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