Please Hold While I Graduate

Ah well. I guess I should have seen it coming? So instead of performing a disappearing act on you all, I decided to drop by and tell you, right here right now, that next time I talk to you, it’s going to be as a Criminology graduate. (you can still ilegally download music in my presence, it's okay) This four-year journey is coming to an end, and to be completely honest, I can’t wait to put it behind me. Expect a post, somewhere around July, about all the amazing things university taught me. I never stop learning – just this past week, I learnt that one should never, ever, leave the nail polish remover near the facial tonic, under risk of mixing up the two and attempting to apply the first where the second should go. Of course this did not actually happen. Of course not. And then today I learnt that one should never, ever, leave the nail polish remover near the alcohol, under risk of mixing up the two and attempting to disinfect a scratch with... that’s right. Fortunately, I caught the mistake on time. I guess the cautionary tale is, leave the nail polish remover where it belongs. Next to the killing jars and the shadow boxes and the butterfly specimens. Though I’ve heard some people use it to, go figure, remove nail polish.

Anyway.

I guess this proves that there is no graceful way to graduate. There really isn’t. My desk is littered with trash right now – from candy wrappers to water bottles to a now-empty box of chocolate. My asthma has been kicking my ass, getting me to wake up at dawn, barely able to breathe. My shoulder has been acting up from too much time on the computer. I’ve been wearing nothing but pajamas, or, alternatively, black tights and my big university hoodie. I rotate between dubstep and folk music to stay awake (and entertained!) as I work on my papers. And sometimes I get up to stretch and pretend I'm a ballerina. Like I said - no gracefulness for the wicked seniors.

So I guess in the meantime, feel free not to watch this space. I’ll leave you with a picture I took of a strange, unknown creature (Google tells me it's a Dusky Moorhen) on my Lisbon daytrip. It popped our of nowhere as I was observing a little dead duckling, and proceeded to mourn (read also: poke at) it.

Cautionary tale: nature is weird.
xx

Fancy Film Friday #4: Valerie And Her Week Of Wonders

Valerie A Týden Divu, 1970 (Czechoslovakia)
Inspired by fairy-tales, a surreal story in which love, fear, sex and religion merge into one fantastic world.

Here's a secret. I don't understand this movie. I understand the idea behind it, and the archetypes played by each character, but I can't follow the story and halfway I just get so distracted by Helena Anýzová (that would be the lady in black with the asymmetric hairdo and the neck brooch) and her frankly stunning face that I don't even know what's supposed to be happening.

But that's okay. This is still a very pretty movie, and a very nice way to spend a couple of hours. IMDB says it's referenced in The Company Of Wolves (1984), another very pretty movie, inspired by the writings of Angela Carter no less (though inspired may not be correct, since Carter got to write the actual script...), and I know the first time I read that I felt really outraged because how dare anyone say that movie was inspired by anything other than Angela Carter's own genius... but then, turns out, Carter watched this movie, was apparently "impressed with it", and "admitted Valerie heavily influenced her own script". Isn't it wonderful how these things connect to each other? I think it is.

Meanwhile, this movie is also relevant because it managed to get me interested in Czechoslovak cinema. This happened last year, and I regret to announce I still haven't watched that many movies... but I'm working on it, with a never-ending list of titles to watch in the summer.

As of now, I think it's safe to recommend The Cremator (1969), Morgiana (1972), and Daisies (1966).

That's in order of magnificence, by the way.
xx

365 Days Ago: May '12

Unlike April, May is usually a busy month. This is what I did last year:









I took a lot of photos of my little shoebox of an apartment. It was a good day, I was tending to my plants, and the weather looked beautiful. I will not be telling you what happened to the plants in the long run, though...



This photo happened. I think I took it one day after class, at lunch time... I was home, my hair looked nice, and I felt like freezing the moment for posterity. I'm glad I did, because it's been a year, and this is still my Facebook profile picture... even though it looks nothing like... well, like my current appearance.










I spent a nice hour or so wandering around the quintessential antique bookshop. If there's one thing I can say about this town, is that it's just... littered with them. I keep finding new ones, I swear it's like they pop up overnight. Unfortunately, tourists simply come, drop by Lello, take a picture or two hundred, walk a couple of doors over to buy a bar of expensive but exquisitely packaged portuguese soap, and leave. I won't blame anyone for any of the aforementioned actions, since I too have bought expensive but exquisitely packaged portuguese soap, but... there's plenty of fish and the sea and plenty of bookshops in Porto. It saddens me a little that one is always crowded and the others are always empty. Ah well. Jo from The Paper And Ink has compiled a list (with pictures!) of some of the prettiest antique bookshops around. Do as the lady (and I, too!) says and visit them.

But back to the bookshop above. Around a month after these pictures were taken, I went back to buy a book I couldn't get out of my mind. An annual activity report from the sanatoriums in Caramulo, dated 1951. I am a little obsessed with that place. A mountain range, in the middle of nowhere, with more abandoned sanatoriums than you can shake a camera at, and the looming thought that not so long ago, that was the place to go if you wanted to cure your tuberculosis. And how was TB treatment in the 40s, 50s, you ask? Lots of rest, good food, and fresh air. Or, as this patient's diary puts it: "Absolute and utter rest of mind and body—no bath, no movement except to toilet once a day, no sitting up except propped by pillows and semi-reclining, no deep breath. Lead the life of a log, in fact. Don't try, therefore, to sew, knit, or write, except as occasional relief from reading and sleeping." This is fascinating, to me. To think that this was considered treatment. To think that we had a whole mountain devoted to buildings where people would go to lie down. It sounds kind of dreamy and contemplative and melancholic. Better yet, to think that one family was in charge of this whole scheme - to think that one man was responsible for creating that town, and to think that someone in my extended family worked right up there in the sanatoriums for so many years. It feels real, and close to home. I can stand outside a barred door and put names and stories to the ruins. I guess, in the end, that's why I bought the report.

We could have skipped the wall o' text, though.



And last but not least, this photo. I took it on my way back from the bookshop... I'd say it looks kind of impressive, until you figure out the trick.

But enough of May. June's right around the corner.
Summer plans, anyone?
xx