Impressionism … fluid, organic, light, dreamy, ethereal, emotional, movement, ebb and flow, waves, sensuality. gentleness, touch.
Clearer and clearer, more and more, I am impressed by impressionism. More so in the realms of music and literature, than in paintings, though of course I love those too. Along with the Art Nouveau movement, Impressionism is my favourite. I was once asked what era I would have liked to live in best. I answered “the days of Debussy and white muslin dresses”.
The French Impressionists are my absolute favourite composers – composers as poets and painters. Debussy, Ravel, Satie, Saint-Saëns. Tone poems, visual music. The more I listen the more I love. The music epitomises my soul. Sounds grand, but it truly does (with a good dash of late-Romantic Russians for the shadow-me). If, after I die, someone was listening to this music, I’d like them to think of me. One of my most favourite pieces of music as a child, another ‘soundtrack’ piece along with the 60s/70s folk and psych, was Debussy’s “Prelude a l’Apres-Midi d’un Faune“
Virginia Woolf–past the impressionist period perhaps but impressionist writing none-the-less. Baudelaire, Verlaine, Rimbaud. And Woolf. I am fast falling in love with her also. Two years ago when I was reading To The Lighthouse for the beginning of my undergrad degree, before I was diagnosed with cancer, I found it hard going. This time, I adore it. The trick is to float along with it. FLOAT. Another impressionism-sense-word. I want to read much more of her. Must also read Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. Rhythms from TS Eliot’s Prufrock keep dancing in my mind.
| For I have known them all already, known them all:— |
| Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, |
| I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; |
| I know the voices dying with a dying fall |
| Beneath the music from a farther room. |
| So how should I presume? |
One of my favourite things … nighttime candlelight in my bedroom, reading or writing in my journal, French impressionist piano sparking from my iPod. Lately though, it’s awfully prosaic and much less romantic … it’s too hot and my fan is going to the early hours of the morning, meaning candles don’t stay alight.
Verily I belong back at the turn of the century (that is the ‘turn’ previous to the last one!). I float, I dream. Ah, will ever I be with a man who truly appreciates this in me, and these things himself? None to be found in this place, where utes and rodeos are the go.
And how am I? I think I’m unwell. Joint pain down my left side … shoulder, elbow, hip, ankle. Sometimes waking me up at night (when I DO sleep). Worried about metastatic bone cancer, common with breast cancer. A lot of headaches, vertigo and ‘whooaaa’ headspins, some nausea, some chest pain. Thankfully I am due for a regular checkup. Been living the life of a unabomber lately. I have utterly NO patience for bullshit, game-play or being manipulated right now. There is no space around me for that. Only truth, air, integrity, nakedness (of soul and personality, that is, although it reigns in my bedroom as it’s a putridly humid summer!). I need … ‘pure air’ so to speak. Simplicity and truth. How zen. Non-communicado. Quiet. And a teensy bit worried.
| And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! |
| Smoothed by long fingers, |
| Asleep … tired … or it malingers, |
| Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. |
| Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, |
| Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? |
| But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, |
| Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter, |
| I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter; |
| I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, |
| And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, |
| And in short, I was afraid. |
“Fantasy” – Sydney Long. I have a facsimile etching of this in my loungeroom.
I hope you are well, so very much I hope for that.
I know what you mean about living incommunicado right now. I cannot seem to clear my head enough to try and focus on communicating with anyone right now. I am tired above everything. All I seem to want to do is sleep. That is so unlike me. The winter is wearing on me, I think. I am glad to be back in class – to have the motivating factor of due dates.
I love Woolf’s essays. She is a wonderful writer who can set an idea into a certain frame that can whittle a complex idea down to it’s very essence… leaving only the meat of her argument.
and
*Heart of Darkness* is a must read.
Be well, my friend. Be well.
Dr’s appointment on Friday afternoon. Unfortunately, if I’m sent for scans etc, I will be away in WA for three weeks so won’t be able to do anything about them until then.
Oh yes … I know that tired. I wake up, I want to go back to sleep. I spend my awake time wanting to go back to sleep. But then, the summer is wearing on everyone here. It’s horrendously hot.
Woolf is oh so poetic. Haven’t read any of her essays. STILL haven’t finished To The Lighthouse because I am busy reading a Buddhist book at the moment. And I have two of the university’s library books I need to go through and send back asap. That will be what I will be doing from now until Monday.