Saturday, 25 July 2009
This is so fucking lame. I wrote this during a visit to my home from the psychiatric ward. It was my first attempt at writing during my post-psychosis period. It turned out to be my only piece of writing for a while, too. It is far less darker than my previous efforts. The allusions are lame, and the ending is a pathetic cop-out. When I went to a creative writing workshop, the people there favoured it over my other short stories and went as far as publishing it for their small yearly anthology. I shudder about the impression the people will get from me when reading that anthology.
Most people crave stability when reading fiction. They don't want anything that will throw them out of direction and surprise them. This is a generic example of stability. Anything strange will upset the reader; anything conventional or predictable will satisfy the reader.
Basically, what you have here is embryonic. It is a seed germinating which can be developed at a greater length. It is a failed experiment.
ALL THE POETRY I'VE WRITTEN
Remnants of a Dead Past and Dancing to a Forgotten Dream are especially cringe-inducing. I wrote poetry while starting college because at the time I didn't have the determination and creativity to produce elongated prose. I wrote a poem each day during breaks while the other students socialised. Once more, this is another example of my sterile creativity during a long moment in my life.
After I left the psychiatric ward, I found that I couldn't produce any work. My life had been restrained by medication and dumb, unwise suggestions from psychiatrists. These poems are cliches - contrived, youthful pretensions hopelessly tied together.
ALL THE MUSIC I'VE RECORDED
Prior to recording a piece of music, it is favourable to have an understanding of the rudiments that are involved in the process. Absolute shite, pointless dissonance with shite lyrics. If I didn't do this, I'd bash out supposedly 'avant-garde chamber music' created at a pure gut level. Noise music - or a lot of free improvisation - is often a licence for less talented individuals to have a stab at music and create wank.
MOST of the blog posts from 2008
The better posts of this year were the ones where I scraped the remnants of 2007's glory days... I strongly suggest to people to not look at my posts from this year... At the beginning of 2009, I actually got myself together in order to construct stuff which wasn't lame and hollow. In 2008 my creativity was sterile and, consequently, whatever I wrote for my blog reflected this.
Wednesday, 22 July 2009
From left to right: The Woman in the Dunes by Kobo Abe; El Juguete Rabioso by Roberto Arlt; Los Siete Locos by Roberto Arlt; Los Lanzallamas by Roberto Arlt; Roberto Arlt by Pablo Montanato; The New York Trilogy by Paul Auster; Moon Palace by Paul Auster; The Music of Chance by Paul Auster; The Invention of Solitude by Paul Auster; Travels in the Scriptorium by Paul Auster; Empire of the Sun by J. G. Ballard; The Kindness of Women by J. G. Ballard; Concrete Island by J. G. Ballard; Kingdom Come by J. G. Ballard; Cocaine Nights by J. G Ballard.
The Drowned World by J. G Ballard; War Fever by J. G. Ballard; Vermillion Sands by J. G Ballard; The Unlimited Dream Company by J. G. Ballard; Crash by J. G. Ballard; The Atrocity Exhibition by J. G. Ballard; High-Rise by J. G. Ballard; Running Wild by J. G. Ballard; The Drought by J. G. Ballard; The Complete Short Stories Volume 1 by J. G. Ballard; The Complete Short Stories Volume 2 by J. G. Ballard; Miracles of Life by J. G. Ballard.
J. G Ballard by Andrzej Gasiorek; Lost Illusions by Honore De Balzac; Story of the Eye by Georges Bataille; Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett; Molloy/Malone Dies/The Unnamable by Samuel Beckett; First Love and Other Novellas by Samuel Beckett; Zama by Antonio Di Benedetto; Los Suicidas by Antonio Di Benedetto; Llamadas Telefónicas by Roverto Bolaño; El Gaucho Insufrible by Roberto Bolaño; Los Detectives Salvajes by Roberto Bolaño.
2666 by Roberto Bolaño; El Aleph by Jorge Luis Borges; Ficciones by Jorge Luis Borges; Antologia Poetica by Jorge Luis Borges; Historia Universal de la Infamia by Jorge Luis Borges; El Libro De Arena by Jorge Luis Borges; Labyrinths by Jorge Luis Borges; The Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury; Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury; A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess; Earthly Powers by Anthony Burgess; Junky by William Burroughs; Queer by William Burroughs; Naked Lunch by William Burroughs; The Ticket That Exploded by William Burroughs; My Education: A Book of Dreams by William Burroughs; If On A Winter's Night A Traveller by Italo Calvino.
The Plague by Albert Camus; The Fall by Albert Camus; The Outsider by Albert Camus; In Cold Blood by Truman Capote; The Art of Dreaming by Carlos Castaneda; Journey to the End of the Night by Louis-Ferdinand Celine; Don Quijote De La Mancha by De Cervantes; The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler; The Selected Works of Joseph Conrad by Joseph Conrad.
Bestiario by Julio Cortázar; Final Del Juego by Julio Cortázar; Las Armas Secretas by Julio Cortázar; Historias de Cronopios y de Famas by Julio Cortázar; Todos Los Fuegos El Fuego by Julio Cortázar; Los Premios by Julio Cortázar; Rayuela by Julio Cortázar; 62: Modelo Para Armar by Julio Cortázar; Blow-Up and Other Stories by Julio Cortázar; The August Sleepwalker by Bei Dao; White Noise by Don DeLillo; Underworld by Don Delillo.
El Mocho by José Donoso; Casa de Campo by José Donoso; El Obsceno Pájaro de la Noche by José Donoso; Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky; Poor Folk by Fyodor Dostoyevsky; Notes From the Underground by Fyodor Dostoyevsky; The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky; Collected Poems by T. S. Eliot; Absalom, Absalom! by William Faulkner; Light in August by William Faulkner.
As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner; The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner; The Wild Palms by William Faulkner; Museo de da Novela de la Eterna by Macedonio Fernandez; Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert; Querelle of Brest by Jean Genet; The Immoralist Andre Gide; Selected Poems by Allen Ginsberg; Dead Souls by Nikolay Gogol; Lord of the Flies by William Goldling; The Man Within by Graham Greene; The Power and the Glory by Graham Greene.
Catch-22 by Joseph Heller; The Glass Bead Game by Herman Hesse; The Prodigy by Herman Hesse; Atomised by Michell Houlebecq.
Obras Poeticas en Frances by Vicente Huidobro; Altazor by Vicente Huidobro; The Doors of Perception/Heaven and Hell by Aldous Huxley; Brave New World by Aldous Huxley; Dubliners by James Joyce; A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce; Ulysses by James Joyce; The Castle by Franz Kafka; The Trial by Franz Kafka; Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka; On the Road by Jack Keroac; The Golden Notebook by Doris Lessing; The Habit of Loving by Doris Lessing; Mi Nombre es Malarrosa by Hernan Rivera Letelier.
The Periodic Table by Primo Levi; If This Is A Man/The Truce by Primo Levi; The Wrench by Primo Levi; The Drowned and the Saved by Primo Levi; Selected Poems by Li Po; La Fiesta Del Chivo by Mario Vargas Llosa; Doctor Faustus by Thomas Mann; Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy; No Country for Old Men by Cormac McCarthy; If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things by Jon McGregor; Cien Años De Soledad by Gabriel Garcia Marquez; Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller.
Plexus by Henry Miller; Paradise Lost by John Milton; Confessions of a Mask by Yukio Mishima; Bend Sinister by Vladimir Nabokov; Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov; Ada or Ardor by Vladimir Nabokov; The Gift by Vladimir Nabokov; Delta of Venus by Anias Nin; La Vida Breve by Juan Carlos Onetti; Dejemos Hablar Al Viento by Juan Carlos Onetti; Nineteen-Eighty-Four by George Orwell.
Life: A User's Manual by Georges Perec; The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath; Malcolm by James Purdy; 63: Dream Palace by James Purdy; The Crying of Lot 49 by Thomas Pynchon; Gravity's Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon; Bonjour Tristesse by Francoise Sagan; Blindness by Jose Saramago; Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre; Words by Jean-Paul Sartre.
Waterland by Graham Swift; The Key by Junchiro Tanizaki; A Confedarancy of Dunces by Joseph Kennedy Toole.
Identities by Mathew Mead; Veinte Poemas de Amor y Una Canción Desesperada by Pablo Neruda; Residencia en la Tierra by Pablo Neruda; Walden by Thoreau; Collected Poems by Sylvia Plath; Forty-Two Tales by Edgar Allan Poe; The House of the Solitary Maggot by James Purdy; Vineland by Thomas Pynchon; Pedro Páramo/El Llano en Llamas by Juan Rulfo; Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut; To the Lighthouse by Viginia Woolf; Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf; The Dream by Emile Zola.
Thursday, 16 July 2009
Here's a list of all the movies I've seen each Wednesday:
Videodrome (David Cronenberg)
Capote (Bennett Miller)
The Trial (Orson Wells)
Citizen Kane (Orson Wells)
Psycho (Alfred Hitchcock)
Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Afraid to Ask (Woody Allen)
Phantom of Liberty (Luis Bunuel)
Branded to Kill (Seijun Suzuki)
Ran (Akira Kurosawa)
Pulp Fiction (Quentin Tarantino)
Un Femme Est Un Femme (Jean-Luc Godard)
Vivre Sa Vie (Jean-Luc Godard)
Weekend (Jean-Luc Godard)
Breathless (Jean-Luc Godard)
The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser (Werner Herzog)
Aguirre, The Wrath of God (Werner Herzog)
Bananas (Woody Allen)
Young Frankenstein (Mel Brooks)
Tokyo Drifter (Seijun Suzuki)
Reservoir Dogs (Quentin Tarantino)
Fitzcarraldo (Werner Herzog)
A Man Escaped (Robert Bresson)
Bicycle Thieves (Vittorio De Sica)
Pickpocket (Robert Bresson)
The Devil, Probably (Robert Bresson)
Ossessione (Luchino Visconti)
Alphaville (Jean-Luc Godard)
Tout Va Bien (Jean-Luc Godard)
Pierrot Le Fou (Jean-Luc Godard)
Le Petit Soldat (Jean-Luc Godard)
Sunday, 12 July 2009
Friday, 10 July 2009
Nevertheless, in this post I shall provide a number of interviews with artists that I particularly like. I have chosen interviews that have struck out as especially good, and interviews where I have been enlightened to know that there are other people who think similar thoughts as me.
J. G. Ballard
Here Ballard goes back to his childhood home Shangai, which he used as the setting for his semi-autobiographical novel Empire of the Sun. He provides very insightful reflections about the psychological effect the experience of war had on his life and, consequently, his writing.
This is my favourite interview of any sort. Highly extensive, this interview covers the full scope of Cortázar's life and work. He gives very interesting comments about a variety of things, including Latin-America, writing and his penchant for solitude (which I obviously relate to :)). Cortázar's short stories and novels should be read by everyone. The interview is in Spanish.
Jorge Luis Borges
As Borges' fiction is written in a impersonal, symbolical register, it is interesting to see the legendary man in person. World-renowned as a man of wisdom, it is incredibly interesting hear one of the most important figures of the 20th century. His child-like inquisitiveness for knowledge and a curiosity for literature are merged together with a spectacular erudition. All this is apparent in the interview. The interview is in spanish.
Mario Vargas Llosa
Another latin-american author. :) I really fucking hate the poncy prick of an interviewer with a passion. If you ignore him and concentrate on what Llosa says, this turns out to be a spectacular interview. The interview is in spanish
An obscure writer, Purdy gives interesting assertions about his views on writing. A highly individualistic writer, he mentions his disdain for formulaic writing and his appreciation for the unusual.
Monologues taken from the film Burden of Dreams, Herzog gives brilliant speeches in the midst of filming the ardous Fitzcarraldo. Herzog is just as obsessive as the characters in his film, going at great lengths to accomplish what he has in mind. This shows in his monologues.
Considering how violent and explicit his films are, Cronenberg is a very calm, soft-spoken person. :) A director dealing with the 'dark side' of human nature, he gives views on his penchant for the macabre as well as opinions about censorship. Videodrome is a mind-blowing movie!
A very humble man, this is a touching interview with a master of music. He gives considerate and well-thought insights into his experiences in the serious music world, and his methods for composing.
No other composer was as individualistic as Partch. Building his own instruments to create a very singular microtonal music, here we have a peek into his music studio where he talks about his musical philosophy and shows his highly distinct musical instruments.
Wednesday, 8 July 2009
William Faulkner - Absalom, Absalom!
As Walter Allen says, "This is the novel in which Faulkner most profoundly and completely says what he has to say about the south and the human condition." In this novel Faulkner has covered a wider scope than any of his other novels, developing and encompassing a wide variety of themes which he explores in his previous books. Spanning from 1835 to 1910, Faulkner has given a precise portrayal of the south and the consequences of the actions of certain people that have an impact on subsequent generations. This is the greatest insight into the Yoknapatawpha county that I've encountered yet.
What I think differentiates Faulkner from someone like, say, James Joyce is that he uses modernist methods for the purpose of conveying a narrative and story. Something like Ulysses is self-defeating and hinders the progression of the narrative by its incessant ambition. Faulkner, on the other hand, uses modernist techniques to apply them to something which doesn't fall to the expense of subject matter.
The main character portrayed Thomas Sutpen. He comes from a poor family, but with hard work and determination forces himself into the upper echelons of Southern society. He employs a number of black people and a French architect to build himself 'Sutpen's Hundred'. It is here where many of his children are born, and where he establishes his reputation. However, previous actions from his past have an effect on him: his repudiates a previous wife of hers who has negro blood, and the son of this relationship, Bon, proves as a threat to his established reputation, the stability of his life and, above all else, his daughter Judith.
The most interesting character in the novel is Rosa Coldfield. She is a few years younger than her own niece and nephew who are born from Sutpen's relationship with her sister Ellen. She herself says "I was born too late." She symbolises the transition from one era to another, and the tragic effect from the clashes of two separate generations. A great deal of the novel is narrated by her, and these prove to be the most touching and poignant segments of the novel.
The methods used to present the narrative are very, very unusual. When the narrative is related, it would be an understatement to call the syntax unconventional. Extremely long paragraphs flow along amidst parentheses within parentheses (the parentheses are so long that you often forget what preceded them). And whenver a character thinks, the ruminations are presented in italics. For the most part, the narration is presented through characters talking to each other. Mainly, the story is told through 'unreliable narrators' because they are not present in the occurrences which take place. Even someone like Rosa Coldfield hasn't got a completely adequate and precise insight into everything that takes place, because she hasn't always been present at everything that takes place. The narration is appropriately - and fittingly - told through descendants who have only recollections through what has been told to them rather than through actual experiences. Initially, the narrative is often told through Quentin's father, but eventually solely revolves around the dialogue between Quentin and his Harvard room-mate, Shreve.
The inquisitiveness of Quentin and Shreve is fascinating. Their constant determination to uncover the riddles and enigmas of their ancestors is what propels the narrative forward in the second half of the book. The longest chapter which is devoted to Thomas Sutpen is often intersected by their dialogue. Prior to this chapter, Sutpen is a highly enigmatc figure, but this chapter which relates his childhood and adventures elucidates a figure who previously permeates throughout the characters and events of the novel and remains indeed enigmatic and blurry.
Many will be put off by the frequent use of the word 'nigger'. Faulkner isn't racist; on the contrary, he condemns racism. He is attempting to show the prejudices of the time. For instance, Sutpen turns his back on Charles Bon, who could potenitally be his son. This is done for the mere reason that he may have negro blood. Bon eventually gets killed by his other son Henry, and this is once more related with the issue of race. Throughout this novel, race is often use as prejudice that determines the value of people. Interestingly, the only remaining member of the family turns out to be black - Jim Bond.
Like The Sound and the Fury, there is a spectacular (not to mention poignant and ironic) ending which ties up all the loose ends of the novel together. The house is burned by Clytie, a black daughter of Sutpen, and the whole saga is turned into dust, dispensed with. The only remaining memories are left with Sutpen and Quenting who, interestingly enough, kills himself in Sound and the Fury.
The whole novel is beautifully written. Despite being a highly 'difficult' book, I actually immensely enjoyed the process of reading it. Everything is sown together perfectly; everything is allocated correctly to its place. Though it can be very dense and, at times, cryptic, it is an incredibly enjoyable and rewarding book. It does require persistenceand determination, but this results in a highly singular experience; it is an experience which is completely singular, and can't possibly be replicated by anyone else.
Thursday, 2 July 2009
It's currently my desktop background image.
When you climb up from here, you encounter this:
This photograph is hilarious. The small cows got intimidated by me, so they all went for their mother! ^_^
Wednesday, 1 July 2009
I got the following gifts for my birthday:
- A painting by Hieronymus Bosch.
- A painting by Willem De Kooning
- A Luis Bunuel box set containing many of his key films
- Two glasses from Berlin (my parents bought me this as I destroyed another Berlin glass in a fit of rage. I'm glad to have one again :)).
- Breakdowns by Art Spiegelman. This is a dense work by the formidably talented comic book artist, author of Maus.
- Burden of Dreams. This is a DVD of the documentary showing Werner Herzog take a big ship over mountains in the Amazon during the filming of Fitzcarraldo.
- £20 from my grandmother, enabling me to buy a DVD of Weekend by Jean-Luc Godard.
During the days of my birthday, my days were quite uneventful as I submerged myself in lethargy. I couldn't immerse myself in William Faulkner's Absalom, Absalom!, but I have fortunately got really into it during the recent days. As a result of getting into this book, the second half of this month has been really eventful. This book - simply put - is a masterpiece. Spanning centuries, it is a titanic novel that covers the full scope of southern USA. It is the book where Faulkner achieves the most; it is his magnum opus. It even surpasses a work like The Sound and the Fury in its ambition and scope. I will be reviewing it in the forthcoming 'Review' regular.
In the 14th I went down to Huddersfield to see a conversation with Mark E. Smith. My sister studies at university there, so I stayed with her. This conversation was everything I expected it to be - Smith digressing and evading the questions. It was a surreal night and very, very funny. When the interviewer quoted him phrases from his autobiography, Smith kept replying "The ghost writer put that in." I got quite nervous during a moment of the event because the interviewer started talking about a dream he had in South America, and Smith said "What country?" And I was wearing a shirt with CHILE written with big letters. Fortunately, he didn't point at me to draw attention on me. :) The audience also asked him questions, but I didn't have the courage to do so. But the question I was going to ask him - "do you draw on dreams for your lyrics" - was asked anyway. After the event ended, I could have gotten his signature. But I was so stubborn that I phoned my sister to pick me up right away. :(
On the 19th I went with my dad to London. That night I saw Ornette Coleman live in a reflection of The Shape of Jazz to Come. We got into London, but we got lost. We finally arrived to the place just on time for me to see the end of the support group, The Master Musicians of Jajouka. This Coleman concert was mindblowing, it is the best gig I've gone to after performances from The Magic Band and The Fall. What I loved about this concert in particular was how when they improvised after the theme, you forgot the initial melodty - a bit like a digression in a novel by Pynchon. They performed a few newer songs to begin with, and then Bill Frissel came on as a guest. He stayed on for the remainder of the concert and he was quite restrained, allowing the other guitarist to go all over the place The interplay between him and the other guitarist was phenomenal. They played 'Peace', but they didn't play 'Lonely Woman', sadly. :( Coleman's sax wasn't at high volume to begin with, but when they turned it up it was immense. I wasn't too pleased when he alternated to violin and trumpet, though. :p Patti Smith came on and improvised some lyrics, and Coleman bounced off her beautifully with his sax. The bassist played the famous Shubert melody with the drummer conjuring a rock beat, and Coleman bashing out dissonant sounds with his violin. He got the bass to sound just like a cello with his bow. Then the support band, The Master Musicians of Jajouka, came on and this was the highlight of the concert. Again, the interplay with Coleman was phenomenal. After the encore, the audience was just as gripped as me, giving a long standing ovation.
The Day after, I walked along London with my dad. We went all over this magnificent city. I went into a gigantic book shop, and I went through the A-Z of authors and bought myself Dead Souls by Gogol. I drank a lot of Coca-cola, and we went to the British museum. I stayed at the Cafe on my own and read Faulkner, and I drank 2 coffees. I then proceeded to wander around the museum, and I went to the section devoted to Japan. I then returned with my father to the house of one of his friends, where I read Faulkner and went to sleep. I really like London, and this proved to be a great day.
There is a girl who catches the same bus as me, and I am in love with her. She likes me too, but neither of us has the audacity to speak to one another. She gives indications that she likes me because every time I go up the stairs of the bus, she goes there. And on Wednesdays (the day I catch that bus), she even goes out of her way to go to my bus stop! Whenever she goes to the stop, both of us are silent. Unfortunately, I won't get a chance to meet her again. Last week, instead of going to my GCSE math lesson, I sleeped in. The instant I sleep in and the instant she catches that bus, I dream that I'm chasing the buss which goes down the hill, and as I chase it she gets on it and the bus drives away. This dream is quite possibly a psychological suggestion that I have lost all chances of talking to her and creating a relationship with her. I doubt whether she'll still be going into Chesterfield next year. :/
I left the short story The Prostitute's Customers aside for about a month because I couldn't get it going. :( It's a bit like a John Cage piece - interesting in its method and conception, but futile when created. Fortunately, I have returned to it and I am trying to make the most of it. I will be writing it every day now; I am half-way through it, and I'll be writing it every day. It is 5 sides of A4 so far (not very much :/). I think it's a failed experiment. The segment I wrote today is an allusion to chapter 7 from Cortázar's Rayuela. I have got ideas for 4 more short stories, and I'll plan them soon. I will make a start of them when I finish this story and Poetry Reciter. After I finish Reciter, I will display it along with Penis Woman, The Desolate Valley and The Prostitute's Customers on my website. I got quite a lot of ideas for new short stories during a walk in the nearby park yesterday and while watching Godard's Alphaville today. :)
I always tear friendships apart. I often insult people, alienating others away from me. Whenever I'm on the brink of creating a friendship, I will do something that will create a distance between me and another person. When I've had a friendship for a few years, I will inevitably lose contact with the person and the friendship will wither away.
During the beginning of the month, I spent my first break with other students! In the short breaks between the lessons I usually hide away in a little path no-one goes to. But while I spent my break with these people, I came to the realisation that their friendships have no depth. I'm not being prejudgemental, I had an objective and fully-formed decision on this while I spent my break with them. I'd rather have no friendships than friendships without depth.
I didn't do any of the A2 transition work. The teachers might take this as an indication that I don't want to do A2. :/ This is so typical of me: self-destructive just at the last, final moment. At school, I didn't do a little more work that could have got me a few extra marks and I didn't get enough GCSEs. When I did the first diploma work I didn't do a little more work that required a little more effort, and I failed it.
Instead of going to my last two lesson on the Tuesday of the week before, I truanted. I also Truanted from a GCSE maths exam in the process. :o In this day I went for a wonderful walk where I discovered new places in the woods/countryside that I hadn't been to before. I wish I could photograph all my walks at a great depth, but my camera doesn't take much photographs even with giant memory cards. The next three days, I went for a walk every day. These walks lasted for hours and hours. Some of it (only a little bit of it) was documented in photographs which will be displayed in the 'Remoted Edges' post. I feel a great uncertainty because I didn't do any of the college work. :/
Recently, I had the wish that I wanted to erase my memory and start again. I don't feel like this now, though. :) But I had the overwhelming feeling that I wanted to start anew with nothing, to recommence life. I wouldn't like this so much, however, because my childhood memories would be gone and I would forget all the books I've read and the films I've seen!
I would like to submerge myself in books for the rest of my life without obligations and detractions. If I was left to my own devices I would read for the rest of my life, and I would hardly do anything else.
I get the impression that many people I know are reading my blog and my fiction without telling me, because they give me cryptic clues. This isn't far-fetched or paranoid because many people I've met briefly said they have found my blog. My literature teacher told me "in A2 we will be studying gothic. And there'll be lots and lots of vampires, Simon. I think you'll like it a lot." Has he read my miniature Vampire Woman? :o And my occupational therapist recently asked me if I wrote reviews. Did she read my Trout Mask Replica review? :o It's perfectly feasible that these two things are true.
I'm unsure if I still want to study Spanish and Latin American studies at uni. The course itself looks very, very interesting, but I think it would be better if I studied philosphy on a topic I really like. I'm not sure... Well, I have a lot of time to think about it.
I ordered my book collection alphabetically last weekend and it looks really, really good! :) I will put up photographs of it in a post next this month.
Recently, I've felt very anxious. It's an intuitive feeling with no real reason behind it. I feel uncertain about something. I don't think it's anything to be with college; I think it's a new phase which is been opened up in my life. In any case, it's great that I have 2 months ahead of me where I'll be able to do everything I want. After this comes A2, and the workload will be gigantic... :/