Shame vs. Sister My Sister

Is truly a shame.
Long sequences of tedious shots.
Irritating CareyMulligan.
Irritating Carey Mulligan singing atrociously.
Irritating Carey Mulligan attempting to commit suicide but failing.
Why is Carey Mulligan cast in movies?
SHE'S IRRITATING!
The most thrilling thing about her is the series of freckles on her neck!
AND last but not LEAST
There was NO incestuous sex-scene.
To both my mother's and my disappointment.
They came awfully close, alluding to it all the time...
So frustrating.

However, on the bright side, Shame made me appreciate all the more the visionary piece of work that is the film Sister My Sister.

At least the sisters ended up having sex like good lesbian incestuous siblings!

National Support

Last night, already on the verge of a fever, the four glasses of wine seemed to only exacerbated my condition. I found myself curled up next to the toilet. Despite my obvious need to relieve my body of its toxins, I was unable to throw up. Not yet, in any event. I felt alone and scared. In my time of need, I was suddenly joined by various presidents of the United States of America, my country. They encouraged me. They told me I had it in me. They said I was strong enough.Amongst the various presidents there was even a hybrid, Jefferson Adams. He was my biggest supporter.

Revelations of the Past Minutes

1- I believe I am slightly attracted to handicapped people.
I see someone in a wheelchair or with crutches or with some exotic disease or condition and I'm enthralled.

2- Cats remind me of reptiles. I find them to be reptilian. I like birds. They are the real reptile, ancestor of the dinosaur, king of the sky...

3- My hair is the bane of my existence. It's so strange. It's deformed! I HAVE DEFORMED HAIR! It's bitter, angry, physically-frustrated hair.

4- I don't think I could ever work on a farm with animals.

5- My mother inspires strange urges in me.

Differences Between Canaries and Non-Canaries

For those who have been following the Mimi-Pompipo saga, it has been confirmed by google. the late Mimi and Pompipo are most probably perulines. And they eat insects. Canaries eat grain. They are less yellow than I might have lead you to believe. All the same, the breast is yellow. They are canary-like, without being canaries. The most prominent difference between the non-canary and the canary is the shape of the beak. A canary has a slightly more massive beak with a slight curve like that of a budgie, whilst a non-canary has a more pointed sharp beak and sharper features.

Pompipo

I received a call the other day.
" Come quick, I have something to show you."
Upon walking through the door I didn't notice anything...
And then
I kept on walking
towards the back of the apartment
and there was the bird cage
perched on the stainless steel counter
and in it
there was a bird.
a yellow bird.
a bird that curiously ressembled Mimi.
Naturally, my first thought was
Mimi was ALIVE again!
And then I realized that that didn't make any sense at all.
My next thought was
P. bought a bird that looks like Mimi
No
In matter of fact, Little Italy seems to be swarming with docile wild birds
who allow themselves to be picked up
And here he was
"Pipo"
And then he was "Pompipo".
And he wasn't a canary.
And neither was Mimi.
And all I could think was
it wasn't very hygenic to have a wild bird in a cage in on the kitchen counter.

Last Days of Being a "Teenager"

I'm nearing my twentieth year.
And what have I accomplished?:

-Learning the geographic location of Alaska. No, it is not next to Hawaii as the American map would lead one to believe. ( For that matter and rather unrelated, Poland is not an island either. I've been told that there are very few islands in Europe, which is what makes it a wonderful continent for a cultural road trip.)
-(Almost) successfully avoiding people I know on the street. This is a work in progress, but I have faith that one day, I will be the most skillful and stealthy avoider.
- Since I signed the back of my credit card on a whim, it often proves rather complicated to replicate such a signature. I have mastered the forgery of my own signature.
- I renewed my own medicare card, overcoming my fear of public places and telephones.

Pourquoi je me suis absentée jeudi matin

Bonjour M. le professeur
Je m'appelle Venetia Gittes, je suis dans votre cours de jeudi à 8 h. Je voulais m'excuser d'avoir été absente lors du dernier cours. Je me sens obligée de vous expliquer la raison de mon absence en détails, car ma raison s'avère être non seulement très étrange, mais d'une nature drôlement allégorique:

Mercredi matin à la suite d' une grande dispute, découragée, je suis allée dehors sur la terrasse pour prendre de l'air. Du coin de mon oeil j'ai remarqué un petit oiseau d'un jaune électrique. Je sentais quelque chose d'étrange. C'était à la fois un canari et un dieu. Je l'ai fait monter et il est resté avec nous toute la journée. À mes yeux, il incarnait l'espoir. Je considerais sa présence comme un fait divin et très optimiste. La soirée même, il est mort aussi soudainement qu'il est apparu. J'étais prise avec un si grand sentiment de désespoir et culpabilité que je ne voyais plus de sens à rien. De minuit ( l'heure de sa mort) jusqu'à 4h du matin, je réfléchissais. Je voulais comprendre la signification de cet évènement. Il faut dire que je ne suis pas vraiment isotérique, mais cette instant m'a beaucoup sécoué. À 7 h 30 du matin quand le menuisier qui est en train de faire des travaux sur notre plafond est arrivé chez nous, il nous a réveillé par un cri de terreur: " Il y a une bête! Une bête!" On s'est dépêché d'aller voir ce qui se passait. Il y avait bel et bien un chat mommifié entre les poutres du plafond. Ses yeux étaient grands ouverts et sa bouche posée dans un dernier cri. J'étais vraiment traumatisée. Il a fallu calmer l'esprit du chat en l'enterrant a côté du chemin de fer. Je n'ai pas, et je m'en excuse, eu le courage d'aller à l'école ce matin là, vu mon état d'agitation.

Tout cela pour dire, que mercredi et puis jeudi ont été des journées particulières et que je ne ferai pas l'habitude de manquer à vos cours!

De plus, je vais me renseigner auprès d'un collegue du cours pour prendre des notes.

Passez une bonne dimanche et congé demain!

Cordialement,
Venetia

Pet Cemetary

Unfortunately the story of Mimi ends there. He died last night.

The sole consolation in the aftermath of his death was when the mummified cat found in the ceiling crawlspace was removed.

Brought to you from Everyday Allegories.

The Story of Mimi The (Domestic) Bird

Part One : Homelife

Mimi was unhappy at home. He felt like trying to reason with the people he lived with was a losing battle. At night, they woudn’t let him watch TV. Mimi liked TV. His favorite show was Seinfeld. He related to the character of Jerry, whom he imagined to be trapped within the television set, as he was in this cage of his. He dreamed of one day meeting this man who over time had become a hero of sorts in his small beady eyes.

Part Two : The Great Escape ( written while listening to Hank Williams)

One day after a particularly exhausting argument with the fat woman he lived with, Mimi decided that he’d had enough. He was going to leave that mean ol’ woman and start a new life. A free life. So when the fat woman came and stuck her fleshy hand in the cage to change his water, he hopped onto her hand and from there hopped onto the window ledge. The window was open.
« Now where do you think you’re going ? » She giggled, approaching him. « You’re not gonna leave me pretty little thing ? » Normally, Mimi might have given in, succomb to such flattery. He too found himself to be attractive with his electric yellow plumage and refined talons. He hesitated as she came nearer. But his decision was made. There was no turning back. He bid her fairwell with the the blink of his eyes and fell out the window as the fat woman screamed after him : « That’s right leave me ! See what happens to you without me ! You’ll come crawling back ! They always do ! »

Part Three : Discovery

Mimi had fallen into a geranium pot on the balcony bellow. His heart was beating savagely, cold sweat poured down his forehead. He was in a state of shock from the fall. But he had made it ! And that was the important thing ! He knew though that he had no time to waste. He feared that she would come after him, dig him out of his hiding spot, bring him back to the misery he’d fought so hard to escape. He shuddered at the thought of returning. There was no turning back. He edged his way out of the flower pot, now perched on the edge. The city stretched out before him. It now belonged to him. He felt an immense feeling of power and lightness.

To be continued...

One Could Say I Put My Sweat And Blood Into It...

I analysed Giotto's The Morning of Christ for my art history class.
Upon handing in my paper, my teacher opens my duo-tang to the picture of the fresco, and low and behold, I didn't remember Jesus being quite so bloody.
" C'est intéressant, ça" She remarks, dumbfounded.
I remark that my knuckles are chapped, cracked and bleeding...
However, I don't want to ruin the mysticism of this moment.

" S as in..."

After an hour spent on the phone, I really feel that Belkine and I have really gotten to know eachother. While our different languages may not allow us to understand each other on a basic or even practical level, our spiritual understanding is without limits.

Belkine: " H as in House, D as in Door"
Me: " No, actually it's G as in Gate, I as in Island, T as in Truck, T as in Temperature, E as in Earring and S as in Sodom..SNAKE!"

Family Bonding

A Sunday afternoon spent with my family picking apples ( well, at least they were, I only pretended to for a memorable picture). As was to be expected, Sebastian was drawn towards and uniquely picked either unripe or otherwise unappetizingly miniscule apples.

Doors: A History

Like the good hick I am, I hate doors because ( like ovens, water coolers and most other mechanical devices) I don´t understand them. Also ( just like ovens, water coolers, and most other mechanical devices) I have a tendancy to break and destroy them. Muwhahahah. When it comes to doors, however, I think its the mechanicism of the lock that mystifies me. Anyway, the reason Im even discussing doors to begin with is that yesterday to my host familys annoyance and terror, I managed to leave the door unlocked and open on several occasions. This resulted in lessons in door locking and a flood of terrible memories from years past; getting locked in bathrooms, locking myself outside the house, breaking locks, getting locked in bathrooms...
You get the idea...
In sum, I hate doors.

Doors

I hate em´.

The Art of Begging

In Montreal, the beggers can be somewhat passive ( or slightly agressive, such as in the case of the squeegee gang). This however, is not the case in Salamanca,Spain. Walking down the street in animated conversation, my friend J. and I were approached by some rather louche character, who proceeded to loudly shush us, ¨SHHHHHH¨ before rattling a large paper cup in our faces, and asking for money. A rather unusual technique.

Testosterone Relapse

A conversation from yesterday:

P: She's a lesbian.
Me: See, if I were a woman I wouldn't want to be with a very masculine woman.
P: If you were a woman?

One Week Anniversary

Today, I celebrate my one week anniversary of being a woman, hormonally speaking. I'm not announcing a sex change...yet. No, but in all seriousness, this past week has proved to be most tumultous, both physically and emotionally. Now, where crying is concerned, I can often get myself worked up and cry quite a bit, however this crying is usually more of an egotistically useful tactic ( used in order to stop my father from haranguing me about gym failures or diffusing my mother's breakdowns) than an authentic reaction to something sad. However, pumped with a generous amount of cyproterone and ethinyl ( which sounds suspiciously like ethanol) estradiol, it appears something wicked has possessed me, something that my father assured, even PROMISED me I would never ever have...Empathy.

I can say with (almost complete) candour, that this past week, I've been more prone to finding sad things sad, and bad things bad. Hormones have turned me into Doctor Seuss, apparently.

Fail Once, Shame On You, Fail Twice ...Then You're A Dumbass

I failed gym for the second time this semester. This is written with absolutely no pride. I am ashamed. After denial, I passed to anger, and after anger I passed to sadness, and after the sadness I passed to acceptance, and after the acceptance, I'm back at denial. Who fails gym twice?

As my father put it, " I will continue to support you, but will no longer have any emotional investment in you" Ouch.

This is where I have come up with a scholarship in my name, one which offers failures and flunk-outs the chance to get into good universities and FREE. The slogan, " FAIL YOUR WAY INTO COLLEGE!"

If only.

In other news, it appears that my brother is behind my lack of estrogen. He's stealing it all! He's growing little breasts!

Virility

Venetia, reclining on a chair, circa 2022

Patosa

Walking with my father the other day, a rather touchy subject came up, or rather I brought it up. In bringing up such a subject, I was hoping to evoke some kind of sympathy in my father ( which now reflecting was a high expectation to begin with, only proving just how desperate I was at the time of said event). Recently, I've been compared to a clown. This pains me deeply. I hate clowns. Beside the revoltingly seedy and offensive aesthetic ( which in itself would justify any contempt towards clowns), I find that clowns are fundamental hypocrites. Perhaps my clothing can border on TOO much at times, or perhaps I trip over my shoes once in a while, but really, am I that clownish? After hearing me out, my father paused thoughtfully, mulling the information over. I prepared myself to be consoled when he then said, " well yes, as the Spanish would say, you're quite the patosa, aren't you?"