theresaurus

May 31, 2012

May, 2012

Filed under: books — theresaurus @ 12:28 pm

From The Diary of Anais Nin, 1931-1934:

“Never have I seen as clearly as tonight that my diary-writing is a vice. I came home worn out by magnificent talks with Henry at the cafe. I glided into my bedroom, closed the curtains, threw a log into the fire, lit a cigarette, pulled the diary out of its last hiding place under my dressing table, threw it on the ivory silk quilt, and prepared for bed. I had the feeling that this is the way an opium smoker prepares for his opium pipe. For this is the moment when I relive my life in terms of a dream, a myth, an endless story.”

From the blog of Theresaurus, 2012:

Never have I seen as clearly as tonight that my blog-writing is a vice. I came home worn out by insignificant talks with myself at the supermarket. I trudged into my living room, opened the windows, threw a book at a cockroach, lit a mosquito coil, opened the computer where it sits in its usual place on the dining table, logged on to the Internet, and prepared for blogging. I had the feeling that this is the way an opium smoker prepares for his opium pipe. For this is the moment when I relive my life in terms of a bad dream, a miss, an endlessly dull story.

The Diary of Anais Nin:

“Late at night. I am in Louvenciennes. I am sitting by the fire in my bedroom. The heavy curtains are drawn. The room feels heavy and deeply anchored in the earth. One can smell the odors of the wet trees, the wet grass outside. They are blown in by the wind through the chimney. The walls are a yard thick, thick enough to dig bookcase into them, beside the bed. The bed is wide and low. Henry called my house a laboratory of the soul.”

The blog of Theresaurus:

Late at night. I am in Nagoya. I am sitting in front of my computer in the living room. The windows are open. The room feels feels light and suspended six floors above the earth. One can smell the odors of the wet trees from the park, tabacco smoke from outside. They are blown in by the wind through the screen door. It is raining and my laundry still hangs out on the balcony. One hopes the neighbors do not see. The wall are thick, but not thick enough to prevent overhearing an argument next door. Yet one cannot make out the words, even with one’s ear pressed to the wall. My burgundy leather armchair is low and comfortable. It is Swedish. It was on sale, half price. Sam calls this apartment a laboratory of dust and molds.

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2 Comments »

  1. Hilarious! I love it 🙂

    Comment by Helen — May 31, 2012 @ 12:42 pm

    • Glad you liked it, Helen.

      Comment by theresaurus — June 22, 2012 @ 3:50 am


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