ellasomething: The beginning of a process. (Canvasing)

(Long time no post, 'ey?)

I'm in no mood today to drag my words, so you're going to get it straight-up from me.

Writing is cathartic. That's mainly why I do it at all, it's the reason I first started, and it's probably the only thing about it that sustains me. It's probably one of the most proficient ways of releasing all of one's frustration, and annoyance, and anger at all the pointless bullshit in both the world and in one's life.

That being said, I'm not very good at using the outpouring of words that contain all of these sinister emotions—good on their own, as emotions go, but too much is much too much—into pieces of fiction that can actually be shown to the public. Or a public. Or make sense in any way whatsoever.

Which just leads to more frustration—surprise, surprise!

Because I was told one can totally do that. Use writing, that is. Use it to accomplish something, something productive, something more than just letting off some stream and releasing the "negative vibes".

Frankly, I feel a bit cheated. More so, however, I feel wildly disappointed; I'm not quite sure in what, or whom, though.

Am I the one that hasn't figured out how to use cathartic writing to my own advantage? Maybe I'm to blame. Is it my hair? I feel like it's my hair. (It usually is.) Maybe the emotions are all wrong. I just. Don't. Know. Hence the added frustration and the sense of purposelessness.

(So this was a rant after all. Only it was a very short one, I guess.)

ellasomething: Ella. Duh. (Photo Booth)

Silly as I feel having to write on this topic, it has become necessary. Apparently.

Libraries are inherently quiet spaces people come to expecting the aforementioned quiet, as opposed to, you know, talking. Out loud. To your friends. About the party you attended last weekend.

I can completely relate with wanting to socialise and with the need for a study break to oxygenate that big brain of yours, but for the love of all that's holy—and you know by this I mean cake—go have your giggly discussion about Jell-o shots somewhere else that is not my library.

What happened to the good ol' days of shushing people without getting a gaggle of prissy privileged undergrads glaring at you in disbelief for daring to interrupt? It occurred to me as I was heading towards the Quiet Study Area (in my day, the entire library was a quiet study area, but my geriatric notions of public spaces are clearly outmoded) that, purely by coincidence, the culprits this time around were my direct peers, meaning from my year and major, who should be freaking out just as much as I am about the forthcoming deadline on Wednesday for our thesis proposals. Clearly, I am very much alone in this sinking boat of mine.

I adore libraries in part precisely due to the quietude that is vehemently expected from its patrons by its patrons. If I'm on the receiving end of fewer distractions in my dormitory room than here, then you just know the entire place is going to hell in a hand-basket.

Next time, on what's wrong with the world...

ellasomething: Ella. Duh. (Photo Booth)

Disclaimer: This is not the post I started writing two nights ago and have been edging towards posting. That specific one I have left unfinished and might complete and post at a later time. It's a topic which has been bothering me intensely, but which I'm not sure I can fully and candidly write about just yet. It's very emotional for me and it carries a lot of baggage, though I do want to tackle it to the best of my ability in the next few days. Until then, have some campus life-related trivialities. And books!

Back to your regularly-scheduled programming, though only sort of.

You know what's fun? Writing blog posts trouser-less. At your desk. All proper-like. Again: trouser-less. There was an incident; don't wanna talk about it.

Courses have officially started, though not for yours truly. Tuesdays and Fridays are my sole days of actual course attendance, though otherwise I have readings and papers and presentations and applications to attend to. And a thesis proposal. And begging for references. And crying uncontrollably.

As I was not otherwise engaged today, I endeavoured to do a very simple task: Find. A. Store. Not only did I not find said store, but I managed to either overpay (by stupidly not demanding my change back) for a cookie I ended up dropping in the street (the sad, sad reality of daily life, my friends), or to pay with the wrong currency... somehow. And why do I possess Turkish coins anyway? And why does the one-lira Turkish coin look so much like the two-euro one? Logic?

Do you ever get the feeling the randomness of the universe oftentimes aligns in the exact way to screw you, and only you, over? Then again, paranoia is so unattractive, so ignore this paragraph.

In the end, I managed to spend way too much cash on things I didn't really need, though Oxfam books are never a bad thing. Books are what I live for every single day. Here's a list—in no particular order:

Books = Awesomeness! )

While all of this is kind of random and pointless, I did manage to—completely by chance—explain the gender non-binary to a friend, as well as differing types of sexualities. Said friend also complimented me on my vocal tonality and/or cadence (maybe) in a strange enough way to guarantee my becoming totally confused about whether it was a compliment at all and, if it genuinely was one, then what exact element of my speaking pattern aroused the good will inherent therein. Generally, I just did not get it, but that is hardly surprising.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have readings to do, though I couldn't tell you how anything that I'm currently mentally digesting is supposed to help me out with the graded coursework.

ellasomething: Ella. Duh. (Photo Booth)

Because I (somehow, for no discernible reason once you think about it for more than three seconds) believe that starting on Alexandre Dumas's The Count of Monte Cristo right now, when I have more work to do than ever before, is of The Good, I've furthermore decided this process needs blogging. It does not. I am going to do it anyway, despite the previous sentence repeating itself in my mind to a startling degree and with an ever-increasing number of exclamation marks attached.

I should mention I need to be done with this by the twenty-seventh as I am leaving the country until June at least and I am not about to bring the book with me. Moreover, before I catch my plane, I must finish my graduate school applications, review potential BA thesis outlines, and catch up on coursework–among other things that need to Get Done.

I am going to use the 2003 Penguin Classics edition, translated by Robin Buss with an introduction and notes and which has 1,243 pages sans any of the extra information. That's 1,243 pages of just the novel. Right.

I wonder... When you're Alexandre Dumas (père) and Auguste Maquet hands you a clever story outline and notes on interesting characters, do you laugh yourself out of your chair when Maquet accidentally brains himself while facedesking when he sees the behemoth you have come up with out of his notes? I don't know if this actually happened (pro'ly not), but no one can convince me Maquet was not picking his jaw off the floor each time Dumas handed him a spankin' new pile of pages.

The novel is divided into a hundred and seventeen (!) chapters, which is a handy number, as it is divisible by both three and nine. We'll be doing this in posts of either three, six or nine chapters per post. Hopefully. Well... I'm being optimistic here. Here's hoping I don't bow out five chapters in.

And of course I'm not going to start now. (I've got the Golden Globes to watch, man.)

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Ella Nicoară

October 2015

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