My mum says I am blogging black humour. Why... I haven't a clue. Because I told her I'm not scared of death, because I told her I'm not quite sure I'd fit in a coffin and maybe I'd be better off cremated and in a pretty jar on someone's coffee table. She cried, but I cannot understand why. I am only speaking the truth.
So what can I talk about. Men. And she wouldn't understand either then. I'd tell her I love men who age like wine, brainy men who can hold a conversation on everything, men who can be moved by their sense of sight as in Van Gogh, the Naked Maya, Botticelli's Birth of Venus, La Pieta`, Bernini's Ecstacy of St. Theresa. Men who can be moved by Thomas Hardy's Tess of the D'Urbervilles, or by Shakespeare's Othello, by Graham Greene's The Power and the Glory and by Edmondo de Amicis' Cuore. And most importantly by men who can be moved by Beethoven's second movement of his seventh symphony, and men who think Traviata's Addio del Passato is actually worth sitting still and shedding silent tears in their seat instead of fidgeting with their programmes wondering how long it'll be for the next interval. Men who will hold their breath during Mascagni's Cavalleria Rusticana, Massenet's Intermezzo from Thais, and who think that listening to A.Lloyd Webber's Learn to be Lonely for fifteen million times is normal.
But there are so few men like that. What I get is one excelling in one field, and me having to do the teaching of the others. That is, when they are responsive men. Not gay men please, I love gay men for shopping, for having a cosy natter, for exposing other women's dark unattended to roots. But straight men. Maybe I want it all, but I cannot lower expectations. I hate hate hate hate men who think opera is soppy, art exhibitions a waste of time and medical journals the highlight of their life. But they slowly change too, as long as they are under my care.... oh they have to change, because I won't be reduced to the girl they take for functions on their arm, the type who just bat their eyelids and nod. And I will not be a guinea pig, as a medical study for sublimation. Forget it. I will not be someone's study of temperamental artist.
Men.... there's no just one who fits the bill completely. But...sometimes the brain may cease to work when the man vs woman instinct is involved. But emotions, perceptions and feelings go into overdrive. So maybe, maybe the prognosis looks good and I just might get there.
So what can I talk about. Men. And she wouldn't understand either then. I'd tell her I love men who age like wine, brainy men who can hold a conversation on everything, men who can be moved by their sense of sight as in Van Gogh, the Naked Maya, Botticelli's Birth of Venus, La Pieta`, Bernini's Ecstacy of St. Theresa. Men who can be moved by Thomas Hardy's Tess of the D'Urbervilles, or by Shakespeare's Othello, by Graham Greene's The Power and the Glory and by Edmondo de Amicis' Cuore. And most importantly by men who can be moved by Beethoven's second movement of his seventh symphony, and men who think Traviata's Addio del Passato is actually worth sitting still and shedding silent tears in their seat instead of fidgeting with their programmes wondering how long it'll be for the next interval. Men who will hold their breath during Mascagni's Cavalleria Rusticana, Massenet's Intermezzo from Thais, and who think that listening to A.Lloyd Webber's Learn to be Lonely for fifteen million times is normal.
But there are so few men like that. What I get is one excelling in one field, and me having to do the teaching of the others. That is, when they are responsive men. Not gay men please, I love gay men for shopping, for having a cosy natter, for exposing other women's dark unattended to roots. But straight men. Maybe I want it all, but I cannot lower expectations. I hate hate hate hate men who think opera is soppy, art exhibitions a waste of time and medical journals the highlight of their life. But they slowly change too, as long as they are under my care.... oh they have to change, because I won't be reduced to the girl they take for functions on their arm, the type who just bat their eyelids and nod. And I will not be a guinea pig, as a medical study for sublimation. Forget it. I will not be someone's study of temperamental artist.
Men.... there's no just one who fits the bill completely. But...sometimes the brain may cease to work when the man vs woman instinct is involved. But emotions, perceptions and feelings go into overdrive. So maybe, maybe the prognosis looks good and I just might get there.
