Tue, 11 Jul 2006 19:14:24 GMT

I'm back from a loooong stay at a nice hospital. I wish I could describe the experience in my own words, but I'll share an exerpt of a book instead. If only I can get the hang of this LJ cut thing. Apparently I can't.

Dinner was a tasteless paste made of overcooked rice and speckled with onion and vegetables. The newcomers looked at it in disgust, but the older inmates were hungry enough to ask for seconds. They sat in random groups and made conversation for the sake of passing the time.

"It's so hot it can't be eaten," one said pointlessly.
"Eat from the margins, that's where it's cooler," another shared her common sense.
"I've mixed it," the first replied. "I put salt in it and I mixed it."
Melissa listened silently, taking mental notes of the conversation. She wanted to go and write it down, but at the same time she wanted to prolong the meal as much as possible because it was after all an activity that filled her time. She repeated the platitudes in her mind so she wouldn’t forget them. She could always conjure up meaningful conversation if she needed it, but not a meaningless one. And this was the only type of talk that set the feel of the place: these old women eating tasteless food and making insipid remarks, all for one great goal, to kill time. Melissa thought the place was filled with serial killers, each having innumerable hours as victims past, and many more as future victims. But there was one good thing about the place: it relieved the stress of everyday life. Here there was never any hurry, or anything that needed to be done. It was like being on holiday, only without the usual time consuming and time demanding activities that go with it. Melissa's recreation was her writing. It was the one recreation no one could ever take away from her.
"Are you putting salt in your milk as well?" the second old woman asked the first.
"It has no taste without it," the first replied.
For dinner they were given tea or sometimes milk. The tea was always very weak, almost nothing but hot water. The milk was made of powdered milk and had a strong chemical taste.

Abruptly reminded of being in the dining room, Melissa began dissecting her rice in search of the elusive vegetables. She found a stranded slice of a tomato and a medium amount of onion. She looked at the mass of rice left in her plate and imagined the space it would take up in her belly. Too much. She played with it a little, parting with the fork and grouping it back together several times, then she went and threw it away. There was always a pail set by the staff for those who found they couldn't eat anymore or didn't like the food. It had been half empty when it was brought in at the beginning of the meal. It was half full now.

(from The Life and Memories of Melissa Vane, Suicidal Maniac)

Sat, 20 May 2006 14:28:24 GMT

I am not communicative by nature and I have never thought I'd start my own live journal. Yet, thanks to chrysama, it appears I have to :) I have no idea how my virtual presence here could benefit the LJ community other than by taking up storage space. But I do love Oh! Naruto Nippon and I would never miss the chance of downloading them if I can. It is for this purpose only that I begin today to share my world with you. For I have nothing to give, nothing to contribute, safe for my life and memories (if one day this will sound to you like the title of a book you saw in a bookstore, then this will become a paid account; if it will sound like the title of a book you have bought and want to have an autograph on, I'll buy you ice-cream or cakes - as I'm not particularly in favour of buying drinks).
I shall tell you all about myself, in the same slippery manner as I have introduced myself so far. I live in Bucharest, Romania. It's in Europe. Don't take it personally, I've been asked what it's like here, in Africa. I have also been asked if we have phones here. I would not dare shock the world by revealing that we even have Internet. It is not a country to be particularly proud of. Having passed through a substantial period of Communism, our economy is used to being self-reliant. However, we export a large quantity of commodities, such a beggars, orphans, and occasionally a starved genius in search of a job that is actually in his field, suitable to his capacities, and even paid. In return we have welcomed such foreign novelties as Coke, Pepsi, fast food restaurants, traffic jams, and MTV.
But I am digressing. To most people that is a bad habit. To me it is an art. It is the art of avoiding the real problem, of distracting the reader's attention from what I would rather not reveal. And that is that I am not easy to like. Which has never bothered me before in my life. Whenever my oldest friend would tell me that if I'm not more sociable I'll end up all alone and friendless, my invariable answer (though not always spoken) was "You mean I'll get read of you? Thank God!!!" This is the only time in my life, not merely the first but really the only time, when I wish to be on someone's friends list. Which is why I don't know how to do it and I'm dragging this useless journal entry instead of writing a simple post on chrysama's page to ask her to add me on her friend's list. I don't know how that's done. I remember from many years ago a little girl with big glasses coming to me and saying "I live across the street from you. Let's walk home together!" That's Mary. She can make friends. Me, I can only make sarcastic remarks. Those who like them stick with me. They have a high sense of humour and a lot of patience. Mary, on the other hand, just has very large, hard handbags. She bought one with iron spikes once. I stopped visiting for a month, then the bag disappeared. I am a coward after all.

carol_sharp