7 February 2006

Every day it seems to me that things are more barren and sterile and hopeless— In Paris, before I realized that I was sick, there was a new significance to everything: stations and streets and façades of buildings—colors were infinite, part of the air, and not restricted by the lines that encompassed them and lines were free of the masses they held. There was music that beat behind my forehead and other music that fell into my stomach from a high parabola and there was some of Schumann that was still and tender and the sadness of Chopin Mazurkas— Some of them sound as if he thought he couldn't compose them—and there was the madness of turning, turning, turning... I am so afraid that when you come and find there is nothing left but disorder and vacuum that you will be horror-struck. I don't seem to know anything appropriate for a person of thirty: I suppose it's because of draining myself so thoroughly, straining so completely every fibre in that futile attempt to acheive with every factor against me— Do you mind me writing this way? Don't be afraid that I am a meglomaniac again— I'm just searching and it's easier with you—

Zelda Fitzgerald, in a letter to Scott


I've been feeling a bit awful about neglecting this spot in the last week or so. Various factors were working against me, such as my desire to upload all these pictures from NYC, being busy at work and also with friends, being perhaps a bit lenient with my brainwaves and letting them focus inordinately upon an awesome boy.


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