Oh no. No no no. Not the Sandman.
OK, now I’ve got that out the way… You see, in the E. T. A. Hoffmann novella the Sandman is a creepy guy who does these evil deeds. I won’t go into detail lest anyone reading is eating because it’s weird and spooky, but I guess you’d say it’s a gothic novella. There’s the childhood trauma of Nathaniel, and he projects these fears onto this other guy, Coppola, quite correctly too because Coppola is crazy.
It’s quite interesting, and Freud would love it, I think. You know the idea that your childhood affects your adulthood, this is sort of there. Then you’ve got Nathaniel’s descent into madness and misery. Some tellings of the Sandman are that he is a nice, benevolent figure who sends children to sleepy-land. If you want that story, this one is not for you.
This text triggered a fear in me of the phrase “pretty eyes” and also of the Sandman. As for sleeping, since reading the text I found that getting to sleep was a bit harder and took more work. I need it to be very dark, preferably enough that I can’t see my hand in front of my eyes, and there needs to be a lot of quiet. Even then I’m a light sleeper and the rain, if heavy enough, can wake me.
This is a similar reaction, now I think of it, to when I finished Dracula.
I’m actually not a traveller, so I’m answering this based on my personality.
I could never be someone who roams aimlessly. I’d like to be, but I need maps. I need checklists with headings and subheadings, and I need itineraries.
Pretend you dropped me off in France. I would go to the first wi-fi area I could find and Google France. I would Google landmarks to visit and list places that sounded interesting. I would buy a little dictionary and try to teach myself a few basic phrases – you know, ordering coffee, booking a hostel, and so on. Odds are, while I’m making the list, I am paying Strict Attention to alphabetical order. This is a real thing I do. In fact, I would probably leave France for England, just to really kickstart the spirit of alphabetical order.
After this I would hole up in a hostel, once I’d extensively Googled it for reviews, ratings and such. In said hostel I would make lists and study maps and plot spending money. This demonstrates to you how finicky I can be about details.
this post comes to you from a Lacanian-melted brain.
I believe a lot of things. I’m not always vocal about them, but I do still believe them.
I do believe:
-I can do almost anything I set my mind to.
Ambition, therefore, is my favourite trait, because without it I wouldn’t push myself to do more or step out of my comfort zone.
-No matter how often I forget, I will still remember to resume blogging.
Even when life or university get in the way.
-Life is what you make it.
See ambition. I can’t abide when someone declares they want X, Y or Z from their life and never try to pursue it; then complain about being dissatisfied.
I do not believe:
-Vegetables are good for you.
I hate vegetables. It’s a legendary thing at home: some people adapt to them with age but that has yet to happen.
OK, what I mean is I don’t believe in assuming things about a person. Yesterday I was told “you will love The Tomorrow People.” I think that’s what it’s called. This makes me very angry, because I do not tell a person what they will love, and so I expect to be treated the same. Still, I do a lot of assuming in essays.
-In documenting every inch of my life.
On Facebook I’m the type who has maybe two photos, and neither of them is me. I tweet nonsense and use Twitter for music. I find a lot of bands on there. Still, I can count on two hands how many photos I’ve taken in years gone by and if I checked my profile on Facebook the statuses would be quite sporadic.
I don’t know how crazy and impulsive it is to become a shepherd in New Zealand. We have a lot of sheep. They need to be herded.
Still, if I could go crazy and do whatever my heart desired, I’d go and do the OE. Specifically, Europe. It’s all very Jo March of me. Literature, cafes, history… I remember when I was sixteen and restless, wishing I could slurk off to France or somewhere. The whole of Europe looked much more promising than the walls of classrooms.
Even now I’d like to go, but first I need the money. I can definitely see myself roaming around, picking up odd-jobs that tourists do (do they?) for extra money and practicing languages.
So, I was right.
It appears to be O-Week, the dreaded Orientation.
I got to uni, bypassing the Subway I frequent for lunch when I realized just how many people there were. At some times, the place has people spilling out onto the steps and sidewalk to wait. This was one of those times.
Then I got to the quad. My word, there were so many people. Sidewalks. Clusters on the sidewalks. Throngs by the bus pass kiosk and the cafe that charges too much for a small mocha. Waiting for their tertiary stickers and in the bookstore.
And the booths. I noticed at least one political party one; a yoga one (which surprised me); a volunteers group, an Egyptology group; a Christian students club and that’s just the ones I saw without really looking.
And in class… I’m taking an English paper, in Gothic literature, and I’d forgotten just how noisy a roomful of students can be while they’re waiting for the lecture to begin. I wound up playing the loudest song I dared through my earphones, in hopes of muffling the sounds. It worked, to an extent, but I’ve found that I can pinpoint three conversations to their rough location in a room of people, and it stresses me out.
Let’s hope tomorrow – art history – is quieter.
OK, this isn’t quite a chore, but it is a thing I get stuck doing quite frequently.
Waiting for buses.
Come rain, hail or shine I find myself springy-stepping towards the bus stop in the morning, and then after my classes I lag, dragging my heels to the other one. I stand at the bus stop by the pizza place and wonder if I can persuade my parents that they want pizza for dinner, or the one by the music school and wonder why I can never hear music.
It should be noted that I am not perceived as a patient person. When I tell my parents I’m patient, they React with amusement or skepticism. The general consensus is that I am not patient. I don’t like waiting for buses: it’s boring and I can never quite predict when one is going to arrive. They appear at will, which is not something I enjoy. I have a fondness for routine and structure.
This is why, at a wide variety of times during the week, I can be seen at a bus stop, staring sulkily into the distance.
Some nights I’ll be awake – take recent nights where it’s been summery and too warm to sleep.
At the same time it’s unnervingly dark, so dark that I can’t see my hand in front of me. Often, the neighbours will have outside lights on and a glimmer of the light filters into my room, into my vision. In these cases I can stand and see my silhouette in the mirror, if I focus my eyes carefully.
These are the same nights when time seems to evaporate. The time feels drifty, and it could be ten minutes or two hours that passes. If I do look at the time on my phone, I’m almost always surprised - is it that early/late?
During these times I don’t like to watch the time, but sometimes I check just to see how much longer I have to sleep. The answer is always the same, and so I’ve become convinced that once the clock reads a certain set of numbers time becomes something magical, something that can evade you or torment you by staying longer.