Passed the scaffolded History department while nipping to my class. A strong desire of barging into that dilapidated building welled up in me. Ever since I had the fortune of visiting that building every week for one of my class last year, I have deemed it my favorite spot in the campus. The interior of the History department is an unsolvable arithmetic question itself. Corridors coming out of nowhere, leading to nowhere, and rooms with mysterious doors that are inexplicably sealed. The building is also pungent with the smell of rotten wood, the smell that I could still catch its whiff under a drizzling day.
I went to the History department every week to attend the sexual history class, a class with which I still lament of my inadequacy of delving more into. I happened to come across a Martin Price’s literary criticism in which he tries to draw a resemblance between reading a fictitious character and staring at a nude model. His theory is thus: a fictitious character can be as tangible as a nude model positioning deliberately in front of you, lustfully, yet distant as well, since once you want to get more intimate with that character, you are touching the model’s cold skin, unable to pore into his/her psyche. I will not call it a mechanism of disguising but more objectively, a backfire of one’s effusive desirability.
Full, effusive, voluminous, lustful, voluptuous, buxom, profuse, brimful…terms to describe an oozing desire are multiple, and none of them verge on humbleness. But only one word proffers the premonition of an insidious subversion, that is, brimful. For a cup brimming with liquid is merely an ephemeral ideal since, even if the plain the cup is based upon has no risks of quaking unalarmingly, dribs and drabs of drop of liquid will still vaporize into the thin air.
The aforesaid not only sums up the cliché of why a person is suggestive to always be half-emptied, but also explains my physical fatigue of these previous days. For my aim of studying voraciously is always frenetic, if my eyes were not occasionally glazed over. My deductive, pseudo-inventive theory seems to tend to a way which bears an image of a person robbed of everything, living in a four-walled. Lesser is better.
And there I veer into the music realm again. Since youtube disciplinarily forbidden in these days of internet hardship, I can only post some songs via list:
Syd Barret, Baby Lemonade
Ray Charles, Drown in My Tears
Caravan, Love Song with Flute
Harry Belafonte, Sylvie
I can hardly settle the fact that my binge listening is now reduced to some poor selections like Fleetwood Mac and the post-Syd Pink Floyd. An evidence for lesser makes the heart grow fonder.