Hmm. Let's see.
I've been here almost two weeks now. Last night was the first time I slept alone. Ahem. (Not to imply that I've been conducting any aerobic activity during the noctornal hours;) Seriously, I finally had time to move into 'my' apartment. a.k.a. Marjo's apartment. (Marjo is Tarja's sister the vet who is spending the next couple of weeks in the countryside making friends with the cows.) The idea had been to have me watch the place while she away, pick up mail, water plants. etc. I could have moved in right off of the plane from NYC. However, we've been bouncing around everywhere saying hello and catching up with old friends. There hadn't really been any urgency to pack me off, especially since we were having so much fun with our little sleep overs.
Things turned dire the other night. Somehow a very sober Irene managed to injure her shoulder while sleeping. I went to bed (pooped and reading a very disturbing novel which I'll get to in just a second) and woke up with this mysterious pain. At first I figured it would go away, but oh no. Everytime I put on my backpack, pick something up, or stretch, my shoulder makes this funny creaky noise and is annoying. The pain has decidedly toned down, but is still noticeable. Honestly, how the hell does one manage to twist a shoulder while sleeping soundly on a couch?
Anyhoo.
THe book that kept my rapt attention until I finished it: For I Never Knew Men
(or something like that)
I just tried searching for the book on Amazon and of course have the name incorrectly branded on my brain. I'll look again tonight and let you know in case you're interested. Point being, it's the weirdest book about doing almost nothing but has these deep underlying lessons about appreciation for what we have, particularly the relationships we share with others. Some catastrophic event has happened, and a group of 40 women are locked underground in this drab cellar monitored constantly by 3 guards. The light is always on (except when dimmed for sleeping hours) and they're feed a steady diet of carrots and mutton. Ok, and some other things. (For whatever reason, potatoes are considered a delicacy.) Basically the minimal level of food needed for survival. The women have no idea why they're kept locked up, nor what happened to their friends or family. The guards are strict about allowing personal contact, emotion, exercise, and especially any information about life outside of their cell. (They make piles of the straw mattresses they sleep on during the 'day'. Make tunics from minimal rolls of fabric, often resorting to hair in lieu of real thread.)
Anyway. The storyteller is the youngest of the group, who has the most bizarre point of view, since she has absolutely no recollection of life 'before'. 'She' (b/c I can't remember her name) starts puberty, but never matures woman-wise (no raging hormones, except for the explosions she creates through daydreaming. read: mental mini-orgasms.) At some point our author begins counting her heartbeats to keep track of time. After being ignored by her 39 closests friends (ok, mean bitter women) her skill becomes highly valued. This girl/woman associates her heartbeats to the average minute, and then to the hour, day, week, month. For her 72 beats equals one minute. She counts constantly. In her sleep. I don't want to ruin the remainder of the book, but it's more of a page turner than you'd think based on the characters. She is constantly seeking answers, and is faced with a certain future of uncertainty. Oh! And she never meets a man. Which is why the title of the book should be easy to remember, but you know me. When I stop back at the apartment, I'll make note of the author. A definite quick read. Translated into English from a Belgium author.
Brb. Sorry to babble, but there's so much to talk about. Let me post this to be sure I know how to use this blogger publishing tool thing. Back in a sec.
posted by irene @ 6/11/2002 01:34:00 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home