Sunday, 24 March 2013

Sickness diary

Still sick. I've seen the doctor twice and taken some X-ray, and now am waiting for the result to reach the doctor and for him to contact me. In addition to some nasty coughing, nausea, dizziness and loss of appetite I have trouble breathing. I've been inhaling and exhaling heavily as though having asthma. And my skin becomes so thin and so pale and, at certain spots, so wrinkled, that I don't recognise my own hands any longer. I mean, look at me now. Look at me. Having lived in a horrendous country like Norway for nearly 4 years I've lost a considerable amount of hair, lost the lively colour of the skin and become nauseatingly pale, had dry, purplish lips and become so languid and lifeless in my looks that I start to believe lots of people from my past from VN must take a short while to recognise me and, afterwards, must have trouble believing it's me. Can't say why I haven't recovered, but there are several possibilities. Perhaps because I'm physically weak already, like a cọng bún thiu, as my mom calls me. Perhaps because the new apartment is so cold compared to the last (from logical reasoning as well as experience we've concluded that in a cold country like Norway it's best to live in an apartment in a block and not on the ground floor). Perhaps my distaste for most things except cinema and literature, my disinterestedness in life and any activity and any contact with human beings as well as my wish to get out of this world if I can't find a way to get out of this country, are another important factor (though it may also be the other way around- I become more depressed, ill-tempered and suicidal because I don't see any sign of recovery). 
The other day I went to a store called Skeidar. I saw an ornament with huge block letters "LIFE IS BEAUTY FULL". My arse. Beautyfull my arse. I almost used other stuff around it to break the silly thing into pieces, but finally controlled myself and averted my eyes and walked away. 
Anyway, I'm currently reading Charles Dickens's "Great expectations". The book's enjoyable and intriguing, the characterisation interesting, the writing fabulous. I love the way he describes Miss Havisham, especially this part "... It was then I began to understand that everything in the room had stopped, like the watch and the clock, a long time ago. I noticed that Miss Havisham put down the jewel exactly on the spot from which she had taken it up. As Estella dealt with the cards, I glanced at the dressing-table again, and saw that the shoe upon it, once white, now yellow, had never been worn. I glanced down at the foot from which the shoe was absent, and saw that the silk stocking on it, once white, now yellow, had been trodden ragged. Without this arrest of everything, this standing of all the pale decayed objects, not even the withered bridal dress on the collapsed form could have looked so like grave-clothes, or the long veil so like a shroud. 
So she sat, corpse-like, as we played at cards; the frillings and trimmings on her bridal dress, looking like earthy paper. I knew nothing then, of the discoveries that are occasionally made of bodies buried in ancient times, which fall to powder in the moment of being distinctly seen; but, I have often thought since, that she must have looked as if the admission of the natural light of day would have struck her to dust..." 
Gosh, that's wonderfully written. 

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