Thursday, 9 April 2015

With Virginia in London (or anywhere)

Binging is like second nature for me. Whether is food, alcohol or books, I seem to not be able to process moderate measure: it's either 0 or 100. I'm on the 100 side of the scale most of the time, and that's my biggest problem at the moment.

You could almost say binge is my favorite hobby: above knitting, baking or reading, I seem not too care about my life unraveling in front of my own eyes, as long as I can use binge as an outlet to my pain; and a justification for my current state of pain.
So, it's pretty accurate on my side to report I passed about 90% of 2015 weekends so far in that dizziness that it's my typical binge aftermath.
And, even though food and alcohol consumption are largely to blame for this blissful dazed feeling, I have to admit they can share the blame with some awesome stuff.
First of all is music: since going to London my head has been playing music non-stop, keeping me afloat form darkest time. I wake up an fall asleep with some sounds and rhythm playing in my head. I know it's not healthy, as much as other more physical over-eating, this never-ending sound playing in my head is just a way I keep myself from really listening to what matters.
I'm not going to do it so much in the future, but I think it was important for me in the past weeks as it kept me afloat.
So it's only fair I thank Francesco for Decembrists
And Rodriguez for making me wonder.
And Kirsty, for that bench in Soho square.

And I have to thank London for Virginia.
And viceversa.
In the past I struggled with the work of Virginia Woolf, something I overcome and that morphed in love for her words.
The dislike I had for her growing up feels a lot like the distaste Elizabeth Bennet had for Mr. Darcy. You know?

"How despicably I have acted!" she cried; "I, who have prided myself on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have often disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my vanity in useless or blameable mistrust! How humiliating is this discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind! But vanity, not love, has been my folly. Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were concerned. Till this moment I never knew myself." (Jane Austen, "Pride and Prejudice")
All those years, stubbornly refusing to even got near one of her pages, oh, how stupid, stupid, stupid of me! How many hours of delight did I rob us of, my lovely Virginia?
Because of the plane ticket at the end of February that just needed a check-in few hours away, I simply decided to re-read some pages of "Mrs. Dalloway".
And since the I've been in this continuous state re-reading of it. Other book go hand in hand (one is for commuting and one for the evening, plus one for the queue at the supermarket), but Clarissa has been with me ever since for more than a month, witness and victim of my binges.
Sometimes I'm so tired in the evening, my eyes just close and implores to shut the lights off and go to sleep, but I continue, not completely sure my brain is fully processing what I'm reading; on the other hand, I'm not sure it truly matters, and I'm pretty confident Virginia won't mind: it soothes my brain and that's more than anything else can offer me now, so I won't be so stupid to turn it down.