I accidentally found out the word “languor” when I read a blog of a Vietnamese girl, who kept writing in English as a way to express herself more than to revise vocabulary. I love the word “languor”, for its meaning contains paradox:
- Tiredness or inactivity, especially when pleasurable.
- An oppressive stillness of the air.
(Online Oxford Dictionary)
Why can I distill pleasure from my tiredness, or it’s just fake tiredness that I’ve been imagining to comfort and console myself. Too much love, too much lassitude, too much caring for my own dreaming world lead to too much languor. That’s why I’ve kept feeling painful and pleasant coincidentally.
I just type this post after long time no write anything in English, since thinking back everything, I guess that word definitely suits me, just for me. When I created this blog, even all over the world, there is no blog having the same name as mine.
When my mouth opens to pronounce “languor”, do you know how I feel, I feel like I’m unveiling something that has been insulating my heart, my head for a long time, and my inner self gradually becomes exposed and fragile, but beautiful (at some aspects). I find my whole soul transparent.
I love the word much more when coming across the poem There is a Languor of the Life written by Emily Dickinson. How funny, it’s not even related to my situation right now, just contains the word I’m always obsessed with.
There is a Languor of the Life
More imminent than Pain—
’Tis Pain’s Successor—When the Soul
Has suffered all it can—
A Dimness like a Fog
As Mists—obliterate a Crag.
The Surgeon—does not blanch—at pain
His Habit—is severe—
But tell him that it ceased to feel—
The Creature lying there—
And he will tell you—skill is late—
A Mightier than He—
Has ministered before Him—
There’s no Vitality.
She is now intertwining some dainty words in her head
If her head was a shop where he could drop in for a while
While it was raining outside
She wouldn’t mind telling him feel free to pick up some words to make a full sentence.
She would say no need to be laconic, sir
“Words help you out those vivacious rains…”
But he never comes, so she sits here falling in sleep with her plaintive poem.
A poem for my little friend, Ch., For her little love.
Hope is like a disintegrated song whose
rhythm is more haunting than ever
but you don’t know how to throw its notes together.
You’ve kept telling to yourself
you’ll find a way oneday
you’ll write a chorus to play on those real strings.
At last, hope is like a treasure trove that
your mind shaped itself.
When I recall my childhood, things tend to appear in my mind in sunlit background, and everybody dear to me also tends to wear resplendent clothes. Those pictures in my mind are the amalgamation of those hot colors. And me there, was often a girl in bright colors exposed her arms to the sun without any awareness of sunburn.
That’s how my memory captures things, which is very unreasonable, very desultory.
But there’s a man who is framed in my mind in white. He is not special to me, he is not the one I love, he is just a man supposed to be forgotten among other things that are jumbled together in my old world. When things faded away due to my memory’s frailty, the last things of him remaining in my memory and my imagination are his white T-shirt, his light skin and his white tooth when he smiled. All the times, he was sitting on the porch of his house, with his mother there who was busy with selling things to my mother. I smiled at him as a greeting, because as for me at that time, greeting with a smile is the best way ever to express politeness. Then he smiled, then in a few minutes, I smiled again and then, he laughed saying: “She’s smiling!!”. “She’s smiling” – the only thing he said or the only thing I remember he said.
Even when all of a sudden I came across him in the crowd many years after and found his skin was getting weather-beaten, his appearance in my mind has never changed. Even when I heard he has taken his own life after all, I will never distort my own memory of him. But I’ve kept wondering how he rummaged his memory for the most wonderful pieces in his life, how he embraced them the last time and then left them nowhere in his imminent errant soul, if he really did this. What if he woke up the last time in the hospital, realizing he had nothing to miss but his own death.
It comes as a big surprise to me that in these moody day, I keep playing many times a few songs of Sơn Tùng M-TP. Thanks for his songs, I feel all my inextricable anxieties lolling somewhere else, just somewhere else for a moment in the middle of the day. Now I’m even hearing Cơn mưa ngang qua, a song he’s written since four or five years ago. It’s terribly emotional in some ways. I know why, I’m pretty sure about the root of those feelings.
For many years, and even up to now, pop music of this “modern society” has really fazed me. I’ve been mad about the way pop composers nowadays use their their poor source of vocabulary and rhythm for their songs. Most of them is too platitudinous to absorb. Though trying listening, I could ever bear, get used to them or take them serious. Basically, I didn’t think those composers were going to take any effort to write an immaculate song ever. I admit that I’ve kept that old and deep-seated prejudice for a long time. I means, it is not about the intricacy of those lyrics, but about the artists’ attitude.
While watching the interviews with Sơn Tùng M-TP and following his stories, I realized that the most valuable thing of a guy is not what he’s created in his life but his attitude towards his work. Anh none of those famous singers nowadays doesn’t take their career serious. When typing these words I know they’re quite didactic but before knowing Tùng’s story I never recognized that, it was somewhat a pity.
I was moved with the way Tùng proudly, excitedly and honestly talked about his activities and achivements during those lastest years since he was a high school student creating songs with his sluggish computer in his hometown, till the day he took his first flight to Ho Chi Minh City with his budding vision for the future ahead, till the day he eventually was on a glorious stage and surrounded by his fans. It never occurred to me that I will care about him so much like this. Because his music is never my cup of tea.
But I start listening to them these day just because his story which I don’t know to what extent exasperated really stirs my emotions. Since I can’t assume how much a person can change during four or five years after graduating from high school, looking at Tùng’s selfie photos five years ago and his images appearing almost everywhere today I think everything can become so legendary when time elapses unless one figures out one’s way. I respect Sơn Tùng, not for his works much, but for his view towards life and work. Anyways, such interview can be so didactic, but I believe in and respect the way Tùng distincly regards everything he does these day as his passion and responsibility without any excessive complaints and explanations, from his style of dressing to the encounters of scandals, etc.
Enjoying teen music is somewhat a guilty pleasure to me. I know many hit songs today are totally lack of creativeness and intricate meaning,. Some of Sơn Tùng’s ones, however, are not of such monotonousness. Personally, I think their lyrics and rhythms are catching, smooth, complexed and fathomable enough to absorb. I’m also more open-minded about the fact that the genuine voice of singers now need not be taken priority any more by use of other techniques or instruments. A song can be the result of the cooperation among many people, it’s not fair if we demand only the singer or composer to take responsibility for the whole song. And what if I enjoy a song not just for its lyrics but for its harmoniousness on the whole?
In other words, I will be more pleasant and feel less guilty when following Sơn Tùng if he won’t get involved in any music copycat scandals any more. But who cares?
* The title has nothing to do with the content, just the first sentence of the chorus in a song of M-TP.
On the way to the night class, I looked at the sky before my eyes. The sky was on the verge of ending its sunset. At that time the trees were just some silhouettes standing still on the background of sunset sky. And the sky dressed in an ombre roseate veil of light. Everything is tenderly and immediately captured by my eyes and my mind. I’m not sure with the latter, but I actually walked along that way with two eyes sticking to the roseate firmament. Just for a moment.
I’ve had my teacher help me with Maths after the school for two weeks. Every afternoon, after dinner, I leave my house and walk to hers. Most of the time on the way I think about how serious the predicament I’m facing is, or what about my feelings during the day, whether they are worse or better than those during the yesterday. But the moment I saw the roseate area which was like a fleecy scarf embracing my soul in the sky, I felt like my life would be somehow undulating though my fear of being solitude.
The more frequently I see every elaption of the time in my hometown, the dearer it becomes in my memory.