It feels wrong
to take a hand
I so barely know
not enough time
before it crashes down
to do so.
It feels wrong
to take a hand
I so barely know
not enough time
before it crashes down
to do so.
I have two days of school left and then it is over, I will (hopefully) never return to my school again. It has left me quite emotional as one can imagine and it made me hate myself for wasting so many days when I was checking the time every second. I didn’t appreciate how lovely school actually is. You have no worries whatsoever, you just go to the place filled with your favourite people, every day. Everything is done for you, all you have to do is pass your exams. Now don’t get me wrong, I am utterly excited to start university next year and I could not go another year to high school, but right now, my brain is drained with nostalgia and every time I look at the grey walls, the red bricks and the brown chairs of my school I just feel love and warmth. It is as if everything that used to be ugly and dull and I used to hate so much, now seems beautiful. I just want to stop the time and look around for a bit, so I can truly let everything sink in, to make sure I won’t forget everything here.
Time has passed so quickly this last year, it still feels as if it were October. It makes me worry that I did not enjoy high school enough. I have been saying I want to start university ever since I was fourteen, so maybe I never truly was with my head in high school. While typing this, I know that it isn’t true. Because if time passes by quickly, it means that you had fun. And if I had fun, that means I did enjoy it enough. It means that I have built lifelong friendships and memories. And those people are the things I will truly miss, not the grey walls or brown chairs, those objects may spark the nostalgia nestled within me, but in the end they will only trigger me, those memories within the walls are what really matters and I am not leaving those.
I have said that I wanted to leave high school since I was about fourteen and now that I am actually leaving high school, I guess it wasn’t so bad after all. But that is nothing new. I have heard everyone say everything I just described. I spoke to my friends and all of them feel this way. In your last year you will move in a different flow than the rest of the school, which makes you more connected to everyone in your year and in the end, you will love and miss everyone. Cause I know that the ones I find so annoying now, are also people I will remember and I will miss their annoyance. And isn’t that the best way to leave high school: with love and warmth for everyone and everything around you. We all want to leave on a positive note, so we can start a new life and although right this second I am not quite ready to do so, I know I will be in three months.
About a week ago
I picked a flower
I pulled it
out of the ground
it gave me a sense
of power.
It was pretty and
so fragile
not ready to be
dead
but in my hand
was laying
just its lovely head
The colours were
luminous
yellow mixed with
green.
It was one of the
prettiest plants
I had ever seen
It gave me joy
and sheer excitment
for a day or two
then it started dying
and green turned into blue.
See I learned I
killed a flower
without any rationality
happy for an hour
is a completely wrong
mentality
I feel a little
self-absorbed
cause
when I want to speak
my thoughts just
keep on circling
on what I want
to seek.
I am exhausted
by ideas
bored of spoken quarrel
So annoyed of hearing
that I am just immoral
and I can’t seem to flee
cause my entire focus
keeps laying on just me.
So
I am captured
I am cornered
I am stranded
and confined
Jailed into this prison
that is titled as
my mind.
Why are all poets of this century so fucking pretentious?
I am sick of hearing about eclipses, stars and the fucking moon. I dare you, write what you feel, do not compare anything, just write what you feel, that is much harder than rhyming about soaring leafs and moonlight, that is much more beautiful as well.
Also, using fancy words does not make you a poet.
Also, do not call yourself a poet, it is pretentious and lame, let someone else give you the title.
Try a little harder to stay with your feet on this earth, being down to earth is something that is very much needed.
It is drizzling
outside
little drops
make every tile
wet
waiting to be
dried
they are aching
to sweat.
the drops hurt
they are like little
knives
stabbing
the tiles.
Funny how,
one little drop
does not do anything at all
but together
they are an army
forming not a drop
but a ball.
Not too long ago, I went to the cinema with a few friends where I watched Call me by your name. After finishing the movie, I walked out speechless and it took me a while before I could find any words to express my love for it. It felt as if I had just travelled to Crema, where I had spent a summer and had deeply fallen in love. Meanwhile, I was walking through minus ten outside and snow was still falling; in my head I was still in 1983 and in Italy. Now, after about a month of seeing the film, I still find myself thinking about the world of the characters and I am craving to see it again and lose myself in the story all over, but until then: a review and analysation of Call me by your name. Since I really do not want to restrict myself when expressing my love for this film, I want to warn you: there will be spoilers in this article!
In this film you follow the story of Oliver and Elio in a summer in Northern Italy. Oliver is a 24 year old grad-student who comes to write his thesis and Elio is a 17 year old student, enjoying his vacation in the place he comes to every year. In the first encounters of the two boys, Oliver comes off as rude, coming and going whenever he pleases and just saying later as a sort of ‘goodbye’. There is however, also immediately a tension between the two, they are interested in each other. Oliver massages Elio’s back to show him that he wants something from him. Elio is however still confused about his not yet discovered attraction to Oliver and walks away in full confusion, still holding the water bottle, utterly bewildered about the situation.

The confusion fades and the two guys start spending more time together. They go out together, where Elio just looks at a dancing Oliver, so jealous of the girl that Oliver kisses that night. This jealousy comes from both sides, when Elio starts a relationship with Marzia, one of the town girls and brags about it in front of Oliver. They constantly play games with each other, without saying a word, letting the tension between the boys grow only further. They flirt but don’t act on it, not yet.
One of the things this film so beautifully portrays is the vibe of Italy. Not only is the landscape beautiful, they also managed to show the calmness of the place. There are even a little playful with the Italian culture, shown during the scene where Elio’s nose starts bleeding. The whole table is talking loudly, interrupting each other. The guests of Elio’s parents are criticizing the parenting style of Elio’s parents, showing us the conservative Italy of 1983.
Intertwined with all these magnificent shots of the nature, the story of Elio and Oliver evolves. Elio gains confidence, starts to understand his feelings a little bit more. And when his mother reads him a story of which the main moral is: speak or die, he decides to speak. The next scene, however, is filled with irony, it ends in Oliver and Elio speaking about how they are feeling, but not actually saying it, with Oliver asking if there is anything that you don’t know and Elio replying that he does not know a thing about the things that matter, Oliver knows what Elio is saying, but he just can’t speak of it, he says, subtly that they can’t act on their feelings, leaving Elio to say: so we are on speaking terms, but not really?
It all builds up to their first kiss later that day. Where Elio steps towards Oliver, with confidence, he knows he wants him, because even though he had slept with Marzia, he really is attracted to Oliver. So they kiss, full of passion and they don’t want to pull away, but Oliver does. Even after a strong moment when Elio tries again, Oliver pushes him back. We haven’t done anything to be ashamed of and that is a good thing, I want to be good. Elio just looks at Oliver and puts his hand on his crotch: am I offending you? And thus the flirting continues.
The two keep distant from each other after their first kiss, Oliver has made it clear that he does not want to do it again, but a desperate Elio writes him a note and in response gets back: grow up, I’ll see you at midnight. The mixed message sums up the whole relationship the two had so far and Elio spends the day impatiently, teasing Oliver, asking him what time it is. Although he spends the day with Marzia, he ends it with Oliver, because they make love for the first time. Call me by your name and I’ll call you by mine, the famous sentence is said in this scene. Saying your own name tastes weird in your mouth, you rarely say it, you only hear it, so it is intimate when you lay in a bed with a person you love and they say ‘Oliver’ and you say ‘Elio’ back.

Elio abandons Marzia and the two boys stay close and intimate and up follows the peach scene. This film is about vulnerability and discovering your sexuality and your own body, so when Elio ejaculates into a peach, it isn’t gross, he tries something, he does something nobody does in broad daylight, but everybody does in their own privacy. It is something he is ashamed of and when Oliver finds out what happened, a scene that could have turned into an intimate moment between the two, ends in one where Elio is ashamed but also torn up by the fact that Oliver will be leaving him and so he bursts into tears in Oliver’s arms.
Elio’s parents see that the two boys are bonding and they let them go on a trip together. We see a sequence of scenes where the two are carefree and happy, where they can actually be together and not hide their relationship anymore. One of the best scenes of the film is the glimpse we get of a dream from Elio. We share his most intimate thoughts about Oliver and see how much Oliver takes up his mind. It only lasts about two seconds and after the film you have totally forgotten about that, but that is the beauty of it, because we too forget our own dreams.
In the end, Oliver goes back to America and we see the last moment they get to touch each other. Elio pulls him tightly in and they both know, that this is the end. Meanwhile we see Elio wearing a blue shirt that is way too large for him and we are reminded of Elio’s question to have the shirt Oliver came to Italy in. Elio calls his mother with a cracking voice and silently cries the whole car ride home.
Completely devastated he comes home, where Marzia forgives him and wants to be friends and his father sits down with him. He talks about how you shouldn’t supress the things you are feeling, because you only have so much love to give. At some point, you will be thirty and have no more left to give anymore. He tells Elio that he should treasure his memories, instead of trying to forget them. After his father’s speech, we suddenly understand why there was a scene of him admiring the statues of naked men: he had a romance like Elio’s too, but supressed it. He did not choose that love, but instead went a different path and regrets it. And now we also suddenly understand the role of Marzia in this film, the path Elio could have gone down but didn’t, the path his father did go down, because he wasn’t brave enough to choose for true love.
The film ends in the winter, when Elio gets a phone call from Oliver saying that he is getting married. But Oliver also says that he remembers everything and he calls Elio Oliver one last time. The phone call is important for Elio, to understand that it did truly happen, that it wasn’t all a dream. We follow Elio into the living room, where he flips coin, wondering if they end up together, the audience doesn’t see how it lands, but Elio just walks away, knowing a coin does not decide fate.
And then we see Elio in front of fire, symbolising how much he is burning inside, crying in front of the fire. With no words, he says so much. He thinks about his whole summer, about his youth that is slowly fading, about all the things that happened and although they hurt, although he cries, he is happy they happened, leaving almost a smile at the end. He lets himself feel everything, because that is better than supressing it. We hear Elio one more time: his mother calling him to come eat. Elio looks into the camera and it fades to black. The film is over, with one of the most powerful endings I have ever seen, containing just one word: Elio.

Language is a very beautiful thing, because there is no way around it. Everywhere you look there are letters forming words, forming sentences, to create a phrase we understand and use to talk to each other, because those letters, words and sentences are paired with sounds, which humans can produce with their mouth, to create a language, so we can communicate. If you look at it objectively it is a very bizarre thing, but at the same time very beautiful. To study a language and truly understand how others think, what writers mean with certain sentences, is important, it learns us to crawl inside of the mind of someone else. So, to learn about poetry and books in our language courses is of course a necessity, it is often the core of the course, the foundation of language: the written word. There, however, are a lot of students who find language dull and ‘dusty’ and even though I want to study a language next year, I can truly understand where they are coming from.
A lot of the poems have lost their relevance. Words are used that no one uses ever anymore and sentences often do not speak to the reader, because they were written a long time ago. I love those poems and stories, because they use words in a very intelligent and beautiful way, but Shakespeare and Hemingway are not the only the ones to do so anymore. No one cares about them anymore, but that does not mean that people do not like poetry or language anymore, because everyone I know, listens to music and music is the modern version of poetry. So I find it very surprising that we aren’t analysing music in our language courses.
We learn about metres and rhyme schemes and what the relation is between the metre and the poem, but what does that more perfectly than a song does? If you analyse a song, you don’t just analyse the words, you analyse every aspect. Why is the bass suddenly so loud, what kind of feeling is the artist trying to portray? Music says a lot and has a relation with the words that are being sung, which makes it so much more interesting to analyse. I get that it is a language course and that one should stick to words and sentences, but even if you take away the music, you are more than often left with a beautiful poem.
I don’t believe that you can’t call Eminem a poet. He has used more words than Shakespeare ever did, he chooses words very carefully and none are random. His lyrics ‘flow’, they speak to you, but at the same time are telling a story. And I understand that he doesn’t always use the cleanest words, but that comes with the genre, I guess. If you want to get students excited for literature, the words they are reading, should speak to them and I think Eminem speaks more to teenagers than Shakespeare ever will. Who says anyway that Shakespeare wasn’t the Eminem of his generation? Now, I understand that we can’t analyse Eminem’s lyrics in our language courses, for that he say fuck a little bit too much, but Eminem isn’t the only poet out there. In fact, didn’t Bob Dylan winning the Nobel prize for literature say enough? Music is just as much literature as books and poems are. They are often even more artistic, as the music sets a tone, just as the words do.
The point is, all these musicians write words that are more relevant to teenagers nowadays, a lot more relevant than 18th century poetry and don’t get me wrong, this is coming from a girl who loves 18th century poetry, but I love it just as much as Blowin’ in the wind. Not to say we should stop analysing Shakespeare and Hemingway, they are very important to understand the English language, but I find it hard to believe that Bob Dylan isn’t equally as important. I can’t wrap my head around as to why we aren’t analysing music already, but I guess it ain’t no use to sit and wonder why.
You are blocking
every thought,
cause when I want
to write,
it is all about
our plot
and how we might
actually be ‘we’
someday,
actually carefree
someday
I want to write
about trees and
thoughts and skies.
But all I think about
are
your lovely stupid eyes.
I lift my hand lightly,
treat it like a feather,
I slowly move it slightly
get to know yours better.
Our skin gently crashes
hungry for another touch
passion hits in flashes
hands are not enough.
I want your creamy lips
your mouth, your taste, your smell,
my sweet eclipse
I want every cell.
But
I did not lift my hand
our touch just an illusion
not how I had planned
nowhere near a fusion.