The sweet escape - an ode to chick lit

As life is among the hardest, as a friend of my mother´s says, now and again, (understatement of the year) I choose to escape into the world of the chick lit genre. Sometimes the books make me laugh, like Bridget Jones, sometimes they make me think- like Anna Maxted´s Getting over it- where the main plot is Bridget Jonesesque with a twist, but the subplot really got to me. And sometimes, even though I finish the book, I just wonder...

I know it is about escape, I know it is fiction- but the lapses of some books really bother me. Funnily enough, I never questioned that Harry Potter could be a wizard and defeat Voldemort, but I do question how the Holly of the beginning of this book, with the cluelessness that she had, could make it to become a proffessional success.. So, the only enjoyment I had of this book was when a date was as long and bad as a Kevin Costner movie- my sentiment exactly, and by picturing Holly´s outfits. I even had to check when the book was written, and ok, she was supposed to be a country bumkin from Fresno - but black leather trousers and a turquise silk blouse? And jeans and a red tie-blouse? Really? A 25 year old in 2009? How the San Fran crowd must have suffered.

Close up

In books, frequently, and in real life, not too often, people fall in love by looking deep into each others eyes.

In Clueless, Cher compares a girl to an impressionist painting -looking good from a distance and a mess up front. And it is true that I often find myself stepping onto peoples´ toes and hitting walls while trying to really see a painting.

Then again, there are situations where you don´t notice, or don´t appreciate, the beauty of the separate parts. The other day I was reading about David again and saw a close up of his face- and I am speechless.

The colour of blue and what´s in a name?

If you close your eyes and think about the colour blue - what do you see?

I see this cut-out by Henri Matisse. I have always liked it, and to me it always symbolised the joy de vivre, which is probably misspelled, but so much better than joy of life. A man with a beating heart, dancing wildly in the starry night. A part of Matisse´s famous Jazz series, so very much expressing the joy and creativity of a jam session. Even though blue as colour is supposed to be calming, soothing and heavenly (hence the blue robes of Virgin Mary), I have always seen passion and joy.

Until yesterday, when I found out that this - print- for lack of better word- is called Icaros, and shows the man with the big dreams not soaring up on his wax wings anymore, but falling down after they melt when he came too close to the sun.

And no matter what I do, I cannot find the joy de vivre anymore, I only see the falling man with a beating heart. Speaking about colours, I can imagine that the poor man probably is feeling blue in deed. And, funny thing, the only thing different from yesterday is that I know his name.