My Alter Ego has caught up with the Real Me, agewise. We are both entering our midlife. ... She's got a boyfriend, but she's generally been striking out in her relationships. She keeps dating cheaters and beaters. This latest dude is a mechanic who's "not very trustworthy."
So the status report is rather generic:
"As you approach the middle years of life, age will probably play a more central role in your experience than it has in your past. For some individuals, the middle years are a time of depression and regret. For others, they mark the beginning of a settling down period of contentment.
"Life can always be as rich and full as you want it to be. You might not be able to climb the highest tree in the forest anymore, but now may be the first time that you allow yourself to experience its beauty without needing to conquer or possess it."
But, as I said, our gal isn't having the best luck at love. At this little break between the stages of my Alter Ego's life, the game suggested, "If you are lonely, why not try the RELATIONSHIP ICON?"
I am not especially feeling lonely tonight -- the Real Me, that is -- but I've been thinking: How convenient that would be -- right? -- to have a "relationship icon" hanging around somewhere in this here loft. Then, when I *am* feeling lonely, I can just hit a little button and, poof!, suddenly would appear a Ladies Lady, a beautiful lass like the starlet from "Tipping the Velvet" (in that lovely tuxedo, no less!), with a bottle of Courvoisier and a stylish leather tote full of sex toys.
Yes, that is *exactly* how life needs to start immitating art.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Monday, May 29, 2006
My night with the corporate hacks
Let me say that there is an experience I love in a way that moves my flesh. (Actually, there are several things that do so, but *this one* has nothing to do with sex.)
Specifically, it is walking into a room full of people who a) are still doing the same old shit that I am no longer doing and b) do not recognize me because I look so fucking good (which, mind you, is relative to how I used to look).
So earlier today, Red calls me up to tell me about her trip to Italy. Then she says, "Did RT invite you to his barbecue tonight?" ... Uh, no. But then, I've seen RT maybe twice in the past year, so I really wouldn't expect that," I reply. "Well," Red says, "I *can't imagine* he was trying to be exclusionary. Mr. Clean doesn't want to go, so come be my date." (Later, I got a few handfuls of flesh in exchange for doing so. But what can I say? Payback is hell. Don't ask....)
Anyway, I walk into the party -- indoors because, like, the weather SUCKS for a Memorial Day weekend -- and I am confronted with a whole bunch of people from The Known World, which, for my regular readers, was part of The Former World until I decided to integrate my various selves into a whole person.
Some of you may recall that I was laid off last year. The best rejection of my life was Corporate America telling me, "You don't fit in here." Praise ya Jesus and hallelujia, give me severance and unemployment! Amen! ... So this room I walked into was FILLED with former co-workers.
Red lead the charge, and I followed. Hello, Andy. Hello, Paul. Hello, Litty. Hello, Annette Funicello.
Annette had seen me back in March, so she wasn't surprised. But the rest of them? ... Out in the yard, Litty stood and looked at me. "Have you lost weight?" he asked. Yeah, but maybe you're noticing my hair, I said. "Your *hair*!" he replied. "It *is* different. Jesus, you look good."
Red said, "Check out that necklace."
Totally random. But Litty did. Then said, "Check out that woman I'm gonna marry next week." He pointed to this gorgeous Italian woman, and I resisted saying, Isn't she so much better looking than Adeline?
Litty asked me all about school and whether it was a dangerous thing for psychotherapists to "cram" too many credits into a single semester. If they're going to be therapists, I think it is, I told him. If they're going on to get a doctorate, I don't think it matters.
Then it was Clark's turn at me. "I didn't even recognize you when you walked in. Then I heard your voice, and I said, 'Is that *really* UCM?' You look different. You look great!" Too bad for you I'm still gay, I couldn't resist saying. Clark smiled and asked, "What have you done to your hair?"
Then, Red and I got a big old earful about his divorce three years ago, this being a man who does not talk about his personal life to his co-workers. He's too sweet and too good looking to be single. Even I want to fuck him.
But I digress.
We talked to Clark for a while. He said to me, "So, you disappeared, and where have you been? Apparently traveling and going to graduate school and getting better looking. Life is not fair." ... I'm a sucker for lines like that.
But then, I went in to get another glass of wine. This is where I met Catherine. She works in IT with my old company, and I don't believe we ever met. But she had been calling Red "loud and friendly," and when I said, You forgot the part where she's a total bitch, Catherine sidled on up and asked, "What do you know about it?"
Long story short, it was only a few minutes before Catherine was telling me all about how her "dream job" was to be a "trial psychologist testifying on behalf of crazy people. And not just regular crazy people but *CRAZY* crazy people. Like, you know, the ones who are in homes."
I think you need more wine, dear, said old UCM. And then, perhaps, you will actually avail yourself of some *food* to absorb ... how many drinks have you had, dear?
She raised four fingers at me. And said, again, that she works in IT. Poor thing.
I went outside and RT toasted some buns for me and gave me a burger. (BLINDER BEHAVIOR, Dr. M! And I'm really in a bad way about it.) Later, around the fire, he told me that psychotherapy was a world he knew nothing about. "It's very strange," he said, "to think that people will pay to talk to someone."
No shit, I said. But when you think of all the hours I spent listening to you for FREE....
He and Annette Funicello are getting married in the fall. Litty and his Italian bride -- and goddamn, she is sooooo much hotter than Adeline, even when you take Adeline's high fashion sense and fabulous shoes into consideration -- are getting married next week.
And Andy, who I've thought a bachelor all these years, turns out to have a wife of several years (strangely, neither can remember their wedding date) with whom he's been involved for more than 13 years. His wife asked me a lot of questions about therapy and later, around the fire, reported that I "know my stuff." (I was totally trashing CBT. Is it any surprise?) ... This despite the fact that she asked for my opinion about ACT, and I had no clue what she was talking about. After returning home, so drunk that I can't feel my legs (good thing I didn't drive), I Googled that and see there is something called Acceptance & Commitment Therapy. She read about it in Time magazine. I told her I was, as a former journalist and news hound, partaking in a "media fast."
I'm so full of shit. (Although that part about the news fast is true....)
Anyway, it was a peculiar night.
I did not, as I suggested earlier that I might, find any trouble there. How could I? All of these folks are slaves in Corporate America. I feel for them, knowing it was only a year ago that I was waiting to be cut loose from the plantation myself, no longer responding with a "yessa, massa," to the dictates of the next weenie up in the heirarchy of fools and misanthropes who run the place.
Catherine, upon hearing I had been laid off just a month before I intended to quit and go to graduate school, said, "It has been my dream to have that happen to me! To be told, 'Sorry, you don't fit in here' is all I've ever wanted. And I mean, like, that's why I wear these shoes to work!"
I looked down. There I saw a pair of pink Vans decorated with little sculls and cross-bones.
You're gonna have to step it up a notch if you want to get laid off, I told her. Try getting that design tattooed on the back of your hands. And then tell CR (one of the big wigs) that your tarrot cards indicate she's stealing from employee 401(k) plans. It worked for me! In the meantime, have a little more wine, dear. You work for Corporate America, and you want to be doing something else. Best you can hope for at this point is to forget about that for a few hours. Tomorrow is a holiday, right? For you, anyway. For me, it's just another Monday of blissful unemployment and graduate school. Bottoms up, darling. ... Cheers!
Specifically, it is walking into a room full of people who a) are still doing the same old shit that I am no longer doing and b) do not recognize me because I look so fucking good (which, mind you, is relative to how I used to look).
So earlier today, Red calls me up to tell me about her trip to Italy. Then she says, "Did RT invite you to his barbecue tonight?" ... Uh, no. But then, I've seen RT maybe twice in the past year, so I really wouldn't expect that," I reply. "Well," Red says, "I *can't imagine* he was trying to be exclusionary. Mr. Clean doesn't want to go, so come be my date." (Later, I got a few handfuls of flesh in exchange for doing so. But what can I say? Payback is hell. Don't ask....)
Anyway, I walk into the party -- indoors because, like, the weather SUCKS for a Memorial Day weekend -- and I am confronted with a whole bunch of people from The Known World, which, for my regular readers, was part of The Former World until I decided to integrate my various selves into a whole person.
Some of you may recall that I was laid off last year. The best rejection of my life was Corporate America telling me, "You don't fit in here." Praise ya Jesus and hallelujia, give me severance and unemployment! Amen! ... So this room I walked into was FILLED with former co-workers.
Red lead the charge, and I followed. Hello, Andy. Hello, Paul. Hello, Litty. Hello, Annette Funicello.
Annette had seen me back in March, so she wasn't surprised. But the rest of them? ... Out in the yard, Litty stood and looked at me. "Have you lost weight?" he asked. Yeah, but maybe you're noticing my hair, I said. "Your *hair*!" he replied. "It *is* different. Jesus, you look good."
Red said, "Check out that necklace."
Totally random. But Litty did. Then said, "Check out that woman I'm gonna marry next week." He pointed to this gorgeous Italian woman, and I resisted saying, Isn't she so much better looking than Adeline?
Litty asked me all about school and whether it was a dangerous thing for psychotherapists to "cram" too many credits into a single semester. If they're going to be therapists, I think it is, I told him. If they're going on to get a doctorate, I don't think it matters.
Then it was Clark's turn at me. "I didn't even recognize you when you walked in. Then I heard your voice, and I said, 'Is that *really* UCM?' You look different. You look great!" Too bad for you I'm still gay, I couldn't resist saying. Clark smiled and asked, "What have you done to your hair?"
Then, Red and I got a big old earful about his divorce three years ago, this being a man who does not talk about his personal life to his co-workers. He's too sweet and too good looking to be single. Even I want to fuck him.
But I digress.
We talked to Clark for a while. He said to me, "So, you disappeared, and where have you been? Apparently traveling and going to graduate school and getting better looking. Life is not fair." ... I'm a sucker for lines like that.
But then, I went in to get another glass of wine. This is where I met Catherine. She works in IT with my old company, and I don't believe we ever met. But she had been calling Red "loud and friendly," and when I said, You forgot the part where she's a total bitch, Catherine sidled on up and asked, "What do you know about it?"
Long story short, it was only a few minutes before Catherine was telling me all about how her "dream job" was to be a "trial psychologist testifying on behalf of crazy people. And not just regular crazy people but *CRAZY* crazy people. Like, you know, the ones who are in homes."
I think you need more wine, dear, said old UCM. And then, perhaps, you will actually avail yourself of some *food* to absorb ... how many drinks have you had, dear?
She raised four fingers at me. And said, again, that she works in IT. Poor thing.
I went outside and RT toasted some buns for me and gave me a burger. (BLINDER BEHAVIOR, Dr. M! And I'm really in a bad way about it.) Later, around the fire, he told me that psychotherapy was a world he knew nothing about. "It's very strange," he said, "to think that people will pay to talk to someone."
No shit, I said. But when you think of all the hours I spent listening to you for FREE....
He and Annette Funicello are getting married in the fall. Litty and his Italian bride -- and goddamn, she is sooooo much hotter than Adeline, even when you take Adeline's high fashion sense and fabulous shoes into consideration -- are getting married next week.
And Andy, who I've thought a bachelor all these years, turns out to have a wife of several years (strangely, neither can remember their wedding date) with whom he's been involved for more than 13 years. His wife asked me a lot of questions about therapy and later, around the fire, reported that I "know my stuff." (I was totally trashing CBT. Is it any surprise?) ... This despite the fact that she asked for my opinion about ACT, and I had no clue what she was talking about. After returning home, so drunk that I can't feel my legs (good thing I didn't drive), I Googled that and see there is something called Acceptance & Commitment Therapy. She read about it in Time magazine. I told her I was, as a former journalist and news hound, partaking in a "media fast."
I'm so full of shit. (Although that part about the news fast is true....)
Anyway, it was a peculiar night.
I did not, as I suggested earlier that I might, find any trouble there. How could I? All of these folks are slaves in Corporate America. I feel for them, knowing it was only a year ago that I was waiting to be cut loose from the plantation myself, no longer responding with a "yessa, massa," to the dictates of the next weenie up in the heirarchy of fools and misanthropes who run the place.
Catherine, upon hearing I had been laid off just a month before I intended to quit and go to graduate school, said, "It has been my dream to have that happen to me! To be told, 'Sorry, you don't fit in here' is all I've ever wanted. And I mean, like, that's why I wear these shoes to work!"
I looked down. There I saw a pair of pink Vans decorated with little sculls and cross-bones.
You're gonna have to step it up a notch if you want to get laid off, I told her. Try getting that design tattooed on the back of your hands. And then tell CR (one of the big wigs) that your tarrot cards indicate she's stealing from employee 401(k) plans. It worked for me! In the meantime, have a little more wine, dear. You work for Corporate America, and you want to be doing something else. Best you can hope for at this point is to forget about that for a few hours. Tomorrow is a holiday, right? For you, anyway. For me, it's just another Monday of blissful unemployment and graduate school. Bottoms up, darling. ... Cheers!
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Rejected by the Peace Corps
My Alter Ego is suffering from depression. That's just great. Supposedly, she's in psychotherapy, but I haven't heard anything more about it.
I think she's all bummed because she wanted to join the Peace Corps, and, even at the risk of losing her boyfriend, she applied. The boy got all pissed at her and broke up even before she found out if she'd been accepted or not. Turns out, she's "not sensitive enough to do this kind of work." (shock and dismay, i tell ya, shock and dismay....)
She's just passed through young adulthood, and it seems she's still living at home. Her mom died from cancer recently. That may be another source for the depression. Who knows?!
Here is my Alter Ego's status report:
"Now, regarding your emotional and personality development...
"You are a very trustworthy person.
"Even though we all have our secrets, you are doing a very good job of keeping your wilder side under control.
"You are quite depressed.
"You can be sensible and understanding.
"You are a pretty jittery kind of person.
"Vocationally, you are doing well.
"You certainly have a good head on your shoulders. You are not only book-smart; you also have plenty of common sense.
"By this time, you may have been feeling a bit of pressure to achieve, get ahead, buy a house or possibly even (gasp!) settle down. You have gone through quite a range of experiences already, but there is a great deal more to come."
Oh yeah, she's also getting maternal urges. Suffice it to say, I don't relate to this at all. In fact, I have no idea why she's "jittery" either. What have I done to this young woman?
And, on the matter of those places where the Real Me and my Alter Ego are a bit too aligned ... it's the part where we're keeping our "wilder side under control." The Real Me is thinking more and more that some of that wildness needs to be unleashed on an unsuspecting world. But how?
Well, I'm going to a barbecue right now with some people who ... oh, let's just say, there's nothing to lose there. Maybe I'll find a little trouble that way. Or learn how to take a nap while standing with a paper plate in my hand. We'll see....
I think she's all bummed because she wanted to join the Peace Corps, and, even at the risk of losing her boyfriend, she applied. The boy got all pissed at her and broke up even before she found out if she'd been accepted or not. Turns out, she's "not sensitive enough to do this kind of work." (shock and dismay, i tell ya, shock and dismay....)
She's just passed through young adulthood, and it seems she's still living at home. Her mom died from cancer recently. That may be another source for the depression. Who knows?!
Here is my Alter Ego's status report:
"Now, regarding your emotional and personality development...
"You are a very trustworthy person.
"Even though we all have our secrets, you are doing a very good job of keeping your wilder side under control.
"You are quite depressed.
"You can be sensible and understanding.
"You are a pretty jittery kind of person.
"Vocationally, you are doing well.
"You certainly have a good head on your shoulders. You are not only book-smart; you also have plenty of common sense.
"By this time, you may have been feeling a bit of pressure to achieve, get ahead, buy a house or possibly even (gasp!) settle down. You have gone through quite a range of experiences already, but there is a great deal more to come."
Oh yeah, she's also getting maternal urges. Suffice it to say, I don't relate to this at all. In fact, I have no idea why she's "jittery" either. What have I done to this young woman?
And, on the matter of those places where the Real Me and my Alter Ego are a bit too aligned ... it's the part where we're keeping our "wilder side under control." The Real Me is thinking more and more that some of that wildness needs to be unleashed on an unsuspecting world. But how?
Well, I'm going to a barbecue right now with some people who ... oh, let's just say, there's nothing to lose there. Maybe I'll find a little trouble that way. Or learn how to take a nap while standing with a paper plate in my hand. We'll see....
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Me and you both, Freud...
"The great question... which I have not been able to answer, despite my thirty years of research into the feminine soul, is "What does a woman want?"
-- SIGMUND FREUD
-- SIGMUND FREUD
I've redeemed myself!
Heh. I wasn't even trying to get my Alter Ego back in good graces with the world, and yet I've managed to do so. A progress report on my so-called life:
"Now, regarding your emotional development...
"Your trustworthiness and sense of fair play are commendable. You are an honest young woman, but there is always room for improvement.
"A positive aspect of your adolescence is your ability to resist temptation and not give into your impulses. Since adolescence is a time for testing limits, this can get some people into some pretty dangerous situations. However, leading an excessively sheltered life can be boring.
"You seem to be enjoying most of what you do. Even though you experience "the blues" every once in a while, it's nice to see that you are not having a depressed, traumatized life.
"Even though an occasional explosive outburst is common in most adolescents, you seem to have everything well under control. You seem to be sensitive and gentle.
You certainly have a good head on your shoulders. You are not only book-smart, but you also have plenty of common sense."
Except for that part where I didn't have a traumatized life (who would UCM be today if not on the path to being what S2 calls a "wounded healer"?), it would seem that, for now at least, my Alter Ego and my Real Self are starting to align. How curious.
I'm not sure why I like this game so much. The graphics are BORING -- pretty much just a black screen with white questions -- but it's keeping me interested enough to play it. And it takes forever, which is not something for which I normally have tolerance. It's like playing Risk or something. It just goes on and on and on.
Perhaps it's just that my Real Life is so much more complicated and intense right now than I care for it to be, and my Alter Ego provides a good escape. Plus, apparently, she's pretty *hot* in addition to being intelligent. Not to mention, she's got really good social graces.
Heh. Grace, for the Real Me, is a work in progress. Kinda like building a highway. Through the Amazon.
If I only knew back then what I know now....
"Now, regarding your emotional development...
"Your trustworthiness and sense of fair play are commendable. You are an honest young woman, but there is always room for improvement.
"A positive aspect of your adolescence is your ability to resist temptation and not give into your impulses. Since adolescence is a time for testing limits, this can get some people into some pretty dangerous situations. However, leading an excessively sheltered life can be boring.
"You seem to be enjoying most of what you do. Even though you experience "the blues" every once in a while, it's nice to see that you are not having a depressed, traumatized life.
"Even though an occasional explosive outburst is common in most adolescents, you seem to have everything well under control. You seem to be sensitive and gentle.
You certainly have a good head on your shoulders. You are not only book-smart, but you also have plenty of common sense."
Except for that part where I didn't have a traumatized life (who would UCM be today if not on the path to being what S2 calls a "wounded healer"?), it would seem that, for now at least, my Alter Ego and my Real Self are starting to align. How curious.
I'm not sure why I like this game so much. The graphics are BORING -- pretty much just a black screen with white questions -- but it's keeping me interested enough to play it. And it takes forever, which is not something for which I normally have tolerance. It's like playing Risk or something. It just goes on and on and on.
Perhaps it's just that my Real Life is so much more complicated and intense right now than I care for it to be, and my Alter Ego provides a good escape. Plus, apparently, she's pretty *hot* in addition to being intelligent. Not to mention, she's got really good social graces.
Heh. Grace, for the Real Me, is a work in progress. Kinda like building a highway. Through the Amazon.
If I only knew back then what I know now....
Thursday, May 25, 2006
My Alter Ego's childhood
There's nothing quite like getting the opportunity to relive your youth. Those of you who knew me when I was a teen-ager (hello, JellyGirl!) *know* what kind of gal I was. But for all of you who have only had the pleasure of knowing your dear UCM as an adult, well, there are some things better left a mystery.
Suffice it to say, *this* is how my Alter Ego got rated as she moved into adolescence. I think she has more spite and malice than I ever did -- either as a young lass or as the dear woman I am today:
"Now, regarding your emotional and personality development...
"You are not the kind of girl that can be easily trusted. Some people might even call you downright sneaky at times.
"The degree to which you display aggressive types of behavior is somewhat alarming, especially for a young lady. You can be nasty and spiteful at times."
I can guarantee you, friends, you don't want to know what kinds of decisions I've made for my Alter Ego to wind up with such a bum rap. Suffice it to say, I made the best choices I could under the circumstances.
Now, perhaps someone will call Stanley Milgram and get me an audience with his zapping machine. My Alter Ego would apparently have no problems carrying on with his experiments. And *not* because she defers to authority. She's just vicious.
But then, I am reminded that S2 and yours truly were both rated by Zip's personality testing as having criminal tendancies. The thing I love most about my life right now is that I'm getting to know some really good people with whom to burn in hell on accounts of our various crimes against god, church and society. Y'all know who you are (including the "atheist in Texas").
Kisses! (Although, to be fair, my Alter Ego would tell you to plant them on her ass!)
Suffice it to say, *this* is how my Alter Ego got rated as she moved into adolescence. I think she has more spite and malice than I ever did -- either as a young lass or as the dear woman I am today:
"Now, regarding your emotional and personality development...
"You are not the kind of girl that can be easily trusted. Some people might even call you downright sneaky at times.
"The degree to which you display aggressive types of behavior is somewhat alarming, especially for a young lady. You can be nasty and spiteful at times."
I can guarantee you, friends, you don't want to know what kinds of decisions I've made for my Alter Ego to wind up with such a bum rap. Suffice it to say, I made the best choices I could under the circumstances.
Now, perhaps someone will call Stanley Milgram and get me an audience with his zapping machine. My Alter Ego would apparently have no problems carrying on with his experiments. And *not* because she defers to authority. She's just vicious.
But then, I am reminded that S2 and yours truly were both rated by Zip's personality testing as having criminal tendancies. The thing I love most about my life right now is that I'm getting to know some really good people with whom to burn in hell on accounts of our various crimes against god, church and society. Y'all know who you are (including the "atheist in Texas").
Kisses! (Although, to be fair, my Alter Ego would tell you to plant them on her ass!)
From vaginas to Jews, I've got it!
... I love Dave Chapelle's joke about the industrious hooker who had an extra vagina surgically added to the side of her hip. There's a punch line to this. I'll share it if you wanna know. But I wouldn't want to ruin the joke for those who haven't seen his flick, which Bubba and I saw tonight. Very funny. ... And I didn't even know who the fuck Dave Chapelle was. I still don't, actually. But damn, he's funny.
... But here, I will recount a funny line from "Mrs. Henderson Presents," which I watched this afternoon with Dr. R for a class assignment. From one old lady to the next: "You're like a delicious, overripe Mata Hari." That tickled me. I do know who the Mata Hari was. And thinking of Judi Dench as a "delious, overripe" version of her was ... ok, the first time I got turned on by an old lady. I know: OVERSHARE! But there you have it. (C'mon! If I'm lucky, when I'm 75, I'll have me an old dame just like her. But I got about 40 years to go 'til then, so in the meantime....)
... I'm playing Alter Ego, which is some funky web game I linked to via Dr. M's dear ctrl-freak's blog, and so far, I've managed to drink a bottle of poison (well, it tasted sweet, and I was an infant) *and* helped catch a child murderer who tried to lure me into his car when I was a little kid. Ctrl-freak tells me he tried to live a more conscientious life through his alter ego but ended up dying on an operating room table -- a spinster, no less! It is my belief that the conscientious among us have NO FUN. Therefore, I am drinking poison and starting family fights. ... Perhaps I should consider that this is *not* my alter ego and that I've simply traveled back in time. But I think I might get to be heterosexual this go 'round. That could be amusing.
... I played a few bars of "Ode to Joy" on my cello this afternoon that were actually recognizable. This was very pleasing. ... My teacher made some comment to me last week about my fingers getting more sensitive. I don't know about that. My left index finger is starting to feel really funky. And it appears my fingerprint is being erased in spots.
... I forgot to mention: The One had a really fabulous art gallery opening down at Canon Beach a few weeks ago. Apparently, his lovely industrial paintings are selling like hot cakes. I'm just a little pissed at myself because I have for the past several months been regarding a painting of the Morrison Bridge in The Clairvoyant's office and thinking I would like to buy it. It sold, natch. For way more than The One would've asked me to pay for it. So all is right in the world. Except for the part where I don't have that painting.
... I bought this bow tie (black on a thick white tux collar) for the pup Brogan last week. He wore it to a dinner party on Friday, showed his duds to S2 on Saturday and displayed his servantly self again this afternoon when Dr. R came to watch that movie. (Look, if I'm gonna buy something like that, people are gonna see it.) But what I thought was precious beyond reason -- precious to the point where I *should* have puked, if there wasn't some kind of Crazy-for-Little-Dogs Lady lurking within me -- was when he got up in the bay window and took exception to something in the street. There, with his little tux collar and bow tie, he was lording over the street. Must've looked quite *special* to the passersby who got a gander at him.
... Of course, the pup is getting something of a reputation 'round these parts. He has friends -- both dogs *and* cats -- here. And he has legions of human admirers who inquire about his breeding and whatnot. But the weirdest thing yet were the people who stopped me in the street to videotape him. I know he's cute and all, but ... jeez, you know that feeling you get when guys only look at your breasts when talking to you? That's what it's like being with the pup. He's like walking a set of breasts so amazing that even the women can't avert their eyes. ... It was so refreshing the other day when a woman sitting in front of a cafe and talking on her cell phone looked at ME and screamed, "Keep that dog away from me!" when we were like, 6 or 8 feet away. I guess she was scared of dogs. In any case, it felt good to get some eye contact....
... Dr. M gave me a book the other night titled, "The Future of the Brain." I've been reading it, and it's freaking me out a little because the author, a neurobiologist, is talking about MIND CONTROL. I'm thinking, Like, I totally shouldn't read this before I go to bed. But I did. And then I had some "Donovan's Brain"-like dream. OK, really, it was a flashback. Curt Siodmak was poking me in the middle of my forehead and saying, "Hello. Is this thing turned on? Is there a brain in here?" Which *totally* happened in real life. What was it I asked him? I think it was whether a film festival in Berlin was showing *only* his films. ... But, no, really, he was a nice guy. I liked him. I think about him with some regularity, primarily when contemplating whether to flee the United States because of the tide of fascism we've been seeing. Curt told me it was his wife who made them flee the Nazis. Even after the Nazis stripped all his books from the shelves and burned them, Curt was thinking it would pass. And his wife, who was Swiss, told him: "Stay if you want; I'm leaving." I like to imagine she thumped his forehead and asked, "Is there a brain in here?" ... In any case, thanks, Dr. M, for providing the fodder for a whole new stew of weird dreams.
... So, to recap. This evening, I have written about: vaginas, getting turned on by Judi Dench, drinking poison in an online game, playing "Ode to Joy," my disappearing finger prints, missing the chance to buy a painting I really liked, dressing up my dog in evening wear, comparing my pup to breasts, Dr. M's brain book and being ridiculed by a Nazi-fleeing jewish sci-fi writer. ... Really, is there anything I've missed? Could you -- would you dare! -- ask for more?
... But here, I will recount a funny line from "Mrs. Henderson Presents," which I watched this afternoon with Dr. R for a class assignment. From one old lady to the next: "You're like a delicious, overripe Mata Hari." That tickled me. I do know who the Mata Hari was. And thinking of Judi Dench as a "delious, overripe" version of her was ... ok, the first time I got turned on by an old lady. I know: OVERSHARE! But there you have it. (C'mon! If I'm lucky, when I'm 75, I'll have me an old dame just like her. But I got about 40 years to go 'til then, so in the meantime....)
... I'm playing Alter Ego, which is some funky web game I linked to via Dr. M's dear ctrl-freak's blog, and so far, I've managed to drink a bottle of poison (well, it tasted sweet, and I was an infant) *and* helped catch a child murderer who tried to lure me into his car when I was a little kid. Ctrl-freak tells me he tried to live a more conscientious life through his alter ego but ended up dying on an operating room table -- a spinster, no less! It is my belief that the conscientious among us have NO FUN. Therefore, I am drinking poison and starting family fights. ... Perhaps I should consider that this is *not* my alter ego and that I've simply traveled back in time. But I think I might get to be heterosexual this go 'round. That could be amusing.
... I played a few bars of "Ode to Joy" on my cello this afternoon that were actually recognizable. This was very pleasing. ... My teacher made some comment to me last week about my fingers getting more sensitive. I don't know about that. My left index finger is starting to feel really funky. And it appears my fingerprint is being erased in spots.
... I forgot to mention: The One had a really fabulous art gallery opening down at Canon Beach a few weeks ago. Apparently, his lovely industrial paintings are selling like hot cakes. I'm just a little pissed at myself because I have for the past several months been regarding a painting of the Morrison Bridge in The Clairvoyant's office and thinking I would like to buy it. It sold, natch. For way more than The One would've asked me to pay for it. So all is right in the world. Except for the part where I don't have that painting.
... I bought this bow tie (black on a thick white tux collar) for the pup Brogan last week. He wore it to a dinner party on Friday, showed his duds to S2 on Saturday and displayed his servantly self again this afternoon when Dr. R came to watch that movie. (Look, if I'm gonna buy something like that, people are gonna see it.) But what I thought was precious beyond reason -- precious to the point where I *should* have puked, if there wasn't some kind of Crazy-for-Little-Dogs Lady lurking within me -- was when he got up in the bay window and took exception to something in the street. There, with his little tux collar and bow tie, he was lording over the street. Must've looked quite *special* to the passersby who got a gander at him.
... Of course, the pup is getting something of a reputation 'round these parts. He has friends -- both dogs *and* cats -- here. And he has legions of human admirers who inquire about his breeding and whatnot. But the weirdest thing yet were the people who stopped me in the street to videotape him. I know he's cute and all, but ... jeez, you know that feeling you get when guys only look at your breasts when talking to you? That's what it's like being with the pup. He's like walking a set of breasts so amazing that even the women can't avert their eyes. ... It was so refreshing the other day when a woman sitting in front of a cafe and talking on her cell phone looked at ME and screamed, "Keep that dog away from me!" when we were like, 6 or 8 feet away. I guess she was scared of dogs. In any case, it felt good to get some eye contact....
... Dr. M gave me a book the other night titled, "The Future of the Brain." I've been reading it, and it's freaking me out a little because the author, a neurobiologist, is talking about MIND CONTROL. I'm thinking, Like, I totally shouldn't read this before I go to bed. But I did. And then I had some "Donovan's Brain"-like dream. OK, really, it was a flashback. Curt Siodmak was poking me in the middle of my forehead and saying, "Hello. Is this thing turned on? Is there a brain in here?" Which *totally* happened in real life. What was it I asked him? I think it was whether a film festival in Berlin was showing *only* his films. ... But, no, really, he was a nice guy. I liked him. I think about him with some regularity, primarily when contemplating whether to flee the United States because of the tide of fascism we've been seeing. Curt told me it was his wife who made them flee the Nazis. Even after the Nazis stripped all his books from the shelves and burned them, Curt was thinking it would pass. And his wife, who was Swiss, told him: "Stay if you want; I'm leaving." I like to imagine she thumped his forehead and asked, "Is there a brain in here?" ... In any case, thanks, Dr. M, for providing the fodder for a whole new stew of weird dreams.
... So, to recap. This evening, I have written about: vaginas, getting turned on by Judi Dench, drinking poison in an online game, playing "Ode to Joy," my disappearing finger prints, missing the chance to buy a painting I really liked, dressing up my dog in evening wear, comparing my pup to breasts, Dr. M's brain book and being ridiculed by a Nazi-fleeing jewish sci-fi writer. ... Really, is there anything I've missed? Could you -- would you dare! -- ask for more?
Sunday, May 21, 2006
On the cello...
I have bruises on the inside of my left thigh, thanks to my newest life-enriching pursuit. The cello, which I have been playing for all of a week, is held in balance courtesy of the thighs, and it seems mine are susceptible to bruising. But, except for how that looks when I wear shorts, I don't really care.
I've only been at it for a week, but I'm taking great pleasure in learning this instrument. I have for the first time in my life learned to read some musical notes and am getting my first insights into the other funny stuff that shows up in music, such as how tempo is delineated.
All along, I thought reading music was some kind of outrageously hard thing to do -- like reading chinese characters or something -- and I'm surprised to find out this is not the case. My mother -- let's just call her Cruella going forward, shall we? -- was fairly persistent in shooing me away from music as a child. One of the things she told me was that I was not smart enough to learn how to read it. I don't know what that was all about, but the result is that I believed it must be outrageously hard to learn music, especially if you didn't learn it as a child.
And yet here I am, without any effort, a week into my little experiment with the cello, and I'm having no problem looking at a score and saying, "F-sharp, E, E, D, F-sharp, E, A." So that's been a surprise.
But nothing has prepared me for the surprise of how satisfying it is to hit a note on the cello itself. First, however, a little backstory:
It was nearly 10 years ago that I first picked up a cello. It belonged to Breanna, the daughter of my friend Lesha, who recently died. Breanna was 9 at the time, and she showed me how to sit, gave me a little instruction on holding the bow and then I took great pleasure for a few minutes in pulling the bow across the strings. I never forgot the feeling. Nor my desire to learn the instrument.
The day that Lesha died, I had stumbled across a violin repair shop here in town, and found myself looking longingly into the window at the instruments. I thought about Breanna's cello, and I wondered whether she was still playing. I also wondered, then, about how Lesha was doing, as it had been a long time since we'd been in touch.
The next day, I learned that Breanna, who graduated from high school last year, had found her mother dead in bed that morning, killed by having too big a heart. And though I'm not into mysticism, I found it curious that I had been thinking about Lesha and Breanna and the cello that very day, when it had been a while since I had thought of them.
Many years ago, I made a little promise to myself that when someone for whom I've cared deeply is "subtracted" from my life through death, I will find some way of remembering them by "adding" something enriching. The death of my brother turned into the motivation to attend graduate school and radically alter my life's work. The death of my aunt last year prompted me to accept an invitation to reconnect with some family members I've long cherished but with whom I'd been out of contact.
Lesha's death combined with a longing I've been experiencing more strongly in the past couple years: to learn a musical instrument. The process of such "adding" for me is a matter of immediacy; it's a recognition of the fleeting nature of life and a choice to do something about a desire rather than allowing it to stay latent. So, given how my thoughts had turned to the cello the very day of her death, I thought about it for two weeks or so and then made the call.
Last week, I had my first lesson. This past Friday, I played a rather plodding and off-key version of "Mary Had a Little Lamb" for some friends who came to dinner. There was, admist amused laughter, an encouraging round of applause. Several months hence, I hope to give a performance of something a little more erudite.
At one point, I found myself waxing philosophic with one of them -- The Debutante's friend who looks like Kate Winslet -- about the powerful sensation of playing this instrument. No doubt, part of it was the wine talking -- that would be the part where I equated the sensitivity of the instrument to that of the clitoris. But most of what I found myself saying was the truth.
I have picked up many instruments in my life and given them a novice's try. I have had countless interactions with guitars, even learning a couple chords and strum strumming away. I've had my moments with a coronet and a clarinet. There's my harmonica, on which my tied tongue prevents any real progress. And, naturally, there's been all sorts of drumming.
Never in any of these experiences have I felt so thoroughly captivated as I am by the cello. Even on the merits of how it is held -- between the thighs and up against the chest -- it is provocative. Sitting this way, with that resonating wood contacing my body, I feel each note vibrating through me from head to toe. When I hit a bad note, the cello lets me know in feeling just as much as in hearing. It's punishing enough to make me wince. But when I hit the right notes, it is rewarding beyond measure. (Really, it does make sense to compare it to the clitoris -- even when I'm not drunk.)
It is an instrument that begs to be touched and played. The sensuous curves of its body, the elegant stretch of its fingerboard, the artistic scroll atop. All of this speaks to the latent - though well-explored -- woodworker in me.
And its sound? Well, it's the most lovely of the strings, I think. Not so hop-along as the guitar, not so touchy and neurotic as the violin, not so weighty and imposing as the bass. You don't have to be Yo-Yo Ma to make it sing (but I'll bet it's FABULOUS to be Yo-Yo Ma playing the cello).
After my little performance Friday night, I did something I'm not supposed to do: I let my friends play my cello. (I'm not sure *why* I'm not supposed to do that, but I've been warned dutifully by all the books that it's a "bad" thing.) In my opinion, something so pleasurable is to be shared as much as possible. So I've happily let Dr. M, The Deb and S2 give it a go. They each had different reactions, but I think they all took away an understanding of what I was trying to tell them about the instrument's ability to move its player. Dr. M even told me the cello would keep me company in my life as a single woman, and I suspect there's a great deal of truth in that.
The Deb's Kate-Winslet-look-alike friend suggested I use my little spiel about the sensuous nature of this instrument as a way to pick up girls. I can see her point; it might even be effective. But here's my thought on that: Learning to play and relate to this marvelous instrument -- a process that frustrates as much as it rewards right now -- feels like an expression of passion for my life, not a parlor trick to increase my viability in the dating scene.
As a gift I've given to myself, taking up the cello -- and reclaiming a childhood desire to learn an instrument -- seems a fitting way to remember an old friend no longer with us.
Life is fleeting. Going forward, I intend to make mine musical, as well.
I've only been at it for a week, but I'm taking great pleasure in learning this instrument. I have for the first time in my life learned to read some musical notes and am getting my first insights into the other funny stuff that shows up in music, such as how tempo is delineated.
All along, I thought reading music was some kind of outrageously hard thing to do -- like reading chinese characters or something -- and I'm surprised to find out this is not the case. My mother -- let's just call her Cruella going forward, shall we? -- was fairly persistent in shooing me away from music as a child. One of the things she told me was that I was not smart enough to learn how to read it. I don't know what that was all about, but the result is that I believed it must be outrageously hard to learn music, especially if you didn't learn it as a child.
And yet here I am, without any effort, a week into my little experiment with the cello, and I'm having no problem looking at a score and saying, "F-sharp, E, E, D, F-sharp, E, A." So that's been a surprise.
But nothing has prepared me for the surprise of how satisfying it is to hit a note on the cello itself. First, however, a little backstory:
It was nearly 10 years ago that I first picked up a cello. It belonged to Breanna, the daughter of my friend Lesha, who recently died. Breanna was 9 at the time, and she showed me how to sit, gave me a little instruction on holding the bow and then I took great pleasure for a few minutes in pulling the bow across the strings. I never forgot the feeling. Nor my desire to learn the instrument.
The day that Lesha died, I had stumbled across a violin repair shop here in town, and found myself looking longingly into the window at the instruments. I thought about Breanna's cello, and I wondered whether she was still playing. I also wondered, then, about how Lesha was doing, as it had been a long time since we'd been in touch.
The next day, I learned that Breanna, who graduated from high school last year, had found her mother dead in bed that morning, killed by having too big a heart. And though I'm not into mysticism, I found it curious that I had been thinking about Lesha and Breanna and the cello that very day, when it had been a while since I had thought of them.
Many years ago, I made a little promise to myself that when someone for whom I've cared deeply is "subtracted" from my life through death, I will find some way of remembering them by "adding" something enriching. The death of my brother turned into the motivation to attend graduate school and radically alter my life's work. The death of my aunt last year prompted me to accept an invitation to reconnect with some family members I've long cherished but with whom I'd been out of contact.
Lesha's death combined with a longing I've been experiencing more strongly in the past couple years: to learn a musical instrument. The process of such "adding" for me is a matter of immediacy; it's a recognition of the fleeting nature of life and a choice to do something about a desire rather than allowing it to stay latent. So, given how my thoughts had turned to the cello the very day of her death, I thought about it for two weeks or so and then made the call.
Last week, I had my first lesson. This past Friday, I played a rather plodding and off-key version of "Mary Had a Little Lamb" for some friends who came to dinner. There was, admist amused laughter, an encouraging round of applause. Several months hence, I hope to give a performance of something a little more erudite.
At one point, I found myself waxing philosophic with one of them -- The Debutante's friend who looks like Kate Winslet -- about the powerful sensation of playing this instrument. No doubt, part of it was the wine talking -- that would be the part where I equated the sensitivity of the instrument to that of the clitoris. But most of what I found myself saying was the truth.
I have picked up many instruments in my life and given them a novice's try. I have had countless interactions with guitars, even learning a couple chords and strum strumming away. I've had my moments with a coronet and a clarinet. There's my harmonica, on which my tied tongue prevents any real progress. And, naturally, there's been all sorts of drumming.
Never in any of these experiences have I felt so thoroughly captivated as I am by the cello. Even on the merits of how it is held -- between the thighs and up against the chest -- it is provocative. Sitting this way, with that resonating wood contacing my body, I feel each note vibrating through me from head to toe. When I hit a bad note, the cello lets me know in feeling just as much as in hearing. It's punishing enough to make me wince. But when I hit the right notes, it is rewarding beyond measure. (Really, it does make sense to compare it to the clitoris -- even when I'm not drunk.)
It is an instrument that begs to be touched and played. The sensuous curves of its body, the elegant stretch of its fingerboard, the artistic scroll atop. All of this speaks to the latent - though well-explored -- woodworker in me.
And its sound? Well, it's the most lovely of the strings, I think. Not so hop-along as the guitar, not so touchy and neurotic as the violin, not so weighty and imposing as the bass. You don't have to be Yo-Yo Ma to make it sing (but I'll bet it's FABULOUS to be Yo-Yo Ma playing the cello).
After my little performance Friday night, I did something I'm not supposed to do: I let my friends play my cello. (I'm not sure *why* I'm not supposed to do that, but I've been warned dutifully by all the books that it's a "bad" thing.) In my opinion, something so pleasurable is to be shared as much as possible. So I've happily let Dr. M, The Deb and S2 give it a go. They each had different reactions, but I think they all took away an understanding of what I was trying to tell them about the instrument's ability to move its player. Dr. M even told me the cello would keep me company in my life as a single woman, and I suspect there's a great deal of truth in that.
The Deb's Kate-Winslet-look-alike friend suggested I use my little spiel about the sensuous nature of this instrument as a way to pick up girls. I can see her point; it might even be effective. But here's my thought on that: Learning to play and relate to this marvelous instrument -- a process that frustrates as much as it rewards right now -- feels like an expression of passion for my life, not a parlor trick to increase my viability in the dating scene.
As a gift I've given to myself, taking up the cello -- and reclaiming a childhood desire to learn an instrument -- seems a fitting way to remember an old friend no longer with us.
Life is fleeting. Going forward, I intend to make mine musical, as well.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Heading into the Maranon Canyon
9:48 a.m. Aug. 19, Cajamarca, Peru
We are sitting in the offices of IN. GOD. WE. TRUST. Tourist agency in the Plaza de Armas. Two days ago, following a nice tour of Granja Porcon, we decide to throw our hat into IGWT's ring for a ride to Kuelap via the Maranon Valley, which is said to be deeper, wider and more spectacular than the Grand Canyon.
A combi arrived this morning at Posada del Puruay and picked us up around 5 a.m. We spent one and a half hours on a seriously bumpy dirt road on the way to Celendin and the canyon with something went wrong with the suspension of the combi. The driver announced we would have to turn around and return to Cajamarca. We rolled into town around 8 a.m. and were taken here from a mechanic's shop where the combi is being repaired.
UCM interrupts: A combi is essentially a combination between an SUV and a minivan. Also "IN. GOD. WE. TRUST." is the proper name of the company, including the curious punctuation marks.
In a short time, we are expecting to lunch the journey *again.* My tailbone is already hurting (as I feared it would), and there is a solid 14 hours or so of driving ahead of us.
It will be a test of perseverance. All I can say now is that the ride *back* in the combi was excruciatingly bumpy -- so it's good we turned around. I am hopeful that the repair will make the combi a little less jarring. However, I think the chances are pretty slim given the feel of the ride *before* the suspension broke.
Although we arranged for a private excursion, we have lots of company on this trip. The senora who owns IN. GOD. WE. TRUST. Travel agency sent her two daughters along as companions for us so we wouldn't be molested by the driver. The driver in turn brought his wife and daughter. So there are seven of us going on this journey today.
My only hope is that it doesn't turn into some Peruvian version of "Groundhog Day," in which the same sequence of events is played out over and over again.
We are sitting in the offices of IN. GOD. WE. TRUST. Tourist agency in the Plaza de Armas. Two days ago, following a nice tour of Granja Porcon, we decide to throw our hat into IGWT's ring for a ride to Kuelap via the Maranon Valley, which is said to be deeper, wider and more spectacular than the Grand Canyon.
A combi arrived this morning at Posada del Puruay and picked us up around 5 a.m. We spent one and a half hours on a seriously bumpy dirt road on the way to Celendin and the canyon with something went wrong with the suspension of the combi. The driver announced we would have to turn around and return to Cajamarca. We rolled into town around 8 a.m. and were taken here from a mechanic's shop where the combi is being repaired.
UCM interrupts: A combi is essentially a combination between an SUV and a minivan. Also "IN. GOD. WE. TRUST." is the proper name of the company, including the curious punctuation marks.
In a short time, we are expecting to lunch the journey *again.* My tailbone is already hurting (as I feared it would), and there is a solid 14 hours or so of driving ahead of us.
It will be a test of perseverance. All I can say now is that the ride *back* in the combi was excruciatingly bumpy -- so it's good we turned around. I am hopeful that the repair will make the combi a little less jarring. However, I think the chances are pretty slim given the feel of the ride *before* the suspension broke.
Although we arranged for a private excursion, we have lots of company on this trip. The senora who owns IN. GOD. WE. TRUST. Travel agency sent her two daughters along as companions for us so we wouldn't be molested by the driver. The driver in turn brought his wife and daughter. So there are seven of us going on this journey today.
My only hope is that it doesn't turn into some Peruvian version of "Groundhog Day," in which the same sequence of events is played out over and over again.
Monday, May 15, 2006
And I *still* don't have it!
Got my cello back from the shop today with brand new D & G strings. Cost me $37.
Sat down to practice this evening. C, D & G tune right up. My favorite of the open notes is G. It vibrates nicely in my body. Open C would be my next favorite, because it's so deep and resonates kind of like a fog horn.
But goddammit, wouldn't you know, I go to tune up A, and the thing is saying nothing but, "I'm E! I'm E! And I'm a little flat at that!" (And if a string could snicker, well, you know this one was doing that.)
I touch the peg. Just barely turn it. And POP! There goes another string! I called my teacher and asked what I was doing wrong. Apparently, those pegs are really super sensitive. She said, "Well, if you were getting E out of A, it probably should've broken already, it's that tight. But you probably also don't realize just how *little* you need to turn the peg."
Obviously not. Because I'm snapping 'em faster than they can put them on the cello. So, tomorrow, back in the shop I go. With any luck, they'll patch me up while I'm getting my hair done, and I'll actually be able to practice.
By the way, did I mention that my teacher is really *cute*?
Sat down to practice this evening. C, D & G tune right up. My favorite of the open notes is G. It vibrates nicely in my body. Open C would be my next favorite, because it's so deep and resonates kind of like a fog horn.
But goddammit, wouldn't you know, I go to tune up A, and the thing is saying nothing but, "I'm E! I'm E! And I'm a little flat at that!" (And if a string could snicker, well, you know this one was doing that.)
I touch the peg. Just barely turn it. And POP! There goes another string! I called my teacher and asked what I was doing wrong. Apparently, those pegs are really super sensitive. She said, "Well, if you were getting E out of A, it probably should've broken already, it's that tight. But you probably also don't realize just how *little* you need to turn the peg."
Obviously not. Because I'm snapping 'em faster than they can put them on the cello. So, tomorrow, back in the shop I go. With any luck, they'll patch me up while I'm getting my hair done, and I'll actually be able to practice.
By the way, did I mention that my teacher is really *cute*?
Saturday, May 13, 2006
One talent I do *not* have. Yet.
Tuning a cello.
How can I practice playing the cello when I break the strings while trying to tune it?
*sigh*
How can I practice playing the cello when I break the strings while trying to tune it?
*sigh*
Friday, May 12, 2006
Would *you* write a commercial for free?
Perhaps it's because I used to get paid for writing -- before I started letting the lot of you read my words for FREE -- that I find the latest MasterCard commercials so ... repugnant.
You know the routine: Something curious: costs this much; something routine: costs this much; something funny or weird: costs this much; something heart-rending and sentimental and connected to the previous three items? Priceless.
I have to give it to the copywriter who originated that whole ad campaign. It's highly effective, and it has seeped its way seemlessly into the lexicon. Its tagline is right up there with "Where's the Beef?" and "Just Do It." At times, most of us have uttered these words in humor or seriousness, echoing the work of some creative slag in an advertising sweatshop. (Not that Weiden+Kennedy is a sweatshop. They have the nicest offices in town.)
But I think it's an insidious -- and brilliant, in that evil sort of way -- form of advertising to get members of the public to write your ads for you. That's what the lastest MasterCard commercials are seeking. The newest ads say: "Blank and blank: $129. Blank: $72; Blank: $40. Blank and blank? Priceless."
Then, they exhort the rest of us to fill in the blanks, to write the ad, to submit our ideas to some Web site, whereupon they will run the winner's commercial.
Puh-LEAZE!
To MasterCard, I must say this:
It is our "responsibility" as consumers to sit passively and witness your commercials, to fall under the spell of something entertaining or sappy and sentimental that YOU create, to be persuaded somehow that using our MasterCard will ignite those feelings of entertainment or sappy sentimentality in *our lives,* and, consequently, to go buy some shit with the little piece of plastic that has your fucking logo on it. It is *not* our responsibility to participate directly in the creation of your devious little marketing campaigns.
Unless, that is, you are going to pay us a shitload of cash.
I'll make you a deal: You pay off my student loans, I'll write you a gem.
Otherwise, go fuck yourself.
-- Sincerely, UCM
You know the routine: Something curious: costs this much; something routine: costs this much; something funny or weird: costs this much; something heart-rending and sentimental and connected to the previous three items? Priceless.
I have to give it to the copywriter who originated that whole ad campaign. It's highly effective, and it has seeped its way seemlessly into the lexicon. Its tagline is right up there with "Where's the Beef?" and "Just Do It." At times, most of us have uttered these words in humor or seriousness, echoing the work of some creative slag in an advertising sweatshop. (Not that Weiden+Kennedy is a sweatshop. They have the nicest offices in town.)
But I think it's an insidious -- and brilliant, in that evil sort of way -- form of advertising to get members of the public to write your ads for you. That's what the lastest MasterCard commercials are seeking. The newest ads say: "Blank and blank: $129. Blank: $72; Blank: $40. Blank and blank? Priceless."
Then, they exhort the rest of us to fill in the blanks, to write the ad, to submit our ideas to some Web site, whereupon they will run the winner's commercial.
Puh-LEAZE!
To MasterCard, I must say this:
It is our "responsibility" as consumers to sit passively and witness your commercials, to fall under the spell of something entertaining or sappy and sentimental that YOU create, to be persuaded somehow that using our MasterCard will ignite those feelings of entertainment or sappy sentimentality in *our lives,* and, consequently, to go buy some shit with the little piece of plastic that has your fucking logo on it. It is *not* our responsibility to participate directly in the creation of your devious little marketing campaigns.
Unless, that is, you are going to pay us a shitload of cash.
I'll make you a deal: You pay off my student loans, I'll write you a gem.
Otherwise, go fuck yourself.
-- Sincerely, UCM
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Dat dawg don't dance!
I just found out that the dog I got in the d.i.v.o.r.c.e. is the one that *does not* dance.
Brogan is more beautiful than is reasonable in a full-grown dog, and as a friend noted on Sunday, charming parts of his personality are more pronounced than it was when the pup lived in the shadow of Harriet, a dominating female Westie.
But what I didn't know until just now is that Brogan doesn't dance, at least not without Harriet egging him on! I used to dance with both of the dogs. I'd crank up some music when I felt the urge to boogie, and the two of them would circle and jump and dance on their hind legs around me while I cut my own rug.
I put on the remix of Elvis' "A Little Less Conversation" and started to dance this afternoon. Brogan got up from his napping spot, and sauntered over. I thought he would start dancing with me. But he just stood there and watched.
And by "just stood there," I mean he stood on all fours and STARED at me. It was not one of those pleasant "might you feed me?" stares, either. It was a 100 percent "crazy bitch" stare.
Well, I could just be projecting, huh?
Even so, I tried to get him to dance with me, and he *still* just stood there and stared. Like some shy junior high kid on the sidelines at the school dance.
But damn, he's cute.
Brogan is more beautiful than is reasonable in a full-grown dog, and as a friend noted on Sunday, charming parts of his personality are more pronounced than it was when the pup lived in the shadow of Harriet, a dominating female Westie.
But what I didn't know until just now is that Brogan doesn't dance, at least not without Harriet egging him on! I used to dance with both of the dogs. I'd crank up some music when I felt the urge to boogie, and the two of them would circle and jump and dance on their hind legs around me while I cut my own rug.
I put on the remix of Elvis' "A Little Less Conversation" and started to dance this afternoon. Brogan got up from his napping spot, and sauntered over. I thought he would start dancing with me. But he just stood there and watched.
And by "just stood there," I mean he stood on all fours and STARED at me. It was not one of those pleasant "might you feed me?" stares, either. It was a 100 percent "crazy bitch" stare.
Well, I could just be projecting, huh?
Even so, I tried to get him to dance with me, and he *still* just stood there and stared. Like some shy junior high kid on the sidelines at the school dance.
But damn, he's cute.
Monday, May 08, 2006
A sex fiend confronts my blissful ignorance
I've always liked writing headlines.
But, as you may recall, I'm not paying attention to the news these days. Nevertheless, I'm finding Letterman's monologues an indispensable source of information -- just enough to make me laugh and to actually know a little bit of what's going on in the world.
That's why I wasn't totally caught off guard when JellyGirl told me this morning that she's turned into a total sex fiend and has been mauling her husband in bed night after night lately. But that she only actually recalls doing so ONCE in the last 10 times -- there having been 10 times in the past two weeks. And she's been married for 13 years. "I would've told any of my friends you're full of shit," she told me. "No one has sex that much with their husband in a two-week period."
There's an explanation for all of this, which I learned about from Letterman a few weeks ago. It's that darn Ambien. Apparently, some people -- and fortunately, I'm not one of them -- have bouts of sleep eating when they take Ambien. They wake up, and their bed is littered with candy wrappers, or, worse, empty packages of bacon (and nothing's been cooked!). I checked this out with a few sources, other than Letterman, and sure enough...
JellyGirl has been taking the Ambien CR, and it's been turning her into a wild woman. "About 30 minutes after taking my nightly Ambien, I become a sex addict," she said. "I guess after 13 years of marriage, I can't get enough of my husband."
He doesn't seem to be complaining. But he does say it freaks him out at times because JellyGirl is acting completely normal when she comes onto him. "We hold entire conversations, and sometimes I read my book afterward," she said. "He has said he can't tell when I've taken the meds and when I have not."
You know, the more I'm thinking about it, the more I think I should find me a gal who's got that Ambien sex attack "problem." Unlike JellyGirl, pregnancy is not a risk factor with the likes of me. There would just be the sleep deprivation that comes from being kept up at night by someone with an insatiable sexual appetite. Would that be a case of her taking advantage of me, or me taking advantage of her? Hmmm. ... Well, I'd probably get tendonitis.
But I digress.
The freaky problem, of course, is that JellyGirl doesn't remember the sex. This used to bother her husband, too, but he's gotten used to it. And althought JG has called the situation "scary," she does not seem inclined to stop taking the pills. She's got terrible problems with insomnia. Probably, the sex makes her sleep better anyway. (A good orgasm, in my experience, correlates to a better night's sleep.)
But she did note that she and the hubby may be seeking my skills as a marriage counselor when she stops taking them.
On a separate note: S2 has been lobbying -- in a mild-mannered kind of way -- to get me to switch to the MFT program. It seems I'm "naturally systemic," according to one of my professors. (Sounds like a birth defect to me.) And S2 thinks there's nothing quite like a "wounded healer" to go messing around in family dynamics, thus making me a natural in spades. I suppose there would be nothing wrong with going MFT *and* LPC. Hmm. Thoughts, anyone?
But, as you may recall, I'm not paying attention to the news these days. Nevertheless, I'm finding Letterman's monologues an indispensable source of information -- just enough to make me laugh and to actually know a little bit of what's going on in the world.
That's why I wasn't totally caught off guard when JellyGirl told me this morning that she's turned into a total sex fiend and has been mauling her husband in bed night after night lately. But that she only actually recalls doing so ONCE in the last 10 times -- there having been 10 times in the past two weeks. And she's been married for 13 years. "I would've told any of my friends you're full of shit," she told me. "No one has sex that much with their husband in a two-week period."
There's an explanation for all of this, which I learned about from Letterman a few weeks ago. It's that darn Ambien. Apparently, some people -- and fortunately, I'm not one of them -- have bouts of sleep eating when they take Ambien. They wake up, and their bed is littered with candy wrappers, or, worse, empty packages of bacon (and nothing's been cooked!). I checked this out with a few sources, other than Letterman, and sure enough...
JellyGirl has been taking the Ambien CR, and it's been turning her into a wild woman. "About 30 minutes after taking my nightly Ambien, I become a sex addict," she said. "I guess after 13 years of marriage, I can't get enough of my husband."
He doesn't seem to be complaining. But he does say it freaks him out at times because JellyGirl is acting completely normal when she comes onto him. "We hold entire conversations, and sometimes I read my book afterward," she said. "He has said he can't tell when I've taken the meds and when I have not."
You know, the more I'm thinking about it, the more I think I should find me a gal who's got that Ambien sex attack "problem." Unlike JellyGirl, pregnancy is not a risk factor with the likes of me. There would just be the sleep deprivation that comes from being kept up at night by someone with an insatiable sexual appetite. Would that be a case of her taking advantage of me, or me taking advantage of her? Hmmm. ... Well, I'd probably get tendonitis.
But I digress.
The freaky problem, of course, is that JellyGirl doesn't remember the sex. This used to bother her husband, too, but he's gotten used to it. And althought JG has called the situation "scary," she does not seem inclined to stop taking the pills. She's got terrible problems with insomnia. Probably, the sex makes her sleep better anyway. (A good orgasm, in my experience, correlates to a better night's sleep.)
But she did note that she and the hubby may be seeking my skills as a marriage counselor when she stops taking them.
On a separate note: S2 has been lobbying -- in a mild-mannered kind of way -- to get me to switch to the MFT program. It seems I'm "naturally systemic," according to one of my professors. (Sounds like a birth defect to me.) And S2 thinks there's nothing quite like a "wounded healer" to go messing around in family dynamics, thus making me a natural in spades. I suppose there would be nothing wrong with going MFT *and* LPC. Hmm. Thoughts, anyone?
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Move over, Caprial...
OK, so Alice Waters I ain't. (Not yet, anyway.)
But check this shit out: Your intrepid cook-o-phobic took some inspiration from that poached salmon and from that wild and whacky first-time-ever experience of buying a hairbrush, and decided to go for something altogether new and foodie.
I made my own soup from scratch.
Now, I know soup is the most basic of human culinary achievements. People have made soup out of leather and twigs and spoiled meat since they figured out how to boil water. It's hardly an accomplishment for a fancy chef, so Caprial will probably bust my chops for telling her to scoot on over and make some room at the stove, honey.
But given that I've taken no shame in reporting my *multitudes* of culinary failures over the years -- and actually reached a point in my life where I hired a woman to cook for me and then for six years lived with XGF, who was trained to be a professional chef but lavished those talents on our home and nowhere else -- I figure it's only right to give myself a bit phat public pat on the back here.
I made a pea, spinach & leek soup with coconut milk and curry, a recipe that actually required me to puree the stuff in a blender. (Why the blender "explodes" is beyond me -- it made a mess of the kitchen -- but I think it was worth it.)
It was nice and satisfyingly creamy, even though the only fat is a tablespoon of butter and a can of coconut milk (it was supposed to be a half can, but I love coconut, so I *improvised* and the shit actually worked out, even if it is a bit more fatty). But considering my dairy allergy, I'm thinking that coconut milk beats half-n-half hands down on the creamy factor. And ... mmm... do I ever love coconut. Give me anything coconut, and I will sit like a happy buddha with it.
So I chopped all these veggies. I sizzled things. I simmered things. I boiled things. And then I pureed the stuff. Then, I salted and peppered it to taste. My only "shortcoming" was that I didn't shuck fresh peas and I snuck in the frozen ones when no one was looking. (That there was no one else here to see it did not stop me from *sneaking* those frozen peas in anyway. Picture that nonsense, if you will.)
But the fact of there being no one here to have witnessed this soup creation of mine -- thus, no one to consume it but me -- does pose a little problem. After I started the recipe, I noticed it serves six. Ooops. Either I'm going to be eating this soup until the cows come home (which they do *not* do in this part of town, I've noticed), or I'm gonna have to find someone to share it with.
As I was finishing this delightful dish and seasoning it to taste, I was thinking of Lilly Tomlin's old "Search for Intelligent Life" routine: " 'Is it art yet?' 'No, it's still soup.' " Soon enough, my friends, it *will* be art.
But check this shit out: Your intrepid cook-o-phobic took some inspiration from that poached salmon and from that wild and whacky first-time-ever experience of buying a hairbrush, and decided to go for something altogether new and foodie.
I made my own soup from scratch.
Now, I know soup is the most basic of human culinary achievements. People have made soup out of leather and twigs and spoiled meat since they figured out how to boil water. It's hardly an accomplishment for a fancy chef, so Caprial will probably bust my chops for telling her to scoot on over and make some room at the stove, honey.
But given that I've taken no shame in reporting my *multitudes* of culinary failures over the years -- and actually reached a point in my life where I hired a woman to cook for me and then for six years lived with XGF, who was trained to be a professional chef but lavished those talents on our home and nowhere else -- I figure it's only right to give myself a bit phat public pat on the back here.
I made a pea, spinach & leek soup with coconut milk and curry, a recipe that actually required me to puree the stuff in a blender. (Why the blender "explodes" is beyond me -- it made a mess of the kitchen -- but I think it was worth it.)
It was nice and satisfyingly creamy, even though the only fat is a tablespoon of butter and a can of coconut milk (it was supposed to be a half can, but I love coconut, so I *improvised* and the shit actually worked out, even if it is a bit more fatty). But considering my dairy allergy, I'm thinking that coconut milk beats half-n-half hands down on the creamy factor. And ... mmm... do I ever love coconut. Give me anything coconut, and I will sit like a happy buddha with it.
So I chopped all these veggies. I sizzled things. I simmered things. I boiled things. And then I pureed the stuff. Then, I salted and peppered it to taste. My only "shortcoming" was that I didn't shuck fresh peas and I snuck in the frozen ones when no one was looking. (That there was no one else here to see it did not stop me from *sneaking* those frozen peas in anyway. Picture that nonsense, if you will.)
But the fact of there being no one here to have witnessed this soup creation of mine -- thus, no one to consume it but me -- does pose a little problem. After I started the recipe, I noticed it serves six. Ooops. Either I'm going to be eating this soup until the cows come home (which they do *not* do in this part of town, I've noticed), or I'm gonna have to find someone to share it with.
As I was finishing this delightful dish and seasoning it to taste, I was thinking of Lilly Tomlin's old "Search for Intelligent Life" routine: " 'Is it art yet?' 'No, it's still soup.' " Soon enough, my friends, it *will* be art.
Too funny not to post
Bare witness, my friends, to the following exchanges on craigslist. Absolutely to be treasured. I'm just giggling here.... ;-}
LARGE BREAST WANTED - 27
Looking for a galfiend with large brest to play with.
maybe more if we connect?
send pic
UCM: Not to be outwitted -- or something -- a divinely funny woman contributed the following response:
re: "Large Breast"
Next time I have to fill in the "Occupation" line on a form, I'm totally using "galfiend."
I'm willing to put aside my usual unforgiving spelling standards when it results in such a fabulous neologism. The same, however, cannot be said for "brest."
UCM: I love you, whoever you are. Now, for another response:
What, just one?
Is that why it has to be large?
UCM: Oh, you're funny, too! But then, we have this contribution from someone who learned to make puns by reading "Dear Abby," who was ever so punny. This respondant needs to learn that it's not necessary to *highlight* your puns; just let them be:
re:the "large breast"
perhaps they're looking for their brest friend? obviously the person who posted that is a total BOOB. who knows? perhaps they just had a few things to get off their CHEST today. hopefully they won't be RACKing their brains trying to understand this post. Posts like theirs are so TITillating to read.
Uh, yeah, that last one was just ... sad. (How did she manage to miss an opportunity to use "knockers" in that pun-fest?) But the first two made me chuckle. I hope you enjoyed them, too.
LARGE BREAST WANTED - 27
Looking for a galfiend with large brest to play with.
maybe more if we connect?
send pic
UCM: Not to be outwitted -- or something -- a divinely funny woman contributed the following response:
re: "Large Breast"
Next time I have to fill in the "Occupation" line on a form, I'm totally using "galfiend."
I'm willing to put aside my usual unforgiving spelling standards when it results in such a fabulous neologism. The same, however, cannot be said for "brest."
UCM: I love you, whoever you are. Now, for another response:
What, just one?
Is that why it has to be large?
UCM: Oh, you're funny, too! But then, we have this contribution from someone who learned to make puns by reading "Dear Abby," who was ever so punny. This respondant needs to learn that it's not necessary to *highlight* your puns; just let them be:
re:the "large breast"
perhaps they're looking for their brest friend? obviously the person who posted that is a total BOOB. who knows? perhaps they just had a few things to get off their CHEST today. hopefully they won't be RACKing their brains trying to understand this post. Posts like theirs are so TITillating to read.
Uh, yeah, that last one was just ... sad. (How did she manage to miss an opportunity to use "knockers" in that pun-fest?) But the first two made me chuckle. I hope you enjoyed them, too.
Things I no longer care about
-- Dandelions. I used to really care about dandelions. They used to get under my skin and make me just ... seethe. Well, specifically, it was the fact that neighbors let these pernicious, invasive WEEDS grow rampant in their yard and not even mow down the little fuckers before that white fuzzy ball of destruction appeared atop and allowed that evil taproot to send out new progeny with the next gust of wind. I used to really HATE that. But now, I don't care. I don't own a home; I don't have a yard; dandelions mean *nothing* to me. (Not until one of them takes root in my bellybutton while I'm sleeping or something, anyway....)
-- Property taxes. I guess increases in this could affect my rent, but ... ahn, whatever. But it always had so much more of an effect on me when I owned a home. And the fact that I'm not a parent but that I was being asked regularly to increase not just my property taxes but also to pay a local income tax to pay for schools ... well, that used to bug me, too. Now, I have no income and I have no house on which to pay taxes, so ... I no longer care.
-- Politics. Really, what's that? Someone asked me the other day: "Are you a registered voter in the State of Oregon?" (because this *is* petition season), and I was able to say, "No, I'm not!" quite cheerfully. The truth is, I am registered. Just not in the right place. So technically, I'm *not* registered. In any case, I no longer care. The political structure of our country is a fucking scam. I am sick and tired of participating in it. Perhaps I won't fix my voter registration after all. And then, once I become a Jehova's Witness and it's against my religion to vote, I will officially no longer care because Mr. God doesn't want me to anyway.
-- The news. It's amazing. I am nine months into the most substantial media fast of my life, and it's really starting to work. People talk to me about things, and I am blissfully ignorant -- although still somehow aware and relatively knowledgeable, which never ceases to amaze me because I'm NOT paying attention. I really do get my news from the weirdest sources: Letterman's monologues, a glance at the newspaper headlines when out walking the pup, snippets of conversations, other people's blogs, the occasional passionately upset e-mail and the barest scattering of news briefs (what we called "News McNuggets" at the paper I used to work for) that come at the top of the hour on my distinctly non-news-oriented radio station in those rare times that I'm driving the car at the top of the hour (on a weekday between 8 a.m. and 6 p.m.). So I pretty much have no clue what's going on, and I no longer care!
-- The price and availability of the Green Goddess. This once concerned me, because I used to smoke a good bit more of it than I do now. In fact, ever since I moved out from XGF, I hardly smoke at all. I've been contemplating what that is all about, of course. Some of it has to do with the way the Green Goddess reveals my energy, my anxiety and my libido, which are all pretty much the same thing, really. But I think a greater part of it has to do with simply having no need to escape very much. And feeling quite good about chilling out on wine, which is better for my cholesterol, blood pressure and weight, as wine does not give me the munchies. In any case, someone asked me to acquire them a little of the stuff recently, and I obliged. When I was told how expensive it was, I was like, "Ah, keep it." Then, several weeks later, I got a really good deal. Must be the time of year or something. In either case, I simply did not care.
-- Whether I'll ever get that Pulitzer. The nomination was flattering, but it wasn't my year. How was I supposed to compete with the Boston Globe buying SLAVES and writing about *that*? My work was so much lower-rent. But still, it was good. ... Some day, I'll probably write something noteworthy again. Maybe I should try fiction. In the meantime, though, I've got to admit: I won a lot of awards as a journalist. Some of them are actually quite pretty. None of them are the Pulitzer, but... well, I no longer care.
-- Bedtime and breakfast time. XGF was never a night owl like I am, so for the past six years or so, we were at danger of being totally out of synch in our sleep routines unless I capitulated and went to bed early. Also, there was this stinking ass job I had -- where it smelled like the rainforest, OK? -- that required me to be in the office by the god-foresaken hour of 9 a.m. So I learned to go to bed early, like 10 p.m, which I felt was an obscenity because that's when all the good TV shows come on. But I did it so we could snuggle and have sex and get up somewhere around the same time and all that shit. But now that I'm living la vida solo, and I don't have that butt-crack-stinkin' job at that financial conglomerate, I sleep and rise when I please. So I'm hitting the hay around 2 a.m. on average and rising at 10 a.m. It is a beautiful thing. I usually lounge around in bed for 30 minutes to an hour after I wake up, so that means on a good day, I'm showering by 11, eating my Luna bar 45 minutes later and out the door to walk the dog by noon. I'm sure some people would be horrified by these hours. But you know what I'm gonna say, doncha? I no longer care!
Oh, my ... look at the time! It's going on midnight, I've just finished dinner and I've got a lot of reading to do. It's all reading for pleasure, though. I *tried* to buy the books for the class I have starting on Tuesday, but the stressed-out book store manager told me he's been agonizing and kvetching and trying desperately to get the "adjunct faculty" at my grad school to tell him what books to order -- all to no avail. He's really wigged out by this. And he keeps apologizing -- at length -- when I ask if the books have come in yet. But, frankly, I couldn't give a shit. If I don't have the books, no one else does either. We're all in the same boat, so I really don't care. That's why I'll spend the next couple of days engaged in leisure reading.
It'll be blissful. I can stay up to 3 a.m. with my nose in a book if I want. I can read through the evening news because there's nothing meaningful there anyway. I can sit in the coffeehouse and read "Love's Executioner" and ignore the headlines about property tax increases or whatever. I can eat a brownie made with Green Goddess butter and watch the dandelion sperm wafting in the breeze, and I don't have to give one flying fuck about any of it.
Bliss is mine. No matter where I find it.
-- Property taxes. I guess increases in this could affect my rent, but ... ahn, whatever. But it always had so much more of an effect on me when I owned a home. And the fact that I'm not a parent but that I was being asked regularly to increase not just my property taxes but also to pay a local income tax to pay for schools ... well, that used to bug me, too. Now, I have no income and I have no house on which to pay taxes, so ... I no longer care.
-- Politics. Really, what's that? Someone asked me the other day: "Are you a registered voter in the State of Oregon?" (because this *is* petition season), and I was able to say, "No, I'm not!" quite cheerfully. The truth is, I am registered. Just not in the right place. So technically, I'm *not* registered. In any case, I no longer care. The political structure of our country is a fucking scam. I am sick and tired of participating in it. Perhaps I won't fix my voter registration after all. And then, once I become a Jehova's Witness and it's against my religion to vote, I will officially no longer care because Mr. God doesn't want me to anyway.
-- The news. It's amazing. I am nine months into the most substantial media fast of my life, and it's really starting to work. People talk to me about things, and I am blissfully ignorant -- although still somehow aware and relatively knowledgeable, which never ceases to amaze me because I'm NOT paying attention. I really do get my news from the weirdest sources: Letterman's monologues, a glance at the newspaper headlines when out walking the pup, snippets of conversations, other people's blogs, the occasional passionately upset e-mail and the barest scattering of news briefs (what we called "News McNuggets" at the paper I used to work for) that come at the top of the hour on my distinctly non-news-oriented radio station in those rare times that I'm driving the car at the top of the hour (on a weekday between 8 a.m. and 6 p.m.). So I pretty much have no clue what's going on, and I no longer care!
-- The price and availability of the Green Goddess. This once concerned me, because I used to smoke a good bit more of it than I do now. In fact, ever since I moved out from XGF, I hardly smoke at all. I've been contemplating what that is all about, of course. Some of it has to do with the way the Green Goddess reveals my energy, my anxiety and my libido, which are all pretty much the same thing, really. But I think a greater part of it has to do with simply having no need to escape very much. And feeling quite good about chilling out on wine, which is better for my cholesterol, blood pressure and weight, as wine does not give me the munchies. In any case, someone asked me to acquire them a little of the stuff recently, and I obliged. When I was told how expensive it was, I was like, "Ah, keep it." Then, several weeks later, I got a really good deal. Must be the time of year or something. In either case, I simply did not care.
-- Whether I'll ever get that Pulitzer. The nomination was flattering, but it wasn't my year. How was I supposed to compete with the Boston Globe buying SLAVES and writing about *that*? My work was so much lower-rent. But still, it was good. ... Some day, I'll probably write something noteworthy again. Maybe I should try fiction. In the meantime, though, I've got to admit: I won a lot of awards as a journalist. Some of them are actually quite pretty. None of them are the Pulitzer, but... well, I no longer care.
-- Bedtime and breakfast time. XGF was never a night owl like I am, so for the past six years or so, we were at danger of being totally out of synch in our sleep routines unless I capitulated and went to bed early. Also, there was this stinking ass job I had -- where it smelled like the rainforest, OK? -- that required me to be in the office by the god-foresaken hour of 9 a.m. So I learned to go to bed early, like 10 p.m, which I felt was an obscenity because that's when all the good TV shows come on. But I did it so we could snuggle and have sex and get up somewhere around the same time and all that shit. But now that I'm living la vida solo, and I don't have that butt-crack-stinkin' job at that financial conglomerate, I sleep and rise when I please. So I'm hitting the hay around 2 a.m. on average and rising at 10 a.m. It is a beautiful thing. I usually lounge around in bed for 30 minutes to an hour after I wake up, so that means on a good day, I'm showering by 11, eating my Luna bar 45 minutes later and out the door to walk the dog by noon. I'm sure some people would be horrified by these hours. But you know what I'm gonna say, doncha? I no longer care!
Oh, my ... look at the time! It's going on midnight, I've just finished dinner and I've got a lot of reading to do. It's all reading for pleasure, though. I *tried* to buy the books for the class I have starting on Tuesday, but the stressed-out book store manager told me he's been agonizing and kvetching and trying desperately to get the "adjunct faculty" at my grad school to tell him what books to order -- all to no avail. He's really wigged out by this. And he keeps apologizing -- at length -- when I ask if the books have come in yet. But, frankly, I couldn't give a shit. If I don't have the books, no one else does either. We're all in the same boat, so I really don't care. That's why I'll spend the next couple of days engaged in leisure reading.
It'll be blissful. I can stay up to 3 a.m. with my nose in a book if I want. I can read through the evening news because there's nothing meaningful there anyway. I can sit in the coffeehouse and read "Love's Executioner" and ignore the headlines about property tax increases or whatever. I can eat a brownie made with Green Goddess butter and watch the dandelion sperm wafting in the breeze, and I don't have to give one flying fuck about any of it.
Bliss is mine. No matter where I find it.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Into the Andes
That last journal entry from the Amazon was absurdly long. Several times while typing it in, I wondered where I had found the strength to write such a long bit. Normally, the tendonitis in my hand stops me from going on at such length. From this point on, the entries are shorter. But, in my opinion, they also get more interesting. Making the transition from the Amazon to the Andes was one of the most bizarre experiences of my life. So, without further adieu...
17 August, Cajamarca
There was a flea in my bed at Hotel Maranon in Iquitos, and I was out of my mind for two nights & two days with the itching caused by the combination of the flea bites with the mosquito bites and the nasty black flies that bit me in the jungle. That's my basic explanation for not writing until tonight -- that and the fact that Kate and I shared a bottle of wine here in Cajamarca's thinner air and I didn't feel like writing.
So, as it seems customary for me to have some infirmity or other on *every* trip we take, I have sought out various cures for the bug bites. The mostquitos, the flies and the fleas had created the most damnable itching I've ever experienced in my life. Worse than any chicken pox or poison ivy I've ever had. Normally, I can restrain from scratching, but there was so much venom in my 143 (!!) bug bites that I could not resist it.
In Iquitos, I had gone to the farmacia twice looking for help. One gave me a cortizone cream mixed with antibiotics. It did not help very much. Another gave me -- woe is me! -- scabies medicine, which could also treat lice and other infestations. It also did not help. I found myself feeling sick to my stomach from Atahualpa's revenge, aching in my injured back *and* scratching myself like a flea-infested dog in the Lima airport. NOT happy.
So my first order of business upon waking my first day in Cajamarca was to ask the hotel staff to recommend a doctor in town at a private clinic. The manager was kind enough to offer me a ride to a private emergency clinic here in town -- we are staying a few miles out of the city center -- and to explain some little bit of my condition or needs to the front desk staff.
Only one woman spoke even the most broken English there, so I was on my own. (The hotel staff doesn't speak English, either.) The first thing they tried to diagnose me with was altitude sickness. I'm not sure why, especially after I said, Yo tengo muchas muchas picadores de mosquitos y mosca porque fue en la selval para una semana. Los hacenme loco y no puedo dormir porque yo siempre (and I mimmicked scratching, scratching.)"
UCM interrupts her own entry: So, I don't claim to have any fluency whatsoever in Spanish. I will put in brackets what it was I was trying to say. Please consider them to be translated with the following caveat: What I *think* I said was....
Thus: [I have many, many mosquito and fly bites because I was in the jungle for a week. The are making me crazy, and I can't sleep because I always (not knowing the word for itching, I just scratched myself).]
The woman with broken English said, "You are tired? Can't breathe good? It's the altitude."
No es la problema, I said. Es las picadores. [That's not the problem. It's the bites.]
"Is hard to go up stairs?" the woman asked.
Meanwhile, a nurse was taking my blood pressure over and over again -- like five, six, seven times -- because the cuff was not big enough. She got an astronomical reading -- 180/120 -- and I was thinking part of it was the altitude, the carziness of the bug bites and the PAIN of having my BP taken -- my armed squeezed like crazy! -- so many times.
After a few rounds of this, they walked me up three flights of stairs to the doctor's office. He also didn't speak English, but after he asked me about altitude sickness again -- it's not THAT high here -- I said, No, la problema esta de selva. Mira aqui. [No, the problem is the jungle. Look here.] And I pulled up my pant leg. The sight of 30 bites on the back of my calf cut through the communication barrier quickly. The doctor and the nurse both winced.
Then, the doctor started asking me about all the medications and vaccinations I'd had prior to going into the jungle. Then he took my BP himself -- 170/100 that time! -- and listened to my heart and my lungs and asked a lot of questions about my medical history. Finally, he said he should prescribe two injections of sme cortizone shot and some antihistamine pills. He also said I shouldn't eat any fish, shellfish or citrus for the next 15 days, but he did not explain why.
Anyway, long story short, I've had two shots in my butt, and I'm hardly itching at all anymore. Poor Kate, who refused to see the doctor, is still scratching herself crazy. All told, including consultation with the doctor and purchasing the medicine, it cost me 150 soles -- about $45 -- to get rid of the crazy-making itching. At the same time, my stomach is not bothering me and my back is doing a little better, so I am feeling more my normal self.
That's good, too, because Cajamarca is a cool city, and I am happy to be able to enjoy it. It is, in its current state, a Spanish colonial town built atop the foundation of an Incan city that was at the crossroads of four major trails (called Incan trails even though they predate the Incans) that connected Equador and Quito to Bolivia. The four major routes criss-crossed here. But the Caxamarca culture predates the Incans by more than two milleniums. We saw caveside tombs today that date to 1160 BC. The Incans weren't in power until at least 1200 AD, but maybe it was more like 1300.
The Spanish conquistadors must have found their way to this city via the trails. Even today, they are CLEARLY OBVIOUS in the hillsides above town, and they still criss-cross in the Plaza de Armas. Pretty cool.
It is here in Cajamarca that the Incan ruler Atahualpa was captured by a motley band of conquistadors, paid an absurd ransom of a room filled with gold -- a room that still exists here -- and was subsequently executed when the Spanish found out he'd sent word to his army to march on Cajamarca and free him. Then the Spaniards installed their own puppet Incan kind and marched on Cuzco, overthrowing this empire.
Today, the city is vibrant. The streets are *filled* with people all day long, save for siesta from 1 to 3 p.m. Evenings are bustling -- lots of commerce and strolling and eating going on here.
Its population is a curious mixture of campensino culture -- women with brightly covered woven wool shawls and stove-pipe-like hats made of some very high-quality straw or other material. They are living an agrarian life, and you see them all over the place carrying huge bundles of eucalyptus leaves (for mosquito repellant) or severed cows heads (horns still attached) on their backs. There are lots of pack animals -- I see mules all the time carrying LOADS of firewood, for example. We are pan-handled constantly. Being pretty much the only white people here, we stand out as rich gringas in a town with a fair amount of poverty.
At the same time, Cajamarca is thriving with modern industry and has the people that go with that, as well. There are rich American businessmen here running (exploiting!) the Yanacocha gold mine several miles north of town, and all the mining has brought something of a boomtown experience to the city. A guide we hired for the day -- a man named Nino -- said that Caja's population 12 years ago stood at about 75,000. Today, nearly 500,000 live here.
It seems like every other store near the Plaza de Armas (the heart of the city) is a cell phone shop. Lawyers and bankers, businessmen -- and *some* businesswomen -- flood the local restaurants at lunch. The streets are alive with children in crisp, neat school uniforms. Bands play music in the plaza. There are good restaurants and cafes and more taxis than one might reasonably expect to find in a town this size. The narrow streets are overwhelmed with them and with the large trucks going back and forth to the Yanacocha gold mine, which is today the third largest gold mine in the world.
17 August, Cajamarca
There was a flea in my bed at Hotel Maranon in Iquitos, and I was out of my mind for two nights & two days with the itching caused by the combination of the flea bites with the mosquito bites and the nasty black flies that bit me in the jungle. That's my basic explanation for not writing until tonight -- that and the fact that Kate and I shared a bottle of wine here in Cajamarca's thinner air and I didn't feel like writing.
So, as it seems customary for me to have some infirmity or other on *every* trip we take, I have sought out various cures for the bug bites. The mostquitos, the flies and the fleas had created the most damnable itching I've ever experienced in my life. Worse than any chicken pox or poison ivy I've ever had. Normally, I can restrain from scratching, but there was so much venom in my 143 (!!) bug bites that I could not resist it.
In Iquitos, I had gone to the farmacia twice looking for help. One gave me a cortizone cream mixed with antibiotics. It did not help very much. Another gave me -- woe is me! -- scabies medicine, which could also treat lice and other infestations. It also did not help. I found myself feeling sick to my stomach from Atahualpa's revenge, aching in my injured back *and* scratching myself like a flea-infested dog in the Lima airport. NOT happy.
So my first order of business upon waking my first day in Cajamarca was to ask the hotel staff to recommend a doctor in town at a private clinic. The manager was kind enough to offer me a ride to a private emergency clinic here in town -- we are staying a few miles out of the city center -- and to explain some little bit of my condition or needs to the front desk staff.
Only one woman spoke even the most broken English there, so I was on my own. (The hotel staff doesn't speak English, either.) The first thing they tried to diagnose me with was altitude sickness. I'm not sure why, especially after I said, Yo tengo muchas muchas picadores de mosquitos y mosca porque fue en la selval para una semana. Los hacenme loco y no puedo dormir porque yo siempre (and I mimmicked scratching, scratching.)"
UCM interrupts her own entry: So, I don't claim to have any fluency whatsoever in Spanish. I will put in brackets what it was I was trying to say. Please consider them to be translated with the following caveat: What I *think* I said was....
Thus: [I have many, many mosquito and fly bites because I was in the jungle for a week. The are making me crazy, and I can't sleep because I always (not knowing the word for itching, I just scratched myself).]
The woman with broken English said, "You are tired? Can't breathe good? It's the altitude."
No es la problema, I said. Es las picadores. [That's not the problem. It's the bites.]
"Is hard to go up stairs?" the woman asked.
Meanwhile, a nurse was taking my blood pressure over and over again -- like five, six, seven times -- because the cuff was not big enough. She got an astronomical reading -- 180/120 -- and I was thinking part of it was the altitude, the carziness of the bug bites and the PAIN of having my BP taken -- my armed squeezed like crazy! -- so many times.
After a few rounds of this, they walked me up three flights of stairs to the doctor's office. He also didn't speak English, but after he asked me about altitude sickness again -- it's not THAT high here -- I said, No, la problema esta de selva. Mira aqui. [No, the problem is the jungle. Look here.] And I pulled up my pant leg. The sight of 30 bites on the back of my calf cut through the communication barrier quickly. The doctor and the nurse both winced.
Then, the doctor started asking me about all the medications and vaccinations I'd had prior to going into the jungle. Then he took my BP himself -- 170/100 that time! -- and listened to my heart and my lungs and asked a lot of questions about my medical history. Finally, he said he should prescribe two injections of sme cortizone shot and some antihistamine pills. He also said I shouldn't eat any fish, shellfish or citrus for the next 15 days, but he did not explain why.
Anyway, long story short, I've had two shots in my butt, and I'm hardly itching at all anymore. Poor Kate, who refused to see the doctor, is still scratching herself crazy. All told, including consultation with the doctor and purchasing the medicine, it cost me 150 soles -- about $45 -- to get rid of the crazy-making itching. At the same time, my stomach is not bothering me and my back is doing a little better, so I am feeling more my normal self.
That's good, too, because Cajamarca is a cool city, and I am happy to be able to enjoy it. It is, in its current state, a Spanish colonial town built atop the foundation of an Incan city that was at the crossroads of four major trails (called Incan trails even though they predate the Incans) that connected Equador and Quito to Bolivia. The four major routes criss-crossed here. But the Caxamarca culture predates the Incans by more than two milleniums. We saw caveside tombs today that date to 1160 BC. The Incans weren't in power until at least 1200 AD, but maybe it was more like 1300.
The Spanish conquistadors must have found their way to this city via the trails. Even today, they are CLEARLY OBVIOUS in the hillsides above town, and they still criss-cross in the Plaza de Armas. Pretty cool.
It is here in Cajamarca that the Incan ruler Atahualpa was captured by a motley band of conquistadors, paid an absurd ransom of a room filled with gold -- a room that still exists here -- and was subsequently executed when the Spanish found out he'd sent word to his army to march on Cajamarca and free him. Then the Spaniards installed their own puppet Incan kind and marched on Cuzco, overthrowing this empire.
Today, the city is vibrant. The streets are *filled* with people all day long, save for siesta from 1 to 3 p.m. Evenings are bustling -- lots of commerce and strolling and eating going on here.
Its population is a curious mixture of campensino culture -- women with brightly covered woven wool shawls and stove-pipe-like hats made of some very high-quality straw or other material. They are living an agrarian life, and you see them all over the place carrying huge bundles of eucalyptus leaves (for mosquito repellant) or severed cows heads (horns still attached) on their backs. There are lots of pack animals -- I see mules all the time carrying LOADS of firewood, for example. We are pan-handled constantly. Being pretty much the only white people here, we stand out as rich gringas in a town with a fair amount of poverty.
At the same time, Cajamarca is thriving with modern industry and has the people that go with that, as well. There are rich American businessmen here running (exploiting!) the Yanacocha gold mine several miles north of town, and all the mining has brought something of a boomtown experience to the city. A guide we hired for the day -- a man named Nino -- said that Caja's population 12 years ago stood at about 75,000. Today, nearly 500,000 live here.
It seems like every other store near the Plaza de Armas (the heart of the city) is a cell phone shop. Lawyers and bankers, businessmen -- and *some* businesswomen -- flood the local restaurants at lunch. The streets are alive with children in crisp, neat school uniforms. Bands play music in the plaza. There are good restaurants and cafes and more taxis than one might reasonably expect to find in a town this size. The narrow streets are overwhelmed with them and with the large trucks going back and forth to the Yanacocha gold mine, which is today the third largest gold mine in the world.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
A brief history of my hairbrushes
For the first time *ever,* I purchased a hairbrush yesterday. Yes, that's right. I made it 37 years without ever buying a brush for my hair -- or anyone else's (except the dog).
You might wonder how I've made it this long. Or perhaps you'd just as soon not know. Either way....
Apparently, I was a terrible child in many respects, but one of things I am reported to have hated the most was getting my hair brushed. Those of you who see me regularly know what a tangle of curls I've got going on at times. (For those who haven't seen me in a while: I've been growing out my hair since August. It's almost six inches long, but you wouldn't know it because it's mostly whickety-whack curls and thus looks shorter than it is.)
On accounts my hair wasn't washed regularly as a kid, you can imagine that I didn't like getting all these curls brushed. I had tangles like nobody's business, but every so often, my mother would go to great lengths to try to straighten this shit out. This mainly happened when it was time for class photos or some other circumstances where I was supposed to look "presentable." And "presentable" apparently meant "with straight hair." Which I don't have.
Also, I had/have a tender scalp. (Fine. *Every* part of me seems to be tender. But I don't think that's a character defect....)
So it's not like I ever had a love affair with hairbrushes, is my point. Up until I was in middle school, any hairbrush I had was provided by a parent or grandparent. The only one I recall seemed more ornamental than practical. The bristles were too soft for getting through my thick hair; in fact, they were *so* soft that I sometimes rubbed the brush on my cheeks because it felt good.
That's probably the source of some sexual fetish of which I'm not yet aware....
But I digress.
When I was 12 or 13 years old, my aunt gave me a hairbrush as a gift. It was a fancy "salon" hairbrush on accounts she was a hair stylist and owned her own salon. This was my first brush with the plastic tines with the little balls on the end, vented so it could be used with a blow dryer. (Once upon a time, I did have a blow dryer, but I don't know that I ever used it.)
That brush lasted me nearly 25 years. In fact, it was only in the last year or so that XGF finally persuaded me to part with it. The rubber grip on the handle had long ago dried out and started to disintegrate. And even though I cleaned it regularly, there was an accumulation of towel lint at the base of the bristles that I never could quite get off. Sometimes, XGF would catch me in the bathroom, picking at the lint.
"You need a new brush," she would say. And, mind you, she was using this old brush of mine, too.
Eventually, she went out and got her own brush. I used it a time or two (out of curiosity; it wasn't a betrayal of my good old reliable, I swear to you). And then I noticed one day that, after XGF tidied up the bathroom, my brush wasn't where I always put it. I found it hiding in a cabinet. I pulled it out and put it back on the counter.
There was a come-to-jesus talk.
And then, I *threw away* that good old brush of mine, that friend of all those many years. That bit of purple plastic and black tines that had seen me through high school and college and moving to California -- and ALL of California, which included three relationships and many years of living alone -- and had come up here to Oregon with me, where it took up residence in three separate bathrooms and ... well, it nearly survived *one more* relationship. But then, we parted ways.
It went to the landfill. And I just went without.
I used XGF's brush for a while. But when we broke up, there was nothing. (Such has been the case with my silverwear and a lot of kitchen equipment. I had some before I met XGF, but I moved out empty handed. Hmmm.)
For a month, I lived on my own, completely brushless. After towel drying my hair every morning, I ran my fingers through it -- and that was all. But yesterday morning, I thought (or, likely, said outloud to myself), I'm sick of getting all this hair on my hands. I should be pulling it out of a brush instead of picking it out of my fingers and cleaning it out of the sink. Yuck.
So there I was in the grocery store yesterday afternoon, buying some potatoes for one of my independent-living-skills development projects (aka, learning to roast potatoes), when I saw a collection of hairbrushes on an end cap. I wasn't really sure what I wanted -- except, obviously, the kind with tines that have little balls on the end -- so I simply selected the one with the most pleasing color.
I told S2 about this today, and she sounded a bit grave: "I hope that works out for you. I find that brushes can be very particular. I've used them for a month and decided: You are just not right for me. And I've had to get a different one."
I didn't think of the possibility my relationship with this brush might not work out, I said. I don't really know what I want in a brush. I hadn't considered the options. I guess if it doesn't work out, well ....
It's funny. I agonized over the silverwear I recently purchased, reasoning in part that I'd better get something I like because I could easily be using it for 15 or 20 years. Given my history with hairbrushes, you'd think I would have accorded this purchase the same respect. But I didn't. Only time will tell if I made the right choice or not. For now, I'll act like I'm committed -- and hope for the best.
You might wonder how I've made it this long. Or perhaps you'd just as soon not know. Either way....
Apparently, I was a terrible child in many respects, but one of things I am reported to have hated the most was getting my hair brushed. Those of you who see me regularly know what a tangle of curls I've got going on at times. (For those who haven't seen me in a while: I've been growing out my hair since August. It's almost six inches long, but you wouldn't know it because it's mostly whickety-whack curls and thus looks shorter than it is.)
On accounts my hair wasn't washed regularly as a kid, you can imagine that I didn't like getting all these curls brushed. I had tangles like nobody's business, but every so often, my mother would go to great lengths to try to straighten this shit out. This mainly happened when it was time for class photos or some other circumstances where I was supposed to look "presentable." And "presentable" apparently meant "with straight hair." Which I don't have.
Also, I had/have a tender scalp. (Fine. *Every* part of me seems to be tender. But I don't think that's a character defect....)
So it's not like I ever had a love affair with hairbrushes, is my point. Up until I was in middle school, any hairbrush I had was provided by a parent or grandparent. The only one I recall seemed more ornamental than practical. The bristles were too soft for getting through my thick hair; in fact, they were *so* soft that I sometimes rubbed the brush on my cheeks because it felt good.
That's probably the source of some sexual fetish of which I'm not yet aware....
But I digress.
When I was 12 or 13 years old, my aunt gave me a hairbrush as a gift. It was a fancy "salon" hairbrush on accounts she was a hair stylist and owned her own salon. This was my first brush with the plastic tines with the little balls on the end, vented so it could be used with a blow dryer. (Once upon a time, I did have a blow dryer, but I don't know that I ever used it.)
That brush lasted me nearly 25 years. In fact, it was only in the last year or so that XGF finally persuaded me to part with it. The rubber grip on the handle had long ago dried out and started to disintegrate. And even though I cleaned it regularly, there was an accumulation of towel lint at the base of the bristles that I never could quite get off. Sometimes, XGF would catch me in the bathroom, picking at the lint.
"You need a new brush," she would say. And, mind you, she was using this old brush of mine, too.
Eventually, she went out and got her own brush. I used it a time or two (out of curiosity; it wasn't a betrayal of my good old reliable, I swear to you). And then I noticed one day that, after XGF tidied up the bathroom, my brush wasn't where I always put it. I found it hiding in a cabinet. I pulled it out and put it back on the counter.
There was a come-to-jesus talk.
And then, I *threw away* that good old brush of mine, that friend of all those many years. That bit of purple plastic and black tines that had seen me through high school and college and moving to California -- and ALL of California, which included three relationships and many years of living alone -- and had come up here to Oregon with me, where it took up residence in three separate bathrooms and ... well, it nearly survived *one more* relationship. But then, we parted ways.
It went to the landfill. And I just went without.
I used XGF's brush for a while. But when we broke up, there was nothing. (Such has been the case with my silverwear and a lot of kitchen equipment. I had some before I met XGF, but I moved out empty handed. Hmmm.)
For a month, I lived on my own, completely brushless. After towel drying my hair every morning, I ran my fingers through it -- and that was all. But yesterday morning, I thought (or, likely, said outloud to myself), I'm sick of getting all this hair on my hands. I should be pulling it out of a brush instead of picking it out of my fingers and cleaning it out of the sink. Yuck.
So there I was in the grocery store yesterday afternoon, buying some potatoes for one of my independent-living-skills development projects (aka, learning to roast potatoes), when I saw a collection of hairbrushes on an end cap. I wasn't really sure what I wanted -- except, obviously, the kind with tines that have little balls on the end -- so I simply selected the one with the most pleasing color.
I told S2 about this today, and she sounded a bit grave: "I hope that works out for you. I find that brushes can be very particular. I've used them for a month and decided: You are just not right for me. And I've had to get a different one."
I didn't think of the possibility my relationship with this brush might not work out, I said. I don't really know what I want in a brush. I hadn't considered the options. I guess if it doesn't work out, well ....
It's funny. I agonized over the silverwear I recently purchased, reasoning in part that I'd better get something I like because I could easily be using it for 15 or 20 years. Given my history with hairbrushes, you'd think I would have accorded this purchase the same respect. But I didn't. Only time will tell if I made the right choice or not. For now, I'll act like I'm committed -- and hope for the best.
Monday, May 01, 2006
One reason I like poetry
Because it shares such sentiments of the heart, as in these two jems I just read by Amy Lowell (1874-1925), a lesbionic poet.
Bullion
My thoughts
Chink against my ribs
And roll about like silver hail-stones.
I should like to spill them out,
And pour them, all shining,
Over you.
But my heart is shut upon them
And holds them straightly.
Come, You!, and open my heart;
That my thoughts torment me no longer,
But glitter in your hair.
UCM: Damn, that's sweet. And short. And classy. She was said to have written that poem to the actress Ada Dwyer Russell, who Lowell met in 1909 and became her lover until Lowell died. There was a lovely collection of poetry between the two. Some of it was quite sexy, too, especially for the times. The following was written in celebration of their first 10 years together.
A Decade
When you came, you were like red wine and honey,
And the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.
Now you are like morning bread,
Smooth and pleasant.
I hardly taste you at all for I know your savour,
But I am completely nourished.
UCM: OK, that's sexy. And I love it. Even though it makes me ashamed of my own poetry. Except maybe for a piece I shared not long ago with S2 that she called "blasphemous." (Is there any higher complimentt?)
But I digress. These poems just struck me as something to share. I think they're beautiful. I'm sure there's a woman out there on whom it would be worth springing either one of these. Certainly, the first one anyway. *sigh* (Suffice it to say, I don't expect to find such a woman on craigslist...!)
You know, I make myself laugh sometimes with my longings. But then, humor is the sweet part of life, so what the hell ... I'll indulge myself.
Bullion
My thoughts
Chink against my ribs
And roll about like silver hail-stones.
I should like to spill them out,
And pour them, all shining,
Over you.
But my heart is shut upon them
And holds them straightly.
Come, You!, and open my heart;
That my thoughts torment me no longer,
But glitter in your hair.
UCM: Damn, that's sweet. And short. And classy. She was said to have written that poem to the actress Ada Dwyer Russell, who Lowell met in 1909 and became her lover until Lowell died. There was a lovely collection of poetry between the two. Some of it was quite sexy, too, especially for the times. The following was written in celebration of their first 10 years together.
A Decade
When you came, you were like red wine and honey,
And the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.
Now you are like morning bread,
Smooth and pleasant.
I hardly taste you at all for I know your savour,
But I am completely nourished.
UCM: OK, that's sexy. And I love it. Even though it makes me ashamed of my own poetry. Except maybe for a piece I shared not long ago with S2 that she called "blasphemous." (Is there any higher complimentt?)
But I digress. These poems just struck me as something to share. I think they're beautiful. I'm sure there's a woman out there on whom it would be worth springing either one of these. Certainly, the first one anyway. *sigh* (Suffice it to say, I don't expect to find such a woman on craigslist...!)
You know, I make myself laugh sometimes with my longings. But then, humor is the sweet part of life, so what the hell ... I'll indulge myself.
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