Fever

...and I don't mean the fun kind...

Here I am in bed, sick, chilly, hot, miserable, feverish, raspy throat with no one to take care of me but my useless geriatric dog, who expects me to walk him in the frigid Brooklyn air at regular intervals and couldn't be bothered, in exchange, to make me a cup of lemon zinger tea with honey...and is now too old to climb up onto the bed and keep me warm...

I'm trying to find comfort in the small things--like the fact that I am wearing a very nice, fancy soft red t-shirt that matches my soft soft red blanket--I'm the only person I know who gets dressed up for being ill--ridiculous, isn't it, but somehow it makes me feel worse to be in sweats--

I'd ask you good people to offer up your ideas for a remedy, but I can't really hobble about the kitchen to make it, so that's no good--perhaps just a virtual remedy then, something with liquor in it?--

...I think I may be a bit delirious...

I'm Bringing Sexy Back

Check out the longest post I've ever written over at Just a Housewife. See whether you agree with me and Sarge about any of it. If you can make it through the entire interminable post, I will give you a prize. Well, no I won't.

Just sort of thinking out loud...

As I try not to smoke, I must occupy myself with other things.  Obviously, I have work to do, but I feel so fidgety and lost and crabbit (thanks Mr. Bastard for that quite expressive word, so much better than merely "crabby) that I know I have to come up with happy frivolous things too. Music is always good for me--I once wrote about my Gloom Playlist, the songs I love to have a good cry to. But I definitely don't want to encourage the weeping--my god, once begun, I might never stop!!! So instead I'm working very scientifically on a survey of songs of a different nature--and you can find this later here, on Just a Housewife if you care to join in the debate I've started with Sgt Pepper over what constitutes a truly sexy song.

I'm also finding that making dolls out of tiny bits of brightly colored felt is lovely, and much appreciated by Hedgehog, as is the construction of a gazillion origami stars

And knitting dishcloths




Bright cheery colors, things to keep my hands busy, and music that won't make me suicidal. That just about sums up my new and somewhat dubious approach to life planning.

A random end-note: Before I leave you, I'd like to poll anyone who stops by with the following question: What do you think of maxi-dresses (you know, the ones with a fitted top and an ankle-length flowy skirt)? I've been wondering whether they're pretty, or like an expensive version of dirty hippy, Holly Hobbyish or like Carrie's prom dress or what? You can go here to see the one that I've been oddly aquiver over...

...a madness has seized me...

I pray that I've had my last smoke.  It was so sad really, that last wonderful drag.  But done it must be.  My confidante, yummy, soothing, my respite, my private moments, my dear cigarettes.  My seat by the window where I can write with one arm, hanging the other outside in the cold so that I won't inflict the smoke on Hedgehog.  Non-smokers won't understand the whole sordid love affair.  Smokers, past and present, you know how it is don't you?

I said a post or two ago that it's never a good idea to make public pronouncements, but announced this must be.  So here I am announcing.

I've quit before, at times for years.  This last setback lasted six months.  Maybe I was at a more vulnerable time of my life, more in need of consolation, but whatever--I just couldn't stay away.  The last time I was pregnant, nine years ago, I hadn't smoked in years so quitting wasn't an issue.  When Hedgie was two or three, I became grimly depressed, and returned to the habit.  I would sit outside on our stoop, hiding from motherhood, lighting up and daydreaming.  Then I quit again, then I started again.  And here I am again.

My love affair with smoking is like a horrible sexual attraction gone terribly wrong, a man who beats you but loves you too and to whom you can't help but return again and again.

I feel like screaming.  If this sounds overwrought, well, I tell you, a madness has seized me.  

This is definitely the sort of post that one takes down when one realizes how much one has embarrassed one's self.

Updated: Remember not to tell me it's a bad unhealthy habit, because let's be honest, it looks sexy, smells delicious, and helps smooth out the rough spots.  Those public service ads on tv showing the ill effects of smoking? They just make me run for my pack.  My breath is like an ashtray? Kiss me and you'll find it tastes sweet, I guarantee.

All that said.......heeeeelllllllppppp!!!!!!!

 

Dialect Fetish

If you care to, please feel free to join me here, at my other blog for a bit of a discussion on my fetish.

If not, I'll see you in a bit.

And by the way, has anyone noticed that since I declared I would be taking a blogging hiatus to work hard on my dissertation, I've been blogging more than ever!?

The Lesson of the Moth

I was talking to a moth

the other evening

he was trying to break into

an electric light bulb

and fry himself on the wires

why do you fellows pull this stunt i asked him

because it is the conventional

thing for moths or why

if that had been an uncovered

candle instead of an electric

light bulb you would

now be a small unsightly cinder

have you no sense

plenty of it he answered

but at times we get tired

of using it

we get bored with the routine

and crave beauty

and excitement

fire is beautiful

and we know that if we get 

too close it will kill us

but what does that matter

it is better to be happy

for a moment and be burned up with beauty 

than to live a long time

and be bored all the while

so we wad all our life up

into one little roll

and then we shoot the roll

that is what life is for

it is better to be a part of beauty

for one instant and then cease to 

exist than to exist forever

and never be a part of beauty

our attitude toward life

is come easy go easy

we are like human beings

used to be before they became 

too civilized to enjoy themselves

and before i could argue him

out of his philosophy 

he went and immolated himself 

on a patent cigar lighter

i do not agree with him

myself i would rather have

half the happiness and twice the longevity

but at the same time i wish

there was something i wanted 

so badly as he wanted to fry himself

--archy

Last night I watched "Man on Wire," a documentary about Philippe Petit, the man who walked a tightrope between the two towers of the World Trade Center.

Petit had a burning need to perform an act so daring that in the moment of action he would exist in both life and death at the same time, willingly, compulsively.  It was so obvious to me that the walk itself was an ecstatic experience for him--in the mind-blowing sex sense of the word, but in the religious sense as well--that he had entered a place of "mystical self-transcendence."  He could only get there by suspending his regular life and going to a weird extreme that would be difficult for us to understand.  But it was his weird extreme.  For others with this tendency it might be something else...flying into a flame, for instance...I watched it and related so strongly that I began to wonder some strange wonderings...

Sarge, who loves Petit, and also has an encyclopedic store of poetry in his head, as well as an extensive collection of poetry books, and always the perfect quote for the moment, found this passage from "archy and mehitabel" and presented it to me today.  And we discussed the idea of these two styles of being--the moth, and archy.  Sarge, whose personal history includes a remarkable amount of adventure and bravery, although he wouldn't like me to say so (oops, flagged for blogging rule violation) it's true anyway, says he's archy through and through.  I asked him if he thought that I was archy or the moth, and no matter how hard I begged, he wouldn't bite.  He said that each person has to know that for himself.  So with that in mind, I've decided that somehow, I don't know how yet, or maybe I do but I can't remember, I'm the moth not archy.

So do you "shoot the roll"? Did you ever? Do you want to? Will you? Is your tightrope over the abyss a man you loved, a woman, a pursuit? Was it liquor or art? Did you put one foot on the wire and then hate it and turn back? Did you continue with clenched teeth or with reckless abandon? Or are you an onlooker on the ground, 100 stories below, whether like archy a bit jealous, or just happy that it's not you up there...

Some Personal Blogging Rules

I'm sure someone out there has done this, but I've been thinking a lot recently about some rules (or should I say proscriptions) that I should really keep in mind when I blog. Some I think are universal, some purely subjective. All of these I learned through hard personal experience.

1. Never make public pronouncements of intention that you may not follow. Example: You're a doctoral student, and you announce that you're going to take a blogging hiatus to devote more time to writing your dissertation. When you're back three days later, you will look like a royal ass.

2. Never blog angry. I mean really, really furious, not just pissed off or mildly irked. Don't do it. Just don't. No exceptions, none at all. Unless your anger is effectively masked in humor, which is really difficult to achieve. Thus far, I've avoided doing this, but largely through Sarge's interventions. At times he's had to physically restrain me from my computer.

Some corollaries, such as Never Blog Drunk, are not hard and fast rules. Drunk blogging can be fun for your readers; you must have a high tolerance, though, for personal humiliation. Also, it's best if you're of the "illllloooooveyooooumaaan" school of drunk and not of the "iiiiiimmmmmgooonnnnacuuutyooooou" school.


3. When posting something personal, always consider how people you respect would react to the disclosure: every blogger should have a personal gatekeeper, either real or imagined, someone whose very existence might keep you from posting something you'd regret. It's kind of like WWJD for the layman. When I'm feeling delusional, I like to imagine how Severus Snape would react to a post. He's not a bad gatekeeper, actually, because all those who have read the books know how guarded a character he is. He keeps himself to himself, giving away very little to those around him. I mean my god! we didn't even know about the massive torch he carried for that eyelash-batter Lily Potter, until the bitter end of Book 7 (although, and this is a complete digression, Sarge predicted that plot twist, in near-entirety, as early as Book 4 or 5...is he smart or did he have a secret communique with J.K.?)

In "real life" (and I use this term quite loosely), Sarge is my blogging touchstone. When I met him in college, at a time and at an age when I and everyone else was emoting all over the place, being touchy-feely, revealing all manner of personal secrets and shadows just to get attention or hook up, boys and girls alike, Sarge was dignified and loath to unload all his personal business. He's still like that, god bless him, and I aspire to his masterful circumspection. Let's be honest, though, I often consider his perspective and then go on to shamefully emote and reveal anyway...

4. Exercise extreme caution when blogging about politics or religion: This old truism holds for polite conversation as well as for blogging. I really like to hold forth on things, but it can get you into trouble in several ways. If people don't agree with you, it can make you mad and/or hurt your feelings profoundly. Also, I think you can make others mad and/or hurt their feelings. I keep uncontrollably blogging about politics, which I really don't think is a great idea, but I can't seem to stop myself. I've been lucky that the people who read this blog are so incredibly polite and tolerant!!!!!

5. Exercise extreme caution when blogging about your child: I'm not so sure I always adhere to this stricture, but as Hedgie gets older, it seems very important not to infringe on her privacy. My rule of thumb is, can she read what I wrote without becoming embarrassed/furious?

and finally, most importantly,

6. Don't eat soup over your keyboard as you blog: this one is self-explanatory, and goes also for overstuffed hoagies, chocolate eclairs, and of course hot coffee.

So, does anyone else out there have any personal blogging rules?

Rev. Joseph Lowery: Magically Old School

I just came off the inauguration, and I loved it. Barack Obama is hawkish like he needs to be, enigmatic and stern despite the fact that everyone on earth thinks mistakenly that he's their boyfriend/friend. I loved the performances (hello, clarinet? Who knew you were an instrument of angels), the poetry, Aretha's beautiful hat, the fittingly dark and somber ghost-written presidential address, all the God references (hey, I'm religious--I'm not so sure the atheists out there were as comfortable with it as I was).

But the stand-out as far as I'm concerned was the Rev Joseph Lowery. He packed a wallop with his growly octogenarian voice and religious fervor. He also delivered the finest words of the day:


"I'm equally certain that we will continue to pray for justice to roll down as waters, and for that day when there will be peace in the valley, and for that day when every man and every woman will sit under his or her own vine and fig tree and none will be afraid, and for that day when black will not be asked to get back, brown can stick around, yellow will be mellow, the red man can get ahead, man, and white will embrace what is right! Amen!"

In that moment, like it or not, formality went out of style, people had the sticks forcibly pulled from their butts, and even our frowny president just had to grin. Thank you Rev Lowery for cracking wise with such dignity.

My cynicism is intact, though, rest assured. I still wish that darned Obama had used his own words (see post below). Sigh. Maybe someday.

UPDATED: I'm already seeing the critiques of Lowery's rhyme round and about the interwebs--seems the stick is still wedged up there, at least in some cases. Why does everything have to be so careful? so precious? I guess this is exactly why Obama needs a speechwriter who reworks every utterance to death before it can be trotted out in public.

And on another note, Hedgie watched the inauguration at school, with great interest. I blew her mind out when I told her that Obama's speech wasn't his own. She said she was shocked--she thought that not only were those his words, but that he was speaking right off the cuff. I guess it's a testament to his terrific speaking ability. God I felt like I was telling her the tooth fairy didn't exist. She also told me that it was "hard to have a mama who doesn't always agree with everyone else about politics." (everyone else being the far left leaning liberals in our incredibly rarified neck of the woods). I told her "I'm a free thinker, Hedgehog, and it's good for you to grow up in a free-thinking household. You need to learn how to think for yourself and not always go along blindly with the herd." She said, "you're right, mama, but it's hard." I said "You bet it's hard, but it's the most important thing you'll ever have to learn."

This came on the heels of a conversation we had this morning when she said "all war is bad." I said, "what about when we had to fight the Nazis in WWII so that we could stop them from killing all the Jews?" She said, "Okay, maybe not that war, but all other wars. Like Iraq." I said, "why is Iraq a bad war?" She said, "I admit, I don't know that much about it." I reminded her that she could certainly have opinions, but that those opinions needed to be informed. I know that the parents of her friends, well by and large, offer their strong opinions to their children, but never really explain their reasoning. It's like they think the kids are old enough to take on their politics, but too young to really be offered facts and explanations. Drives me insane in the membrane.

Jon Favreau: Pete Townshend to Barack Obama's Roger Daltrey

Abraham Lincoln's 1861 Inaugural Address

Or as Sarge said, more like "Jon Favreau: Cole Porter to Barack Obama's Mel Torme."

To be a bit less opaque, why can't these presidents write their own speeches, like Churchill, or me for my Bat Mitzvah? What ever happened to good old-fashioned homiletics? I would love to hear an inaugural address written by the man himself. Why cannot he speak for himself? He's obviously capable, and I for one would rather hear something he labored over in his spare moments than a speech from the mind of a souped-up adolescent wordsmith-for-hire. Did Lincoln have a speech-writer? (okay, I Googled it just to be sure, and no he did not)

Come on Obama, I want to hear you in your own words! You're not someone's puppet! Let's call for genuine speeches people!!!!

*learns second lesson of blogging the hard way: 2. never make pronouncements like "I'm taking a blogging break to be more studious" or you're gonna embarrass yourself dude. (#1 is never blog angry/drunk/non compos mentis or otherwise compromised of sense and reason)*

Working on My Dissertation

Severus has told me in no uncertain terms that it's time to find my discipline again--and if I won't, he'll find it for me.

I need a hiatus to take care of business. Hopefully I'll have the willpower to stay away from my blog for a little while; you know, refresh, renew. Let's see how long I make it dudes!

See you on the flip side!