Archive for June 2010

A Net to Catch All That Fell Out Of Place

June 29, 2010

The great thing about literature is that someone else does the dirty work for you. You read something you like and it’s yours to quote, or live by, or discuss objectively. But you’ll never be responsible for having said it.
You can stand up for all that it means, but noone can knock you down for its implicatons. It will never be your child. Rather; it is a child you once babysat, or one who you allowed to play with your own children, but never Your Very Own.
Everyone who has ever longed to inhale the words back into their mouths has loved this about Other People’s Writing.

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Every night now I go to sleep fantasizing about staying in bed; through the morning, into the afternoon and onto the next evening I could stay in bed–utterly taken over by some debilitating sniffle.

‘Mine is a Georgian Handicap’

Lately it feels like I’m walking around with an over-sized, plywood, cut-out of my shadow; carrying it around like some Boston kid holds on to his puffer. Somehow I’m too small to manoeuvre it; it’s ungainly and seems redundant.
But it’s not; what if I run too fast? Or try to stand directly in the sun? This accessory could be the only thing standing between me and total dissolution.

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A Little Too Much Share-ing

June 24, 2010

I find it very hard to accept that my worldview is not viewed throughout the world, if you know what I mean (and according to the first part of that sentence, I would be inclined to think that you do…). I should, however, clarify (and in clarifying, contradict the above statement) that rather than seeing my perspective as superior, I believe I err by considering my perspective to be ubiquitous. I’m not seeing anything special, I’m just looking at what’s there. Classic mistake!

& in so doing, I guess that you could say I ‘project’. Maybe this happens because I chew on things so much that it’s hard for me to believe that you don’t know how they taste.
I also try to anticipate the feelings of others, and the combined effects of analysis of what is and speculation on what could be can be crippling.
And lately, I’m feeling lame.

When I read about a crime, for example, I will often ponder the emotional state (imagining in particular the choking remorse) of the criminal before I consider that of the victim. I put myself in the shoes of the wrongdoer. Then I feel like still more of a wrongdoer for thinking of the criminal before than the victim. I’m annoying that way.

It was once observed of me that I move through the world as if I were on trial. Constantly handing the power to affirm or condemn to people around me. Maybe that’s why I think so much about the emotional experience of the criminal.
Incidentally, if you cause pain to someone else then you can’t control that pain. If someone else causes you pain, what happens with that pain is to some degree in your own hands. So maybe it’s the control thing, again.
But if that’s the case, then why am I constantly handing control of my well-being over to others? Others who haven’t even asked for it! This would seem to be where it gets embarrassing…

It’s like I’m a stock or something–a girl gone public. Anyone can access my perspective as it’s a publicly-held quantity. My value rises and falls according to what’s going on around me.

Shit. I think I’m having an economic crisis……

Dog of Ages…

June 18, 2010

Andreas this morning suggested that I consider names of great figures in history for my theoretical squeeze.

I can’t help but feel that he’s erm…barking up the right tree, shall we say? I like the way it would seat my puppy in a larger context of history and great accomplishments, which–were it not confined to the rather more everyday business of being an adorable puppy, that is to say, were it human–my noble ruffian would surely achieve.

The rub is to find a name that’s both adorable and historical.

And I already know of a cat named Pushkin so that particular adorable name is out, because we are looking here to allude, not to copy.

So if you have any suggestions, feel free. As it is, I’ll kill a few brain cells on it…

Left To My Own Devices: An Experiment Gone Wrong

June 4, 2010

Today marks the second round of my experiment, ‘Making Coffee At Home.

Up until this week I hadn’t had coffee on the premises for over a year. When dearest McRobe last stayed with me, she gave my little Ikea stove-top unit the kind of swan song most languishing appliances can only dream of. I even drank a little coffee at home myself in those days; I enjoyed someone else being in the flat and making the coffee–it made my place feel so exhilaratingly lived-in. After she left, I just didn’t have the heart to buy coffee for the flat anymore. I tend to have this idea that I don’t make good coffee, and so as a rule I just don’t make it.

The only exception is when I’m in Saint John where–I guess–I feel as though I make comparatively good coffee. As in, you can’t hunt down a decent cup in that town to save your life; and as for the offerings at home–mom straight-up admits she likes it weak and filtered, so I tend to punch above my weight when I’m back at the ranch.  Big fish in a little pond–you know the score.

But here in my Kiez I ain’t no big fish. There’s lots to choose from, and I have my regular No.1.

My strategy, you could say, has been to outsource my coffee. By deliberately keeping coffee off the premises, I have been forced to get up, get myself organised, properly groomed, and processed like some kind of prize pig about to trot up to the judge.
Like any self-respecting sow, I like my mud served stiff and black.

God, that sounds wrong.

Deirdre, where are you now? You used to walk up through the market beside me as we cradled our coffees–a thin line of defence against the affront of high school. A coffee in one hand, you’d catch my freudian slips with the other.

Oh Gyaaawd! Could it be that the bitter taste my own coffee leaves in my mouth comes not from my lack of skill, but rather from the want of one to share it with?
This is not the kind of thought to have before 10am. Neither is it the kind of thought I would have been capable of coming up with without coffee in my system. A picture is emerging. The results of the experiment are coming in: the sow, it seems, should not be left to wallow in the mud unattended! A second pig–a buddy-pig–should always be on hand to see that the sow does not become too introspective. Pigs do, after all, like to root around.

Having documented a whole investigative arc in the above paragraphs, I must now away to live out my remaining hours as the heroic martyr-scientist–maimed by my own experiment. Until the caffeine vacates my bloodstream once and for all, I shall be here; alone and grooming.

Reading More Into Myself. Reading Less Out of Books

June 3, 2010

Alright, so here’s the thing: I haven’t read this little since I was illiterate. It worries me, if only a bit. If I was reading more lately then I would probably be worried about how little I’m reading but, frankly, I think that the cultural degeneration is taking hold and the result is that I don’t care that much.

For the last say, five weeks I’ve had the focus of a pinball machine. The first distraction was my Classifiedslust, which has since been seasoned with a little of this and a little of that, and now alongside it I’ve developed what could colloquially be termed spring fever. Maybe more like spring immunodeficiency–I am, after all, not a rabbit.

The effect of all this is that when I’d normally be reading, I am instead staring off into space. I’ve always been good at staring off into space; I stared good and I stared long. A chatty girl, I could even keep my mouth shut for the opportunity to empty my thoughts out the back door, as it were. These days, though, my capacity for taking in the void has grown such that I wouldn’t be surprised to find myself billed rent for the sheer increase in volume. It echoes in here.

But really. Really…..when I appear to be staring into space I am actually thinking; I am sucking on a thought. I roll it around my brain’s tongue like so many Lifesaver candies that I will refuse to share.
‘No,’
I tell you, ‘I have not brought enough for everyone in the class; this is my own stash. I made sure to lick them all and if you ingest one now you will catch my brain fever.’
The thoughts, the questions: my own carefully folded bundle of uncertainty; a private mystery like The Annunciation.
Except usually I’m just thinking about dogs.