Blog Word Cloud by Wordle

http://wordle.net

(I like it, but I know I have never used 'Godmutter' in here.)

An Arquebus That Was Used at Waterloo

Maybe I'm just really a conservative in everything and resistant to all change, but I think this all looks wretched with the new font, which normally doesn't to me seem tremendously different from Times (although I admit to being one of the seven people in the world that reads the little page in every book about fonts and typeset and the lonely man who does it).

It does seem a great deal easier to read, though (check out the now-totally-garish but still-as-sad-as-ever Counter below! yipes! it makes my failure at fame the much more obvious; all the more it could do would be to blink the sad stats in a glitter-ridden pink!), and as I was just telling the mother, some time in the next five or ten years I'm going to consider applying for corrective eyewear (ooh, wait, convene strategists and deliberate: not if Sarah Palin is just beginning her second term as President; although waitwait, I should by then have adapted to a different updo or shaved These Ebon Locks (As glossy as a heron's wing/Upon the turban of a king) (which o'erspread my youthful neck/ my cheeks a bashful red) altogether, and everyone will be as appalled with her as they are of any second-term incumbent, even if they voted for him/her twice, so no connection will necessarily be made between my deteriorating eyesight and the former governor of Alaska's accessorizing and grooming tendencies).

Anyway, I think all the words look really big, as though I mean what I say and wish to be aggressive about putting it forward.

All I wanted was a bloody cedille. Not a revolution. Of course the fact that the links list is now so obstreperous makes me feel as though I have to address the fact that some don't even link to the main page but some 'August 2005' recap of something or other that was well and duly settled by March of that year if not before.

I want this blog to be pleasing to the eye much as my home is, but with my home I bring in or take away stuff, or move a stuff to place it didn't use to be and in which its presence will be more felicitous than previously. I am not, in other words, reduced to 'formatting' in the case of stuffs and house. In the case of this accursed blog, in marked contrast, I do not have the option of simply moving a jardinière or flower arrangement closer to the screen and a bit to the left or right; I have to do all sorts of soul-destroying things to the code of the copy of the image of the photo of the vase (or something equally geneological and even less-well understood), cross my fingers, cross myself, feveredly pound a glass of a dangerous Barolo, and stare at the screen in abject and unholy fear while holding my breath and pressing 'enter,' 'save,' or another similarly ridiculous copulatory or soteriological command, none of which verbs I particularly wish to engage in with a computer.

I feel in matters technological not unlike Noël Coward's beleaguered Colonel Montmorency felt with regard to his Home Guard troops' lack of necessary materiel. Except there is no superior to whom I might even vainly address my petitions. There's just me, and some really huge type. And the song is admittedly a lot better when sung, and most particularly when it's Coward himself doing the singing. But if I can't even format a blog to conform to my wishes, I most assuredly cannot conjure Mr. Coward sitting at my piano and killing me softly with his stirrup-pump.


'...Poor Colonel Montmorency tried, at infinite cost to time and pride
To tackle his superiors again;
Having just one motorbike, fourteen swords and a marlin spike,
He wrote the following letter in the following urgent strain:

Could you please oblige us with a Bren gun?
We need it very badly, I'm afraid.
Our local crossword solver has an excellent revolver,
But during a short attack on the fort, the trigger got mislaid.

In course of operations planned for Friday afternoon
Our orders are to storm the Hippodrome,
So if you can't oblige us with a Bren gun
The Home Guard might as well go home.

Could you please oblige us with a Bren gun?
The lack of one is wounding to our pride.
Last night we found the cutest, little German parachutist:
He looked at our kit, and giggled a bit, and laughed until he cried.

We'll have to hide that armoured car when marching through Berlin;
We'd almost be ashamed of it in Rome.
So if you can't oblige us with a Bren gun,
The Home Guard might as well go home.'

Wedges and Edths

As part of my continuing quest not to be the dumbest person ever, I started wondering how I might be able more easily to insert foreign characters* in here. When the Character Set would offer me selections in the default font (Arial) (which it turned out was not even the one the post font was set to) (Times) (but why would I know that? They came out with serifs on the blog!), I would have recourse to some that I needed, like E's both aigu and grave, but for C-cedille I needed to Google some Froggy or Turkic word that contained it, use an entry where the character was not in bold (because Blogger would retain that formatting, and I am not smart enough to know how to remove it when obvious steps do not), and then cut and paste it into the entry because the character set in that font does not have it except in majuscule which, despite my low standards, looks every bit as stupid in the middle of 'faÇade' as I think it does.

My solution, when cutting and pasting seemed too labourious, was to use a terminal sigma and call it done, as with faςade. You probably didn't even notice.

But what I don't understand is why different commonplace fonts would have differing selections of diacritics and/or languages' alphabets from others. (I.e., were there some definitive studies done showing that Courier users consistently need letters that Georgia fans do not?) Not to mention wondering why in Arial I can get access to a capital C-cedille, not to mention a Latin C with both an acute and a cedille and a 'Latin Small Letter Sideways Open O' but be barred from what seems to be a far more regularly used character than either of those? So now everything will be in Georgia (allegedly), wherein I can not only use C-cedilles as liberally as I please, but also toss in a few 'Greek Small Letter Iota with Dialytika and Tonos' when I want.

So here is a final goodbye to Final Sigma. You've been good to me, but just like the loden-green wedges the thieves stole 1/2 of from the car, you were never quite right, anyway. And leave off the hissing; it's unbecoming.

ςςςςςςςςςςςςςςςς.....

*By which I mean more of the sigmas-and-edths type and less the Louis-the-Fourteenth sort.

'You Have to Think Like a Pilot.'

When I started this blog, my reasons were:
a) people told me to do it ('people' also told me I should get married, and we know how that went);
b) I figured it would be a good exercise in discipline (it wasn't);
c) it seemed like a better, more socially-sensitive outlet for my tirades than foisting long ranting emails about pepper grinders in the shape of roosters on people who just wanted to know if I wanted to get some dinner Thursday. (Success!)

And with some generous periods of silence, I've managed fairly frequently to write at least something. Which I think is good and proves I should be doing this or, minimally, that however crap whatever it is I'm going on about at any given time is, I have sufficient motivation to go on about it, and in this forum, rather than face-to-face, in a journal, through email, or by stealing a megaphone and standing outside yelling about poor taste in front of terrifyingly misconceived subdevelopments. So far so good; I think I am content with the 'Just because I'm not Goethe doesn't mean I shouldn't have a blog' stance.

But once it kind of evolved into having a voice/persona behind it - even if the focus or the voice itself changes at times, because we can say each little slant is part of the larger, overall slant - I kept thinking about all the goofy tags. Few serve any practical taggy purpose: nobody does searches for 'appalling taste' or 'Tuscan toilets,' and if they do, I don't think they want to end up here. Nor would a serious-minded searcher for Amelia Earhart trivia get very much rewarding stuff by clicking on her name in my tags. For what it's worth, I know which picture I have of her, but I have no idea why she's in here, what kind of a point I would have making to have had need of natty early-20th-c. aviatrices to support it, but I see her name every time I look at the blog, since she is up near the top of the tag list under A.

There are a couplefew problems. One is the disincentive of how much effort it would take to winnow down all the tags and to make new, sensible ones that might actually provide a clue as to what a posting is about. And it would be a very dull list. Another is that I like how the tags applied to a post better illustrate its content, just in a different way, than labeling it very precisely with what topics it literally contains. Then, too, I still find some of the goofy tags amusing to myself, and if this is really a blog, then that's my target audience: so as long as I keep chuckling nothing else should matter. I like having three entries obliquely or explicitly referencing 'bad monkeys' and another four mentioning Gauloises cigarettes, even if the postings are more substantively about interior design or telephones or pastry cream disasters.

And I imagine I could at least get rid of the ones that only link to one or two posts. 'Amelia Earhart' would be one of that group. But in many cases there is no reason to think I will only ever have one post that mentions that thing or person, so why take it out if I'm going to put it back in, I say. Still, I do think I could afford the time at some point to lose tags for types of wine and just have all fermented grape products under one 'wine' label, for example, without substantively compromising integrity. I could move all three 'fatuous boobs' and both 'idiocy' references to, perhaps, 'fatuity,' 'overarching incompetence,' or 'inanity,' depending on the content. But the thing is, when the posting is really a rant, or some ghastly stream-of-consciousness catalogue of aesthetic sins, and I go all over the place connecting things that in no way relate to each other except thematically and only to myself in some damp corner of my brain, I do go through the list of tags and often find one to append that I wouldn't have thought of had I not had such a long list. And today, I had to add 'China,' which I almost have many times but didn't because I had enough 'Chinese __________' tags. I didn't, on the other hand, make a new tag for 'Nestorians,' but I am sure I will have to at some point, and then it's going to end up between 'neo-Darwinism' (1 link) and 'neuroses' (likewise just the one) unless those have been excised by that point as having been insufficiently utile for all the nonexistent topic-shoppers reading my tag list hoping to find something truly worth reading.

You have to think like a cornichon.

Sarah Palin's Hairstyle: Leave It Alone!

Sarah Palin as VP candidate may or may not prove to be a brilliantly maniacal move. We will see what happens; in the meantime, riveting though her story is, and as complex a figure as she may be, I am sad that my own most-favored hairstyle (see above; way, way above, up in the header) is being pilloried ceaselessly by cosmetological hatemongers.

It is not a beehive,

as journalists, bloggers, editorialists, and other such ill-informed numbskulls continue to call it. It is, however, a hairstyle that adds a little height, which some of us can benefit from. Additionally, being an updo, it conveys slightly more sophistication, and the weest soupςon of gravitas when necessary, than long, loose hair does,

while not suggesting the prudery that people seem to read into tightly-pulled-back chignons.

Mind you, I can pull off the archest of chignons and ballerinabuns, but I have eyes the size of pancakes, so it is only with extreme effort that I can manage to look 'hard' or severe under any circumstances.

Nonetheless, I resent the fact that every time henceforth I hastily put together a French-Twist-with-a-Pouf with nothing but hope, two bent bobby pins, and a rearview mirror to guide me, I run the risk of being accused of sporting 'A Sarah Palin.' It is a sad year for grooming indeed.

Difference and Disability

So then, this brings up the question of 'what is a disability?'. I can't answer the question without drawing on my own life, my own experiences and knowledge of other people. There is, however, a standard answer which certainly forms a part of my larger, personal one: a disability can be inferred in an individual testing below a certain level on an IQ test, and by difficulty in an agreed-upon number of 'adaptive skills' such as feeding, cleaning, or clothing oneself, mobility, communication, social fluency, and the ability to get and retain a job.

In my more expansive definition, the consequences of a disability are another way to diagnose its presence. If we are alienated from others, that is proof we have a disability. One obvious thing that produces this estrangement from others is difference: a different body or a different brain, obviously, but just as much a different home culture or religion, different traditions, a different language, illiteracy, poverty, mental illness, scars from childhood, selfishness, insecurity, jealousy, fear. These are disabilities because they keep us from interacting with others as richly as we otherwise could and, by barring us from truly connecting with others, from reaching our own potential to be fully human.

Because some of them have only transactional or contingent value, the difference is that with some of these afflictions we have the choice of whether or not to show our brokenness, a privilege not granted to every person with every disability. We may still be as insecure about our scrawny arms as we were in seventh grade, but if we bulk them up, or even simply walk with a swagger or a sidearm, no one need ever know. We have the luxury of hiding a fear of rejection, for example, behind a supercilious or dismissive attitude, but that fear, however well hidden to others, still exists and thus precludes true intimacy with others.

So I just think the overwhelming majority of us are disabled in significant ways. The manner in which our frailty manifests itself may not preclude abundant, pleasant, superficial contact with others but, inasmuch as it means we cannot fully offer ourselves to others, and thus receive the entire richesse, the whole, the true self, of others in return, it is every bit as limiting as all those things conventionally labeled 'disabilities.'

And, rats, I still didn't say what it was I was trying to say for months on this. God bless blogs: there's always tomorrow. Someday it will, despite all my best efforts, say precisely what I mean it to say...

'Even he,

to whom most things that most people would think were pretty smart were pretty dumb, thought it was pretty smart.' - Douglas Adams (patently, no less!)

So, I had some fish and chips and beer with the exhusband the other night. The musician one, not the gay one. Not that that one isn't a musician, too; they both are, and they both even play winds, just to make it more confusing, and they both teach, and they were both born within twenty-four hours of the other one. One grew up on an island; one lives on an island now, and the one who grew up on one also lived on the island of Honshu, which is where my brother and his family live now, although, apart from some mad air-guitar, the brother is rather less a musician than my various exhusbands, making him, at least, easy to distinguish. They were also both brown-haired and the same height, unlike my brother, who is not the same height as anyone. So you see how it can get infernally confusing to distinguish between them.

Despite all that, the exhusband is, naturally, dismayed at the tone the blog appears to be taking. All I can say is, A) I tried to maintain the coyness as regards spirituality and belief as long as I could, turning to overt ethical stances stapled to implicit conclusions to guide readers gently, fluidly, and subtlely into an occasional New Thematic Realm. I still reserve the right to call down imprecations on Mobil stations disguised as El Greco paintings, forests, or Roman hippodromes, and I patently intend still (not only to continue to overuse 'patently,' 'unsurprisingly,' and 'manifestly' but also) to insert irrelevant photos of perfume bottles, typographical coups, Central Asian needlework, and obscenely adorable palm-sized animals. But the fact is that if my ethical preoccupations obtrude herein - and they do - then surely the basis for them should likewise. Still, I realize that there are very many sound and good people who can get behind this or that stance of mine, but not fully with what leads, in my heart, at any rate, up to it.



But then, for them, I think: read backward. Start and stop with the praxis, which many would argue is the meaty part anyway, and leave the θεωρία to Adam Smith and Karl Marx. And, frankly, we end up at the same point, anyway, which is that if you are doing good, you're doing good, and if you're not - well, we both suspect you'll know it. The only difference is that I was pleased at some point to realize not only that there was an Urgrund behind all those values, choices, and yearnings, but that, conveniently felicitously, I already believed in it.

So, fine.

and B) I did contemplate, after a long-overdue recognition that having a multiply-segmented life was driving me a bit insane, the notion of having a post welcoming readers to the Explicitly Spiritual Section of the Blog. But I didn't bother because I never tried hard enough to have it come out amusing. So I opted instead for the Invisible Awkward Segue. Of course that's never a good idea, even if you're not trying to be de Man or Derrida. And so I am sorry. It was obtrusive; it was steep, sudden, and unwarranted, and it was probably a lot like basking in the middle of an Elle article on comparative depilation and then at the turn of a page being caught unawares in the midst of the final, prescriptive chapter in the still-typo-ridden galley version of some hand-wringing dissertation on the loss of the second-person vocative particle amongst the last fourteen speakers of X.

So I do apologize. I thought sneaking in more farm workers and food banks would help pave the way for the occasional saint, particularly if I made mention of how hard it was becoming to maintain a consistent voice. Now, though, I think it might be more consistent as a whole by not excluding one or other topics for the sake of maintaining a particular posture. The fact is, my spirituality is a part of my life, so it stands to reason it would be a part of this blog, as well, even if I demand to retain my right also to lambast (using the alt. sp. helps keep images of dry turkey and high-hatted Puritans at bay) examples of bad design, poor taste, petty theft, and my own misdriving, misjudgment, and misnavigation when I please.

Therefore, children: Welcome to the Explicitly Spiritual Section of the Blog. Except for all the parts that aren't. Including this pretty little display from Black and Spiro:

Horsemanship, and Head-Banging in Limoges

Since I found it bizarre and interesting when I discovered that my posting about Lorca's 'Thamar y Amnón' put me high up on Google for that subject (I wasn't looking for me, but for the original essay that had sparked my ire, because I hadn't bothered to bookmark it), today I decided to see what happened if I just Googled 'Vifargent.' Well, Geneviève Benoit and her Parelli-method horse- and rider-training school in Québec are still flourishing at http://www.vifargent.com, which is good for them and good for Québecois horses, even if there will never come a time when I believe that inventing the word 'horsenality' was a good thing.

But possibly more fabulous still is 19-year-old Vincent in Limoges, whose Vifargent blog is about music and manga and proceeds backwards, with newer posts at the end, which is good in his case because the story opens with him setting out his intent for the blog and his tastes to be covered therein. And his tastes include Rammstein, Nightwish, the Offspring, the Finnish monster-metal group Lordi, and anything along those lines that will make him bang his head. Making him the perfect contrast to the Cistercians, Savonarola-'n-Saints direction this blog seems to be taking.

Although they do not quite match the young Vincent's aesthetic, here are three Limoges jardinières. I am not putting up pictures of Finnish monsters playing guitar here. Savonarola's profile was contrast enough. Interesting, though, that I did just talk about benefit rock concerts. On the other hand, I suspect Rammstein has done rather few of those, although I could certainly be wrong.

'Dear Prudence

And in the tradition of Sunday posts wherein WNYC's 'On the Media' on the way home from church always seems to relate directly to whatever I had been thinking earlier in the day, here goes:

'On the Media' was on the Internet today. Well, it's always on the Internet if you want to find it, at http://www.onthemedia.org, but this time it was on the subject of the Internet. Here is the link for 'On the Media' on the Internet, on the Internet.

The show was an exploration of aspects of 'digital democracy,' in which such issues as maturity, anonymity, restraint, tolerance, hate, and even my old stand-by, compassion, arose. Surely our print selves, even with name attached and bound in book form, are not identical to our living, feeling, physical, social selves; the relationship between the two is, in many cases, increasingly tenuous the further away from the nexus of social reality, relationships, name, and reputation the writer gets. And anonymous comments on the Internet are about as void of social context as anything could be.

Some people cleave to politeness and consideration regardless of venue. On the other hand, while Ira Glass on the show told of vicious, hurtful things written anonymously to the subjects of a sad and deeply personal vignette on the 'This American Life' comments section, I've seen shockingly and unconscionably mean postings on web forums about religious life and vocations, in which troubled individuals pour out their hatred by calling non-habited religious, or religious of this or that community, all sorts of disgusting things. In the latter case, I should think the self-selection involved, in which all readers are presumably hoping for and working toward the same thing, would have precluded such puerile and nasty behavior.

And yet anonymity, and by extension all the Web, seem to offer an unlimited license to let the Id run free, to discard normal conventions and even ethics in pursuit of untrammeled expression of whatever caliber. I don't know that it's gotten worse in general, or that there are simply so many more people using it, but it does seem like now a greater number of rational arguments than before in every type of venue quickly degenerate into 'You're just stupid,' to which the counterargument these days runs, succinctly, 'F- you!'

...greet the brand new day.'

The Sickness Unto Death (Not.)

And, lest you all think I am so holy and attuned to the wishes of my brethren that I am going to follow this gentleman's urging and end my life because I don't like Billy Joel, here is my reader's guide to the personal weblog, or at least to this one, and here is where I (uncharitably) address prospective and actual readers' concerns over the quality and content of this thing. I know I'm not Proust, but unless you have the very worst teacher in the world and this blog is assigned reading, it's kind of unskillful to waste time pouring out hatred when you can just click a button and go elsewhere. It does seem a bit silly to read stuff you hate, doesn't it?

'Stay me with flaggons,

Comfort me with apples: for I am sick with Love.' --Song of Songs

My good heavens. I'm reading parts of St. Bernard's commentary on the Song of Songs, and I just noticed that someone left the goofiest mean comment (anonymously) on the Barnes and Noble post. Fascinating timing, as with everything these days. Anyway, I approved it and let it in because I think it is interesting - not to mention troubling - when people are so angry that they will use any forum available to them just to get rid of one tiny piece of that venom. As though there were some literal, physical store of it, like a bank account into which and from which quantities could be put and taken. If I could spend it all, in other words, I could deplete the account and finally return to civil and friendly interactions. In emptying it I might be again made whole.

Of course it doesn't really work that way. We don't lose our anger by throwing it around as much as we can, by dishing it out to everyone who crosses our path. There isn't an actual, finite amount of it for us to shepherd or amass interest or over-limit charges on. Frankly, it builds within us the more we live in it and the more we give in to seeing the world as one filled with enemies. And unity, even in small doses, even among small groups, can seem overwhelmingly daunting when you really try to absorb the fact that even the genuine and good-willed still ineluctably see the world only through one pair of eyes. Still, telling strangers to go kill themselves does seem a bit extreme in the other direction. Even if the stranger does dislike 80s pop icons Billy Joel and Elton John.

And I think it is obvious that there is so much more loneliness and anomie in the world now than was ever even possible before. People are disconnected, often isolated much of the time -- and how can I see someone as my brother when I haven't even met him? Maybe it is a leap, but equally so is seeing the stranger as the enemy and reacting in that manner.

I was actually going to write something about this the other day, but I couldn't find a way to make it not sappy. With Mr./Ms. Anonymous as inspiration, however, I can give it a try. My point was going to be about the fairly amazing day-to-day consequences of vigorously trying to keep love and respect in the forefront when dealing with other people. Some of us believe a reward will come in the next stage of life if we treat others well in this one, but we can choose to have a very different sort of life right here by opening up our hearts now and trying to act out of love.

I'm not even referring to any grandiose schemes, or recognizable 'acts of mercy' per se. Just being nice, basically. Not taking your frustration with a bad sleep into your interaction with the bank teller. Stopping for every pedestrian. Letting the right-turn guy merge without resistance. Asking the waiter where he got his watch, the neighbor how his rebuilt Triumph is coming. Sending an email to a store manager because the clerk was extra helpful. Refusing to tailgate the slow old lady in the Lincoln. And then actually thinking about why it is old ladies drive slowly, and imagining what your own world will be like when you yourself are eighty.

This is where it gets sappy, and I don't have the skill to make it otherwise. The fact is, if you take just one day of assiduously being nice to everyone you encounter, it will be an amazing day for you. If when someone goes on about something in a way that seems stupid, or excessive, or so alien to your own understanding, you might genuinely try to read what is behind it, why that person needs to say it, and is saying it in that particular way - not only will your blood pressure drop and you stop rolling your eyes, but you will know more about yourself as well as the other person. You will also have the additional opportunity to think about why you were given that experience at that time, and thus the chance to take even more from it. And you will come home at the end of the day satisfied and full and happy, having had twenty or thirty truly human, truly pleasant and enriching encounters with other people. Sappy, perhaps, but completely true!

Anyway, here is one pretty gorgeous thing St. Bernard had to say about love, which is far better than anything I could hope to write and not sappy in the slightest:

'Love is sufficient of itself, it gives pleasure by itself and because of itself. It is its own merit, its own reward. Love looks for no cause outside itself, no effect beyond itself. Its profit lies in its practice. I love because I love, I love that I may love. Love is a great thing so long as it continually returns to its fountainhead, flows back to its source, always drawing from there the water which constantly replenishes it.'

Confusing but Comforting

I am a bit mystified. There has been an odd surge in numbers of people reading this goofy blog in the last week, and I cannot for the life of me figure out why.

Here is what I have covered in that time period:

-Catholics
-Compassion
-Commandments (yikes, eh?)
-Cats
-Cats
-Cats
-Courtesans
-Cooking
-Canada
-Cohen
-Campesinos in California (four of whom have died in the past month), and
-Comedy, even.

So you can see why I'm shocked. I didn't once cover Angelina Jolie, or how to make a million dollars in a week. I can only imagine what will happen when I get to the letter D.

Those Pesky Dominicans Return -

and just where you'd least expect them...

To begin, here are some of the books I'm reading right now: Chesterton's Aquinas bio in a double volume with his Francis, Josipovici's On Trust: Art and the Temptation of Suspicion, Rancière's Hatred of Democracy, the Dalai Lama's The Good Heart, Jean-Luc Nancy's Dis-Enclosure: the Deconstruction of Christianity, and Ratzinger's Truth and Tolerance: Christian Belief and World Religions. Apart from the Chesterton, which is very chatty, 'personable,' and inviting, the rest are more, well, I take time off. With different things: with the Chesterton, with poetry (a lot of Jorge Guillén at the moment), a slim, early volume by Eco on aesthetics in the Middle Ages and, I just decided today when I lay down for a nap, Merton's The Sign of Jonas, which I probably haven't read since I was 17 or 18.

Now, why there is no fiction in there, either as a primary reading or as 'relief,' is that I can't do with a novel what I can do with poetry or non-fiction, which is to say stop and start wherever and whenever I please. In fact, even with language textbooks, as long as you have a good base already you can go forward and backward, practicing just the dative case one day and the past dubitative-abilitative mood the next. A good novel consumes the reader to the exclusion of all other books until it is sated; a bad one merely bores and is tossed away - and then the reader is back where he started in either case.

And at the moment I am enjoying this profligacy, so no novel right now.

But back to Merton.
As I said, this particular book I haven't read in many years. It is five years of Merton's daily journal early in his vocation just before and after his ordination, an it was interesting (in a manner now completely unshocking to me) that I picked it today, as just last night I had written to a friend just starting a blog how sometimes I become frustrated with what I would call the 'definitional' issues of the medium. It is not at all a diary, though a personal blog does, or can, share attributes with that form. It's not the same as even a completely open op-ed column, since if the blog is truly non-commercial/personal, the sense of writing for/to one's audience is naturally different - if the writer even considers the issue of audience at all.

For me, certain topics seem clearly too boring to subject others to (not that I don't sometimes ignore this concern altogether), some too emotional to discuss in a (potentially, at least) public space, some too heavy or controversial to feel right mixing them in with postings about shoe organization and exboyfriends' irksome proclivities. Then, too, there is the idea of coherence of the whole, coherence of voice, something which has bedeviled me to the point of not posting anything at different times, because the stuff I was writing about wasn't 'bloggy' enough in my view. I have no idea how to address this, because worrying about it overmuch defeats one of the points of personal weblogs, which is that sense of freedom the medium shares with diaries, but which distinguishes it from even the most unrestricted columns in the paid world. Minimally, a columnist would have to find a way to unify that week's concern with the voice and the stance that come through the column as a whole. More typically, the subject itself would have to appear clearly congruent with the other topics in the series.

But back to me.


I'm not a columnist (despite any sartorial similarity to Peggy Noonan in the above; I'm just running out of photos and my mother insists upon 'seeing your pretty face' every so often). Any sense of wishing a consistent voice or outlook or stance is my own preoccupation, comes from my own meditations on why anyone would be writing one of these things in the first place, and a desire to make it 'earn its keep.' The reason I started to write a blog was as a discipline, to make myself write regularly. The reason I was told to write a blog is the same as with anyone who has demonstrated evidence of writing ability: people tell you that since you can write, you should write; in fact, you should 'be a writer.'

Which, as those less reactionary among us are all too aware, is something altogether different than merely being able to write. And it is not solely a matter of discipline: being able to expatiate endlessly on the differential merits of various wardrobe-organizational systems is not the same as being able to write 500 pages on the social history of wardrobe-organizing systems, nor certainly 500 more on the history of railroad building in Japanese-occupied Manchuria.

And yet there is overlap: those who taught themselves to read, those who spent their childhoods in books, read books about books and books about words, those to whom language comes easily and those for whom a well-turned description is as alluring as a well-turned ankle, clearly have much in common with those who spend lifetimes capturing their own or others' lifetimes in print. Even if not Writers, they can certainly be called writers, without any need of scare quotes to emphasize their non-professional status. I look at it this way: my exhusband was and is a musician. He can do other jobs, he has done other jobs; like all of us, he has various different abilities. But his gifts as a musician are so clear, so profound, that they are, I would argue, constitutive of who he is, his self, his way of being in the world, such that one reveals much of substance to say about him 'he is a musician,' the copula there doing what it is has the power to do but seldom does.

But back to Merton.

As I said above, I enjoy being able to open books and start reading at whatever page I happen to land on. It doesn't always work so well while in school, I admit, but I'm not in school, and I like the way it works much of the rest of the time. In cases of postmodern history and historiography, it works very, very well, I must say, as I get to miss the introduction wherein the same list of the same secondary sources is tiresomely trotted out to ensure the reader understands just how thoroughgoingly postmodern the coming exegesis of trends in kitchen appliances in postwar Bavaria is going to be. I like skipping that bit and getting right to the riveting parts about the evolution in backsplashes and cupboard-pulls.

Anyway, not that Merton has exhausting prefaces, or cites much Gramsci, Derrida, Butler, or Homi Bhabha, but part of my enjoyment in reading this way, at least with certain types of material, is to imagine why I'm being given what I'm being given right then. It's often shocking, and always productive. I tuned in when Merton has just become a subdeacon, and I had to go back a few pages to find out what he was referencing when he referenced his current experience with Sertillanges' La Vie Intellectuelle. It turns out (a few pages earlier, which is one of the downsides of this reading method) that he received a copy during this time, when he was really struggling with writing what became The Ascent to Truth. He got stuck a lot, he wrote a good deal he was completely unhappy with, but spending time with Sertillange had on him 'the effect that Dale Carnegie's advice might have had on a despondent salesman.'

Now, I've loved Merton forever. He taught me invaluable things, led me in all sorts of meaningful directions, and I have to say a good deal of that was due to the personal tone of much of what he wrote. I do love struggling with prickly authors and thorny texts at times, and in my weaker moments I can take great delight in the recondite and the recherché, but we're all human, and it is only the deeply, universally human expressed in the works of great novelists, poets, memoirists, and diarists that speaks directly to the heart, and results in a staggering convincement of the soul, rather than a gradual assent via logic.

***Because this is already too long for a blog posting, I'm going to leave this with 'logic' as the last word in the body, since that is surely a one-off, and I should savor it!

Get Your Own Bloody Flag!

To those of you who hope to dictate the topics or timbre of this blog I have a couple things to say.

One is that it is not your blog. I should think this would be apparent, as it is my picture and my words which figure most prominently herein. But since it clearly is not as obvious as all that, here is my flag. I am planting a flag, so this space is now mine. You are welcome to stay, and have a mint julep or a Bloody Caesar according to your country's custom and some of those canapés over there, and listen to a story or a rant, but you cannot move in and take over the territory. That I have put my flag down here proves that.


Secondly, you should understand you are not my demographic. You are one person. One person is not a demographic, unless that one person is me. That I myself could be construed as my onlylonely target demographic is evidenced by the fact that I use the words 'patently' and 'frankly' with the same frequency as I use the word 'the,' as well as the fact that I employ my own idiosyncratic punctuation scheme in which I italicize words in quotation marks all the time in some kind of super-double quotativity -- and yet don't care. I don't care because this is my blog not my dissertation, and I don't care because if you are not sufficiently entertained as to keep reading, then you should by all means not continue reading.

Unless your intent in continuing is to ascertain before offering me a book deal whether my egregious lapses in syntax, my meretricious embrace of both high and low diction, and my slipping between overdone Latinate multi-clause monstrosities and staccato Anglo-Saxon gunfire can be ameliorated with the assistance of a patient and judicious editor.

Which it is not. Your intent, I mean.

So, if you are disenchanted, if you don't care how much sandalwood or oud I used in the last perfume, if you don't want to hear that I think none of the candidates is qualified to steer this Narrenschiff out of the shoals, or that in an effort to save time I electrocuted myself by toasting bread while bathing, or that I ate nothing but licorice over the weekend, or that I am contemplating making a flip-book of clothing items in order to make outfit selection a more organized and enjoyable procedure, then the best I can do is to relay a rumor recently passed to me that these Interwebs have some kind of 'page' on which you can write your dream of an electronic reading or viewing selection, and the Interwebs will then write for you suggestions of where you can go to find that. If I have been shorter of shrift on the travails of the house of Gucci than you might like, or if you wish I had talked more about the origin of the proscription against the split infinitive in English, then maybe you will find your dream elsewhere. In the meantime, click 'NEXT BLOG' at the top of this page. And may it be in Uzbek!

Apologies to the Monkeys

Let me be clear: I don't hate monkeys! I realize now that between the descriptions of my personal struggle to write this blog unfettered and my disparaging remarks about the candidates' lack of individuation I may have come across as a unforgivable speciesist, or a raging crypto-neo-Darwinian! Far from it. I love the little monkeys! All of Primata are my friends; from their scent glands to their tapetums to their strangely-modified digits and the sacculated stomachs of cercopithecoids they, and their wondrous adaptations, give beauty to my days and sweet dreams to my nights. I just don't want an Alouatta in the White House, or a Daubentonid as an editor, pointing that crazy 'finger' at the screen or in my eye (-aye)...

I hear, yet say not much, but think the more.

Shakespeare, Henry VI, Pt. 3, IV, 1

I was going to get my nails done today, but problematically I took a nap that lasted until 22:30. That also precluded following through on any evening plans. Not that I'm saying I had any. Also not to mention sabotaging any hope of a regular bedtime or waking. Not that I'm divulging what those normally are, or even that I am so rigid as to adhere to a pattern.

I was going to steam the rugs, too. Not that I wish to indicate that I have access to water.

Although I feel a tremendous sense of liberation as to what I can or cannot say now, and while I still hope the point of writing a Personal Weblog in the first place is not having to worry about whether or not one sounds snarky, the fact remains that there will always now be a chill in the air as I imagine someone scrutinizing every post for Signs.

Which of course there aren't. And I sometimes start things and finish them later, and only then try to decide whether they should be dated as 'then' or 'now.' Although I admit that the Blackwater entry was something I encountered that same day I posted it.

No, this won't do. I really don't want this to become a blog concerned solely with the antics of the neighbor's cat and Internet snippets I find amusing or tragic. Or an extended apologia for my belief that there truly is something in between, that I do believe in a middle -- in fact a big, hearty one like the Average American Middle, and that, further, it is in that middle that I imagine most things to reside.

It's just that the middle isn't that entertaining.

For example, today I did not get stuck in any particularly egregious traffic. I missed it, in other words, both coming and going. I was moderately pleased by McCain's moderate success and what it might or might not portend, and likewise mildly bemused by Clinton's lack of the foregone-conclusion landslide. I had the intent to steam some clothes, but was slightly saddened that I had left the water in the steamer too long and came to the mildly disheartening realization that, while agitation with white vinegar inside the chamber helped a bit, a proper cleaning would require the purchase and application of a baby-bottle-sort-of brush, the undertaking of which I with the vaguest sense of resignation felt better left to another day.

I likewise awoke from my tranquil yet perhaps excessive nap with a middling discomfort surrounding the realization that tomorrow I will possibly have a marginally puffy face. This minor regret as regards the conjectured effects of my temporary intemperance in matters of adhering to strict diurnality was offset by the realization that I could simply hold bags of frozen spinach up to one eye with my arm-thigh while using the other eye to assist the fingers of one hand in painting those of the other. If the need to atone for my indolence should arise (understanding that the odds of such an arising are nearly nil), I could strap, if I wished, the bag of spinach over alternating eyes with an aromatherapeuticized silk scarf while steaming the carpets, thus rendering any discussion or internal dialogue as to the effects of my negligible profligacy on either the productivity or cosmetic arenas nil.

In addition, I was suffused by low-grade joy when the neighbor's cat came to call, as well as by his choosing to lay on my stomach. He has not, as of this writing, yet done anything to cause either consternation or ecstatic exuberance, nor has he engaged in any overtly comical 'antics.' He was a bit miffed about the weather, but did not tremble, jump on things, or make unsettling sounds, so pathos, too, is out.

I ate a mostly nutritious dinner but did not go overboard. That is to say, it was at the same time high-fat as well as accompanied by yogurt and the vegetable-seaweed condiment/nutritional powder. It was tasty, but not excessively so. And I ate a shellfish-shaped Belgian chocolate after. I did feel the merest tinge of regret that I neither had on hand a bottle of the sort of wine one would not regret popping open for just one and leaving largely undrunk, nor had sufficient motivation to go to a store and procure just such a mediocre and moderately-priced selection. I then effaced that tinge when I realized that even one glass would likely enhance rather than diminish the sleep-disturbing effects of the long nap, which realization conduced to a subtle relief commingled with a vague joy. When, later, the appropriate dose for my weight of melatonin succeeded in creating the appropriate measure of somnolence at a reasonable hour, I was pleased, but not to an extent that would have adversely affected my newfound sleepiness.

In addition, somewhere in there I bathed, and styled my hair. I did not take an extravagant Bubble Bath, or fill the tub with milk or rose petals, but I did change the blade on my razor, resulting in a closer shave than my last. As I did not use a lot of Products in the styling of the hair, it felt and looked silkier than at other times, but not, it not being four feet long, frighteningly glossy, just moderately, somewhat attractively so. And I chose a black sweater set for the day's sweater set, not out of melancholia, mind you, but because it is a bit thicker, softer, and cozier than some of the others.

See? That won't do. Who cares? I certainly don't; I can't imagine you do, either. But that is the reality of most people's days; most are fairly good, which means fairly prosaic, which means fairly unwritable. I you want something to write about daily life, you must either realistically portray, or exaggerate, or invent some kind of Challenge or Crisis for the hero to encounter and struggle against and sometimes surmount. And Proust, were he here, would no doubt be able elegantly to make my lily-of-the-valley soap evocative of much, much more than cleanliness and nice packaging, and tie it in handily and subtlely with the tiny cheap lily-of-the-valley perfume sets I used to insist, as a child, that I be given when we encountered them in 'gift shops' on family 'road trips' -- but I'm no Proust, and it genuinely felt and smelled simply like a bar of soap to me. There was very little Evocation going on in the bath, very little recherche, very little thought of any sort, frankly, other than 'which leg shall I start with this time?' A question, by the way, which I answered the same way I always do, with 'the same one I always do.'

Hardly worth the paper it's written on.

(Update 06.12.08: Still not, dear.)

A Reader's Guide to the Personal Weblog

Since people appear to be reading this, as well as writing to me about what they read, the following are intended to be helpful tips to prevent those people from having difficulty with making either heads or tails - or heads along with tails, if that is their preference - of the contents.

I'd Have to Use Even More Liner. (And driving would be yet more difficult.)

Firstly, take it all with a hearty helping of coarse-grain Himalayan Pink. I have never once, for example, taken an oyster knife, grapefruit spoon, or hydraulic corkscrew to my (gorgeous, seagreen) eyeballs over the sight of Dockers at dinner, despite what might seem to be (glaring and repeated) indications to the contrary.

I'm Not Reuters.

Secondly, the foregoing derives from the fact that this blog is neither a news wire nor a diary. It is not true, in other words, nor does it purport to be. There is truth in it, surely, but that truth, where one can find it, is snuggled up tight with with all kinds of tricks, like exaggeration, sleazy argumentation, grasping at straws to make a point, and lazy recourse to such creatures as litotes, anaphora, paranomasia, syllepsis, paraleipsis, and their wicked, wicked chums, to lend, at times, the sense that I truly do accord the selection of the evening's shoes the same weight as I do truly weighty things. --Or to make things sound more pleasant, or less pleasant, or funnier, than they really are.

I'm Lying.

Thirdly, the same foregoing can be interpreted to mean that some of the details are factually inaccurate. I might say 'Dockers,' for instance, when in fact I was at no point anything like close enough to read the tag inside the pants of the individual in question. In that case, I am extrapolating from: 'chinos of some sort' plus probability, as I learned a few years ago in Harper's Index that about 80 percent of American men own Dockers. Thus, they are indeed likely to be Dockers -- but, again, they might not be. And if it is the case that there was an initial 'd' in the vicinity looking lost and hapless and unbecomingly unadorned, I might say 'Dockers,' anyway, even if the benighted boob under scrutiny was -- as unmistakably as he was inexcusably -- wearing corduroy. The ratio might be close to the following: 15 percent true, 80 percent fic-trutional, and 5 percent abandonedly, recklessly, from-the-gut brutally honest.

Why, Just the Other Day I Ate a Whole Half Rosemary-Roasted Brandywine.

Fourthly, if not all admissions are entirely accurate, so, too, must one be wary of reading too much into omissions. We might take bathing and eating as two obvious examples: I do both so frequently that one could almost consider them 'daily activities,' and yet there is scant mention of either. I have neither the time nor the inclination to make this a minute-by-minute accounting of the day's every activity. I would like to keep work, for example, out of it almost entirely, confining it, if I can manage, to the occasional snarky and quite general aside. Dating, for its part, is poked at only when it can be used to serve as a convenient portal into disquisitions on some of my more general Concerns with Our Decaying Society, or 'make a point' in some way I misguidedly think might be amusing, or open the way for a large-scale rant on a marginally related topic for which I lacked a segue. The blog also features a great many lacunae -- including around dating -- the (non-?) existence of which gaps being attributable in part to a sense of decency and concern for others. I am more than happy, in other words, to prate on at obscene, contrived length about the recurring failures of my structurally-unsound would-be 'hairstyles' and my inability to give a one-word answer to such questions as 'Do you like tomatoes?' while I would hope that I am possessed of sufficient restraint not to catalogue the conversational and sartorial failings of anyone misguided enough to go on a date, or enter into a relationship, with me. This latter is of course true only of the present: my gay exhusband is still gay, and my other exhusband is still welcome to help me find pants whenever he's in town, and anyone base enough to have offended the sensibilities of the Only Perfect Girlfriend in the Free World (TM) may likewise find mention (if little quarter) herein.

I Left My Heart in Ouagadougou.

Which, having covered factuality, intent, scope, omissions, and timbre, leads us to Sixthly, which is the timestamp. And sometimes the date, too, if I, let's say, neglected finishing my birthday greetings to M. Saussure until the day after, in which case I can retroactively date it appropriately and thus save face with the dead. Neither, then, is an entirely accurate gauge of my doings. Six o'clock is six o'clock in Vanuatu, or Yerevan, or the Marianas Trench. Whichever one I had it set to then. Or a different one, as that list above was arbitrary. For the sake of clarity: I am not certain that I have ever set it to any one of those three. Just as geographically savvy alcoholics can always reassure themselves with the fact that the sun's always past the yardarm somewhere and start the day thus with a G & T rather than regret and misgiving, so, too, is it the case that it is frequently oh-six-hundred-hours somewhere -- just not always precisely where I am. Sometimes, frankly, the thing's all written, and I just want to look over it once before work, or upon returning home, which would mean I had 'really' written it before, even though I am pushing send now.

Have You Seen This Inner Child?

I blame it on the Beats. That is unsurprising if you know me, as I blame most of everything on the Beats, from unpremeditated 'poems' of testosterone-ridden admiration hastily scribbled on cardboard bar coasters, to white men in dreadlocks, to women in public in sweatpants, to shorts on adults, sneakers as shoes, Dockers as dining attire, sexagenarian playboys, and restaurant place settings without knives. I blame blogs on the Beats, for heavens' sake: they are evidence of the now pandemic delusion that everyone, anyone, can write -- and therefore, what's more, should. But at least we are not getting paid for our self-indulgent drivel. And it is not being forced upon anyone, as is sadly the case with barroom panegyrics and their unwitting subject/victim, as well as the sight and sound of long-haired middle-aged men in sportscars blaring Korn or Dave Matthews or some indefensible 1980s girl band from their convertibles.

Yet I digress. While all those symptoms and disorders share a common etiology, and while I could digress far more in innumerable concentric circles about all of it until I bored even myself, what they also have in common is what I wish to lament here: a renunciation of the Civility clause in our social contract, the subsection that stresses that your rights end where mine begin. Now, only an adult can understand that concept; an infant doesn't even know that he stops at any point, and a child has great difficulty seeing beyond his immediate desires and their quick satisfaction --much like the Beats, and their latter-day progeny unswerving in their resolve to 'let it all hang out,' 'chill,' 'listen to their inner children,' and 'find themselves.'

I for one have yet to wonder where, or who, I am. (At least in the sense they intend, and for other, more practical, senses I have GPS, and the invaluable Google Maps on the Blackberry, not to mention the nice officers who pull me over and ask if I know where I am going, which is something, even with the above, that I sometimes cannot answer affirmatively.) It used to be common wisdom that if one had questions about this, the answers were predictably to be found in a youth hostel in India or Western Europe at the age of 18 or 21. Those failing to encounter an integrated self by that time, and to choose an appropriate superego congruent with this self, were quite rightly deemed insane and offered antipsychotics at government clinics.

Now, of course, it's quite different. One can realize at 70 that there is a gaping hole where instead a Whole should be, of personality, tastes, goals, desires, values, and dreams. A void where for years all those components of a self, of a Gestalt, were ignorantly presumed to have been resident. And nobody gets medicated, or lobotomized, or ridiculed. Divorced, perhaps, but then marriage or 'heavy' relationships are just one more instance of the hand of the Man keeping a free spirit down. A free spirit who could instead be occupying himself with penning boozy free-form verses with a Sharpie over several months' worth of Chimay stains on paperboard about my felid eyes and porcelain cheeks and sangria lips of oranges and sunshine and the endless day and hair black as rainwashed Dougfir in the misty gloom of the blackblack forest gloom. Or something.

No, I encounter myself every day, whether I want to or not. I'm the only reason I have ten red suit jackets. I'm the only excuse for buying aspirin by the case and for putting ice cream into the refrigerator. I can look to no one else for a rationale for the absurd bed, or the driftwood arrangement by the bathtub, or the highly idiosyncratic wine selection, or the dying houseplants. It's down to me and me only that there are bottles of unfinished perfume around, miles of sari cloth, hairstyling products in the wine cabinet, and socks in the tinned-goods-organizer in the kitchen. It's me with the tailor on speed dial and the phobia of hairdressers, and me with the books under the covers on the passenger side of the bed. Everywhere I turn, ever since I had a sense that there was in fact a me to speak of, I haven't been able to get rid of her. Even when I look in the mirror, it is chilling how deep a resemblance my reflection has always borne to me, and me alone.

So I don't get it. How does one wake up, in the midst of being an adult and decades after crashing triumphantly past Piaget's goal line, to find that that the hole one so recently discovered is a hole with a shape that can only be filled with Burning Man, or rabbit hunting, or arena rock shows, or casual sex, or over-the-road trucking? Genuinely, it strains my mind. Additionally, what makes it all the more grievous is that the vast majority of such cases do not 'realize' they have 'always wanted' to join the seminary, or start an NGO; instead, their epiphanies as regards this previously missing 'self' tend to focus on the need to tend to the needs of that neglected self, not to others. This in its turn leads to a convenient discursive loop, as the neglected self, being neglected, is always presumed to be in some child state, if not the dread Inner Child itself, thus excusing all manner of base and self-indulgent, if not overtly puerile, pursuits.

Which is where the Beats and the Social Contract come in, if only out of convenience rather than painstaking logic, since I am becoming quite cranky with thinking of all this, and have a long week ahead in which I will have to muster my usual charming self repeatedly. The painstaking logic can come later, if I feel like the taking of pain might for some reason be pleasant at that point. For now, the Beats and their popular lionization, quite simply, are handy scapegoats for the existence of the near-ubiquitous reverence for the supposed virtues and, indeed, necessity (for the 'self,' of course) of a perverted, solipsistic, jejune freedom over the adult responsibility necessarily implied in acknowledging the worth of others around one, one's fellows in society. Acknowledging that we are a part of a group, and that the group consists of other individuals with their own desires and needs, perforce constrains behavior. If one can manage to accept that it's improper to murder members of this brotherhood, I fail to see it as a great cognitive leap to acknowledge as well that respecting them in other ways is in order.

And etiquette is nothing but respect and consideration for others. It is not about proving to (or lording over) others that one knows the proper utensils to use for jellied consommé or oysters or bacon; it is instead at base an attempt to create and foster an environment of mutual respect. In other words, I respect you by not sonically resembling in any way a giddy aye-aye with an egret's egg as I eat my consommé, and by not air-guitaring 'Stairway to Heaven' as you pray with your congregation and by not ruining the coming week for you by blasting inane 'dance music' out the opened windows of my Porsche or forcing you to witness the horror of my deformed toenails and crusty heels in 'flipflops' or a topographical map of my cellulite through mangy sweats because I was, yes, rude, that is the word, and so is immature and so is tiresome and so is inexcusable after the age of three and in my rudeness wore Inside Clothes outside because my Inner Child wanted to.

Perhaps at this point we are too far gone in our stoned and Xanaxed and liposucted solipsism for one to expect that we might credit our peers with having existences, wills, and souls of their own. But if we are intent on becoming children ourselves, it is not unreasonable to suggest that we put into our service that much-vaunted 'childlike imagination' we thus have again at our disposal and, for the purposes of sustaining an at least marginally livable world, pretend that they do and accordingly put behind us the stringy grey ponytails, the shorts when not on the water or holiday, the adolescent pop music, the sweat pants and track suits outside the gym, and, in the name of all that is holy, unsolicited spontaneous 'poetry' of any stripe.