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Here's my first attempt at blogging. |
| Here are my mercurial meanderings. |
| Wow -- I was just prompted by this infernal machine to update my blog (Space Odyssey's Hal Returns). Ok, so, I'm sitting here thinking I have nothing to say, except to my right (I'm at work and sitting at my desk), I notice my little plastic globe. My girlfriend had bought it explicitly for my desk (because, as she said, "Isn't this what professors have on their desks?") "English professors?" I asked. Anyway, this globe is slightly larger than the palm of my hand, which is somewhat ironic. It also sits on a plastic mount and the equater line is a thick black band slicing through the world like a pizza cutter blade. Anyway, I find myself looking at the globe often during the day -- as a break when I grade papers, my eyes drift over to whatever color strikes my fancy in that moment -- China, usually, which is a soft purple, but on some days India, which is Halloween orange. I'm sure some writer out there could find some sort of symbolic meaning in all this; unfortuantely, I have to go to class so I won't have time to put it all together. But this meaningless verbal jaunt will hopefully satisfy Hal's circuits temporarily at least. |
| I joined a book club because I really needed that kick in the pants to get me past page 35 of the 600 books I'm currently reading, and I instantly started to regret it as I realized our club's meeting date was five days away, which would mean that I would need to read 70 some odd pages each day up until then. Who has time for that? And it's not like I can back out, being that I was the one who recommended this book (I might even be leading the discussion). I don't think ahead much. Well, anyway, today I finally gave myself a few hours of utter silence in order to really dive into my reading. The book is called Three Junes, and it is a wonderfully poetic read. I had to make coffee at page ten because my mind was drifting onto my to do list -- vacuuming, washing the dogs, etc -- but after page 20 and two cups of java, I was thoroughly tied into the characters. The first of the three Junes is about a middle aged man named Paul who has decided to take a tour of Greece following the death of his wife. He feels as though he's the kind of guy who blends in with the curtains or the wallpaper -- the guy whose job it is to restore order -- to put away, so to speak, evidence of lives being lived all around him -- never his own. I had tears in my eyes sporatically throughout my reading -- really touching. I'm so glad that I have a book club to force me to do the things that I love to do. Isn't that strange? If I love it, which I do, why does everything else take presedence over reading? I realize that my blog today is a bit British and Boring, but I think I've stumbled upon something interesting. I've always liked to sculpt and there's a studio two streets away that allow people to purchase time and use of the kiln for a small monthly fee, and I keep thinking that I'd love to do that, but for some reason I never do. I've been living in this house for six years and haven't sculpted because I don't have access to a kiln. How strange that we don't allow ourselves the little pieces of happiness that are often readily available to us because we don't think we should afford our time to such things -- as if happiness is of little value -- as if our paychecks mean so much more. So, in a way, I find that I'm constantly restoring order as well, and not living, like Paul. Hmmmmm. Does anyone else find this to be true? |
| I realized today in a MicroGrade Workshop (some kind of new gradebook thingy -- to make our lives easier) that I am suffering from techophobia. I seriously am frightened of gadgets with plugs (oh, and now the plugless kinds of gadgets too-- and come to think of it, Gidget the flying nun as well). It's not that I think my toaster is going to "get me" while I'm naively sleeping comfortably under the sheets, but microwaves -- well, anything that can make chow mein out of a small furry friend in under 10 minutes, is a little frightening, wouldn't you say? |
| I don't understand why no one has ever filed a class action lawsuit against the makers of cd boxes. I mean, first of all, they're impossible to open. 1. That little tab on the plastic cover says "pull here" and you stupidly, naively, pull it and it immediately comes right off in your hand. What kind of sicko arranged this anyway? 2. Then once you get into the thing after using various kitchen utensils and your teeth, you pop out the cd and all of those little plastic fingers that hold it in break off as if to mock you. 3. Then one day you drop the stupid case and the box comes apart (the little pegs on the sides are made to pop off with little more than the pressure of a breath in their general direction). |
| This morning I opened the closet to grab a roll of toilet paper and realized that my relationship has entered the stage where we buy bathroom tissue in bulk -- the closet was stuffed -- from ceiling to floor -- with rolls peaking out of ever crevise. We even have some hiding under the bed. So what does this mean? I don't want to be a bulk buying lesbian. I see them at Costco all the time. Same haircut, same cargo pants (just in different colors), same walk, and both reaching for the same item on the shelf. When I see them, I usually chuckle inwardly, thinking those two never have sex. And now, I've become one without even acknowledging the transformation? I mean, when was the last time that my partner and I had sex? Just the fact that I can ask that question and really think about the answer frightens me. Hmmmm. Did we stop having sex when we first bought bathroom tissue in bulk? I mean, I used to stop on my way home from work because she called (desperation in her voice): "Bring home toilet paper!" I think I've solved the lesbian bed death thing. Simply buy bathroom tissue on a need basis -- don't stock up. |
| My brother left a message on my voicemail, which struck me as funny: "It's Jeff, . . . your brother," he began, as if I wouldn't necessarily know who "Jeff" is. My brother and I rarely communicate -- perhaps this will help to explain why: It was Thanksgiving and my disfunctional family was busy trying to produce something that resembled casual conversation in the lulls between making mixed vodka drinks minus the umbrella, when all of the sudden, my brother decided to brag about his outstanding selling talents by relaying the story of how he had convinced a homeless man to spend 800 dollars on a new suit (at the time, Jeff worked at a clothing store in the local shopping mall). He persuaded the poor soul to spend his life savings by telling him that the suit was an "investment" in his family's future (it's worse now that you know the guy had a family, isn't it?) -- a catalyst for securing the high-paying job that he so desperately needed. That's my brother. And as such, he of course later rose quickly to the top of his chosen occupation -- corporate and managerial in nature -- by stepping on the heads and shoulders of those morally correct saps around him in order to secure the corner office with the huge windows. Meanwhile, yours truely was busy being suspended for organizing high school sit-ins to protest "war for oil" and the use of plasticware in the cafeteria. My journey deposited me in a richly rewarding teaching job with very little pay in which I predominantly work with the disadvantaged. Now, you say, the division is clear. However, for some reason, everytime I hear that pause between Jeff and "your brother" on my voicemail (which is maybe every six months), I feel that painful lump forming in my throat -- Don't other siblings swap stories and chat about their lives weekly or even daily? It's not our fault though. My family has never been one for small talk. At the dinner table, my uncle used to pass me napkins on which he had scrawled word problems for me to solve -- you know, "Train A leaves the station at 6 o'clock and Train B . . . " No one ever thought studying English would lead to anything worth doing. Anyway, I have to call my brother . . . .Jeff back for our semi-annual conversation so that we can go back to the comfort of not talking again. |
| As I was driving to work this morning, I popped into my (I'm embarrassed to say) tape player (masquerading as a CD player -- you know the ones with wires shooting out from every direction) a Bob Dylan album, and a sudden flash memory sparked. A fifteen year old version of myself was sitting on my bed (which consisted -- to my mother's dismay -- of a mattress on the floor because I was "cool" -- translation: an idiotic teenager in suburbia) and copying the lyrics of "A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall" by periodically lifting the needle of my record player (yes, you heard me correctly) and jotting down lines. As this thought came to me, I immediately wondered why I hadn't just looked up the lyrics on the Internet. Oh yeah, there wasn't any such thing. I think copying those lyrics took me maybe three hours (hey, it's a long song -- and Dylan has a nasal drone). Anyway, it just struck me as interesting that I've become so very accustomed to life today that I've forgotten what it was like before coffee pots that start themselves, Ferbie, and microwaved popcorn. : ) If you remember Ferbie, you're probably around my age. |
| Ok, after much urging by my slightly neurotic mother, I finally went to the dentist. He reminded me of Ignacious Riley (sp?) from Confederacy of Dunces -- same kind of beach ball shape, a gut like a houseplant gone wild, and a bulbous nose with a hint of red. The guy's jollyness and G rated family-friendly jokes made me exceedingly discomfited with the prospect of allowing him full entrance into my mouth. I always hate it when doctors (of any kind, especially gyno's) feel the need to discuss golf, fishing trips, or everyday life whilst prodding and poking my physiological self with instruments that should be in a medieval torture chamber or perhaps Ed Wood's trophy case. Anyway, dentist stuff has changed significantly since I've been -- didn't there used to be a little basin like thing into which the patient had to spit repeatedly? I seem to remember struggling with those lines of spittle that stretch like a cobweb and refuse to release from either my lip or the proceline basin. Yet they just sprayed and sucked it out themselves. Hmmm...Perhaps my teeth hadn't been polished in quite some time. And what's with the tooth video cam??? Who, besides CSI fanatics, really want to see the backside of a molar? It's hidden for a reason, don't you think? I also don't like holding discussions when in a reclining position with a little blue napkin as a necklace. If he wanted to talk, why couldn't he have removed the bib and brought the chair to an erect position? Am I asking too much? All in all, my parting gift was another appointment next week for a filling and a suggestion to purchase one of those vibrator-acting $100 toothbrushes "to massage my gums". My gums are not on my top ten massage list, and don't I have enough battery operated toys? Ok, I've clearly lapsed into irrationality now -- this is precisely what I feared when I started this blog. My girlfriend is in another country and won't return until Saturday. So, I'm feeling a bit lonely. The more Cabernet the better -- I'm off to stain my tongue burgundy while numbing my brain with a shot of Prime Time. 'Night all. |
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