But not the point of this post. My argument is: perception of reality is other people. Sartre’s life musta sucked.
Case study: Tonight I walked into a sliding-glass door.
Surrealist take: Somewhere in Florida, a girl sits alone in her apartment, staring at her computer, for hours. After a while, she stands, walks into the sliding-glass door next to her desk, then sits back down and looks at the computer for several more hours.
Realist take: Somewhere in Florida, a girl logs onto her computer. She scrolls for a while, her apartment quiet save for the occasional clicks of her mouse. She reads reports of a freak snowstorm, but isn’t clear on where. Hoping to distraction it’s right outside on her balcony, she gets up and walks to the sliding glass door. But in her excitement she’d forgotten: Somebody has shut the sliding glass door… It is an explosion.
Pop Art Take: A girl has been tagged at Somewhere in Florida and on her Facebook Feed sees her friends’ proclamations of SNOW!! Like Calvin’s Snowman Suicides she jumps up, strides naked in a pearl necklace to the sliding-glass door, runs into it BAM! and staggers back to her IKEA chair and reports everything on her juicy red Apple white computer.
42 Below. From New Zealand. The fact that I’ve taken a week off writing this blog and come back with HEY! VODKA! should tell you something about its quality. It’s clean, it’s stiff, and it’s slightly more alcoholic than your garden variety (82 proof, not 80). Because, you know, vodka needs to be more alcoholic.
The gold standard, though, remains Belvedere. It just tastes so damn good.
But! If you don’t know where New Zealand is, go buy a bottle of this vodka. It has a helpful map on the back. So much more fun than Googling that shit.
When I like somebody in the way that makes my loins vibrate and my stomach grumble, I like to think they like me back. If I make out with them more than twice, I usually need to think this, or else it’s just another ‘guess I have to camp out under their car until I slice at their Achilles…
I hate dating advice books. I read “He’s Just Not That Into You” when I was 16 and was told everybody was pretty indifferent about me.That’s all I learned-that people didn’t like me too much, possibly including my parents and grocer. And then the rest of the advice was find somebody who likes…
potential titles for dating advice books. a little bitter, a lot funny. my faves: the first one, and “Sometimes You Can Be Such a Slut.”
I came back from the funeral and crawled
around the apartment, crying hard,
searching for my wife’s hair.
For two months got them from the drain,
from the vacuum cleaner, under the refrigerator,
and off the clothes in the closet.
But after other Japanese women came,
there was no way to be sure which were
hers, and I stopped. A year later,
repotting Michiko’s avocado, I find
a long black hair tangled in the dirt.
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
So I’ve been thinking about how I feel about Big Love's series finale. On my checklist of Great TV Moments Indicators: Did I cry? Check. Poignant demonstration of character evolution? Check. Beautiful scenes and sound? Check—I'm thinking here, especially, of the road trip scene.
But did everything wrap up satisfactorily? And is killing off the protagonist a cop-out?
Some things wrapped up beautifully. Margene gets to go see her big, wide world (a whole new meaning for big love), Barb gets to have her priesthood, and Nicki becomes sort of human. Sort of. Carl gets his own resolution, and Alby is rotting in jail somewhere, which is pretty much the only realistic thing that could’ve been done for his character at this point. But some things seemed forced: Ben and Heather’s implied relationship at the end had no explanation as to who compromised his/her beliefs to be with the other, or why; Sarah and the baby seemed out of the blue. And what happened to Rhonda? So, mixed feelings on the wrap-up front.
Now, about that ending.
The question of whether it’s legit to kill off your protagonist as a way of ending something is pretty well-worn. My general feeling is, if the story is The Life of So-and-So, it’s appropriate and necessary. Otherwise, it’s not often called-for. This is a question of framing the storyline. If there’s a persistent presence of fate, good. If your protagonist is a tragic hero, better. And if he’s a problematic Christ-figure? Best. I thought this quasi-martyrdom was beautifully done. Bill has a moment of enlightenment. His last scenes are of a state of grace. You couldn’t do a better job of translating off-center Mormonism to a largely traditional Christian audience. And with his last words, he doesn’t offer a blessing. He asks for one.
Warning: it’s about to get all spiritual up in here.
As noted in my “currently thinking about reading,” I’ve been perusing An Altar in the World. The last chapter deals with the act of pronouncing blessings. The author points out that a blessing confers meaning: it requires the speaker to consider the subject in all its holiness and imperfection, to bless it for what it is, to recognize kinship. She doesn’t say as much about asking for a blessing, though. Placing oneself in the palm of someone else’s hand is daring. Not unlike falling in love, it means you bare yourself for him/her, vulnerabilities and all. It’s recognizing the holy in him, as you ask him to do for you. To be sure, you don’t have to wait for someone to ask you in order to offer a blessing. But at the same time, we shouldn’t disregard what a beautiful thing asking can be. And that’s probably what I loved most about this finale: how explicit that meaning is. How, in asking for Barb’s blessing, Bill gives her his.
Currently suffering withdrawal symptoms including being convinced there’s a private detective watching my every move, and an inexplicable craving for tomato and mayonnaise sandwiches. Oh, wait. Wrong pixie spy magic.
Today I accidentally broke in to my country club, which is closed on Mondays. Only I thought it was Tuesday, and security is apparently lax, considering I jumped the fence and used their pool for about an hour, and saw no one. I just thought they’d forgotten to unlock. Being the considerate lady I am, I didn’t want to bother anyone to let me in. Oops.
Sunday morning: waking up early; dresses that swish; Mom in her underwear, pulling my hair into curlers.
Sunday morning: waking up early; a stuffed rosebud training bra; Mom in her underwear, telling me, Straighten your hair.
Sunday morning: waking up early; pressing my clothes; Mom in her underwear, saying, Iron again, what will people think of your mother.
Sunday morning: sleeping in; groping for my clothes; leaving a guy draped over the side of his bed as I prepare to sneak back across campus. I put on my underwear, wash my face, brush my hair, rinse my mouth. Locate my purse and my shoes. And just before I pull on last night’s dress (which needs ironing), I catch sight of myself in his mirror.
Sunday morning: thinking, How beautiful; I look just like my mother.