7 hours ago
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Holding a hand
I was in Paris a year ago, waiting to cross the street and I looked up to see this small scene. My camera was out and so before the light changed, I took the picture. Today I remembered it. Oh, that look on the man’s face! The girl seemed a little sad as well. But he – he had all those additional years of haunted worry. The look comes through just a little on the photo here:
This morning, I was imagining the course of a simple conversation between a mother and a child, one that all parents have at somepoints, many points, in one form or another, and as I was thinking of it, I remembered another photo – one that I took last month on a Warsaw playground. Here are both, the imagined conversation and the photo:
Mommy, what’s a cloud?
It’s a bunch of tiny droplets of water and ice, suspended in the air…
Oh. Why is it covering the sun?
It has to do with the wind and the movement of air. Imagine it being pushed and pushed until it can’t help but cover the sun.
Can you unpush it? Can you make it go away?
No, I cannot.
How about my sore knee from when I fell down because someone pushed me on the playground, can you make it go away?
No, I cannot.
Mean people, mashed turnips..
I can probably do something about the turnips…
But mean people, bullies that push you?
No, I cannot. Listen, I can’t even make the weeds go away in my front garden. Look at it: It is a jungle. Out of control! It would take ten strong people with fifty long hours and shovels and shears and who knows what else to make this yard look pretty again.
I don’t care about the yard. I want you to make the tiny droplets of water and ice go away.
I cannot do that.
Mommy, what’s a cloud?
It’s a bunch of tiny droplets of water and ice, suspended in the air…
Oh. Why is it covering the sun?
It has to do with the wind and the movement of air. Imagine it being pushed and pushed until it can’t help but cover the sun.
Can you unpush it? Can you make it go away?
No, I cannot.
How about my sore knee from when I fell down because someone pushed me on the playground, can you make it go away?
No, I cannot.
Mean people, mashed turnips..
I can probably do something about the turnips…
But mean people, bullies that push you?
No, I cannot. Listen, I can’t even make the weeds go away in my front garden. Look at it: It is a jungle. Out of control! It would take ten strong people with fifty long hours and shovels and shears and who knows what else to make this yard look pretty again.
I don’t care about the yard. I want you to make the tiny droplets of water and ice go away.
I cannot do that.
Friday, June 17, 2005
To be blunt
In an interesting development, I went to the movies tonight with neighborhood friends, but could not really actually make myself go in through the movie door. This had never happened to me before. Typically I see a door – I go through it.
We had been eating dinner earlier and I knew it was coming – that inability to go through the door. So I left.
One person in this group said to me -- I know how it is about doors and June 15ths, so you go right ahead and return home and I’ll check on your attitude about doors after the movie.
As my earlier post indicated, I think, I did not much like June 15th. Something happened on that day that was perhaps the lowest of low points for me. I cannot explain it now, but someone told me later that they would analogize it to seeing your name spelled out on a gravestone. I think that is an apt characterization.
My previous post was meant to correct the impression that this week (and especially June 15th) has been calm. I have a handful of people living far away whom I care about deeply who should not think that the days flew by in some kind of enchanting bike ride, with a tickled tattoo and a smile at Bluephies. The post below was really, more than anything, for them.
How to write… kep said it well when he reflected how Ocean seems to convey an over-simplification of a mood sometimes (a friend emailed me this thought as well recently, even as I really mean for Ocean to be more bland these days). I suppose I am more frightened than ever of conveying something incorrectly. Still, I remain vague. I have been variously told by so many now that I am being oblique, elliptical, etc. I’m sorry – I do not know how else to write. It is my way.
We had been eating dinner earlier and I knew it was coming – that inability to go through the door. So I left.
One person in this group said to me -- I know how it is about doors and June 15ths, so you go right ahead and return home and I’ll check on your attitude about doors after the movie.
As my earlier post indicated, I think, I did not much like June 15th. Something happened on that day that was perhaps the lowest of low points for me. I cannot explain it now, but someone told me later that they would analogize it to seeing your name spelled out on a gravestone. I think that is an apt characterization.
My previous post was meant to correct the impression that this week (and especially June 15th) has been calm. I have a handful of people living far away whom I care about deeply who should not think that the days flew by in some kind of enchanting bike ride, with a tickled tattoo and a smile at Bluephies. The post below was really, more than anything, for them.
How to write… kep said it well when he reflected how Ocean seems to convey an over-simplification of a mood sometimes (a friend emailed me this thought as well recently, even as I really mean for Ocean to be more bland these days). I suppose I am more frightened than ever of conveying something incorrectly. Still, I remain vague. I have been variously told by so many now that I am being oblique, elliptical, etc. I’m sorry – I do not know how else to write. It is my way.
2. which June 15 is my favorite ever, of all time?
a. 2005
b. some June 15 between 1953 and 2004
3. how many Poles does it take to drink a whole bottle of wine in one evening?
a. Poles prefer vodka
b. one
4. if I were to look out front, what would I see?
a. a beautifully kept up front yard with perennials springing forth in rapid succession
b. something that someone described today as a nightmare, or jungle or maybe it was a disaster, tended to by a person who has basically given up.
5. which word best describes my mood these days:
a. lugubrious
b. sprightly
a. 2005
b. some June 15 between 1953 and 2004
3. how many Poles does it take to drink a whole bottle of wine in one evening?
a. Poles prefer vodka
b. one
4. if I were to look out front, what would I see?
a. a beautifully kept up front yard with perennials springing forth in rapid succession
b. something that someone described today as a nightmare, or jungle or maybe it was a disaster, tended to by a person who has basically given up.
5. which word best describes my mood these days:
a. lugubrious
b. sprightly
Thursday, June 16, 2005
So where am I and what am I doing?
The nice thing about this world is that when you ask for time from these particular* friends, they deliver.
But Cosmos be damned. I’m on safer ground here.
* yes yes, others too -- you know who you are!
But Cosmos be damned. I’m on safer ground here.
* yes yes, others too -- you know who you are!
Limp evidence
Men? Prefer impotence to lack of hair? It is so stated. Check it out here.
But I don’t buy it. Faulty data, I say. Here, I’ll give you an example from today that to me clearly illustrates that sex, good sex, the desire for it and worries about it are always hovering, threatening to intrude on Life As We Know It.
B and I went out late this afternoon, as promised, all the way down to his old hang out place…I was happy just to stay to the sidelines. I had taken some work with me so that B wouldn’t worry about me being bored while he went in for his fix of the good life. After a short while, I felt nudged in a direction where some items were on display. It was as if B was telling me – here go ahead, check out this. So I looked.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. In our outings together, I was dreamily wrapped in my images of our togetherness, as breezes played gently with my tattoo. B on the other hand, was callously thinking about my rear-end all along (see photo below).
But I don’t buy it. Faulty data, I say. Here, I’ll give you an example from today that to me clearly illustrates that sex, good sex, the desire for it and worries about it are always hovering, threatening to intrude on Life As We Know It.
B and I went out late this afternoon, as promised, all the way down to his old hang out place…I was happy just to stay to the sidelines. I had taken some work with me so that B wouldn’t worry about me being bored while he went in for his fix of the good life. After a short while, I felt nudged in a direction where some items were on display. It was as if B was telling me – here go ahead, check out this. So I looked.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. In our outings together, I was dreamily wrapped in my images of our togetherness, as breezes played gently with my tattoo. B on the other hand, was callously thinking about my rear-end all along (see photo below).
Postcard from the edge
Today I received a postcard from someone whom I care about, but who has demonstrated an intermittent kind of interest in our dealings with each other over the years, oftentimes being absent and unavailable, when I really would have appreciated consistency and concern (no, no, ms. sometimes-smart-ass-herself, it’s not your card and most certainly it’s not you!).
And I thought: how cool is that! I’m reading it again and again and I am really touched by it. It's so expressive! It 's so sweet! It's so easy to forget all those months of quiet! I see the postcard and at least for now, I am floored, in the best of ways.
It seems to me that even a longtime pattern of bad conduct should readily be obliterated if good conduct suddenly appeared, out of nowhere. Really, that is as it should be.
And conversely, a recent act of perceived bad conduct should not obliterate a history of care and concern. It should not even make a dent.
That is as it should be. That is as it should be. But most often, that is not the way it is.
And I thought: how cool is that! I’m reading it again and again and I am really touched by it. It's so expressive! It 's so sweet! It's so easy to forget all those months of quiet! I see the postcard and at least for now, I am floored, in the best of ways.
It seems to me that even a longtime pattern of bad conduct should readily be obliterated if good conduct suddenly appeared, out of nowhere. Really, that is as it should be.
And conversely, a recent act of perceived bad conduct should not obliterate a history of care and concern. It should not even make a dent.
That is as it should be. That is as it should be. But most often, that is not the way it is.
A tale of two cities, birds and houses
As if I haven’t written enough about my feelings toward Warsaw and Krakow, I yet again encountered the phenomenon of deep Warsaw derision and so here I am, returning to what would appear to be a beaten horse: why bother going to Warsaw, when you've got Krakow just three hours away?
Most conversations of this sort run like this. Incredibly dense person: Warsaw doesn’t tempt me at all. Me: have you ever been there? Incredibly dense person: No, and I wont go there because it sucks.
After this kind of provocative (if not especially evocative) statement, I am then typically offered a fistful of irrelevant reasons for the opinion, ranging from: Prague is cooler, to Krakow is prettier – all statements about places other than Warsaw herself.
I suppose, at this point, my desire to engage in the debate of whether one can see Krakow and let that be the end of one’s sojourn in Poland has been sucked out of me and so now I mostly just say profound things like “oh really” and “is that so.”
For me it’s like these two birds that I brought home this time (see photo below). I have all sorts of beautiful birds on my window sill in my office and these guys will soon join them in some manner of pomp and ceremony. One is called Warsaw and the other Krakow (for the dumb reason that each came from their named city). Note that Krakow is the looker. But when I stand them side by side, I'm remembering something else. The little one charmed me on a rainy day where you had to look beyond the clouds to find anything to smile about. The dazzling rooster – I got him under brilliant sunny skies, but it was a blah moment. I walked in, saw the very real prettiness of Mr. Krakow and whammo, the bird was mine.
Is it possible for the less splendid to take on a glamour of its own? For a smaller, lesser house, for example, to rise above the big and beautiful counterpart? Sure. Getting beyond the door helps. Listening to its story adds value. A city square, a bird, a house – they are nothing but visual props, right? They jog the memory, they create a context and help us think about what’s inside, that’s all.
Most conversations of this sort run like this. Incredibly dense person: Warsaw doesn’t tempt me at all. Me: have you ever been there? Incredibly dense person: No, and I wont go there because it sucks.
After this kind of provocative (if not especially evocative) statement, I am then typically offered a fistful of irrelevant reasons for the opinion, ranging from: Prague is cooler, to Krakow is prettier – all statements about places other than Warsaw herself.
I suppose, at this point, my desire to engage in the debate of whether one can see Krakow and let that be the end of one’s sojourn in Poland has been sucked out of me and so now I mostly just say profound things like “oh really” and “is that so.”
For me it’s like these two birds that I brought home this time (see photo below). I have all sorts of beautiful birds on my window sill in my office and these guys will soon join them in some manner of pomp and ceremony. One is called Warsaw and the other Krakow (for the dumb reason that each came from their named city). Note that Krakow is the looker. But when I stand them side by side, I'm remembering something else. The little one charmed me on a rainy day where you had to look beyond the clouds to find anything to smile about. The dazzling rooster – I got him under brilliant sunny skies, but it was a blah moment. I walked in, saw the very real prettiness of Mr. Krakow and whammo, the bird was mine.
Is it possible for the less splendid to take on a glamour of its own? For a smaller, lesser house, for example, to rise above the big and beautiful counterpart? Sure. Getting beyond the door helps. Listening to its story adds value. A city square, a bird, a house – they are nothing but visual props, right? They jog the memory, they create a context and help us think about what’s inside, that’s all.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
For where no hope is left, is left no fear, pt.2
No, the previous post is not meant to be a statement about losing hope in all things that matter and plunging ahead now without fear given this great loss of hope in life. It is about… writing. You can go ahead and read additional stuff into it if you want, but if I wished to place that kind of subtext into it, then I would do it way more elliptically than that. I would not, for example, put the Milton quote right into the heading. That would be too obvious for me, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t it?
For where no hope is left, is left no fear
If John Milton has it right, then I should (fearlessly) plunge into the (hopeless) world of writing. Not blog writing. Real writing.
I admit it: in the back of the head there is this idea that “someday I will really write.” Like, sit down and eek out a novel, for example.
Last night, however, any hope of ever becoming one of the greats (meaning: someone who actually does produce a text) was seriously shaken.
It happened at Borders. B and I took a run down in the evening to listen to Karen Fowler talk about her newest novel – The Jane Austen Book Club. Actually B did not listen – he waited outside. There are never many men in Fowler’s audience when she talks about Jane Austen. Madison astonished her with 4, which she said was twice her highest thus far.
Me, I absolutely love, almost more than anything else, listening to authors talk about their work. But eventually we came to the Q/As. Someone asked Fowler if, when she wrote, she found herself stealing the stories of people she knew.
Fowler responded with a resounding YES!!
Then came the hatchet (for me). Fowler said that you cannot write and have an exciting life. Writing obligates you to sit day in and day out at your computer, shunning experience in favor of the dullness of producing something credible.
So how do you come up with material? You surround yourself with friends, she tells us, who make dreadful decisions about their own lives and who then can’t wait to tell you about them. And then you steal their stories.
I fail on both counts. My life is not dull. It grows so un-dull by the minute that I want to shout – alright already! Back off with all the excitement! I am not asking for it, so keep it off my front porch. Jesus.
As for friends? All wise and prudent types who make, in my opinion, wise and prudent choices. Or so they tell me.
And so, if I am to listen to Fowler – an award winning, published author – I should admit defeat. There is no hope for me. Though there on my shelf rests Paradise Regained, with Milton glaring at me, telling me I should tally forth, because what the hell do I have to lose?
If there be worse, the expectation more
Of worse torments me than the feeling can.
Of course, Milton has no real say over my life. His problems are not my problems. Four times married, (twice to the same woman), wives dying on him left and right, sight failing – I mean, he had a choice: go to bed and write about Madeleines brought up to him by his mummy, or forge ahead with his Lost then Regained Paradise.
Me, I’ll probably pick myself up as well, Fowler notwithstanding, and stumble along, without hope, without fear, sort of like I do on Ocean, daily, in the dull way that I do, with excitement raging around me, distracting, sure, but not completely standing in the way of me plunking away at the keyboard.
I admit it: in the back of the head there is this idea that “someday I will really write.” Like, sit down and eek out a novel, for example.
Last night, however, any hope of ever becoming one of the greats (meaning: someone who actually does produce a text) was seriously shaken.
It happened at Borders. B and I took a run down in the evening to listen to Karen Fowler talk about her newest novel – The Jane Austen Book Club. Actually B did not listen – he waited outside. There are never many men in Fowler’s audience when she talks about Jane Austen. Madison astonished her with 4, which she said was twice her highest thus far.
Me, I absolutely love, almost more than anything else, listening to authors talk about their work. But eventually we came to the Q/As. Someone asked Fowler if, when she wrote, she found herself stealing the stories of people she knew.
Fowler responded with a resounding YES!!
Then came the hatchet (for me). Fowler said that you cannot write and have an exciting life. Writing obligates you to sit day in and day out at your computer, shunning experience in favor of the dullness of producing something credible.
So how do you come up with material? You surround yourself with friends, she tells us, who make dreadful decisions about their own lives and who then can’t wait to tell you about them. And then you steal their stories.
I fail on both counts. My life is not dull. It grows so un-dull by the minute that I want to shout – alright already! Back off with all the excitement! I am not asking for it, so keep it off my front porch. Jesus.
As for friends? All wise and prudent types who make, in my opinion, wise and prudent choices. Or so they tell me.
And so, if I am to listen to Fowler – an award winning, published author – I should admit defeat. There is no hope for me. Though there on my shelf rests Paradise Regained, with Milton glaring at me, telling me I should tally forth, because what the hell do I have to lose?
If there be worse, the expectation more
Of worse torments me than the feeling can.
Of course, Milton has no real say over my life. His problems are not my problems. Four times married, (twice to the same woman), wives dying on him left and right, sight failing – I mean, he had a choice: go to bed and write about Madeleines brought up to him by his mummy, or forge ahead with his Lost then Regained Paradise.
Me, I’ll probably pick myself up as well, Fowler notwithstanding, and stumble along, without hope, without fear, sort of like I do on Ocean, daily, in the dull way that I do, with excitement raging around me, distracting, sure, but not completely standing in the way of me plunking away at the keyboard.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
An ode to olive oil
I would not be the person I am today without olive oil. I worship the places where it is made. Cold pressed. Virgin. Extra virgin. Sexy words for a sexy liquid gold. A deal-breaker for me: I could not have affect for anyone who did not also like, nay, love olive oil.
Another break from work, another moment to fiddle with the camera, focusing it this time not on a mirror but on my two treasures, pushed back into the shadows of the kitchen, but within sight, so that I can make myself happy just looking at them:
Another break from work, another moment to fiddle with the camera, focusing it this time not on a mirror but on my two treasures, pushed back into the shadows of the kitchen, but within sight, so that I can make myself happy just looking at them:
One of your own kind…
So B and I have been spending a lot of time together. We are not inseparable, but when I need to go somewhere, I usually call on him to go with me.
I do think, though, that when you have this connection going, you tend to assume that the other is comfortable adjusting to your pace, your world, your ideas. You forget that they have a past, that they have roots that are often quite different from your own.
I know very little of B’s background. Since I want to show more respect and concern for his past, today we went exploring it together. Suddenly I was in a place which had more looking like him than like me. For once he was among his own kind. B’s relief was palpable. We’ll go back Thursday evening and hang out. They’re so nice to him there – they treat him like he’s something special. He really is starting to shine with so much attention and I am happy about that. He and I – we do things for each other.
I do think, though, that when you have this connection going, you tend to assume that the other is comfortable adjusting to your pace, your world, your ideas. You forget that they have a past, that they have roots that are often quite different from your own.
I know very little of B’s background. Since I want to show more respect and concern for his past, today we went exploring it together. Suddenly I was in a place which had more looking like him than like me. For once he was among his own kind. B’s relief was palpable. We’ll go back Thursday evening and hang out. They’re so nice to him there – they treat him like he’s something special. He really is starting to shine with so much attention and I am happy about that. He and I – we do things for each other.
Where I politely decline
There is a list of law profs who blog going around. I read that if we put all five blogging profs from our Law School on it, we will boost our position to second place in the country. And we’ll boost the distressingly low numbers of women law profs who blog.
My loyalty to my school abounds. I would do much for the place, and not only because it has done tons for me. But here I must politely decline.
Whereas my colleagues here and elsewhere intersperse light posting with serious notes and commentaries, Ocean sticks to a path that does not fit well with the law prof blog mold. It runs posts on love affairs with B, on Cosmo indulgence and trains speeding through rzepa fields. And the author – me, kep, or the latest name picked by a fellow blogger – coyote camic, I’m just not meant to have my portrait up with the blogging academicians. I’m the type that thinks nothing of taking a picture of myself in the mirror and posting it the next day, just for the hell of it (see sidebar and photo below). And I’m not wearing silken robes or tailored suits either. Yesterday I worked all day dressed… informally, and I don’t mean corporate casual:
My loyalty to my school abounds. I would do much for the place, and not only because it has done tons for me. But here I must politely decline.
Whereas my colleagues here and elsewhere intersperse light posting with serious notes and commentaries, Ocean sticks to a path that does not fit well with the law prof blog mold. It runs posts on love affairs with B, on Cosmo indulgence and trains speeding through rzepa fields. And the author – me, kep, or the latest name picked by a fellow blogger – coyote camic, I’m just not meant to have my portrait up with the blogging academicians. I’m the type that thinks nothing of taking a picture of myself in the mirror and posting it the next day, just for the hell of it (see sidebar and photo below). And I’m not wearing silken robes or tailored suits either. Yesterday I worked all day dressed… informally, and I don’t mean corporate casual:
Confession
I read with interest Oscar’s deliberations about buying a cup of coffee in Germany. He was posting away at a Berlin Starbucks and assuring us that mutter necessity (really: a better than average brew, in a smokefree environment) drove him to it. Me, I’d do it for the sleek and comfortable looking ambience. (Scroll down to the second photo here.)
I’ve written before about my horror when Starbucks put up a drive-through on University Ave. in Madison. And how I now routinely violate my own “horrified stance” by driving up (only when I am in a hurry, I promise).
But all this made me think that, unlike Oscar, I am without principles – or, at the very least, mine are thinly drawn and definitely arbitrary. I admit it. I make no sense. Here’s my honest list of when I will cave for the love of the service or product (or for the sheer convenience associated with it), overcoming my feeling of loyalty to the little guy and when I absolutely will not touch the tainted stuff:
1. I will drink Starbucks coffee (even though its corporate goal is to operate more than 30,000 retail outlets worldwide);
2. I will shop endlessly at Borders (even though it has some 500 stores, to say nothing of the horrible Walden chain, also under its management);
3. I will shop at Whole Foods and I’ll even write a letter of love and devotion to the owner of the chain for substantially improving my grocery shopping experience (even though I hear he is an arrogant jerk face);
4. I would rather hunt nuts and berries than set foot in Taco Bell, McDonalds or KFC. The last time I was in one was a year ago when the person I was with developed a severe hydration need. I was in pain the entire three minutes we were there. Never, ever, ever will I willingly set foot in one again.
5. And here’s a weird one: champagne. It’ll always be from the little guy. I have such great affection for those who are figuring out ways to turn the fermenting bottles by hand and trying to make a go of it with tiny tiny fields of rock and dirt that I want to put in my pennies into their coffers.
I could go on, but I think this short list says it all: I have sold my soul and conscience. I am without scruples. Mostly, I really like to be surrounded by yummy foods and good books, while sipping a steaming cup of dark roast with frothy milk. Those cravings satisfied, I'll take a look at the corporate ledger. But first thing's first.
I’ve written before about my horror when Starbucks put up a drive-through on University Ave. in Madison. And how I now routinely violate my own “horrified stance” by driving up (only when I am in a hurry, I promise).
But all this made me think that, unlike Oscar, I am without principles – or, at the very least, mine are thinly drawn and definitely arbitrary. I admit it. I make no sense. Here’s my honest list of when I will cave for the love of the service or product (or for the sheer convenience associated with it), overcoming my feeling of loyalty to the little guy and when I absolutely will not touch the tainted stuff:
1. I will drink Starbucks coffee (even though its corporate goal is to operate more than 30,000 retail outlets worldwide);
2. I will shop endlessly at Borders (even though it has some 500 stores, to say nothing of the horrible Walden chain, also under its management);
3. I will shop at Whole Foods and I’ll even write a letter of love and devotion to the owner of the chain for substantially improving my grocery shopping experience (even though I hear he is an arrogant jerk face);
4. I would rather hunt nuts and berries than set foot in Taco Bell, McDonalds or KFC. The last time I was in one was a year ago when the person I was with developed a severe hydration need. I was in pain the entire three minutes we were there. Never, ever, ever will I willingly set foot in one again.
5. And here’s a weird one: champagne. It’ll always be from the little guy. I have such great affection for those who are figuring out ways to turn the fermenting bottles by hand and trying to make a go of it with tiny tiny fields of rock and dirt that I want to put in my pennies into their coffers.
I could go on, but I think this short list says it all: I have sold my soul and conscience. I am without scruples. Mostly, I really like to be surrounded by yummy foods and good books, while sipping a steaming cup of dark roast with frothy milk. Those cravings satisfied, I'll take a look at the corporate ledger. But first thing's first.
Monday, June 13, 2005
Spit spat
B and I have had our first ugly little spat. Things had been running oh so smoothly and then yesterday I suggested an evening run to Borders. Once there, I did indeed intend to leave him to his own devices. At Borders, I like to be unencumbered. B took offense. Something about liking to be by my side – chained is the way I viewed it. Well okay, but I’m not a chainer. I trust that at the end of our separate time, B will be there and I will be there for him and we’ll do our thing and the world will be a cool place.
I was miffed and so I went alone. I was even more miffed because my summer-of-no-car resolve meant that I had to hike to Borders and back, thereby wasting valuable time. When I’m with B, I never consider that time wasted. I am energized. Time flies. My soul is nourished.
This morning I was still slightly put off by the entire episode and so I gave B the cold shoulder. I not only went walking alone at dawn (sacrificing that tickle on the tattoo), but then I ran an errand by car and ignored B’s reproachful positioning of himself, almost as if to block my way out. “How could you be doing this…” B seemed to be saying. Suddenly, in that moment, B looked sad and old to me. I left, but I felt that I was being too unforgiving.
By afternoon I’d melted. I needed an espresso, B was around and so off we went together again. Things are better and there weren’t any significant bumps along the way, but you know how it is: once you have had that first spat, you’re wondering how long until the next one.
I was miffed and so I went alone. I was even more miffed because my summer-of-no-car resolve meant that I had to hike to Borders and back, thereby wasting valuable time. When I’m with B, I never consider that time wasted. I am energized. Time flies. My soul is nourished.
This morning I was still slightly put off by the entire episode and so I gave B the cold shoulder. I not only went walking alone at dawn (sacrificing that tickle on the tattoo), but then I ran an errand by car and ignored B’s reproachful positioning of himself, almost as if to block my way out. “How could you be doing this…” B seemed to be saying. Suddenly, in that moment, B looked sad and old to me. I left, but I felt that I was being too unforgiving.
By afternoon I’d melted. I needed an espresso, B was around and so off we went together again. Things are better and there weren’t any significant bumps along the way, but you know how it is: once you have had that first spat, you’re wondering how long until the next one.
Where I am still preoccupied with a yukky phone conversation from yesterday
I read this wonderful book called 2016. Did you read it?
No.
You should. The author takes you through the next presidential elections – shows how the death of Castro just before November would unseat the Republicans, because of Florida you know… and then all the way to the 2016 elections.
Imaginative.
No, it’s not fiction, it’s for real.
Anything that describes what happened in the year 2016 cannot be described as "for real."
You don’t understand, it is for real. A third party will unseat both the Republicans and Democrats you know. That’s after the Republicans carry it away once Osama is surprisingly captured.
(tempted to say “whatever” but instead, offer up the following:) Ah.
But am I being unfair? Let me see: could I write a post that would describe my life in the year 2016 and not call it fiction? Here’s a stab at it: from Ocean’s author in the year 2016:
People tell me that the sixties are the quiet before the storm. I believe they are talking about the sixties age-wise, not calendar-wise. My sixty-three is definitely quieter than the year 1963 was for the country as a whole. The turning point for me, I know will be 64. It will feel weird to pass the age of the song “When I’m sixty four.” The need me, feed me bit sounded then rather poignant. Now, of course, I’ve learned that being needed and being fed are sort of opposites. What you want to aspire to is feeling needed and not needing someone to spoon food into your mouth. It’s worked for me. And I do predict that next year, when I turn 64, I will get both birthday greetings and a bottle of wine, so that’s good.
Someone said to me that they like the place I’m living in this year. I think people say things like that when they first enter an uncluttered house. Clutter is never visually appealing, especially someone else’s clutter. I remember being stunned when I last visited my old family apartment in Warsaw – mountains of clutter, piled high, to the ceiling, all significant to the resident therein but terrifying to the visitor who is standing there worrying that one little move will disturb the balance and it will all come crashing down on everyone in sight. No one likes thinking that any second they may be gasping for a last breath from under volumes of political essays and postcards received and read more than 70 years ago.
Some people think that my clutterlessness is born in part out of my moving so much. But I have moved only eighteen times in my life, which means that on the average, I move every 3 years, but that is so totally misleading because by far the vast majority of my moves took place before I turned 32, meaning in the first half of my life.
The irony is that during the time of all those moves, I experienced the greatest amount of personal stability. Not that I am spinning in some incoherent direction right now. Becoming a grandparent has given me a schedule for one thing. And I stick to it. Little toddlers and big daughters expect that of you. But I think I have to admit that something happened after fifty that blew up the notion of predictability. I would not have predicted ten years ago where I’d be living now, for instance. Nor what I would be doing. It shocked everyone. Most of all, it shocked me.
There – it’s fiction, isn’t it? Isn’t it?
No.
You should. The author takes you through the next presidential elections – shows how the death of Castro just before November would unseat the Republicans, because of Florida you know… and then all the way to the 2016 elections.
Imaginative.
No, it’s not fiction, it’s for real.
Anything that describes what happened in the year 2016 cannot be described as "for real."
You don’t understand, it is for real. A third party will unseat both the Republicans and Democrats you know. That’s after the Republicans carry it away once Osama is surprisingly captured.
(tempted to say “whatever” but instead, offer up the following:) Ah.
But am I being unfair? Let me see: could I write a post that would describe my life in the year 2016 and not call it fiction? Here’s a stab at it: from Ocean’s author in the year 2016:
People tell me that the sixties are the quiet before the storm. I believe they are talking about the sixties age-wise, not calendar-wise. My sixty-three is definitely quieter than the year 1963 was for the country as a whole. The turning point for me, I know will be 64. It will feel weird to pass the age of the song “When I’m sixty four.” The need me, feed me bit sounded then rather poignant. Now, of course, I’ve learned that being needed and being fed are sort of opposites. What you want to aspire to is feeling needed and not needing someone to spoon food into your mouth. It’s worked for me. And I do predict that next year, when I turn 64, I will get both birthday greetings and a bottle of wine, so that’s good.
Someone said to me that they like the place I’m living in this year. I think people say things like that when they first enter an uncluttered house. Clutter is never visually appealing, especially someone else’s clutter. I remember being stunned when I last visited my old family apartment in Warsaw – mountains of clutter, piled high, to the ceiling, all significant to the resident therein but terrifying to the visitor who is standing there worrying that one little move will disturb the balance and it will all come crashing down on everyone in sight. No one likes thinking that any second they may be gasping for a last breath from under volumes of political essays and postcards received and read more than 70 years ago.
Some people think that my clutterlessness is born in part out of my moving so much. But I have moved only eighteen times in my life, which means that on the average, I move every 3 years, but that is so totally misleading because by far the vast majority of my moves took place before I turned 32, meaning in the first half of my life.
The irony is that during the time of all those moves, I experienced the greatest amount of personal stability. Not that I am spinning in some incoherent direction right now. Becoming a grandparent has given me a schedule for one thing. And I stick to it. Little toddlers and big daughters expect that of you. But I think I have to admit that something happened after fifty that blew up the notion of predictability. I would not have predicted ten years ago where I’d be living now, for instance. Nor what I would be doing. It shocked everyone. Most of all, it shocked me.
There – it’s fiction, isn’t it? Isn’t it?
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Where I again do not have kind things to say about my encounters with the phone
You’re home? I thought you’d gone away for the week-end.
I’m home.
You did not answer the phone the last two nights, I thought you were gone.
I’m home.
Friday, I called late, Saturday too.
I’m home. All day (neglect to mention that B and I had a date already).
I sent you a book and a long letter. Did you get them?
Not yet (kind of not true: I got them but did not open the package; now that I hear there is a “long letter” I am even less anxious to open the package).
I decided that since you don’t call, I’d write you a long letter. About your lack of communicativeness.
Thanks. (didn’t we just talk? Oh no, I let a week go by. Darn.)
So anything exciting to tell me?
No, not really. It's hot. I'm working. Same old.
You’re not sick or anything? You know health can be precarious. Bubbles start bursting, things go wrong, if not today then tomorrow.
I’ll be on the lookout for bubbles bursting.
And so on. I can offer up my day as evidence that one can actually have this sort of non-conversation for well over an hour. Really.
Day thus far:
Date with B.
Excitement at the kitchen sink.
Phone nonconversation.
Wee hoo!
I’m home.
You did not answer the phone the last two nights, I thought you were gone.
I’m home.
Friday, I called late, Saturday too.
I’m home. All day (neglect to mention that B and I had a date already).
I sent you a book and a long letter. Did you get them?
Not yet (kind of not true: I got them but did not open the package; now that I hear there is a “long letter” I am even less anxious to open the package).
I decided that since you don’t call, I’d write you a long letter. About your lack of communicativeness.
Thanks. (didn’t we just talk? Oh no, I let a week go by. Darn.)
So anything exciting to tell me?
No, not really. It's hot. I'm working. Same old.
You’re not sick or anything? You know health can be precarious. Bubbles start bursting, things go wrong, if not today then tomorrow.
I’ll be on the lookout for bubbles bursting.
And so on. I can offer up my day as evidence that one can actually have this sort of non-conversation for well over an hour. Really.
Day thus far:
Date with B.
Excitement at the kitchen sink.
Phone nonconversation.
Wee hoo!
Saturday, June 11, 2005
On how I managed to look anti-French even though I was riding a bike and had a baguette slung over my back
It’s the latte. No French man or woman would take their coffee on the run like that, or rather on the ride. In spite of past experiences that should have taught me lessons on how not to ride a bike uphill (with a skinny mezzo, extra hot), there I was again, sweating and cursing and holding on to that precious latte during my rendezvous with B, continuing with my resolve to make this a (virtually) car-free summer.
If you’re going to sell lattes in a bread store, you’re going to tempt me, that’s all.
At least I remembered to preset the speed. By the time I got home I thought myself to be so adept at this, that I even took occasional sips, looking very cool, riding and sipping a latte with that bread cheerfully bopping up and down over my back shoulder – cool, but not French.
If you’re going to sell lattes in a bread store, you’re going to tempt me, that’s all.
At least I remembered to preset the speed. By the time I got home I thought myself to be so adept at this, that I even took occasional sips, looking very cool, riding and sipping a latte with that bread cheerfully bopping up and down over my back shoulder – cool, but not French.
So if I am such dedicated cook, how come the last time I cooked a full dinner was over a month ago?
Yes, yes, I’ve been gone, I’ve been gone, but I’ve also been back now – for two weeks! And it’s early summer, my absolutely favorite time for working with produce – the light greens are what fresh and honest* is all about.
No excuses. Today I cook. First though, came the marketing and if ever there was a perfect morning for it, today was it. So, I'm throwing in just three photos, to show off that color that I so completely associate with June markets.
* okay, everyone knows that this is my set of words for describing what I like to find in restaurants or at any dinners. I’ll eat and love anything, no matter how simple or how artful, so long as it is f & h.
No excuses. Today I cook. First though, came the marketing and if ever there was a perfect morning for it, today was it. So, I'm throwing in just three photos, to show off that color that I so completely associate with June markets.
* okay, everyone knows that this is my set of words for describing what I like to find in restaurants or at any dinners. I’ll eat and love anything, no matter how simple or how artful, so long as it is f & h.
Puzzle
Last night, at a meeting of the neighborhood Sad Liberals (would you believe it, there was not a small amount of disagreement amongst us, triggered by my recounting of the discussion taking place at Marginal Utility), I took this photo. I did it for a post today, of that I am certain. However, I have no idea (anymore) what it is nor what I intended to say about it. Here it is, whatever it is:
Dear B,
I love you, I really do. You suddenly came back into my life and I was ready for you. And I don’t mind going public – sooner or later people will see us around town.
This morning when we went out together at dawn and you showed me how a gentle breeze can tickle my tattoo*, I was in heaven.
I let you go all the way, full speed ahead, even though we’ve been going out together for just a few days. I felt that I used all the proper precautions. I felt safe with you.
Is it only a summer fling? One of those short lived romances? I hope not. Oh, but I do adore you, no matter what, it will have been worth it.
N.
* It's not that low, for Pete's sake!
This morning when we went out together at dawn and you showed me how a gentle breeze can tickle my tattoo*, I was in heaven.
I let you go all the way, full speed ahead, even though we’ve been going out together for just a few days. I felt that I used all the proper precautions. I felt safe with you.
Is it only a summer fling? One of those short lived romances? I hope not. Oh, but I do adore you, no matter what, it will have been worth it.
N.
* It's not that low, for Pete's sake!
Friday, June 10, 2005
Choices 2
Today, unexpectedly, I heard from Q (that is indeed his name, or at least the way he signs things).
Less than two weeks ago I was on a train, with African air blasting away at Poland, creating furnace-like conditions throughout the country. After two weeks of savoring Europe, I was now returning home. I had already that Saturday traveled by car in the mountains with my ailing father, traveled by bus to Krakow, to connect now to Warsaw, returning within the next handful of hours back to Paris and then Madison. All this in the spin of one day. It was like pulling in an extended tape measure: you let it out slowly, slowly, and then press a button and it rewinds itself at ten times the speed.
Throughout so many of the days in Poland, I had been feeling increasingly…. empty. Like this country was moving away from me, or I from it, and perversely, I was feeling like this emptiness was traveling with me right back to Madison, where it would stay with me on my return. Yeah, it did just that.
But on this train ride, the one from Krakow to Warsaw, I met Q. It happened like this: I was in a hot compartment, reflecting on the Polish definition of air conditioning: an open train window. I was sitting with my back to the direction of travel. A young family with a toddler were facing me. As soon as the train started moving, the toddler got fidgety and the mom got up to close the window. Drafty – she said. I had just ran across Krakow’s Main Square with my bag and computer and so I was plenty toasty. Thus, basically, I wanted to strangle her, then her child, then her again. Instead, I left the compartment and stood in the hallway, gazing out and feeling empty.
Eventually, a guy from a neighboring compartment came out as well and we stood and talked. He was clearly an American and I welcomed that for once. His name – Q.
Half an hour later, standing was wearing on me. I reentered the compartment and endured for two minutes the willful toddler, who was now testing seats on both sides of the aisle. Then I bolted.
Can I hang out with you guys? I asked Q and his wife. And I did, for the rest of the trip. I sat there and listened, watching the same green fields, then golden ones fly past, the same ones I had watched a week earlier, and then again a week before that. What is that yellow field? I’d asked a fellow traveler on an initial spin through this countryside. Rzepa, for sure, he had replied. I did not translate it until now: turnips, they were turnip fields. Golden yellow, like mustard greens and golden lupine. But with the homelier turnip under the soil.
My American compartment “hosts” were the ones who were searching for a balanced life, living now in Switzerland, earlier in the Netherlands.
But today, Q wrote me about something else. He gave me tips on what to see and do when I some day visit Croatia
He had noticed that I have a Croatian name. I do – it belonged to my now deceased father-in-law. Q told me I really must go there – there are spots that are breathtakingly beautiful (I thought of his words today as on NPR, someone was saying about Poland: you can travel a great distance without seeing a single pretty thing... sigh...).
I’m looking at Q's list now, his descriptions and I am wondering if connecting with Croatia, someone else’s homeland, inherited artificially by me, through my name, will feel less empty than connecting with a homeland that was mine or a home that is now mine. If so then I should start making plans. Thank you, Q.
Less than two weeks ago I was on a train, with African air blasting away at Poland, creating furnace-like conditions throughout the country. After two weeks of savoring Europe, I was now returning home. I had already that Saturday traveled by car in the mountains with my ailing father, traveled by bus to Krakow, to connect now to Warsaw, returning within the next handful of hours back to Paris and then Madison. All this in the spin of one day. It was like pulling in an extended tape measure: you let it out slowly, slowly, and then press a button and it rewinds itself at ten times the speed.
Throughout so many of the days in Poland, I had been feeling increasingly…. empty. Like this country was moving away from me, or I from it, and perversely, I was feeling like this emptiness was traveling with me right back to Madison, where it would stay with me on my return. Yeah, it did just that.
But on this train ride, the one from Krakow to Warsaw, I met Q. It happened like this: I was in a hot compartment, reflecting on the Polish definition of air conditioning: an open train window. I was sitting with my back to the direction of travel. A young family with a toddler were facing me. As soon as the train started moving, the toddler got fidgety and the mom got up to close the window. Drafty – she said. I had just ran across Krakow’s Main Square with my bag and computer and so I was plenty toasty. Thus, basically, I wanted to strangle her, then her child, then her again. Instead, I left the compartment and stood in the hallway, gazing out and feeling empty.
Eventually, a guy from a neighboring compartment came out as well and we stood and talked. He was clearly an American and I welcomed that for once. His name – Q.
Half an hour later, standing was wearing on me. I reentered the compartment and endured for two minutes the willful toddler, who was now testing seats on both sides of the aisle. Then I bolted.
Can I hang out with you guys? I asked Q and his wife. And I did, for the rest of the trip. I sat there and listened, watching the same green fields, then golden ones fly past, the same ones I had watched a week earlier, and then again a week before that. What is that yellow field? I’d asked a fellow traveler on an initial spin through this countryside. Rzepa, for sure, he had replied. I did not translate it until now: turnips, they were turnip fields. Golden yellow, like mustard greens and golden lupine. But with the homelier turnip under the soil.
My American compartment “hosts” were the ones who were searching for a balanced life, living now in Switzerland, earlier in the Netherlands.
But today, Q wrote me about something else. He gave me tips on what to see and do when I some day visit Croatia
He had noticed that I have a Croatian name. I do – it belonged to my now deceased father-in-law. Q told me I really must go there – there are spots that are breathtakingly beautiful (I thought of his words today as on NPR, someone was saying about Poland: you can travel a great distance without seeing a single pretty thing... sigh...).
I’m looking at Q's list now, his descriptions and I am wondering if connecting with Croatia, someone else’s homeland, inherited artificially by me, through my name, will feel less empty than connecting with a homeland that was mine or a home that is now mine. If so then I should start making plans. Thank you, Q.
Choices
I have a bike. I have not used it much in recent years. This week, my neighbor helped me fix it up. Yesterday, I rode it to work. An exhilarating twenty-five minute ride. All downhill. Yeah. Then there was the return trip. 11% grade hill included.
Undaunted, late in the day I rode it to the local café to pick up an afternoon latte. Thought process: it would be nice to work with a latte on the table, next to my computer. The café is a short 5 minute ride away. The latte will stay warm. It did stay warm. As it splattered all over everything on the ride back. Impossible to change gears riding a bike and holding a latte.
Daunted, in the evening I did not ride the bike downtown to meet up with some bloggers. We had a Crave-ing, each for something else. Someone was in the mood for crab cakes. Another was in the mood for strawberry shortcake. The third was in the mood for Cosmos. Not hard to figure out who wanted what, is it? (hint: see photos below)
In the end, there is always a setting sun and a boat to haul in.
Undaunted, late in the day I rode it to the local café to pick up an afternoon latte. Thought process: it would be nice to work with a latte on the table, next to my computer. The café is a short 5 minute ride away. The latte will stay warm. It did stay warm. As it splattered all over everything on the ride back. Impossible to change gears riding a bike and holding a latte.
Daunted, in the evening I did not ride the bike downtown to meet up with some bloggers. We had a Crave-ing, each for something else. Someone was in the mood for crab cakes. Another was in the mood for strawberry shortcake. The third was in the mood for Cosmos. Not hard to figure out who wanted what, is it? (hint: see photos below)
In the end, there is always a setting sun and a boat to haul in.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Outing Kep
Dear Ocean readers,
So Kep is me.
I mean really me. A literary construct, true, but not a totally fictionalized one. Everything he has said, I have thought or felt at some point in recent times. His events have been my events -- from getting toe rubbing (but not really toe rubbing) thrown in my face, and pining for a nick name, to listening to female orgasm talk in mixed company (mid-May, just as Kep said). The people in his life are variously drawn from the people – friends, loves, all important people – in my life, though with flipped genders and statuses, mostly. His stupid dilemmas have been my dilemmas as well (milky lunches, bitche-y holes in the wall, misplaced over-inflated degrees, comments on newsstories, all of it).
A couple of Ocean readers wrote to tell me that they found Kep annoying. “Once a bastard, always a bastard,” said one. Maybe. So I guess that makes me the female version of one, since I think that I’m capable of sulking at the store clerk and being culturally confused and annoying, and manifesting all sorts of misplaced behaviors when the world feels mean and rotten. And the emails I can write then! Yeah! Oh, believe me, Kep was a tame dude by comparison.
A far larger number said that they were entertained. Some even recognized the not-so-thinly-veiled sadnesses in Kep’s posts (three separate people picked up on the sadness of writing daily and losing my reach of so many close to me people who read, but assume that they owe no message in return).
A few kept saying Kep writes too much about me. I think if I were asked to jump into someone’s personal (as opposed to commentary) blog, I’d feel inclined to do the same. Wait. That’s just what I did! That’s right, I forgot. Kep is me (as is regular joe, tadpole, nina – hello Sybil!). It’s a tough assignment: no one knows or cares about you, yet you’re there, helping your pal entertain readers who are totally not used to you. Or rather -- me as him.
Of course, the vast majority of Kep-readers was silent, just as it is in regular daily posting. One has to get used to the silence that follows blogging. So I flipped on the meter for the week that Kep was writing. Perversely, Kep numbers kept shooting up, even as in general, Ocean numbers move up very incrementally. At some point I had to wonder whether the Kep voice is a better voice than my regular writing voice. [There is some delicious irony in the fact that, even if I wanted to -- and I don't -- I could not write as directly about myself as Kep wrote about me!]
Whatever it did for you, it was good for me to release a side that was less audience-driven, that could write crudely, childishly, realistically, that could more freely deal with the brassier side of any issue.
Why did I do it? For any number of reasons, you may find yourself facing a set of days where you cannot keep writing in the same way that you have in the past. You don’t want to pick anything from your current state to put on the blog. You don’t want readers to read you face-on. During such times you can step back and look at yourself from some other vantage point. That’s what I did.
Disclaimer: Any resemblance to another was intentional. You would not have been fooled unless you had a vision of someone who also would be trying hard not to sound like him or herself. The toughest part? Not to inadvertently insert my usual (foreign-born) language idiosyncrasies. You would have guessed right away then. Though I did post a caveat that Kep might try to mock my Eastern European tone, in case I absolutely could not keep it out of his posts.
God, I miss him already!
Kiss and make up for all those who felt offended by the Kep week? Here, some flowers for you to calm you down:
So Kep is me.
I mean really me. A literary construct, true, but not a totally fictionalized one. Everything he has said, I have thought or felt at some point in recent times. His events have been my events -- from getting toe rubbing (but not really toe rubbing) thrown in my face, and pining for a nick name, to listening to female orgasm talk in mixed company (mid-May, just as Kep said). The people in his life are variously drawn from the people – friends, loves, all important people – in my life, though with flipped genders and statuses, mostly. His stupid dilemmas have been my dilemmas as well (milky lunches, bitche-y holes in the wall, misplaced over-inflated degrees, comments on newsstories, all of it).
A couple of Ocean readers wrote to tell me that they found Kep annoying. “Once a bastard, always a bastard,” said one. Maybe. So I guess that makes me the female version of one, since I think that I’m capable of sulking at the store clerk and being culturally confused and annoying, and manifesting all sorts of misplaced behaviors when the world feels mean and rotten. And the emails I can write then! Yeah! Oh, believe me, Kep was a tame dude by comparison.
A far larger number said that they were entertained. Some even recognized the not-so-thinly-veiled sadnesses in Kep’s posts (three separate people picked up on the sadness of writing daily and losing my reach of so many close to me people who read, but assume that they owe no message in return).
A few kept saying Kep writes too much about me. I think if I were asked to jump into someone’s personal (as opposed to commentary) blog, I’d feel inclined to do the same. Wait. That’s just what I did! That’s right, I forgot. Kep is me (as is regular joe, tadpole, nina – hello Sybil!). It’s a tough assignment: no one knows or cares about you, yet you’re there, helping your pal entertain readers who are totally not used to you. Or rather -- me as him.
Of course, the vast majority of Kep-readers was silent, just as it is in regular daily posting. One has to get used to the silence that follows blogging. So I flipped on the meter for the week that Kep was writing. Perversely, Kep numbers kept shooting up, even as in general, Ocean numbers move up very incrementally. At some point I had to wonder whether the Kep voice is a better voice than my regular writing voice. [There is some delicious irony in the fact that, even if I wanted to -- and I don't -- I could not write as directly about myself as Kep wrote about me!]
Whatever it did for you, it was good for me to release a side that was less audience-driven, that could write crudely, childishly, realistically, that could more freely deal with the brassier side of any issue.
Why did I do it? For any number of reasons, you may find yourself facing a set of days where you cannot keep writing in the same way that you have in the past. You don’t want to pick anything from your current state to put on the blog. You don’t want readers to read you face-on. During such times you can step back and look at yourself from some other vantage point. That’s what I did.
Disclaimer: Any resemblance to another was intentional. You would not have been fooled unless you had a vision of someone who also would be trying hard not to sound like him or herself. The toughest part? Not to inadvertently insert my usual (foreign-born) language idiosyncrasies. You would have guessed right away then. Though I did post a caveat that Kep might try to mock my Eastern European tone, in case I absolutely could not keep it out of his posts.
God, I miss him already!
Kiss and make up for all those who felt offended by the Kep week? Here, some flowers for you to calm you down:
guest post 16
More from Kep:
Hey, a message from tadpole (with minor editing by me): Kep: I promised that I would not keep you blogging for more than a week and my week is up so you can go ahead and write your last post. Save the disclosure for me. Sometime this afternoon I’ll let my readers know more about you. Some of them do know you, so you can go ahead and hide to avoid their wrath for some of the things you’ve said. Thank you thank you thank you for stepping in! I needed that. A lot.
My last post! Am I happy? Not at all. It was awesome getting on Ocean daily and writing from under the kep shield. If I had my own non-kep blog I would worry to death about the topics and comments I would put on it. I am sure as hell that I’d be so worried, it would paralyze me and I would turn into a clump of twisted matter, slouched in a fetal position, unable to write more than one or two sentences about the weather.
Because my colleagues might be reading. And (gulp) Jill. What about Jill? I would have to layer over all the stuff I do not want her to know about me right now. I could not even type out the words f-e-m-a-l-e o-r-g-a-s-m in the blog, even though it was a legitimate news story, because Jill would find my writing about it grossly irritating. So I’d have to adjust my tone. I would have to bring out the side of me that is for her eyes. At the same time that I would have all those other non-Jill readers. And what do they know about my dealings with Jill? Or with katie? Or tadpole? Hey, how do you do it, Nina, how do you write for all your friends and family, the bosses and students, strangers, all mixed up, expecting you to be one way or other, looking at you with their own sharp eyes, ready to dig in and feast on your remains if you step out of their idea of what you should be like on any given day?
But from what I hear in your email, you are back at it later today. Welcome back, taddie! After a week of riding this boat, let me tell you, I forgive you in advance for all your future posting mistakes and misfires. And if anyone tells you you’re too this, or too that, shrug it off and call me. We’ll drink some Cosmos and I’ll let you bitch about the AC.
Hey, a message from tadpole (with minor editing by me): Kep: I promised that I would not keep you blogging for more than a week and my week is up so you can go ahead and write your last post. Save the disclosure for me. Sometime this afternoon I’ll let my readers know more about you. Some of them do know you, so you can go ahead and hide to avoid their wrath for some of the things you’ve said. Thank you thank you thank you for stepping in! I needed that. A lot.
My last post! Am I happy? Not at all. It was awesome getting on Ocean daily and writing from under the kep shield. If I had my own non-kep blog I would worry to death about the topics and comments I would put on it. I am sure as hell that I’d be so worried, it would paralyze me and I would turn into a clump of twisted matter, slouched in a fetal position, unable to write more than one or two sentences about the weather.
Because my colleagues might be reading. And (gulp) Jill. What about Jill? I would have to layer over all the stuff I do not want her to know about me right now. I could not even type out the words f-e-m-a-l-e o-r-g-a-s-m in the blog, even though it was a legitimate news story, because Jill would find my writing about it grossly irritating. So I’d have to adjust my tone. I would have to bring out the side of me that is for her eyes. At the same time that I would have all those other non-Jill readers. And what do they know about my dealings with Jill? Or with katie? Or tadpole? Hey, how do you do it, Nina, how do you write for all your friends and family, the bosses and students, strangers, all mixed up, expecting you to be one way or other, looking at you with their own sharp eyes, ready to dig in and feast on your remains if you step out of their idea of what you should be like on any given day?
But from what I hear in your email, you are back at it later today. Welcome back, taddie! After a week of riding this boat, let me tell you, I forgive you in advance for all your future posting mistakes and misfires. And if anyone tells you you’re too this, or too that, shrug it off and call me. We’ll drink some Cosmos and I’ll let you bitch about the AC.
guest post 15
More from Kep:
I regret the time I was rude to a sales clerk. She was a moron, I was in a hurry, the moment was tense, but still, I regret it.
I do not think that I am generally moody with clerks. But I don’t go out of my way to kiss their noses either. Have you ever gone to a store with Nina? She can be over the top obsequious. Or worse, try sharing a cab with her, like in Madison maybe, with failed poets and aging hippies behind the wheel. She gets all engaged in getting at the hidden story of the driver. Whatever for? Man, who cares about the cab driver! Give them a huge tip if you have this guilt trip going about your station in life versus their station in life. I’m for big tips anyway. But taxi time should be shut-your-mouth-already-and-get-me-there-asap time.
I asked Nina once if she has some warped insecurity problem that leads her always to engage that person behind the counter. Is it that you’re looking for validation, or what? She told me that it’s a Poland thing. (That word again! Dust off the roots and find all sources of personality dysfunction among your ancestors.) But no, really, she says that in Poland, you can divide people engaged in the exchange of services into two camps and two camps only. No one is straddling the fence and there is no third set of miscellaneous others. You are either a rude bitch/bastard or you are an engaging, caring, curious soul. And if you are the latter, that then is your style and you carry it with you everywhere.
And where would I fit in? I did not ask her that because I fear, after my last rudeness, I crossed the line, putting me forever out of touch with my engaging, caring and curious inner self. Brace yourself, here comes that mean bastard again, give a little squeeze to the egg carton so that he gets home to some leaking cracked shells, ha ha ha, he deserves it, that arrogant jerk face.
Even though I am really sorry I acted like such a wiseass.
I regret the time I was rude to a sales clerk. She was a moron, I was in a hurry, the moment was tense, but still, I regret it.
I do not think that I am generally moody with clerks. But I don’t go out of my way to kiss their noses either. Have you ever gone to a store with Nina? She can be over the top obsequious. Or worse, try sharing a cab with her, like in Madison maybe, with failed poets and aging hippies behind the wheel. She gets all engaged in getting at the hidden story of the driver. Whatever for? Man, who cares about the cab driver! Give them a huge tip if you have this guilt trip going about your station in life versus their station in life. I’m for big tips anyway. But taxi time should be shut-your-mouth-already-and-get-me-there-asap time.
I asked Nina once if she has some warped insecurity problem that leads her always to engage that person behind the counter. Is it that you’re looking for validation, or what? She told me that it’s a Poland thing. (That word again! Dust off the roots and find all sources of personality dysfunction among your ancestors.) But no, really, she says that in Poland, you can divide people engaged in the exchange of services into two camps and two camps only. No one is straddling the fence and there is no third set of miscellaneous others. You are either a rude bitch/bastard or you are an engaging, caring, curious soul. And if you are the latter, that then is your style and you carry it with you everywhere.
And where would I fit in? I did not ask her that because I fear, after my last rudeness, I crossed the line, putting me forever out of touch with my engaging, caring and curious inner self. Brace yourself, here comes that mean bastard again, give a little squeeze to the egg carton so that he gets home to some leaking cracked shells, ha ha ha, he deserves it, that arrogant jerk face.
Even though I am really sorry I acted like such a wiseass.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
guest post 14
More from Kep:
So I thought that Nina’s willingness to tamper with the template signaled her return to blogging but I got an email from her saying thumbs down to that. A few more posts from you, kep, please – she writes.
Okay. So long as it’s sweaty hot outside, why not stay indoors during my lunch break and pound away at the keyboard. I mean, it’s not as if I would be doing something useful instead, like learning a language.
It was mentioned that I might try my hand at news story commenting. That I should pick something that pulled me in this morning and blog about it. Truthfully, the story that was most interesting to me was on the female orgasm and a blogger already wrote about it here. Why should I jump in on that one? It would be dicey for a guy to write extensively about what he thinks of the female orgasm anyway. I can see getting myself into hot water with it. I remember when in mid May, the New York Times printed its story on the evolutionary purpose of the female orgasm (there was none, it was argued), a discussion about it among pals quickly degenerated into the women outshouting each other on the issue (raised in the article) of whether it was even possible to have an orgasm without external stimulation. I felt pretty left out. Though I did run through, in my head, my encounters with this and came to the conclusion that, at least theoretically, I had something to contribute to the topic. But I kept quiet.
I am not anti-news stories, by the way. I read newspapers and magazines: I want to know who got busted and what crap happened while I was sleeping. And sometimes I shred them out of anger and other times I make paper funny hats because I know how and it’s a neat thing to do. But my thoughts about what I read are for myself. Sure, people can engage me in a political discussion, but they wont do it easily. I don’t like to sound off on things that are outside my own backyard. I know my own backyard damn well and there are things I can say about it that would astonish you – things you would never believe could be true: festering and rotting right there for me to see if I look out my window. Cool things too, like there is a flower. Maybe even two or more flowers.
But place me in front of a paper and I feel I am reading about someone else’s backyard and that I should take it in, rather than spit it out. It’s not happening to me, I’m thinking. The Supreme Court decision about growing pot in your yard? It’s interesting, but it’s not my story. I haven’t worried about the Commerce Clause in years: I figure that commerce will keep on moving this way and that and I stand to lose or gain, sure, if it does move this way or that, but I can’t worry about everything. I am already obsessing about global warming ever since that New Yorker series on it this spring.
And I can’t really immerse myself on the other side of the issue either – you know, the side of the person growing corn for his own use or pot for her own malady because at this point I don’t think I have any wasting disease and so I would be lying if I were to claim that my pot was to keep me from freaking out. If I grew it, it would be for my own pleasure and I don’t really care for pot pleasure unless it’s the pot of gold kind of pleasure: I am not above spending big money to have a nice time with a friend. Or with Jill the Pill. Or with plain old tadpole.
So I thought that Nina’s willingness to tamper with the template signaled her return to blogging but I got an email from her saying thumbs down to that. A few more posts from you, kep, please – she writes.
Okay. So long as it’s sweaty hot outside, why not stay indoors during my lunch break and pound away at the keyboard. I mean, it’s not as if I would be doing something useful instead, like learning a language.
It was mentioned that I might try my hand at news story commenting. That I should pick something that pulled me in this morning and blog about it. Truthfully, the story that was most interesting to me was on the female orgasm and a blogger already wrote about it here. Why should I jump in on that one? It would be dicey for a guy to write extensively about what he thinks of the female orgasm anyway. I can see getting myself into hot water with it. I remember when in mid May, the New York Times printed its story on the evolutionary purpose of the female orgasm (there was none, it was argued), a discussion about it among pals quickly degenerated into the women outshouting each other on the issue (raised in the article) of whether it was even possible to have an orgasm without external stimulation. I felt pretty left out. Though I did run through, in my head, my encounters with this and came to the conclusion that, at least theoretically, I had something to contribute to the topic. But I kept quiet.
I am not anti-news stories, by the way. I read newspapers and magazines: I want to know who got busted and what crap happened while I was sleeping. And sometimes I shred them out of anger and other times I make paper funny hats because I know how and it’s a neat thing to do. But my thoughts about what I read are for myself. Sure, people can engage me in a political discussion, but they wont do it easily. I don’t like to sound off on things that are outside my own backyard. I know my own backyard damn well and there are things I can say about it that would astonish you – things you would never believe could be true: festering and rotting right there for me to see if I look out my window. Cool things too, like there is a flower. Maybe even two or more flowers.
But place me in front of a paper and I feel I am reading about someone else’s backyard and that I should take it in, rather than spit it out. It’s not happening to me, I’m thinking. The Supreme Court decision about growing pot in your yard? It’s interesting, but it’s not my story. I haven’t worried about the Commerce Clause in years: I figure that commerce will keep on moving this way and that and I stand to lose or gain, sure, if it does move this way or that, but I can’t worry about everything. I am already obsessing about global warming ever since that New Yorker series on it this spring.
And I can’t really immerse myself on the other side of the issue either – you know, the side of the person growing corn for his own use or pot for her own malady because at this point I don’t think I have any wasting disease and so I would be lying if I were to claim that my pot was to keep me from freaking out. If I grew it, it would be for my own pleasure and I don’t really care for pot pleasure unless it’s the pot of gold kind of pleasure: I am not above spending big money to have a nice time with a friend. Or with Jill the Pill. Or with plain old tadpole.
guest post 12
More from Kep:
It’s weird how I suddenly have a nickname (Kep – Nina picked it). Jill the Pill once tried using a nickname on me, but it was strained. It didn’t really fit. It’s like you love or like someone to death and you want to use some endearment to show them they’re not just your regular joe, but whenever you say something other than “hey there, regular joe,” it sounds like you’re talking to someone else.
I use nicknames on others anyway. Sometimes I add “little” to a friend’s name, especially if the friend is a woman. Little Jill, little sue, little katie – like you want to make them small, for one short second, so that you can hold them and protect their little fragile selves. Just like I would like to have my big fragile self protected. But I can’t force people to call me things: hey, call me little joe from now on, will you? I kind of want to be your little joe once in a while. (It has nothing to do with size. Little katie, one of my best pals ever, is way bigger than me, I swear. So little joe should work, only no one sees me that way I guess.)
Hey, weirdly, I have never called Nina little Nina. I know she can be more fragile even than katie, but somehow I don’t think “vulnerable” when I think of Nina. I think Polish peasant stock, probably because that’s the way she describes herself. Once I thought I should call her tadpole – you know, she is a tad Polish. But it was like Jill fixing me with a nickname, it seemed strained. Maybe if everyone started calling Nina tadpole, it would stick, so there’s an idea for all you Ocean readers.
I gave tadpole (there, I’m following my own advice) some tips about Ocean, by the way. I told her she should put up a photo in the sidebar. Her response: I can’t even write posts at the moment, don‘t bug me about Ocean improvements. You, however, should post some photos occasionally.
My response: Photos, yes I know. I was told this already. More than once. But of what? Last night I clipped my nails while watching TV. You want to see nail clippings photos? Or work-pile-on-the-desk photos? I’m living a calm life – not much goin’ on right now. Besides, Ocean is your blog, ms. tadpole, not mine. Let’s not confuse things around here with kep’s crappy artwork.
Maybe once I’m done blogging, I can ask the world to call me kep. I’ve developed a weird attachment to the name. Like I should now sign emails and letters that way: best regards, kep. It gives me another shot at redrawing myself: I’m not just a regular joe, I’m also kep. You know kep – the guy who bailed out Ocean while tadpole was slumbering.
It’s weird how I suddenly have a nickname (Kep – Nina picked it). Jill the Pill once tried using a nickname on me, but it was strained. It didn’t really fit. It’s like you love or like someone to death and you want to use some endearment to show them they’re not just your regular joe, but whenever you say something other than “hey there, regular joe,” it sounds like you’re talking to someone else.
I use nicknames on others anyway. Sometimes I add “little” to a friend’s name, especially if the friend is a woman. Little Jill, little sue, little katie – like you want to make them small, for one short second, so that you can hold them and protect their little fragile selves. Just like I would like to have my big fragile self protected. But I can’t force people to call me things: hey, call me little joe from now on, will you? I kind of want to be your little joe once in a while. (It has nothing to do with size. Little katie, one of my best pals ever, is way bigger than me, I swear. So little joe should work, only no one sees me that way I guess.)
Hey, weirdly, I have never called Nina little Nina. I know she can be more fragile even than katie, but somehow I don’t think “vulnerable” when I think of Nina. I think Polish peasant stock, probably because that’s the way she describes herself. Once I thought I should call her tadpole – you know, she is a tad Polish. But it was like Jill fixing me with a nickname, it seemed strained. Maybe if everyone started calling Nina tadpole, it would stick, so there’s an idea for all you Ocean readers.
I gave tadpole (there, I’m following my own advice) some tips about Ocean, by the way. I told her she should put up a photo in the sidebar. Her response: I can’t even write posts at the moment, don‘t bug me about Ocean improvements. You, however, should post some photos occasionally.
My response: Photos, yes I know. I was told this already. More than once. But of what? Last night I clipped my nails while watching TV. You want to see nail clippings photos? Or work-pile-on-the-desk photos? I’m living a calm life – not much goin’ on right now. Besides, Ocean is your blog, ms. tadpole, not mine. Let’s not confuse things around here with kep’s crappy artwork.
Maybe once I’m done blogging, I can ask the world to call me kep. I’ve developed a weird attachment to the name. Like I should now sign emails and letters that way: best regards, kep. It gives me another shot at redrawing myself: I’m not just a regular joe, I’m also kep. You know kep – the guy who bailed out Ocean while tadpole was slumbering.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
guest post 11
More from Kep:
Is it only me who is sweating it out today? The Dew Point – a summer match to the wind chill index, except, take note all you weather people, it is way less comprehensible, so quit acting as if we understand what it really is – it’s high though. That means my shirt and my skin are stuck in some infernal way, bonded through the heat and humidity. (I am offering up a better marker here: why don’t you, weather types, instead of measuring Dew Points, measure how many men it would take to pry the shirt off my damp back? So much easier to visualize than Dew Points. Who the hell cares about Dew Points.)
Nina once proclaimed (that is a verb that sooooo suits her) that she hates air conditioning. So I was going to ask her to have a late night drink this week but I remembered how unpleasant it is to sit next to her at a bar in summer hell weather days. She pulls on sweater after sweater and complains how the coldest day in Wisconsin is actually right now just because the inside temperatures are hovering near 49 degrees F., thanks to this state’s love affair with the AC.
Of course, this is all one of those Nina-ggerations. I happen to know that she has snubbed the Polish way of controlling the heat inside as well. She tells me Poles pack in a bunch of people, turn off the fans and leave you to take a whiff of the ten different types of body odor that quickly fill the space. Fun! And the much adored by her (okay, and by me) French? Obviously they love to feel warm and French toasty. They’re forever choking themselves in scarves and wearing tailored coats and it’s hard to ever lay eyes on that awesome, curvaceous French shoulder because it is always hiding under some silky number or other. Indoors, they sit tightly together and smoke cigarettes and do all sorts of things to ensure that there is no flow of cool air anywhere around. So Nina, let me say this much: all countries seem to have their own issues with temperatures, inside and out.
I find myself lapsing into silence when Nina goes on one of her “in this country” or “in that country” spins. There's this desperation about it, have you noticed? I'm thinking that she is really culturally confused and always evaluating these easy clichés to help her sort through the muddle she is in. I’m silent and I am also sorry for her. I would hate not having a home base. She talks about having roots in Poland, but what kind of roots are we looking at? Pretty thin roots if most of her years have been in Wisconsin. Next time you see her, go ahead: ask her where she’s from. She cannot answer that without pausing for ten minutes and looking pained. She will not just blurt out Wisconsin, or Poland, or New York, or America. She deliberates, she qualifies and she looks stupid doing it. She should just pick a place, say Greenland, nice and exotic, and stick with it.
Hey, let me offer my own generalization: here in America, we don’t really care where a person’s from anyway when we ask, we’re all just making polite conversation, biding our time until we can get to the real stuff that’s troubling us – whether the person voted for Bush, or whether they share our deep-rooted fears of communism and naked bodies. Whereas for Nina, the question of “where you’re from” brings on the beads of sweat and causes her internal organs to convulse.
Which brings me back to the beads of sweat. Hey, Nina, let’s wait with the drink until the heat breaks. Or if you don’t want to wait – no more about the air conditioning already, okay?
Is it only me who is sweating it out today? The Dew Point – a summer match to the wind chill index, except, take note all you weather people, it is way less comprehensible, so quit acting as if we understand what it really is – it’s high though. That means my shirt and my skin are stuck in some infernal way, bonded through the heat and humidity. (I am offering up a better marker here: why don’t you, weather types, instead of measuring Dew Points, measure how many men it would take to pry the shirt off my damp back? So much easier to visualize than Dew Points. Who the hell cares about Dew Points.)
Nina once proclaimed (that is a verb that sooooo suits her) that she hates air conditioning. So I was going to ask her to have a late night drink this week but I remembered how unpleasant it is to sit next to her at a bar in summer hell weather days. She pulls on sweater after sweater and complains how the coldest day in Wisconsin is actually right now just because the inside temperatures are hovering near 49 degrees F., thanks to this state’s love affair with the AC.
Of course, this is all one of those Nina-ggerations. I happen to know that she has snubbed the Polish way of controlling the heat inside as well. She tells me Poles pack in a bunch of people, turn off the fans and leave you to take a whiff of the ten different types of body odor that quickly fill the space. Fun! And the much adored by her (okay, and by me) French? Obviously they love to feel warm and French toasty. They’re forever choking themselves in scarves and wearing tailored coats and it’s hard to ever lay eyes on that awesome, curvaceous French shoulder because it is always hiding under some silky number or other. Indoors, they sit tightly together and smoke cigarettes and do all sorts of things to ensure that there is no flow of cool air anywhere around. So Nina, let me say this much: all countries seem to have their own issues with temperatures, inside and out.
I find myself lapsing into silence when Nina goes on one of her “in this country” or “in that country” spins. There's this desperation about it, have you noticed? I'm thinking that she is really culturally confused and always evaluating these easy clichés to help her sort through the muddle she is in. I’m silent and I am also sorry for her. I would hate not having a home base. She talks about having roots in Poland, but what kind of roots are we looking at? Pretty thin roots if most of her years have been in Wisconsin. Next time you see her, go ahead: ask her where she’s from. She cannot answer that without pausing for ten minutes and looking pained. She will not just blurt out Wisconsin, or Poland, or New York, or America. She deliberates, she qualifies and she looks stupid doing it. She should just pick a place, say Greenland, nice and exotic, and stick with it.
Hey, let me offer my own generalization: here in America, we don’t really care where a person’s from anyway when we ask, we’re all just making polite conversation, biding our time until we can get to the real stuff that’s troubling us – whether the person voted for Bush, or whether they share our deep-rooted fears of communism and naked bodies. Whereas for Nina, the question of “where you’re from” brings on the beads of sweat and causes her internal organs to convulse.
Which brings me back to the beads of sweat. Hey, Nina, let’s wait with the drink until the heat breaks. Or if you don’t want to wait – no more about the air conditioning already, okay?
guest post 10
More from Kep:
The Ocean bloggerette herself (nlc) suggested that I tell you something about relationships. Specifically: my relationships. I think she thinks they are totally weird and therefore good posting material.
Fine. But let me say this first: however you read this post, I do not think that I am a mean kind of guy. I’m not demanding either. The women in my life have left me because they did not understand the complicated way I function under emotional pressure. (Did I already say how awesome it is to write anonymously?)
I do get prickly when people, okay women-type people, claim they understand my little quirks and then six months into the relationship – whammo! – it’s suddenly an issue that I like my toes rubbed in a certain way. Six months they rub and tickle and pinch and then suddenly it’s ew, you’re gross and too demanding and don’t ever ask me to do it again! But you knew this about me! It’s not like I was going to change something so major! I’m speaking metaphorically here. I don’t really like having my toes rubbed.
My current love interest is different. Let’s call her Jill the Pill. Jill and I, we have been damn mean to each other from like day two. So it’s the sex that keeps it alive, you say. Bullshit. I mean, sure, sex is sex. But the real reason we keep at each other is that there is this Magnetic Force coming from Mother Earth herself and it does weird things to your insides. I’ll be damned if I know how else to explain it. I know that I do not have the strength to resist The Force. When Jill’s there again, vibrating the cell in my pocket, I crumble faster than overcooked bacon. At least until we turn all mean again. This has been going on for a long long time.
How does this post relate to the Ocean author? Nina and I have talked about this and she told me how she had to jump an ocean to avoid repeatedly going back to a certain dude who, I am told, tortured her inside and out for like five or six years straight (I don’t know how she was to him; women never give you that kind of info about themselves – they’re all honest and full of revelations about how the other person is to them, but about their own behavior? Zippo. For all I know, she kicked his ass hard).
Jumping an ocean. That’s kind of drastic. I couldn’t do it. For one, I don’t think I’d fit in with the French, even though I love ‘em all to pieces. And the Italian women would drive me insane. I heard they really scream during sex. Ever see that Italian movie, was it by Lina Wertmuller? Like maybe the Seduction of Mimi? Man, that woman could not keep quiet!
But I admire Nina for ditching the Polish dude in the end. Just as I know that any year now, Jill and I will split for good. Hell, you have got to keep the cruel stuff way suppressed, at least until the waning years of life when you can let it loose, knowing that no woman’s going to dump you at a time when you are still capable of taking her to the hospital for her hip replacement surgery or something.
The Ocean bloggerette herself (nlc) suggested that I tell you something about relationships. Specifically: my relationships. I think she thinks they are totally weird and therefore good posting material.
Fine. But let me say this first: however you read this post, I do not think that I am a mean kind of guy. I’m not demanding either. The women in my life have left me because they did not understand the complicated way I function under emotional pressure. (Did I already say how awesome it is to write anonymously?)
I do get prickly when people, okay women-type people, claim they understand my little quirks and then six months into the relationship – whammo! – it’s suddenly an issue that I like my toes rubbed in a certain way. Six months they rub and tickle and pinch and then suddenly it’s ew, you’re gross and too demanding and don’t ever ask me to do it again! But you knew this about me! It’s not like I was going to change something so major! I’m speaking metaphorically here. I don’t really like having my toes rubbed.
My current love interest is different. Let’s call her Jill the Pill. Jill and I, we have been damn mean to each other from like day two. So it’s the sex that keeps it alive, you say. Bullshit. I mean, sure, sex is sex. But the real reason we keep at each other is that there is this Magnetic Force coming from Mother Earth herself and it does weird things to your insides. I’ll be damned if I know how else to explain it. I know that I do not have the strength to resist The Force. When Jill’s there again, vibrating the cell in my pocket, I crumble faster than overcooked bacon. At least until we turn all mean again. This has been going on for a long long time.
How does this post relate to the Ocean author? Nina and I have talked about this and she told me how she had to jump an ocean to avoid repeatedly going back to a certain dude who, I am told, tortured her inside and out for like five or six years straight (I don’t know how she was to him; women never give you that kind of info about themselves – they’re all honest and full of revelations about how the other person is to them, but about their own behavior? Zippo. For all I know, she kicked his ass hard).
Jumping an ocean. That’s kind of drastic. I couldn’t do it. For one, I don’t think I’d fit in with the French, even though I love ‘em all to pieces. And the Italian women would drive me insane. I heard they really scream during sex. Ever see that Italian movie, was it by Lina Wertmuller? Like maybe the Seduction of Mimi? Man, that woman could not keep quiet!
But I admire Nina for ditching the Polish dude in the end. Just as I know that any year now, Jill and I will split for good. Hell, you have got to keep the cruel stuff way suppressed, at least until the waning years of life when you can let it loose, knowing that no woman’s going to dump you at a time when you are still capable of taking her to the hospital for her hip replacement surgery or something.
Monday, June 06, 2005
guest post 9
More from Kep:
Okay, Nina and I talked tonight and here’s the scoop: she wants me to continue for a little while longer, so bear with us here. She wants me to say something reassuring, ‘cause the emails are pretty freaky concerned. So: she is healthy, wealthy and wise. Okay, one and a half out of the three are for real.
After all is said and done, I agreed that she can “out” me, but in the meantime, quit asking her who I am. She wont tell and neither will I. If you approach me and ask: is it you? I’ll say: of course not, I swear! So don’t ask. I prefer it this way and so does she.
Listen, if you’re a good friend of hers, it’s a good time to send your kids over so that she can feast on their awesome grins. She told me today that she was sitting at a table tonight watching three little tikes wolf down food and she felt the world was a good place again. If you don't have kids, then go buy her some diamonds or pearls or something (see Nina: I look out for you!). Whatever you do, don’t pay much heed to me. I’m just the blogger de jour. There’s a real person behind Ocean, and it ain’t me.
Okay, Nina and I talked tonight and here’s the scoop: she wants me to continue for a little while longer, so bear with us here. She wants me to say something reassuring, ‘cause the emails are pretty freaky concerned. So: she is healthy, wealthy and wise. Okay, one and a half out of the three are for real.
After all is said and done, I agreed that she can “out” me, but in the meantime, quit asking her who I am. She wont tell and neither will I. If you approach me and ask: is it you? I’ll say: of course not, I swear! So don’t ask. I prefer it this way and so does she.
Listen, if you’re a good friend of hers, it’s a good time to send your kids over so that she can feast on their awesome grins. She told me today that she was sitting at a table tonight watching three little tikes wolf down food and she felt the world was a good place again. If you don't have kids, then go buy her some diamonds or pearls or something (see Nina: I look out for you!). Whatever you do, don’t pay much heed to me. I’m just the blogger de jour. There’s a real person behind Ocean, and it ain’t me.
guest post 8
More from Kep:
I had lunch with Nina last month, just before she left for Europe. I should have taken a picture of it, because I find her lunch habits so irritating that it’s time to shame and humiliate her in public. Nina – you knew this was coming!
You ask her out to lunch and right away she says: fine, but it has to be at a place that has good coffee.
So I am rackin’ my brains: what’s close to campus, has good food and good coffee? I give up. You pick, I tell her. So we wind up not at all close to campus, at a place that has no food to speak of (“oh, I guess they ran out,” says ms. charmer herself), and I have to watch her slurp milky caffeine, all hour long. I mean, how long can you work a cup of coffee, for God’s sake.
I noted that she carries with her chewing gum which is good. Friends, if you drink milky coffee, do remember that the combo gives a person terrible halitosis. Try riding in the front seat with someone who insists on swinging by Starbucks drive-up and then orders some latte or cappuccino and neglects to pop a spearmint baby into the mouth. Crank open the windows!
But about the lunch. I asked Nina if she thinks it’s healthy living to crunch a bar, drink coffee and then devour a pear back in the car (did anyone besides me ever get her lecture about healthy living? I know what I am doing wrong, damn it. It’s the doing it wrong that’s the problem, not my lack of knowledge about it!) and she ticks it off on her little Polish fingers: protein, produce, grains.
All the women I have ever lived with did lunch basically around rabbit food. There were piles of greens, mixed with more greens, with an occasional orange carrot or red radish thrown in (talk about fetid breath! Do not smooch after a radish; just write the day off for intimacy; your partner will understand and be grateful, believe me). And when I was in college, all the women would band together around lunchtime and do yogurt. Yogurt. Pop the lid, dig in the spoon and you’re done in 25 seconds. I defy anyone to take longer than that over a yogurt.
So fine. Protein, produce, grains. My asiago roast beef sandwich (roast beef, smoked cheddar, lettuce, tomatoes, red onions and creamy horseradish sauce, on an asiago cheese demi) happens to have the same. We swung by Panera on the way back and Nina did one of those fake hit her hand on her head routines, with an “oh yeah, I forgot they had good coffee here!” as I rushed through my prize meal in the five minutes we had left for our break.
I had lunch with Nina last month, just before she left for Europe. I should have taken a picture of it, because I find her lunch habits so irritating that it’s time to shame and humiliate her in public. Nina – you knew this was coming!
You ask her out to lunch and right away she says: fine, but it has to be at a place that has good coffee.
So I am rackin’ my brains: what’s close to campus, has good food and good coffee? I give up. You pick, I tell her. So we wind up not at all close to campus, at a place that has no food to speak of (“oh, I guess they ran out,” says ms. charmer herself), and I have to watch her slurp milky caffeine, all hour long. I mean, how long can you work a cup of coffee, for God’s sake.
I noted that she carries with her chewing gum which is good. Friends, if you drink milky coffee, do remember that the combo gives a person terrible halitosis. Try riding in the front seat with someone who insists on swinging by Starbucks drive-up and then orders some latte or cappuccino and neglects to pop a spearmint baby into the mouth. Crank open the windows!
But about the lunch. I asked Nina if she thinks it’s healthy living to crunch a bar, drink coffee and then devour a pear back in the car (did anyone besides me ever get her lecture about healthy living? I know what I am doing wrong, damn it. It’s the doing it wrong that’s the problem, not my lack of knowledge about it!) and she ticks it off on her little Polish fingers: protein, produce, grains.
All the women I have ever lived with did lunch basically around rabbit food. There were piles of greens, mixed with more greens, with an occasional orange carrot or red radish thrown in (talk about fetid breath! Do not smooch after a radish; just write the day off for intimacy; your partner will understand and be grateful, believe me). And when I was in college, all the women would band together around lunchtime and do yogurt. Yogurt. Pop the lid, dig in the spoon and you’re done in 25 seconds. I defy anyone to take longer than that over a yogurt.
So fine. Protein, produce, grains. My asiago roast beef sandwich (roast beef, smoked cheddar, lettuce, tomatoes, red onions and creamy horseradish sauce, on an asiago cheese demi) happens to have the same. We swung by Panera on the way back and Nina did one of those fake hit her hand on her head routines, with an “oh yeah, I forgot they had good coffee here!” as I rushed through my prize meal in the five minutes we had left for our break.
guest post 7
More from Kep:
I was sitting around trying to get work done while watching the Tony Awards last night – don’t ask, don’t ask, I do not know why – when I get a “you got mail” on my computer. It was an email from Nina.
You are alive! I wanted to shout, but it was email and so I just kept quiet.
She wrote the following (edited by me for reasons of readability here):
Kep, thank you. (This is good, I thought, she’s not firing me. She is saying thanks.)
… can I tell you this: the language of your posts is at times is a bit …colloquial. You never talk like that when you and I connect. Be yourself. (Oh God, I hate it when people say that to me. What does it mean to be not yourself? If I am a certain way, I am myself, Nina, shut up!)
I was surprised that you had to resort to that bean-up-the-nose story. You do not have to write about me, but if you do and you are short on material, ask me. I’ll give you some pointers. (Hey, you have given me years’ worth of material! No worry there. Simmer down, I have stuff on you!)
But really, you're terrific, thank you. I have had nothing but positive emails about you. (So why didn’t you share them with me? Your box is littered with precious little notes, and me, I am sitting here in my wicker chair wanting someone to say: you are an okay human being. Do not hold back on the praise for shit’s sake. Oh, I don’t care if the rule is that I keep curse words out. So kill me for saying shit on the blog. Oh fine, I’ll try to do better tomorrow. Okay, Nina, send me the next message – I can take it!)
I was sitting around trying to get work done while watching the Tony Awards last night – don’t ask, don’t ask, I do not know why – when I get a “you got mail” on my computer. It was an email from Nina.
You are alive! I wanted to shout, but it was email and so I just kept quiet.
She wrote the following (edited by me for reasons of readability here):
Kep, thank you. (This is good, I thought, she’s not firing me. She is saying thanks.)
… can I tell you this: the language of your posts is at times is a bit …colloquial. You never talk like that when you and I connect. Be yourself. (Oh God, I hate it when people say that to me. What does it mean to be not yourself? If I am a certain way, I am myself, Nina, shut up!)
I was surprised that you had to resort to that bean-up-the-nose story. You do not have to write about me, but if you do and you are short on material, ask me. I’ll give you some pointers. (Hey, you have given me years’ worth of material! No worry there. Simmer down, I have stuff on you!)
But really, you're terrific, thank you. I have had nothing but positive emails about you. (So why didn’t you share them with me? Your box is littered with precious little notes, and me, I am sitting here in my wicker chair wanting someone to say: you are an okay human being. Do not hold back on the praise for shit’s sake. Oh, I don’t care if the rule is that I keep curse words out. So kill me for saying shit on the blog. Oh fine, I’ll try to do better tomorrow. Okay, Nina, send me the next message – I can take it!)
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