look through any window
03.07.04 @ 5:15 p.m.
I think a Hollies tune to sum up today. And a chipper one at that. Though "chipper" isn't really what I'm feeling. It's more like... benevolently serene.
It's quite possible that I feel nice because while illness is completely and utterly miserable, it's given me what amounts to a four day weekend. And for the most part, I'm better except for one thing that is making my life periodically hellish. My ear and, uh, I guess tonsil on the left hand side hurt mildly all the time and EXCRUCIATINGLY whenever I swallow. So I guess I'm going back to the health center where they will hopefully give me something that will make me all better. And Ena now thinks any illness of hers was sympathetic/psycosomatic, because she's just fine and dandy.
Of course, what I really believe is behind today's feelings of well-being is the hour an a half (at least, likely more) that I spent sitting on our front sidewalk in the sun with my book for English. I made a decision a couple of years ago to eliminate shorts from my wardrobe because... well, I just don't care for them. Also (TMI), I hate shaving my legs (it takes such a long time!) and so I neglect it as often as possible. But today I went to the trouble and sat outside with my hair still damp and braided and my lovely soft green cargo pants rolled up to my knees. Living in Oregon, the sun is a rare and precious thing, especially just as winter is ending. There has been the occasional sunny day, but they come with chill weather. Today it's 70 degrees. Vitamin D, warmth and light are the recipe for shaking off our friend, Seasonal Affective Disorder. (Speaking of disorders, I forgot that I was going to write about waiting in the health center and looking at the pamphlets. One was called "So You've Got MONO", which was delightful because you'd think they'd stay away from such a cliche.)
So my pale, pale skin got a little radiation. And it was good.
Reservation Blues is good, I think I might try to make my dad read it. So no selling it back, I guess. My favorite, favorite thing about it, even though it references the Who not at all, is that it lays a total smackdown on Jim Morrison.
Big Mom was a musical genius. She was the teacher of all those great musicians who shaped the twentieth century. There were photographs, they said, of Les Paul leaving Big Mom's house with the original blueprint for the electric guitar. There were home movies, they said, of Big Mom choreographing the Andrew's Sisters' latest dance steps. There were even cheap recordings, they said, of Big Mom teaching Paul McCartney how to sing "Yesterday."Musicians from all over the world traveled to Big Mom's house in the hope she would teach them how to play. Like any good teacher, Big Mom was very selective with her students. She never answered the door when the live Jim Morrison came knocking. She won't even answer the door when the dead Jim Morrison comes knocking now.
There are other parts, too, casual mentions that label him as... I guess a pretender to musical greatness. Whatever. I dislike Jim Morrison and I love this book. "Touch Me" is the only Doors song I like and neohippie girls on campus with American Poet patches annoy the hell out of me. This is, of course, merely my opinion. Feel free to formulate your own.
The book has a pleasant surreality that allows for things like guitars that cut and burn and start small fires and Robert Johnson still out there, running from The Gentleman. Reality isn't out of joint entirely, just skewed very slightly.
It's a good theme, man posessed by musical instrument (and it's almost always a guitar), leading them through madness, the unreality of sudden fame, and eventually destroying them. I want to write something like that, because even outlining it and pinning it down as something I've seen before is doing something to me. I can't quite explain what. A combination of inspiration and just joy, the kind of joy/rapture you get from art or music or maybe religion. I don't know what I'm saying, I just know what I'm feeling and it's really nice.
[/book review and philosophical ramble]
Yesterday I just felt like I had to get out of the house at all costs, so I went to the writer's meeting at Paradiso, though we quickly moved to the tea salon down the street. It's a shame I don't like tea in any form except iced and mixed with enough sugar and lemon that you might as well make it one part tea and one part lemonade. There were four of us, and it was nice to see Leah again. We talked about pretty much everything but writing, though we did touch on writerly things for a moment or two. We talked about ghost stories and movies and TV for the large part. After two hours, we went our separate ways. When I came home, I was surprised because as soon as I walked in the door Ena said "I'm glad you're home." It seems odd to be missed, especially when you've only been gone three hours. Well, seems odd to be missed by anyone except my parents. Somehow I tend to think that I just fly under everyone's radar and so being noticed at all is something of a surprise.
We ordered pizza, ate a little of it when it arrived, then walked to the grocery store for a few things. Mostly I wanted to tape SNL and didn't have a blank tape. On the way home we were walking and Ena said something about the Drummer House. Usually when we pass that house together, there's someone practicing drums. Anyway, it was dark and quiet, and I essentially told Ena to lower her voice because the people walking behind us were probably the residents of the Drummer House. And oh did it feel good when I was right. She was impressed and astonished, and I told her she didn't understand the perversity of the universe the way I did. Hah.
More Oscar Wilde, this time in the form of my other Jane Austen-love, Jeremy Northam. (Mr. Knightly!) We watched An Ideal Husband which also has Minnie Driver, Julianne Moore, Cate Blanchett and Rupert Everett in it. Everett gets all the Oscar Wilde witty man about town characters. Likely because he does it so well. 'Twas delightful. Much more dramatic than The Importance of Being Earnest and more political.
Not important, though. IMPORTANT is that Colin Firth (Colin fucking Firth) hosted Saturday Night Live last night. I died. I died a million times in girlish delight. I had to hide my face in a pillow because it was TOO MUCH. Mr. Darcy being downright silly! I've just got such a crush. The monologue alone made me want to marry him, especially when Amy Poehler came out and pulled out Elizabeth Bennet lines. Rachel Dratch's actually mauling of him, now, that would be me.
Ah. Whatever. It was delightful a million times over
Other things:
-My mom sent me an email about "what it means to be Irish." It was quite funny and applied to me in some places (not drunkenness), and perhaps I'll share it another time.
-Andrew made me very happy indeed by telling me he wished that he, Martha, and I could go to the beach, just the three of us, because that's so much fun and relaxing. No need to cater to other people's desires or deal with disagreement on activities. Those two are my two favorite people in the world (that aren't family), and it just makes me deliriously happy that they really like me so much.
Mmm. Someone is barbequing. I love the smell of charcoal and lighter fluid. As I imagined the wildly blooming tree on our front lawn saying earlier today, "Spring is here, motherfuckers, and don't you try to tell me otherwise."*
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.
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*He smells good and has pretty flowers, but he is actually the Samuel L. Jackson of trees. I know this instinctively.
Previously
fuck it @ 08.01.05
fanciful imaginary sea voyages to come @ 07.20.05
*dies* @ 07.19.05
more ootp @ 07.17.05
harry potter: driving our children into devil worship @ 07.17.05
