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You now know my opinions on cell phones, loud music, and jumpy knees. From there, a few simple inferences could tell you what my attitude on Ipods is. But fortunately, I don't have to spend the time writing about it, because columnist & blogger Andy Sullivan has done it for me...
Cagliari, 1 January 1900
I am alone, sitting facing the grey expanse of the shifting sea…I am alone…alone as I’ve always been everywhere, as I’ll always be throughout this seductive and deceptive universe….alone, with a whole world of dashed hopes, disappointment and disillusion behind me, and of memories that grow daily more distant, almost losing all reality.
My soul is tempered now for good, and now is indestructible, resolute even through the worst storms, devastations or loss. My knowledge of life and the human heart is now so keen that I know the two months ahead will bring me more sorrow, largely because I will not pander to mundanities nor to anything alien to the dreams, thoughts, and feelings of my true personality.
Seen from the outside, I wear the mask of the cynic, the dissipated and debauched layabout. No one yet has managed to see through to my real inner self, which is sensitive and pure and which rises above the humiliation and baseness I choose to wallow in. No one has ever understood that even though I may seem to be driven by the senses alone, my heart is in fact generous, one that used to overflow with love and tenderness and continues to be filled with boundless compassion for all those who suffer injustice, all those who are weak and oppressed….a heart both proud and unswerving in its commitment to Islam, a cause for which I long some day to spill the hot blood that courses through my veins. I shall dig in my heels, therefore, and go on acting the drunken, plate-smashing degenerate, steeping her wild, besotted mind in the intoxicating expanse of desert as I did last summer, or galloping through olive groves in the Tunisian Sahel, as I did in the autumn...
in the continuing tradition of letting other people author my blog for me...
i found this song amongst the free downloads at amazon.com
My question is, who is Isabelle Eberhardt?
Old fashioned morphine
Gimme that old fashion morphine
Gimme that old fashion morphine
Gimme that old fashion morphine
It's good enough for me
What was good enough for my grandpa
It was good enough for my grandpa
It was good enough for my grandpa
It's good enough for me
Sister don't get worried
Sister don't get worried
Sister don't get worried
Because the world is almost done
Gimme that old fashion morphine
Gimme that old fashion morphine
Gimme that old fashion morphine
It's good enough for me
It was good enough for billy burroughs
It was good enough for billy burroughs
It was good enough for billy burroughs
It's good enough for me
Sister don't get worried
Sister don't get worried
Sister don't get worried
Because the world is almost done
Gimme that old fashion morphine
Gimme that old fashion morphine
Gimme that old fashion morphine
It's good enough for me
It was good enough for Isabelle Eberhardt
It was good enough for Isabelle Eberhardt
It was good enough for Isabelle Eberhardt
It's good enough for me
Sister don't get worried
Sister don't get worried
Sister don't get worried
Because the world is almost done
Elogio del insomnio
Todo elogio del insomnio es una forma disimulada de culto necrófilo. Porque la la muerte, dama de guante blanco y ojos negros que se lleva de noche a los que duermen, solamente se deja seducir por quienes son capaces de resistirse al sueño de los justos, y no se acuesta más que con los miserables. Extraño honor, el de los miserables: yacer junto a la dama, ignorar su halitosis, cortejarla. Recorrer su piel clara deseando el deshielo imposible de la carne, nieve blanda del último temblor que a veces estremece a quienes perseveran.
Debe de ser difícil el tacto de la muerte. No por frío, sino por desgastado. La muerte es milenaria en sus duelos nocturnos, ha sido sometida a todo tipo de rituales sádicos, se ha dejado embestir, ha tragado excrementos y ha escuchado paciente a sus lentos verdugos. Pero, al final, es tan pequeño el tiempo de los miserables. Ellos, que viven de día y mueren de noche, que esperan levantados a la dama y la acuestan despiertos en su lecho, y la aman y la temen y le escupen, tienen, como es sabido, todas las de perder. La muerte, que no lleva reloj, sobrevive con saña a todos sus amantes.
Mi padre es el mejor amante de la muerte. Recuerdo, desde niña, sus idas y venidas del comedor al dormitorio. Con el cigarrillo en la mano, como una pequeña espada luminosa contra la oscuridad de nuestra casa, mi padre deambulaba invocando a la dama, con una desesperación tan silenciosa que incluso era capaz de conmover las paredes remotas de mi cuarto. Entonces todavía no sabía que mi padre, un hombre ya casado y con dos hijos, le seguía siendo fiel a su primera novia. A su última novia. Sospecho que la muerte desprecia el matrimonio.
Los imagino juntos, bailando en el pasillo la danza más macabra que imaginarse pueda, con esa extraña mezcla de pasión y rechazo que, al parecer, guió todos los pasos de Fred Astaire y Ginger Rogers. Mi padre es un hombre pequeño pero elegante. La muerte le debe de sacar una cabeza y, en cambio, me la figuro torpe y desmañada. Juntos, encantadores y ridículos, cuántas veces despertarían las suspicacias de mi madre dormida. Tal vez en sueños se le aparecieron, moviéndose al compás ternario de su abrazo, tarareando un vals cursi y mortal.
Ahora que mi cuerpo ha crecido, que he cambiado de casa, de amigos y de novio, mi cabeza se sigue peleando con esa dama intrusa que robaba las noches de mi padre. Fiel a mis obsesiones como otros a sus perros, a sus esposas o a sus gatos, tramo alguna venganza. Desde hace un mes, la espero levantada, pero debo confesar que todavía se me resiste. Cuando aparezca ante mí —sé que lo hará más tarde o más temprano porque también yo, por derecho propio, me he ganado un puesto en el selecto club de los miserables— le plantearé un enigma que no podrá responder. He ahí mi victoria: escuchar el silencio de la muerte.
Aunque lo desease, no podría revelarles el contenido de ese enigma. Les adelanto, en cambio, que es una pregunta que cualquier miserable —y, si me apuran, incluso cualquier mortal— podría responder sin pensárselo mucho. Pero he llegado a intuir que planteársela a la muerte puede hacer que se enfríe incluso un grado más. O que se desdibuje el arroz blanco de su maquillaje. No es una cuestión metafísica. Tampoco práctica. Es algo susceptible de ser formulado en muy pocas palabras. Les dejo que se lo piensen. Entregada al insomnio cada noche, sólo espero encontrarme a mi madrastra para asistir, por fin, a su perplejidad.
AGNES
Hm?
TOBIAS
The cat that I had....when I was--well, a year or so before I met you. She was very old; I'd had her since I was a kid; she must have been fifteen, or more. An alley cat. She didn't like people very much, I think; when people came...she'd....pick up and walk away. She liked me; or, rather, when I was alone with her I could see she was content; she'd sit on my lap. I don't know if she was happy, but she was content.
AGNES
Yes.
TOBIAS
And how the thing happened I don't really know. She...one day she...well, one day I realized she no longer liked me. No, that's not right; one day I realized she must have stopped liking me some time before. One evening I was alone, home, and suddenly aware of her absence, not just that she wasn't in the room with me, but that she hadn't been, in the rooms with me, watching me shave...just about....for....and I couldn't place how long. She hadn't gone away, you understand; well, she had, but she hadn't run off. I know she was around; I remembered I had caught sight of her--from time to time--under a chair, moving out of a room, but it was only when I realized something had happened that I could give any pattern to things that had...that I'd noticed. She didn't like me anymore. It was that simple.
CLAIRE
Well, she was old.
TOBIAS
No, it wasn't that. She didn't like me any more. I tried to force myself on her.
AGNES
Whatever do you mean?
TOBIAS
I'd close her in a room with me; I'd pick her up, and I'd make her sit in my lap; I'd make her stay there when she didn't want to. But it didn't work; she'd abide it, but she'd get down when she could, go away.
CLAIRE
Maybe she was ill.
TOBIAS
No, she wasn't; I had her to the vet. She didn't like me anymore. One night--I was fixed on it now--I had her in the room with me, and on my lap for the...the what, the fifth time the same evening, and she lay there, with her back to me, and she wouldn't purr, and I know: I knew she was just waiting till she could get down, and I said, "Damn you, you like me; God damn it, you stop this! I haven't done anything to you." And I shook her; I had my hands around her shoulders, and I shook her....and she bit me; hard; and she hissed at me. And so I hit her. With my open hand, I hit her, smack, right across the head. I....I hated her!
AGNES
Did you hurt her badly?
TOBIAS
Yes; well, not badly; she...I must have hurt her ear some; she shook her head a lot for a day or so. And...you see, there was no reason. She and I had lived together and been, well, you know, friends, and...there was no reason. And I hated her for that. I hated her well, I suppose because I was being accused of something, of....failing. But, I hadn't been cruel, by design; if I'd been neglectful, well, my life was...I resented it. I resented having a...being judged. Being betrayed.
CLAIRE
What did you do?
TOBIAS
I had lived with her; I had done....everything. And...and if there was a, any responsibility I'd failed in...well....there was nothing I could do. And, and I was being accused.
CLAIRE
Yes; what did you do?
TOBIAS
I had her killed.
AGNES
You had her put to sleep. She was old. You had her put to sleep.
TOBIAS
I had her killed. I took her to the vet and he took her...he took her into the back and he gave her an injection and killed her! I had her killed!
AGNES
Well, what else could you have done? There was nothing to be done; there was no...meeting between you.
TOBIAS
I might have tried longer. I might have gone on, as long as cats live, the same way. I might have worn a hair shirt, locked myself in the house with her, done penance. For something. For what. God knows.
CLAIRE
You probably did the right thing. Distasteful alternatives; the less...ugly choice.
TOBIAS
Was it?
Ok. So, for the curious, I'm still conscious. Sorry there hasn't been much Deceiving from the Thrush these days. It's just been a very, very busy week, and things won't get better for a while. So I don't have much to comment on. I'm open to whatever topics interest anyone. Actually, if anything interesting has happened in the news this week, you can let me know, because I've been 100% oblivious to all world events.
Seems like this blog got another string of spam comments. They're way back on posts that I made months ago. What's funny is that this time they're in Spanish! So, I wonder if someone made an algorithm that somehow is able to detect blogs of particular languages so they can attach appropriate advertisements to them. It's just ironic that I get this Spanish spam very shortly after I write a post in Spanish.
If the Washington Post is friendly with us today, the following link should work:
The Tracks Of Our Tears
Arthur Miller Dramatized The Pain in Everyday Lives
Otherwise, just register your name with the Post and get it over with so they can get their hands on your demographic information or whatever it is they want. Or just open your local newspaper; you'll surely find something about Arthur Miller.
I'm not suited to write at length about Miller's career, so that's why washingtonpost.com is going to do it in my place. I've only read two of his plays: Death of a Salesman (which I tried to quote in the title, probably without success) and The Crucible. And then I saw one of his very recent plays, Resurrection Blues, when it was staged at the Guthrie 3 years ago (Jessi, you saw that too, didn't you? I remember you were upset about the stereotypical portrayal of the 'banana republic') Ah, and I guess I finally did see Death of a Salesman staged, where was that? Somewhere in St. Louis, I think.
While I was only exposed to a fraction of Arthur Miller's work, I was drawn to what I read and saw, and felt something like sympathy for the man, and kept a postcard of his classic mid-century image: Writer in a t-shirt at his desk, black curls looking somewhat greasy (or was that the black-and white film?). I never studied his plays in depth. I wrote one essay on his work in high school and I think my teacher thought I had kind of missed the point. And maybe I still don't get the point-- his tirades against society may have reflected his unique perspective, and I probably morphed that perspective to fit whatever pre-existing grievances I came to the theatre with. But Miller was of course something of a populist, so I tend to think that he would have avoided obscurity and subtlety for the sake of expressing sentiments that would easily resonante with the public-- to the effect that someone like me, who hasn't put serious intellectual effort into receiving his work, surely couldn't have missed the point entirely.
Well, I still have nothing interesting to say. It's just been that way these days. I've been kind of busy. But I will take this time to complain about cell phones.
The only people in this world who should be allowed to own cell phones include me and anybody I need to call. Otherwise, they're simply prohibited. Especially amongst "the young" which means, people younger than I am.
Because I think this whole generation, whatever letter they've been assigned ("Generation Y? Z?) is growing up thinking that standards of politeness simply place no boundaries on their cell phone usage. So, here's my rant, tell me if I'm being too uptight.
First of all, I don't like people blabbing in my ear on the bus. We have some profoundly crowded bus lines here in beautiful Pittsburgh, such that you're often standing there, grasping for dear life onto a small length of handrail, studying the fabric texture of your neighbor's coat. And yet, even on the most packed of buses, people can still manage one free hand to whip out the dear cell phone and talk to their girlfriend. Never mind that my ear is 12 inches away. God bless them.
Second, the cell phone has been incorporated into people's nervous tics. Boredom, anxiety, impatience...all of it accompanied by taking out that phone, flipping the top, closing it again, flipping the top, closing it again....oh, and let's check the time 5 times every minute. What happened to wristwatches? And then, I mentioned the guy in last semester's stats class who played cell phone games when he decided he had had enough of the lecture. So there was this spastic, repetitive, obsessive pushing of buttons to my right as I desperately tried to focus on Mauchly's Test of Sphericity. Inadmissible.
And similarly, yesterday, in the Carnegie Library, here I am trying to read about the mossy fiber pathway, and this girl behind me starts gabbing on the phone. The library, for christ's sake! When I was a youngin', they beat into my head the sanctity of library silence.
Now, maybe you disagree with me. Maybe you've all done these things that grate against me so much. But you surely, surely must agree that the following is a serious faux paus: holding a phone conversation while checking out at a store. I've seen this in the grocery store, I've seen it at McDonald's, I've seen people on their phones as they pay on the bus...it's gotten so bad at 7-11 that they've put up signs requesting that their happy throngs of undergrad customers Please Do Not use their phones while at the cash register. How does anyone think this is acceptable? To me, it sends the most blatant of messages to the cashier, namely, "I Don't Care About You." But again, ancient as I am at 23 years, maybe I'm old-fashioned.
Hace varios meses que no hablo castellano; estoy segura que van a detectar un monton de errores en lo que sigue.
Con el fin de evitar la lectura aburrida que tengo para una de mis clases esta semana, lei bastante basura en el Internet esta manana, con la consecuencia que quedo muy bien informada con respecto a las noticias del dia. Por eso, tengo otro articulo que recomendarte: Mexico's Fallen Party Plans Its Revival With a New Star
Aparentemente, el PRI esta gozando del reestablecimiento de su popularidad en
Mexico. Estoy de acuerdo con el articulo: A lo mejor, la gente mas pobre, en su desesperacion, esta dispuesta a soportar la corrupcion del PRI si el partido promete darle los bienes y servicios que necesitan.
I have nothing interesting to say. However this essay looks kind of intriguing:
I don't intend to play the stereotypical liberal cynic and disparage the suprising success of the Iraqi elections (although I worry about what's happened to my mindset when I hear that the death toll on election day was 30+ people and think, "Hey, that's not too bad.") Anyways, things did turn out better than expected. One just fears that America will quickly take on an ends-justify-the-means attitude here, as hinted in the linked article.
So, after regression class last night I finally kick myself in the butt and go to the gym. I haven't been in 2-3 months. So, I go, do my running thing, take a shower, and leave. You know, before I got all motivated, it would have helped me to recall that I can be terribly allergic to that shower room. Consequently, I slept horribly last night, since 50+ kleenexes couldn't clear my nasal passages. I was up probably every two hours. And I'm still not quite recovered, sitting here with a bunch of napkins I pulled from the 6th floor kitchen.
What puzzles me is, this didn't always happen to me. The first several weeks I went to that gym I had no problem at all. And then suddenly, on a single morning, I left the shower sneezing about 20 times. And it's happened ever since. I have no particular allergies that I'm aware of, except maybe mold, but you would expect that to be a year-round thing, wouldn't you? So my guess is maybe someone is using an especially potent shampoo or god knows what. Whatever it is, it's still residing in my sinuses.