Meters swum today: 1600 (a mighty mile)
Playing on the iPod: The Immersion Foray, "The Icarus Theory" (who are these guys? I love them!)
I went home early yesterday. I can't tell you how often that happens but it is spelled N E V E R. I have been known to stupidly come to work with a fever and only go home when it becomes obvious, based on the dancing stapler and swirling computer monitor, that I'm not in my right mind (I start hallucinating at 101 degrees).
Yesterday, though, I had a headache, my shoulders were sore, my neck felt like it needed "cricking" and I was just kind of generally miserable. I had a flu shot Wednesday and I was blaming that, but there was some other stuff going on. It was more of an emotional state, almost, than a physical one, and it's kind of hard to explain but let me sum up: "Law firm this. Law firm that. Blah blah blah. Who the f*ck cares. Sue 'em all and let God sort 'em out."
Not exactly the world's greatest attitude, right? When I feel that way I hide in my office and just try to work through it. Between that and the headache and so on, though, I couldn't concentrate, so I finally did leave. Went home, curled up on the sofa, applied cat topically, felt sorry for myself. I felt picked on. Like somebody was nagging me, though no one was. Kind of like, "Okay, the world economy is tanking, we're running out of oil, my bankrupt government just dumped 700 billion it doesn't have on an economic bailout that's not working, I'm surrounded by people who are going to vote for McCain not because they want four more years of this crap or think he'd do anything to get us out of it but mainly because they can't admit, even to themselves, that they won't vote for a black man, which means my people, though I love them all, are blithering morons, and bigots besides, and not worth the affection I waste on them." Joan picked up comfort food (burg, fries, small caramel sundae) and we ate and I felt better. Maybe my caramel sauce quotient was just low.
Anyway, I went to bed early, woke up early this morning and today I feel fine. Went back to the pool, even, swam a mighty mile, and ran right into the woman who was arguing with my teammate about whether Obama would do what world leaders want because he is weak.
It was kind of awkward. I sang at her, if you'll recall. "Um, hi," I said. "Were you the one singing the other morning?" she asked. "Um, yes," I said. "You sing very well," she said. "Um, thanks," I said. (Still waiting for her to mention Obama.) She asked me how many years I'd been studying German. In German. I said, "Nein, nie sprechen sie Deutsch." Which means, "I don't speak German."
She laughed. She thought I was kidding. I had to explain, no, really, I just speak a few phrases of it, I learned the song syllabically. I don't think she believed me. She never mentioned Obama. It was kind of spooky though. I really don't speak German but I understood her perfectly. Something like that happened last Sunday, too, when Kellum, who's studying Danish, said something (in Danish) that meant something or other (I forget what) and I laughed and said, "Oh, wow, it's the same in Icelandic." For the record, I don't speak Icelandic either. I have parents and grandparents, though, who speak both German and Icelandic and I'm wondering if I maybe absorbed some of the language in utero. Or heard 'em spoken when I was very young. Well, anyway, it was a bit spooky.
Diese Anwaltskanzlei. Diese Anwaltskanzlei. Blah blah blah.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Affluenza
Jen here: Ordinarily I'm against lending my precious piece of bandwidth to any other writer, but I'm going to make an exception. This is from John Gibbons who writes for The Irish Times.
SAILORS RARELY blush, and bankers never say sorry. Last weekend Anglo Irish Bank chairman Seán Fitzpatrick warned that the banking sector would fall unless the Government bailed it out. In June 2007 the same Fitzpatrick ridiculed Irish politicians for their "corporate McCarthyism". It was, he said, "time to shout stop. The tide of regulation has gone far enough . . . our wealth creators should be rewarded and admired, not subjected to levels of scrutiny which convicted criminals would rightly find intrusive."
Another "wealth creator", Richard Fuld, chief executive of collapsed US investment bank Lehman Brothers, did appear to squirm for a moment on RTÉ's evening news earlier this week as details of his income were put to him. In the last eight years he has pocketed $310 million - almost a million a week - as reward for his reckless gambling with other people's money. And all with little or none of the intrusive scrutiny Fitzpatrick finds objectionable.
Former Soviet dissident author Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, who died in August, had unique insights into the best and worst aspects of capitalism and communism. "Self-limitation is the fundamental and wisest step of a man who has obtained freedom," said Solzhenitsyn. It is, he added, "also the surest path towards its attainment". English philosopher Bertrand Russell captured the concept elegantly: "To be without some of the things you want is an indispensable part of happiness."
And in a world of economic turmoil and overshadowed by a rapidly unfolding sustainability crisis that threatens our very ability to survive the 21st century, is it time to ask:
Have we had enough yet?
...
A 2004 study by the World Health Organisation into emotional distress in 15 countries delivered some surprising findings. Nigeria is a far poorer country than the US, yet fewer than 5 per cent of its population were suffering from emotional distress, compared with over 26 per cent of Americans. Commenting on the study, psychologist Oliver James observes: "Whilst poverty fosters survivalist materialism, it does not result in illness. Materialistic values cause emotional distress only when countries, or classes within them, become affluent."
Our most fundamental needs as humans are to feel secure; to be part of a community; to feel competent and to feel autonomous and authentic. The affluenza virus, James argues, impairs our ability to meet each of these needs. Paradoxically, the widespread social distress, depression and anxiety caused by affluenza is, he believes, crucial for the success of our current economic model of growth-based capitalism.
We strive to fill the void in our lives by consumption, as "it holds out the false promise that an internal lack can be fixed by an external means". We medicate our misery, James suggests, "through buying things".
A principal vector of this virus is television. A study from Fiji is revealing; prior to 1995, the country - where a full female figure is the cultural norm - had no television, and bulimia was unheard of. Within three years of the arrival of television, 11 per cent of young Fijian women were bulimic. The link between television viewing and the obesity epidemic is no less compelling.
All along Dublin's M50 you'll see the latest manifestation of our inability to say stop. The business parks that back on to the motorway are now dotted with self-storage companies. In the US, self-storage facilities now offer 2.2 billion sq ft of storage space. That's 78 sq miles of storage - an area three times the size of Manhattan Island, and all to pack away the mountains of goods that people keep buying but physically can't fit anywhere in their own homes.
A Bank of America analyst described self-storage as a "critical prop to global growth". In a nutshell, if you can't physically fit any more stuff in your house, you might have to stop buying things you don't need - and then the world economy collapses.
The world of consumption and consumerism is a world of disconnection. We are detached from the lessons of history, "because the world of more reviles yesterday, disdains today and preaches an obsession with some mythic perfect tomorrow", says Naish. This also extends to our collective indifference to the pauperised lives that four in five people in the world endure, and how our obsession with more means less and less for them, and for the environment as a whole.
The things that truly enhance our lives - family, friendships, good neighbours and health - have one thing in common. They can't be bought. As an antidote to angst, singer Bobby McFerrin has this timeless advice: don't worry, be happy.
© 2008 The Irish Times
SAILORS RARELY blush, and bankers never say sorry. Last weekend Anglo Irish Bank chairman Seán Fitzpatrick warned that the banking sector would fall unless the Government bailed it out. In June 2007 the same Fitzpatrick ridiculed Irish politicians for their "corporate McCarthyism". It was, he said, "time to shout stop. The tide of regulation has gone far enough . . . our wealth creators should be rewarded and admired, not subjected to levels of scrutiny which convicted criminals would rightly find intrusive."
Another "wealth creator", Richard Fuld, chief executive of collapsed US investment bank Lehman Brothers, did appear to squirm for a moment on RTÉ's evening news earlier this week as details of his income were put to him. In the last eight years he has pocketed $310 million - almost a million a week - as reward for his reckless gambling with other people's money. And all with little or none of the intrusive scrutiny Fitzpatrick finds objectionable.
Former Soviet dissident author Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, who died in August, had unique insights into the best and worst aspects of capitalism and communism. "Self-limitation is the fundamental and wisest step of a man who has obtained freedom," said Solzhenitsyn. It is, he added, "also the surest path towards its attainment". English philosopher Bertrand Russell captured the concept elegantly: "To be without some of the things you want is an indispensable part of happiness."
And in a world of economic turmoil and overshadowed by a rapidly unfolding sustainability crisis that threatens our very ability to survive the 21st century, is it time to ask:
Have we had enough yet?
...
A 2004 study by the World Health Organisation into emotional distress in 15 countries delivered some surprising findings. Nigeria is a far poorer country than the US, yet fewer than 5 per cent of its population were suffering from emotional distress, compared with over 26 per cent of Americans. Commenting on the study, psychologist Oliver James observes: "Whilst poverty fosters survivalist materialism, it does not result in illness. Materialistic values cause emotional distress only when countries, or classes within them, become affluent."
Our most fundamental needs as humans are to feel secure; to be part of a community; to feel competent and to feel autonomous and authentic. The affluenza virus, James argues, impairs our ability to meet each of these needs. Paradoxically, the widespread social distress, depression and anxiety caused by affluenza is, he believes, crucial for the success of our current economic model of growth-based capitalism.
We strive to fill the void in our lives by consumption, as "it holds out the false promise that an internal lack can be fixed by an external means". We medicate our misery, James suggests, "through buying things".
A principal vector of this virus is television. A study from Fiji is revealing; prior to 1995, the country - where a full female figure is the cultural norm - had no television, and bulimia was unheard of. Within three years of the arrival of television, 11 per cent of young Fijian women were bulimic. The link between television viewing and the obesity epidemic is no less compelling.
All along Dublin's M50 you'll see the latest manifestation of our inability to say stop. The business parks that back on to the motorway are now dotted with self-storage companies. In the US, self-storage facilities now offer 2.2 billion sq ft of storage space. That's 78 sq miles of storage - an area three times the size of Manhattan Island, and all to pack away the mountains of goods that people keep buying but physically can't fit anywhere in their own homes.
A Bank of America analyst described self-storage as a "critical prop to global growth". In a nutshell, if you can't physically fit any more stuff in your house, you might have to stop buying things you don't need - and then the world economy collapses.
The world of consumption and consumerism is a world of disconnection. We are detached from the lessons of history, "because the world of more reviles yesterday, disdains today and preaches an obsession with some mythic perfect tomorrow", says Naish. This also extends to our collective indifference to the pauperised lives that four in five people in the world endure, and how our obsession with more means less and less for them, and for the environment as a whole.
The things that truly enhance our lives - family, friendships, good neighbours and health - have one thing in common. They can't be bought. As an antidote to angst, singer Bobby McFerrin has this timeless advice: don't worry, be happy.
© 2008 The Irish Times
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Out of the Political Closet
Meters swum today: 1500.
Playing on the iPod: Rob Whitesides-Woo, "Mountain Light"
This morning I found myself clinging to the side of the Jaccuzzi and singing out loud in German. Before I get to that, however, I'm for Obama. Hope that's not a big shock to anybody. If it is, take a deep breath, sit down, and drink a glass of water. Better? Good.
I came to Obama late. I was for Edwards for quite a while. I thought he was too pretty to get elected, though as it turned out, something quite a bit south of his face would have kept him out of the Oval Office. Look, I'm all for having as much sex as possible, with as many people as possible, for as long as possible, with the caveat that A. everybody involved is a consenting adult and a willing participant, and B. whenever there's a penis involved, a condom is used. However, once you walk down the aisle and say "I do," that should be it. You just took a vow, to yourself, to your partner and to the greater society. To be brief, fool around before you're married, not after. Most especially, don't cheat on your wife while she's being treated for terminal cancer and father a child with another woman. Okay? That's unconscionable. That's just Right Out. Most especially do not do this while running for President.
That aside aside, I was for Hillary, even voted for her in the primary. But as it turned out, I'm glad Obama was the nominee. I think he's the better choice for lots of reasons. It's starting to look like he might even have a shot at winning this election, which means we the people would be less screwed over than we would be if the other guy won, at least in my opinion. So now you know. My home state of Texas will probably go with the other guy (though some polls are saying it'll be close), but myself will be casting the vote for the handsome black dude.
Back to this morning and the Jaccuzzi. Apparently we had a debate last night, which I missed because I was out for dinner with our time traveling neocraftsperson friends and then rummaging around under my bed with Tracy looking for my missing ring (she found it! She rocks! More on this later.) As I was doin' my stretches I heard a woman arguing with a member of the swim team. Little snatches of her diatribe floated into my concsciousness. Immediately the Squirrel Committee fired up (those are the voices in my head; one of them sounds like my mother, one is probably Joan and I'm not sure who the others are) demanding I respond at once. Meantime I hung onto the Jaccuzzi wall, trying to stretch faster (this is not possible) while whispering to myself, Do not go over there. Do not get involved in that conversation. Do not start arguing with total strangers about who they're going to vote for and why.
Then the lady said, "...and the world leaders want Obama to win because they think he's weak. They think he'll go along with them," and something in my head just kind of went snap! The Squirrel Committee swung into overdrive. Yeah? What's wrong with cooperating with other world leaders? Did you know the U.S. uses 25% of the world's natural resources when we only have 4%? Where do you think we're getting the rest of it, out our asses? Do you realize eight years of Republican financial policies has caused stock markets to crash all over the world, you stupid bimbo? Did you further realize that since we share the same planet with other people we might wanna learn how to get along with everybody? I clung to the Jaccuzzi with fingernails and teeth. Do not go over there. Do not get involved in that conversation.
And then,for no apparent reason, I burst into song. I learned Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" syllabically in German for a choir thing when I was about 14. I'm sure my rendition was passable at best. Freude, schöner Götterfunken, Tochter aus Elysium! Wir betreten feuertrunken, Himmlische, Dein Heiligtum!!
An odd thing happened. They stopped arguing and stared at me. Imagine that. I got up out of the Jaccuzzi, still singing; Deine Zauber binden wieder, Was die Mode streng geteilt!! By the time I got to Alle Menschen werden Brüder, Wo Dein sanfter Flügel weilt I was safely in the shower. The Squirrel Committee had fallen silent. So had pretty much everybody in the locker room. Nobody applauded, thank God. No thrown tomatoes either. Just silence. And sometimes the silence is best.
Playing on the iPod: Rob Whitesides-Woo, "Mountain Light"
This morning I found myself clinging to the side of the Jaccuzzi and singing out loud in German. Before I get to that, however, I'm for Obama. Hope that's not a big shock to anybody. If it is, take a deep breath, sit down, and drink a glass of water. Better? Good.
I came to Obama late. I was for Edwards for quite a while. I thought he was too pretty to get elected, though as it turned out, something quite a bit south of his face would have kept him out of the Oval Office. Look, I'm all for having as much sex as possible, with as many people as possible, for as long as possible, with the caveat that A. everybody involved is a consenting adult and a willing participant, and B. whenever there's a penis involved, a condom is used. However, once you walk down the aisle and say "I do," that should be it. You just took a vow, to yourself, to your partner and to the greater society. To be brief, fool around before you're married, not after. Most especially, don't cheat on your wife while she's being treated for terminal cancer and father a child with another woman. Okay? That's unconscionable. That's just Right Out. Most especially do not do this while running for President.
That aside aside, I was for Hillary, even voted for her in the primary. But as it turned out, I'm glad Obama was the nominee. I think he's the better choice for lots of reasons. It's starting to look like he might even have a shot at winning this election, which means we the people would be less screwed over than we would be if the other guy won, at least in my opinion. So now you know. My home state of Texas will probably go with the other guy (though some polls are saying it'll be close), but myself will be casting the vote for the handsome black dude.
Back to this morning and the Jaccuzzi. Apparently we had a debate last night, which I missed because I was out for dinner with our time traveling neocraftsperson friends and then rummaging around under my bed with Tracy looking for my missing ring (she found it! She rocks! More on this later.) As I was doin' my stretches I heard a woman arguing with a member of the swim team. Little snatches of her diatribe floated into my concsciousness. Immediately the Squirrel Committee fired up (those are the voices in my head; one of them sounds like my mother, one is probably Joan and I'm not sure who the others are) demanding I respond at once. Meantime I hung onto the Jaccuzzi wall, trying to stretch faster (this is not possible) while whispering to myself, Do not go over there. Do not get involved in that conversation. Do not start arguing with total strangers about who they're going to vote for and why.
Then the lady said, "...and the world leaders want Obama to win because they think he's weak. They think he'll go along with them," and something in my head just kind of went snap! The Squirrel Committee swung into overdrive. Yeah? What's wrong with cooperating with other world leaders? Did you know the U.S. uses 25% of the world's natural resources when we only have 4%? Where do you think we're getting the rest of it, out our asses? Do you realize eight years of Republican financial policies has caused stock markets to crash all over the world, you stupid bimbo? Did you further realize that since we share the same planet with other people we might wanna learn how to get along with everybody? I clung to the Jaccuzzi with fingernails and teeth. Do not go over there. Do not get involved in that conversation.
And then,for no apparent reason, I burst into song. I learned Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" syllabically in German for a choir thing when I was about 14. I'm sure my rendition was passable at best. Freude, schöner Götterfunken, Tochter aus Elysium! Wir betreten feuertrunken, Himmlische, Dein Heiligtum!!
An odd thing happened. They stopped arguing and stared at me. Imagine that. I got up out of the Jaccuzzi, still singing; Deine Zauber binden wieder, Was die Mode streng geteilt!! By the time I got to Alle Menschen werden Brüder, Wo Dein sanfter Flügel weilt I was safely in the shower. The Squirrel Committee had fallen silent. So had pretty much everybody in the locker room. Nobody applauded, thank God. No thrown tomatoes either. Just silence. And sometimes the silence is best.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
BreastStroke Revisited
Playing on the iPod: Something from "Celtic River" - sounds like "Irish Rover"
Meters swum today: 1400
Well, folks, it's officially been a year since I started swimming with Dallas Aquatic Masters. I remember because I came in on Breast Stroke Month (which I thought was some porno thing) and now here it is again. Wow. One year in the water.
For the record, breaststroke is like the weirdest stroke in the pool. I'm a butterfly gal myself (move over, Michael Phelps, and take your wingspan with you). It's slow (how do they race with this thing?) and the leg motion is probably the least efficient way to maneuver through the water that has yet been invented but a lot of people like it. I guess it's okay. It's just not violent and noisy like butterfly. As a fan of Stiff Little Fingers, I like violent noisy things.
Aside: We can thank SLF for creating an entirely new category of music for Joan. Formerly she had but two: that which she liked, and that which didn't make her run screaming from the room. SLF makes her run screaming from the room. Way to go, boys. Keep on growling.
Anyway, the breast stroke kick is done as follows: From lying flat on the surface of the water, pull your knees under and forward until they're at roughly butt level. Then kick out your feet in a pigeon-toed manner whilst keeping your knees together. Then, and only then, do you spread your legs to do the rest of the kick like a frog. If you're having trouble visualizing this, it's because it makes no logical sense. I mean, watch a frog. Does he worry about where his feet are? Whether they are pointed in our out? No. He just frickin' kicks with 'em. But anyway, if you do it right, you will have these nice little aches running up and down the outsides of your calves for the rest of the day, probably from forcing your feet into that pigeon-toey motion.
Oh, I forgot, you're supposed to do the frog kick part of the kick at the exact same moment you're pushing your arms out and around. If you can time it exactly,you'll scoot across the pool like a water skeeter on steroids. If you're me, though, you do the kick first and then the arm thing, and instead of scooting like a skeeter you kind of, I dunno, lurch like a lumbering lycanthrope. (Do werewolves swim? Probably. To be honest, though, I just threw that in there to keep the alliteration flowing.)
Well, maybe I'll get better at it. My calves are aching on the outside, for one thing. And speaking of wolves, Joan and Kellum and Suzy and I are going down to The Woodlands on Saturday to get up close and personal with a few of 'em. I'll send pictures.
Meters swum today: 1400
Well, folks, it's officially been a year since I started swimming with Dallas Aquatic Masters. I remember because I came in on Breast Stroke Month (which I thought was some porno thing) and now here it is again. Wow. One year in the water.
For the record, breaststroke is like the weirdest stroke in the pool. I'm a butterfly gal myself (move over, Michael Phelps, and take your wingspan with you). It's slow (how do they race with this thing?) and the leg motion is probably the least efficient way to maneuver through the water that has yet been invented but a lot of people like it. I guess it's okay. It's just not violent and noisy like butterfly. As a fan of Stiff Little Fingers, I like violent noisy things.
Aside: We can thank SLF for creating an entirely new category of music for Joan. Formerly she had but two: that which she liked, and that which didn't make her run screaming from the room. SLF makes her run screaming from the room. Way to go, boys. Keep on growling.
Anyway, the breast stroke kick is done as follows: From lying flat on the surface of the water, pull your knees under and forward until they're at roughly butt level. Then kick out your feet in a pigeon-toed manner whilst keeping your knees together. Then, and only then, do you spread your legs to do the rest of the kick like a frog. If you're having trouble visualizing this, it's because it makes no logical sense. I mean, watch a frog. Does he worry about where his feet are? Whether they are pointed in our out? No. He just frickin' kicks with 'em. But anyway, if you do it right, you will have these nice little aches running up and down the outsides of your calves for the rest of the day, probably from forcing your feet into that pigeon-toey motion.
Oh, I forgot, you're supposed to do the frog kick part of the kick at the exact same moment you're pushing your arms out and around. If you can time it exactly,you'll scoot across the pool like a water skeeter on steroids. If you're me, though, you do the kick first and then the arm thing, and instead of scooting like a skeeter you kind of, I dunno, lurch like a lumbering lycanthrope. (Do werewolves swim? Probably. To be honest, though, I just threw that in there to keep the alliteration flowing.)
Well, maybe I'll get better at it. My calves are aching on the outside, for one thing. And speaking of wolves, Joan and Kellum and Suzy and I are going down to The Woodlands on Saturday to get up close and personal with a few of 'em. I'll send pictures.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Writing As Temporary Insanity. Discuss.
Playing in the background: The soothing sudsy noise of the washing machine.
Meters swum today: None. Overslept. But I'll probably ride my bike down around the lake later.
Repeat 100 times: I Will Not Write Under The Influence of Politics. I Will Not Write Under The Influence Of Politics. I Will Not...well, you get the idea. Having calmed down a little and wiped the foam off my face, and in the clearer light of - uh, midafternoon, I can see how that image about the severed head might have upset a few people. I'll offer no apologies but I will say That's Not Normally Like Me. Brahma vijara maitri and all that.
Thing is, almost all writing is done under the influence of something. Sane sober people hardly ever see the need to sit at a keyboard and type all day for something they may not even get paid for. There are all these jokes about alcoholic poets (I like the one where the poet, sobering up after a long night with the quill, refuses a cup of the blood of life, that is, my favorite stimulant, saying, "Certainly not. Coffee is for novelists.") and of course lots of real writers were serious hardcore addicts of one form or another. Wilde (booze, inflated ego), Poe (booze), Hemingway (pretty much anything he could get his hands on but mainly booze), Hunter S. Thompson (I think heroin mostly), Bret Easton Ellis (God only knows), Anne McCaffrey (whatever it is, I want some). I have the food thing, and I did drink a bit in my day. But honestly, I think writing is closer to temporary insanity. At least, it is for me.
Take last weekend, for example, when I abruptly wrapped up Spellbinder in a bizarre 18-hour binge of wordplay. I was way, way deep in San Sebastian most of that time (my fake Latin American country, named after my late cat and in homage to Hemingway; it's standing in for El Salvador) but I do recollect a few things. Like sitting at the keyboard and thinking, "I'm thirsty," then about two hours later noticing that I was still thirsty because (wait for it) when I noticed the first time that I was thirsty, it flat out didn't occur to me to frick'n get up and get a bottle of water. Another time I remember Joan asked me a question and I answered with "I don't know, I'm not really here." Joan, by the way, frequently sees me glaze over and asks me "Where did you go?" I guess assuming that I'm visiting the Pure Land or some alternate reality; usually I'm thinking about something much more mundane like shopping lists or how not to trim the cat's nails next time. Even when I'm not putting in marathon weekends, though, I'm often up too late, spend too much time thinking about writing when I should be Mindful Of The Present Moment (ie, driving), and calling up friends in the middle of dinner parties to ask if you can drink heroin (ask Gaby about this, she thought it was pretty hilarious).
So, like, is this healthy? Is this halfway normal? Do other writers do stuff like this or am I unique? And if it's not akin to abusing a substance, why does it feel like (as most brilliant stated by Rod "The Bod" Stewart) "I got lightning in my veins, and the rhythm of my heart is beating like a drum"?
I guess it's better than heroin. It is legal, after all.
Incidentally, thanks, Joan, for putting up with me. Again. Still.
Meters swum today: None. Overslept. But I'll probably ride my bike down around the lake later.
Repeat 100 times: I Will Not Write Under The Influence of Politics. I Will Not Write Under The Influence Of Politics. I Will Not...well, you get the idea. Having calmed down a little and wiped the foam off my face, and in the clearer light of - uh, midafternoon, I can see how that image about the severed head might have upset a few people. I'll offer no apologies but I will say That's Not Normally Like Me. Brahma vijara maitri and all that.
Thing is, almost all writing is done under the influence of something. Sane sober people hardly ever see the need to sit at a keyboard and type all day for something they may not even get paid for. There are all these jokes about alcoholic poets (I like the one where the poet, sobering up after a long night with the quill, refuses a cup of the blood of life, that is, my favorite stimulant, saying, "Certainly not. Coffee is for novelists.") and of course lots of real writers were serious hardcore addicts of one form or another. Wilde (booze, inflated ego), Poe (booze), Hemingway (pretty much anything he could get his hands on but mainly booze), Hunter S. Thompson (I think heroin mostly), Bret Easton Ellis (God only knows), Anne McCaffrey (whatever it is, I want some). I have the food thing, and I did drink a bit in my day. But honestly, I think writing is closer to temporary insanity. At least, it is for me.
Take last weekend, for example, when I abruptly wrapped up Spellbinder in a bizarre 18-hour binge of wordplay. I was way, way deep in San Sebastian most of that time (my fake Latin American country, named after my late cat and in homage to Hemingway; it's standing in for El Salvador) but I do recollect a few things. Like sitting at the keyboard and thinking, "I'm thirsty," then about two hours later noticing that I was still thirsty because (wait for it) when I noticed the first time that I was thirsty, it flat out didn't occur to me to frick'n get up and get a bottle of water. Another time I remember Joan asked me a question and I answered with "I don't know, I'm not really here." Joan, by the way, frequently sees me glaze over and asks me "Where did you go?" I guess assuming that I'm visiting the Pure Land or some alternate reality; usually I'm thinking about something much more mundane like shopping lists or how not to trim the cat's nails next time. Even when I'm not putting in marathon weekends, though, I'm often up too late, spend too much time thinking about writing when I should be Mindful Of The Present Moment (ie, driving), and calling up friends in the middle of dinner parties to ask if you can drink heroin (ask Gaby about this, she thought it was pretty hilarious).
So, like, is this healthy? Is this halfway normal? Do other writers do stuff like this or am I unique? And if it's not akin to abusing a substance, why does it feel like (as most brilliant stated by Rod "The Bod" Stewart) "I got lightning in my veins, and the rhythm of my heart is beating like a drum"?
I guess it's better than heroin. It is legal, after all.
Incidentally, thanks, Joan, for putting up with me. Again. Still.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Cry the Beloved Country
Playing on the iPod: Stiff Little Fingers, "Suspect Device"
Meters Swum Today: 1700
Well, folks, I just got done watching the First Great Presidential Debate. McCain showed up! Will wonders never cease! and before I get started, we all know who my candidate is, right? There's not really any doubt about that, is there? So anything I say about the other guy is bound to sound a little snarky, right? Yes, I know, I'm letting the Queen of Snark crown slip from my cold dead fingers. As they say in OA, "I'm willing not to be snarky." But I just wanted to clear up that whole partisan thingy right now.
I'm listening to Stiff Little Fingers. This should tell you something.
What we had here was a failure to communicate. Mr. Lehrer with the candidates, the candidates with each other, the candidates with we the people, and we the people with - well, everybody, I guess. I mean, seriously, how many times can you ask the same question and not get an answer before you throw a water glass at somebody? Mr. Lehrer must be a saint. Or he's been doing this so long he's immune, I'm not sure which.
Hang on, I gotta get on another SLF song - "Alternative Ulster," that's a good one. I played this album Inflammable Material (remember albums?) to death in high school. Literally, the black vinyl turned white. Had to buy another copy.
I think we're divided by a common language. I mean, you ask a guy how the serious problems we're facing with the economy might cut into your budget plans for being president, and he answers with, "I want to increase spending for preschool education"? Hello? Disconnect? And how does a question about dealing with Russia automatically lead to ranting about how we're not taking good care of our veterans? And don't even get me started with the old dude telling the other guy that he doesn't have the experience to understand (fill in the blank here). Why didn't he just call him a young whippersnapper and shake his cane at him? Thank God the younger guy finally mentioned the huge amount of money we're sinking into the war in Iraq and how bleeding $10 billion a month might just possibly be, I dunno, affecting the economy or something. I'd been screaming, "MENTION THE WAR, YOU IDIOT!!" at the TV for at least half an hour by then.
We stopped getting the paper recently, except on weekends, and oddly enough I don't miss it. Except "For Better or for Worse" which is in permanent reruns anyway. Well, I should say, I miss being somewhat informed but I sure don't miss the spike in blood pressure that went with my morning coffee. Yet here I watched the frickin' debates and once again I'll be sitting down to meditate with my AK-47 later. I started out angry, got worried, and ended the evening depressed as hell. I still like my guy better than the other guy, but Lord help me, he did not do a very good job tonight. If I were coming in as an outsider I'd be thinking, no matter who wins this thing, we're all well and truly fucked. No wonder the space aliens don't land here - it's probably on all their star charts: KEEP GOING. DON'T EVEN STOP FOR GAS.
Okay, my guy did do one thing right. He said we should kill Osama bin Laden. On a Buddhist-y sort of level I can't imagine how that's going to help anything but somebody had to say it. Maybe between now and the next debate he could, I dunno, fly over there, find the guy, sever his head and carry it triumphantly onstage in Nashville. That might help. Hell, that might even clinch 270 electoral votes.
Nashville. Dear God, Stuart Adamson lived in Nashville. If they hadn't cremated him we'd be picking up seismometer readings from turning over in his grave. I better go listen to The Skids for a while. And take my meds.
Meters Swum Today: 1700
Well, folks, I just got done watching the First Great Presidential Debate. McCain showed up! Will wonders never cease! and before I get started, we all know who my candidate is, right? There's not really any doubt about that, is there? So anything I say about the other guy is bound to sound a little snarky, right? Yes, I know, I'm letting the Queen of Snark crown slip from my cold dead fingers. As they say in OA, "I'm willing not to be snarky." But I just wanted to clear up that whole partisan thingy right now.
I'm listening to Stiff Little Fingers. This should tell you something.
What we had here was a failure to communicate. Mr. Lehrer with the candidates, the candidates with each other, the candidates with we the people, and we the people with - well, everybody, I guess. I mean, seriously, how many times can you ask the same question and not get an answer before you throw a water glass at somebody? Mr. Lehrer must be a saint. Or he's been doing this so long he's immune, I'm not sure which.
Hang on, I gotta get on another SLF song - "Alternative Ulster," that's a good one. I played this album Inflammable Material (remember albums?) to death in high school. Literally, the black vinyl turned white. Had to buy another copy.
I think we're divided by a common language. I mean, you ask a guy how the serious problems we're facing with the economy might cut into your budget plans for being president, and he answers with, "I want to increase spending for preschool education"? Hello? Disconnect? And how does a question about dealing with Russia automatically lead to ranting about how we're not taking good care of our veterans? And don't even get me started with the old dude telling the other guy that he doesn't have the experience to understand (fill in the blank here). Why didn't he just call him a young whippersnapper and shake his cane at him? Thank God the younger guy finally mentioned the huge amount of money we're sinking into the war in Iraq and how bleeding $10 billion a month might just possibly be, I dunno, affecting the economy or something. I'd been screaming, "MENTION THE WAR, YOU IDIOT!!" at the TV for at least half an hour by then.
We stopped getting the paper recently, except on weekends, and oddly enough I don't miss it. Except "For Better or for Worse" which is in permanent reruns anyway. Well, I should say, I miss being somewhat informed but I sure don't miss the spike in blood pressure that went with my morning coffee. Yet here I watched the frickin' debates and once again I'll be sitting down to meditate with my AK-47 later. I started out angry, got worried, and ended the evening depressed as hell. I still like my guy better than the other guy, but Lord help me, he did not do a very good job tonight. If I were coming in as an outsider I'd be thinking, no matter who wins this thing, we're all well and truly fucked. No wonder the space aliens don't land here - it's probably on all their star charts: KEEP GOING. DON'T EVEN STOP FOR GAS.
Okay, my guy did do one thing right. He said we should kill Osama bin Laden. On a Buddhist-y sort of level I can't imagine how that's going to help anything but somebody had to say it. Maybe between now and the next debate he could, I dunno, fly over there, find the guy, sever his head and carry it triumphantly onstage in Nashville. That might help. Hell, that might even clinch 270 electoral votes.
Nashville. Dear God, Stuart Adamson lived in Nashville. If they hadn't cremated him we'd be picking up seismometer readings from turning over in his grave. I better go listen to The Skids for a while. And take my meds.
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