Going on with Our Bad Selves

hi there short post today oh look and free of punctuates
but worry not for i will deploy them shortly

!@#$%R^Y&*(.?"? pretend it's a swear word.

Anywise, it's life in Brunswick, M to the E.

Weather people apparatus creatures said, for at least the fourth time this week, that it's set to snow today, but they lie.We are that person's sniveling consituency.

I think that I am numb from having fried my suspense nerves (suspenders?) without resolution this week in terms of the job. It's still infinitely possible.

Everybody in the family is ill with this admirably persistent nettlefest of a cold. The boys, who refer to mucus as "oogum boogums"  (in deference to that excellent Brenton Wood song; maybe I'll attach it to this post and have a listen now, just to remind me of what I should never forget: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sLXvMb5bYHE

Sell See Us

Brunswick, Maine.

Last Saturday of January.

Sunny, lithely approaching 5°C.

The metric system is good practice for us. It scares most Americans. I will lay it down here to be simple about it.

Water freezes. Water boils. Both of these things happen at certain temperatures.

Take the temperature range between freezing and boiling.

Divide that space between into 100 pieces—for the sake of this post, they’ll be known as degrees.

Freezing is 0°. Boiling is 100°. Consider that 50° (the midpoint, if you will, between boiling and freezing) is scarcely borne by most humans (it’s 122° Fahrenheit). I’ll “chart” it up to that in increments of 5° for anyone that cares, along with some moralistic proclamation of little-or-less repute:

0°C                              32°F                Freezing. Many objects/subjects are frozen solid, especially objects/subjects that were solid beforehand. Water turns to ice, which had been water beforehand. This is not right. Nobody can pretend anymore once freezing occurs; even if you like ice, it must be acknowledged that you can’t do things without clothes without problems.

5°C                              41°F                Cold enough to curse yourself and others, but pretty survivable, if you don’t get wet. Some people are really into this. They are not right. (This is the temperature threshold for refrigeration, by the way. Please refrain from carrying anyone over this threshold.)

10°C                            50°F                Warm enough for the people to be jubilant in winter, yet cool enough for parents on a camping trip to want to hurl themselves off of elevated surfaces in despair. They’re both right.

15°C                            59°F                Mild and pretty merciful. This is also a tropical paradise for people ensconced by the hostile-indeed elements. Yet it’s not a panacea—if it were accompanied by precipitation, then it would be most unpleasant. You’d swear it as divine retribution for some illusory trespass, but bystanders would suggest that you were wallowing a bit. They would be right.

20°C                            68°F                “Room temperature” is a misnomer whose use is sufficiently frequent as to enjoy near-unanimous recognition in our sad little lives. A room can be any temperature when a bunch of whateverness is pumped into it. It is not right.

25°C                            77°F                This is possibly the only neighborhood of temperatures that can boast having universality of appeal. No one complains—even in New England, where that’s kind of their “thing.” Instead, they complain about the past (it’s over) or the future (it’s endless). Everyone is right, but everything remains wrong.

30°C                            86°F                Transcribing these values just now, I swooned in my idealization of this beatific temperature. On a day of this temperature, if you really want to do so, you can listen closely for the unconvincing mutterings/utterances from elderly gadfly types; it is crucial to remember, however, that they're continuing to live only out of spite. Or you can mutter your own utterance. It's only right and natural.

35°C                            95°F                This satisfies existing thermal criteria for hot. It does not have to be unpleasant, either—I used to drive a little Geo Metro, and on days where conditions were thus, I’d get into my car, roll up the windows (if they’d been opened), start the car, activate the heater at full intensity, and sit there. That was right before my diagnosis.

40°C                            104°F              I have always referred to this as “riot weather,” because unrest is fomented in all living things, and it can get very nasty. This is a real swelter. I’m not even enjoying writing to you about it in my blog; I’ve caught myself holding my breath and tensing my shoulders. It couldn’t possibly be right.

45°C                            113°F              Does anybody actually like this kind of heat? As a species, we can generally handle 40° (104°F) before things go awry with our bodies. After that, we lose the right to make rational choices, like the heat has flagrantly usurped Power of Attorney, but worse, because your brain is cooking inside your head. Basically, by now it behooves us not to think of ourselves as living creatures per se, but to adjust our expectations of ourselves and each other.

50°C                            122°F              Previously discussed.

No Fun Intended

The vicissitudes of January in Maine bother the heck out of me. I will admit, however reluctantly, that I am grateful to be living on this frigid overcast unday, but just because my vocally espousing the alternative (i.e., not living) would abnegate all of the specific goodnesses, general greatness and so forth of this milieu, but today is like a hackneyed quip at which there is a perceived obligation to respond pleasantly, even though such denial is incrementally lethal.

This post was going to comprise bits that I'd begun but was too exhausted to complete, but no.

Instead, I'll talk about something else, in the hopes that it will improve my altogether-turdly disposition.

Ready? I bet you are.

I'm gonna write a book. (You don't have to read it or anything.)

"What kind of book?" is a rhetorical question that I refuse answer until the sentence that follows this sentence.

It'll be an encyclopædia that contains "facts" and "opinions" (including theories).

The subject? Popular music, because current studies indicate that popularity is sexier than intercourse itself.

Aaaannnd…because a claim of objectivity, like a clumsy generalization, is itself a recipe for betrayal on its own terms (never trust anything that identifies itself as "true" or "accurate," because I could broadcast the "fact" that I would bite myself if I were a dog, and the audience would have NO BASIS for dissension), there can be a caveat in the book's opening pages about the urgent importance of metaphor to describe "untranslatable" sentiments, events, trends, ad nauseam.


I posted an entry just now, for nobody's benefit, but then I removed it, for nobody's benefit. And I badly want to conclude this post, but first I'll tell you about young Desmond's new family of not-exactly-visible friends. What I find most thrilling about them is, I'll admit, a bit shallow. I will leave you with their names, preceded by household-member "type":

The Churches

Father: Sushi Church

Mother: Berkland Church

Child: Trash Night Church

Oh, how I swoon.

How to Do This

It is so blasted cold outside that I would laugh if I heard something very humorous, possibly.

My clothes are in the dryer, and I would that I were there with them.

But it is so lovely, and Vermont is so beguiling in that intangible, alchemical way that it's always been. There's an alloy of longing and wisdom here, all around us (whether or not people know it), that is just so very captivating.

That's why I need to end this and hurry home to Molly and the boys. We're having a rendezvous with La Befana on Epiphany Eve, which is tomorrow night. I really think that a holiday with a name like "Epiphany" deserves to be the centerpiece of the alleged holiday season. And it needn't be religious--it could a day during which everyone thinks VERY HARD until they realize something of mammoth import per their worldview or INVENT something, or learn a new language, or any other else thing. (Mind you, all of this is not a proposal for a new holiday.)

So, I'll be several hours before I can return to posting, but here (below here, I mean), I shall paste a version of the story about La Befana that I have yet to read. La Befana is where it's at, as far as legends go, so I hope that it's worhwhile. It goes without saying that I didn't write or format this next item, but I believe that it was culled from http://www.mymerrychristmas.com

To those who would see her from the road she appeared to be nothing more than a lonely old woman who lived alone. But the lines on her old face were drawn from years of tragedy. The lines told the story of losing her husband and infant child to a sweeping disease, leaving her a widow and a childless mother. Inded she did live alone as an old woman. She had very little. But what she did have was precious to her. She kept these small treasures locked up in a chest -- a small doll her that once belonged to her beloved child and a scrap of wool from her wedding dress, worn long ago when she married the man she loved. In her loneliness she contemplated love, heaven and the wonders of nature. At night she would sit alone on her porch and look at the stars. As she thought these things her mind centered on a rumor of a special star, a star she often looked for. The star signaled the birth of a new king -- a king of kings, a king of hearts. On a cold night, the 6th of January, nearly 2000 years ago this old woman received some visitors who reported that they saw the star and they were looking for Bethlehem. They spoke joyously. They were exhuberent in their quest and bid the old lady to accompany them as they searched for the king. But she was afraid. These were strange men, richly dressed, and they spoke so eloquently. She feared she would not fit amongst such company and she politely declined to go. By and by a shepherd came to her house. And he too told of "great tidings of joy". How was it this lowly shepherd had heard of the star and the birth of the king, she wondered? "Word has spread," said the shepherd, "and many of us have heard it from angels!". He too bid her to come and rejoice with him in Bethlehem to welcome the newborn king. Again she declined, thinking it might be wise of her to wait until the morning. To her amazement she saw then the new star in the sky she had studied so regularly. So it was true! A baby! The very thought made her heart leap with hope and excitement. Yes, she thought, I will go in the morning. All that night she prepared to depart. Gathering her most prized possessions she considered what she should do. She was poor and had little to give. But the kings had gold to bring the baby. And the shepherd too had gifts to bear. What could she, a lonely, sad old woman bring to honor this new king? She opened her chest and reached in for the doll. Tears instantly welled in her eyes at the touch of the aged toy. How she missed her baby! She thought of her chubby little fingers holding the doll, her wet little lips giving it kisses those many years ago. This doll, as much as she loved it, as much as she had caressed it in her pain of many years, would now bring joy again to another baby and ultimately to herself. She took the tattered piece of wool from her wedding dress, dyed it a lovely royal purple and sewed together a robe for the newborn king. These would be her gifts. Humble, but all she had. In the morning she arose quickly and set out on the road, not knowing when she would ever return to her home. It mattered not to her. She had a mission. She had new hope. She had to find the Baby King. But no one else was on the road that morning. She stopped to ask directions to Bethlehem but nobody she met had even heard of the place. She travelled all day, wandering and then into the night, where she looked for the star to guide her as it had the wise men and the shepherd. But the skies were unfamiliar to her now and the star she did not see. She was lost. To this day she wanders, carrying her gifts and treasures, peering into the faces of babies as she goes. Still she seeks the Christ child. Though she has not found him, she gives what she can to the sweet children she visits each Christmas night. Her heart still longs for her baby and the gifts she brings are her way of feeling that child's love. For nearly 2000 years her tradition has been celebrated. Like other gift bringers of legend, her story changes with time and her image evolves. Adults have portrayed her as ugly but children see her as giving. Naughty children fear her, for the ugly witch might leave them a switch with which they could be beaten for their bad deeds. But good children love her and put out their own cherished possessions by the fireplace as their gifts to her. If they leave their clothes near by Befana will fill their pockets with new treasures. Befana is grandly celebrated in Italy and all over Europe. She travels to this day, bringing gifts to babies she holds dear as she wanders looking for the newborn King she may never find.

testing taxing trying

Hooray?

I think that this might actually work, here with Blogger's new compatibility whateverness and such. The erstwhile lack thereof is prompting me to test. (five minutes, maybe six minutes, later) And the preliminary results appear to be satisfactory.

HOORAY!

Then there is the business of getting thoughts together. An entirely different kettle of fish, as it were. Which reminds me that my lunch (a twice-baked potato) looks completely inedible, like a still-life painting or those surreal faded-technicolor photos stationed above the backlit menu boards at take-away Asian restaurants. I've begun to eat it, and it tastes edible, but who knows? It could be power of suggestion, as I was paying for food when I purchased it.

I'm still in Vermont, having been felled yestereventide by an utterly lusterless sinus malady that precludes my tasting this twice-baked potato. It hasn't surpassed 10 degrees outside since I got here; yet, I love it. Anyway, I'm going back to Maine in the morning, brightly and earlily. Tonight, however, I'm going to learn how to leverage my once-flawless memory to my advantage by counting cards.

I've never been able to, in my words to often-unsuspecting people, "flush the toilet of my mind." For most of my life, or at least a majority of it, I've been gifted/cursed with near-total recall. Because humans are so fond of, and given to, forgetting when it serves the interest at hand, my memory has been, and become, nettlesome--by turns unruly at functions (like an unstable auntie) and unforgiving to the owner of the skull that houses the brain that stores the information. It's torture, in its way.

When I was 3 years old, I did something that my parents wouldn't have liked (e.g., speaking in a snotty tone of voice) if they'd been nearby (which they weren't). Because I did not want to be in a position of deceiving them, I decided to give myself amnesia so that I wouldn't remember having committed any infraction. I rode my tricycle down the knoll in our townhouse's backyard and pointed myself directly at a pine tree that, if memory serves, was quite imposing in stature.

Anyway, I sustained cuts on my knees, and I attempted to deploy that unsatisfying ruse ever again (as of this writing, anyway).

I'm not trying to distract anyone, though, and we were talking about counting cards, and I think that
this could be really easy:

Benb: Is that a deck of cards?
Bystander: Yes.
Benb: There are fifty-two of them, if I
Bystanders (for, by now, a crowd has gathered): How did you do that?
Benb: I'm tired of living this way.
Bystander (for, by now, the crowd has dispersed) Me too.
And
What a confusing rigmarole. I will post the results on this very blog.

I can breathe only through my mouth; doing so gives me the "slow, chic" look that automatically renders me exempt from average human expectation. It's much easier that way, but I don't know if the first half of this very sentence was or is true.

I miss Molly and Desy and Ivor waaaaaaaay bad.

[UPDATE: The card-counting mission fell through, but will doubtless commence with my next Vermont soljourn.]

Reasons Why

That is a title of phenomenal inanity, but maybe I'll unearth in this process a reason for having titled this thus.

It's so damn gloopy that I spent 15 minutes, tops, outside today. For the unfathomable plodding remainder (cloudy days in Maine can't help but plod), I peeled wallpaper. We will be moving soon (although I definitely want to have secured sustainable work first)―most likely to Montpelier, Vermont.

Given that looming, which causes my ears to get hot and my pulse to quicken (because I tend to see myself as a mutated miscreant that's unwelcome everywhere), we've set about trying to optimize our home for alternate occupancy. So, I'm peeling wallpaper, which would be fine if it weren't a mainstay of the walls in EVERY ROOM. But I kinda dig it, in its way, as it is both meditative and methodical.

But then, the boys take to conducting themselves in uncharacteristically age-appropriate ways (i.e., causing each other injury and/or committing some grave material injustice), or the phone rings (although I can't read the display on my phone since a toddler's fit of pique damaged it), or something plucked from the hat full of factors in a way that might seem arbitrary, but in fact, is expertly calibrated to derail most doings.

I've got it!

Reasons Why Authoring a Short Blog Post Is Preferable to Authoring a Long Blog Post:

* I don't fall asleep.
* I don't forget about it.
* It's open-ended.
* It can be more frequent.

By the way, there's a book out, and there's a link to it: excuse me.


And, just to be that way, here's "Bite My Knee": yikes

Love's Labours Located

It is freeeeeezing cold outside, with winds that are nearing gales. We're cowering indoors, I'm bored to tears, and cussing would be so much fun if it weren't blanketed by the selfconsciousness of parenthood. I'd take Desmond and Ivor out somewheres, or go to see a movie if our wallet hadn't been lost yesterday. I was up for most of the night looking for it, and I feel like rotten candy today. I have to pee every 5 minutes on account of all of the coffee that I've had to drink, but it's nice to have anything but deeper ennui mark the passing of time. Brunswick is a lonely place in a lonely state. The end.

Haven't You Heard?

1/7/2011, 7:59 AM


Friday morning. Epiphanies are so yesterday.


Were I at the helm of a class, I would use my fescue apparatus on a wall-mounted calendar to signify that "Here  [THWACK!] is where we commence the vertiginous slide into sub-Arctic delirium." 


The storm windows are covered with frost; this saddens me, as I've got a 9:00 meeting, and it's outside of the house. I will adopt an apocryphal optimism that will sustain me for at least the first 5 outdoor steps that I take.


In any case, I've chosen to post a poem here. It's old, but we're all aging irreversibly. At least winter ends, although it won't leave until you're absolutely certain that it's your fate to suffer eternally beneath its frigid thumb. And it's short.


Oh, shit--it's trash day. I gotta go. But first, the poem. It's called "Haven't You Heard":

Haven't You Heard

My memoirs are three sentences long. 

At least they're not two.

At least they're not four.

Mercury Poisoning

12/10/2010, 4:04 PM

Hi from December 10th.

I'd sworn to myself that entries would occur on a daily basis, but I was eyebrow-deep in variously futile episodes of abject tedium; when it was over, tomorrow was no longer tomorrow, while today had been discarded onto a clammy, moribund heap of subpar song-lyric fodder. In any case, it's today. Again. That's all that I'm willing to say about it. Except that Mercury has now gone retrograde, and we're totally done for.

It's noisy at the moment, presenting us as a larger family than we are. Desmond and Ivor are seated at our Hammond organ (singing something about ears), and people are fixing the roof to our bathroom as part of a government home-repair grant. This all seems great, and our feather tree is up and stunning and everything, but I've realized that December is kind of a shoddy month. (I know that it is that way here, amid a snarling cold snap whose capitalized anticipation did little to endear it to me.) It's as if it's to slyly lure us into winter with camaraderie and fatty foodstuffs (to provide insulation, I imagine) in a blissful poetic haze and all that, but January is unforgettable in terms of the intensity of punishment meted mercilessly to all mammals without fur. I've had it, I tell you, which is pretty much verbatim what I tell myself along with everybody cursed with knowing me, every single year. "This time, I mean it," I say, with predictable conviction. I never capitulate consciously--perhaps my gratitude for subsequent seasons provides a different sort of insulation.

As I walk down the street, there is a monologue that must be mine: yes its a huge world and i understand that and there are innumerable crises and iniquities everywhere and all of those people are important and i care but cannot see straight and i have facts and factors to consider holy crap it is cold why does december want to destroy me save draft no dont save this draft people in maine all live in maine and thats just wrong putamayo artwork irritates me so do people that discover things only to make them prohibitively expensive is the house gonna run of oil how am i going to get my car registered or insurance renewed oh i have to call the doctor for my thing and another thing no several things uniquely dehumanizing aspects of the human experience are called: and then I arrive at a pre-determined, yet unspecified, destination.