In Her Shell
Frank McCourt, 1930-2009
"There’s no use saying anything in the schoolyard because there’s always someone with an answer and there’s nothing you can do but punch them in the nose and if you were to punch everyone who has an answer you’d be punching morning noon and night."
"After a full belly all is poetry."
I can never seem to get anything really done in a summer day. One, maybe two things--a visit, a few chapters of a book, some phone calls--but summer is torpid and winter is still, they lack the industrious preparatory spirit of spring and fall.
I floated through the day today, not really doing much of anything, and now Frank McCourt is dead and it seems like an important day. Though I was never his student I feel like I've lost a teacher, or a kind neighbor. I got to hear him read a couple of months ago, and he was clearly ill and tired, but still wry and dry and funny as hell, and I'm so glad I went.
Something Is Wrong With Me
This staggering conclusion was reached this afternoon when I persisted in leafing through Martha Stewart Weddings
(Summer 2009), which I had actually PURCHASED this morning, even though it had just been the catalyst for a ridiculous fight with Anthemsled. L. told me when we got engaged that I wouldn't have to bother buying any of those wedding magazines, because people would just give them to me. Pff, I thought, I don't want those stupid wedding magazines anyway. Which I guess everyone could tell because no one gave me any. So I had to go out and spend six dollars on this one.
I wouldn't spend six dollars on a used paperback in an independent bookstore this weekend, but I would spend six dollars on this. Exhibit A.
I think it's the ennui of the summer. I know no one will feel bad for me on this, but as a teacher, most of my creative energy goes into my job, and most of my bitching energy goes into complaining about that. But now, two weeks into my vacation and I am gnawing on wedding shit like a beaver who needs to keep filing down his teeth.
Some brief research into past In Her Shell summers supports this. When I wrote anything, it was largely about celebrities or weird dreams I was having. Or both. Exhibit B. Last week I dreamed that I was in a play with Amy Poehler, Maya Rudolph and that doofy guy from The Office
. Maya Rudolph warned me not to get too close to him, but I was intrigued.
Don't put music on your website. It's annoying. It does absolutely nothing for me except create an immediate antipathy toward you and whatever you are selling.
Belated Fourth Of July Post
from Tagore, Gitanjali:
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms toward perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action--
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
Next Blog Poetry*
Mi clase de Yoga (Os conflitos)
And from the front of the house...
I went fishing for the first time today.
It is the hallmark of exclusivity.
This is the kind of wild boar I'm talking about
It comes in 4 colours, and I decided to get the electric blue one,
and who should greet us first, but Mrs. Mallard:
Oh well, we have 3 ducks in the freezer, so better than none!*Each line from a different "Next Blog." I realized that it seems to be a July tradition of mine.
The beach is actually really boring.
This goes right up there with I don't actually like yogurt. Or New York City.