Everyone should have a hobby.

Rolling up to the ranch after a night of showing our Australian couchsurfer the finer establishments of Madison nightlife (read: The Plaza), I noticed a sheet of paper on the ground next to the street sign to which I usually hitch my pony. It turned out to be page three of a sad attempt at some kind of creative writing assignment. So I made some corrections:

You can click on the image to read it, but I wouldn't particularly recommend it.

In conclusion, if I had to compartmentalize myself by means of some kind of visual representation of two finite sets, I am the football shape between People Who Are Total Jackasses and People Who Are Total Nerds.

P.S. I love Venn diagrams almost more than I love editing things with pink markers.

jour 1: la victoire, plus ou moins

First day back went well, I guess. I think I've gotten stupid over the past year. Au moins, j'ai oublié tout mon vocabulaire.

But anyway. Snippet from an old notebook from the last time I was in England:

Stories about Gran’s family: there was her sister Liz, who was a Catholic fanatic, and then there was the nun, who was less religious than Liz but had an eating disorder that prompted her to request odd foods that couldn’t be found on the East End of London, so the kids had to go to every shop in Hackney and suffer the embarrassment of asking if they had Fig Newtons or Cottage Cheese or Syrian bread, whatever that was. And the horrible presents she would give. One time she gave Margaret a green silk cravat—
“What’s a cravat?” asked my little cousin.
“A. . .it’s like a neckerchief. A man’s green silk neckerchief with paisleys on it. And after saying oh thank you, it’s lovely, she said go on, why don’t you wear it? So I put it on and she made me go down to the commons with her. . .”
“She made you what?” My dad asked, wiping tears of laughter from under his glasses.
“She made me”—more laughter—“She made me put it on and then go down to the commons—to the park with her—and walk with her and say the rosary. In public. And she was nearly blind, you know. But she still used to crochet. Did she ever crochet anything for you, Michael, a waistcoat or something? Because I had a green silk neckerchief that would go right nicely with it.”

Musings and Amusings

Writing a blog is kind of hard. The most difficult part, in my mind, is the constant attention one must pay to what kind of gesture one is making in posting created material in a public place. I guess that since I have never been published (I was going to, but sadly, that offer has been rescinded), I have never really had to confront the idea of writing for or to an audience, and this concern opens up a whole 'nother can of proverbial worms: appropriateness, self-censorship, general presentation of myself, etc. etc. It's kind of an annoyingly necessary evil of publication (even the softcore self-publication of a blog) that I have to consider each thing I write as a real speech-act.

For example, I just split up with my boyfriend of a year. And let me tell you (like this is some kind of news), there are all kinds of feelings happening apropos to that little life-change. But I tend to be a pretty private person. But I sometimes feel so sad, or so bitter, and I have had many sad and bitter words to say about it. But do I want to present myself to the world (or the Interwebs) in that way? Do I want to be so dramatic? How should I consider the fact that he reads this blog? Like c'mon, let's not get all LiveJournal about this.


I guess there have been a lot of life changes in recent weeks. For example, I am further giving up my isms, which means I have been not quite the strict vegetarian I used to be, nor the sort of bullshitty pescatarian I have been for the past year. Why? Oh, who knows. I'm finding it hard to care about things like that. I don't know what that says about me. I guess it comes at some kind of intersection of generalized apathy and my recent inculcation with a culture of food and cooking. I'm not quite a 'foodie' yet, but it could happen. Bring on the ridicule; I'll keep the delicious treats to myself.

In conclusion, I've spent the long, bikini-clad day off sitting in the sun with a full glass of cold Italian Blood Orange Soda and my old dog-eared paperback copy of Gone With The Wind. I haven't read it since I tore through it the summer after 6th grade, but so far, it's been amazing. It's funny, as an educated white Yankee of the Future, to read something so nostalgic for the lifestyle of the antebellum South, especially given that Margaret Miller was actually mourning an era where the privileged enjoyed their various comforts at the expense of, y'know, slaves. It's a good book, though. I'd even go so far as to say that it's better than the movie, but I have to say, I love the movie as well.

Here's the most amusing quote so far:

The more sedate and older sections of the South looked down their noses at the up-country Georgians, but here in north Georgia, a lack of the niceties of classical education carried no shame, provided a man was smart in the things that mattered. And raising good cotton, riding well, shooting straight, dancing lightly, squiring the ladies with elegance and carrying one's liquor like a gentleman were the things that mattered. (p. 6)

What a culture. And what men. Feminist leanings aside, who wouldn't swoon at a man who rode well, shot straight, danced lightly, and carried his liquor like a gentleman?

If you're interested, here's the New Yorker article that inspired me to watch the movie again, and embark on my current summer reading. Victor Fleming was quite the character. And the New Yorker is quite the entertaining rag.