Woolf Emulation

this is pretty bad for an emulation, but I started trying to do for Athens what she did with London, and quickly shifted to identifying with her philosophy. Not relevant, but I go into words that are untranslatable and this is my favorite one of all: Saudade, the Portuguese word that means a deep pining or nostalgic longing for a missing element.

I spend quite a bit of time walking around Athens, and much of it is lost in my own world of thought, absent-mindedly pondering life. Sometimes I'll laugh at the level of digression I achieve, wondering what these people passing by me would think if they knew I was just casually considering killing myself or that I'm laughing incredulously because I thought about asking that guy out. Both of these happened today; I saw this conventionally handsome and well-dressed guy on my way to class and my thought process was "damn he has it all put together" "I bet he gets laid so much" to "maybe I should ask him out" and then I start laughing at how ridiculous my mind works and people look at me like I'm crazy and I realize that it looks crazy and start laughing about how crazy I look then I wonder if I might be. This may be why I eat most of my meals alone.

When Dave said he tried out the baby Bjorn (sic?) I thought it was funny because I can barely carry a pizza down Court St. let alone a swaddled infant in a traditionally effeminate manner. I feel people staring at the pizza and judging me, or worse, anticipate them asking for some, the joke soiled by one too many hungry, drunk denizens of the town.

I spend a lot of time changing my mind, too; one destination in mind only to recant that desire, pivot and head back where I came from. Class is the only lead pencil that consistently pulls me out of the room to experience life.

Something came up earlier this week about maybe thinking about jumping from high places, it must have tied in with Anthony's essay but I can't remember for sure. On second thought, someone was talking about driving off the bridge and pondering mortality. The French have this untranslatable expression, L'appel du vide, that is used for that overwhelming urge you sometimes have to destroy yourself. It's replicated as the phrase "the call of the void," you feel it behind the wheel, on the ledge, face pressed against the window. Sometimes I think about how easy it would be to kill something weaker, most women and children. A few seconds of mechanical violence, and you've terminated, I could do it in one swift decision. I've never held a baby and I stay far away from ledges, because I know I feel L'appel du vide. It's not suicidal, but I know I feel the call of the void, and don't know if I would heed it.

If I had nothing left to live for, I would go do the absolute coolest shit. If I was going to die anyway, why not go see the world, an impoverished wanderer living live at its minimalist base. I would go down to the country and tap my feet in a bluegrass circle, I would do a ton of meth and opiates, sing at soccer games in Europe, skydive off the Grand Canyon, fight a bear in Canadian woods. That's my ultimate way to go out, grappling with a bear. If I get cancer or something morbid where I have an inevitable end, I'm literally going to try to fight a bear. It would be so much fun, you couldn't even be mad about losing to a grizzly bear. And I would be legend for the manly demise.

I wish there was a way to reconcile these sides, the quivering mess with the ceaseless bravado, the brash and critical douchebag with the sentimental core.  The one who wants to live life to the fullest with the one who barely lives it at all.

Short Takes #3

Kathleen Dean Moore- Muskgrass Chora
Dinty Moore- Son of Mr. Green Jeans

I picked this Moore essay because I'm pretty sure he's an OU faculty member. His structure of the essay was pretty unique: A chronicle of fatherhood, sorted alphabetically. It gives him free reign to make some scattered connections and self reference within the essay. I also think the structure speaks to the impossible alchemy of fatherhood; there's no way that you can tie it together smoothly. I actually think this is a really similar technique to what I used in my "Don't say this wasn't intimate" essay, a number of interspersed and overlaying thoughts that craft a strong (if somewhat abstract) narrative.

Moore draws from a number of sources that inspire him: the dream American family of old television, clean and pristine, a number of different animals, and his own relationship with his father and inherited biology.

He makes a really interesting connection between the titular Mr. Grean Jeans, a father on the show Captain Kangaroo, and an entry titled "Green Genes" about his Irish roots.  His Green Genes didn't give him Green Jeans, but they gave him substance control issues, "a facility with words," and some strong hesitations about fatherhood.

There's a (happy?) twist near the end that was set up by the format. At times funny, scientific, and wistful, this is probably worth a read.

Don't say this wasn't intimate.

Let's get weird: Port wine stains are my biggest turn-on in a girl.

WTF are port wine stains, right? Let me Google that for you.

I can't remember the first time I saw a port wine stain in person. I know my fascination was sparked on the program "What Would You Do," they painted port wine stains on a girl's face, then had her verbally abused by her sales associate, another actress. The associate makes disparaging remarks about her "condition," and says things like "we'll make you look normal."Please try to find time to watch this video.

This essay is unfolding in real-time, a chronicle of going further down the rabbit hole. That episode aired in 2012, and I found a Reddit thread from 2011 that I recognize for sure. This girl puts her imperfection on display, fielding all questions with good humor. She even calls a retouched version of the photo of her with normal skin "weird." Maybe this was my first experience learning about these, and it's fitting that it would be from Reddit, the information buffet I've feasted on over the last few years.

It has been a topic of a Dear Abby column before, but I can't find the specific ones I read.

This is a picture of a pretty one; is the mark pretty or do I like it because the girl is happy?

I get absolutely giddy at even the mention of port wine stains, it's practically Pavlovian. The sight of them makes me so happy.

I can't find anyone who fetishizes port wine stains on the Internet, the place where pretty much everything exists. I might be the only one who sees them as lustrous, beautiful marks that augment a person instead of hinder them. I'm OK with that.

I have a scar from when I fell running for the bus that runs along my left thumb. I don't like that origin story; I prefer to say that I got jumped, acquired it in a valiant and manly battle. My mom bought me some stuff to rub on it that would reduce or even eliminate it in 3-6 months. It's been 7 years, and I still haven't used it. I don't think I want to.

There's this girl on my green who unabashedly wore short shorts in the fall. Port wine stains sheath her bare limbs. Pollack in scarlet monochrome. I'm like a kid on Christmas when I see her. Once, we were in a loose-knit conversation, the type where your friends know my friends so lets stand here and posture up and try to seem cool without having anything to say. I was too nervous to say what I wanted to say. I didn't say anything at all. I don't remember what her face looks like, but I'd remember those legs anywhere.

I have stretch marks from being fat on my stomach and sides. My battle with food was the toughest of my life. If you really think about it, those scars are self-inflicted.

My biggest high school crush (and by that I mean still in high school, isn't that awful?) has a giant nose. She plays it up, absolutely owns it. Nosetradamus, et al. She loves posting ugly, unflattering pictures of herself on social media.

3 in 1000 people have port wine stains. Many who have one facially coat themselves in makeup to hide it. I bet I've seen, known so many more people who have them, but hide them.

This girl I met at a party has a weird esteem quirk. She thinks she's ugly and laments her pastyness, her small tits, even her personality--she used that C word to describe herself, trying to explain the reason she doesn't have a valentine today. She didn't have all of these insecurities when we reversed roles and she came on to me that night. Maybe the port wine was bubbling in her stomach and it blocked the port wine of her heart.

They can be lightened surgically. I wish people wouldn't do that.

I didn't make the connection, my roommate did. He goes, "You're really into girls like that," after I tell him about the party girl's outpouring of resentment on Twitter. "Wait, what?" I reply dubiously. "Girls who emphasize their flaws." He's absolutely right.

It goes back to my persistent white knight fantasy. I want to save a girl, then savor her. But it's not really that clear cut. I think I like the marks specifically because I want to cradle her and tell her that there's nothing wrong with her, that she isn't flawed, that the sales associate is the one who's wrong, that society is wrong for looking at it and just looking away, refusing to make eye contact.

In Steubenville, Ohio there was a huge incident covered by the New York Times where a 16 year old girl was abused and raped at a party by two football players. There were other accomplices and many witnesses. Her ex-boyfriend brought her there, and may have set it up. She was dragged from party to party, completely nude, molested and violated. They took pictures, Tweeted about it, recorded video. The town is a corrupt small town, doing everything they can to keep their precious football team out of trouble. The news can't publish the name of the girl, a minor and victim. I used my journalism background (and my internet creeping background that so many in our generation are proficient in) to find her. I know her name. She lives in West Virginia, not far from here. She could, realistically, end up at OU. I'd just like to fucking tenderly hold her and put her head on my shoulder and reassure her that she isn't broken.

3 in 1000 people have port wine stains. 1000 of 1000 people have flaws.

I guess a port wine stain can be a bit of a scarlet letter. Hester ended up owning hers. I'm not in love (interesting how I started with turned on and ended at in love; somewhere I made the unconscious transition from sexual to romantic) with port wine stains, I'm in love with flaws. Flaws are imperfect, which makes them  human. Wear your badges, your scars that confirm your personhood with pride. Find someone who loves that about you.

Port Wine is described as a sweet, fortified wine.

Music

So there's this song that reminds me of my mom. Donna Lewis is apparently this Welsh one-hit wonder who did this song called "I Love You Always Forever." It's like a generic pop song, it's pretty bad lyrically and sonically. But you don't know that when you're a little kid. I was probably between 3 and 5. My mom's bedroom, green and white vertical striped comforter, sturdy wooden box/bench at the end of the bed, shitty alarm clock radio. If you could get past the crackle, you could hear the song. Always. Forever. Meant to be together. I love you.

It's not the music that tugs the ol' heart strings, it's what's behind it. I don't care about the quietly angelic voice that's so damn persistent.  I don't care that the accompanied underscore sounds like an over-sentimentalized adventure. I'll tell you because I'm supposed to, but it's tedium. Minutiae. The song doesn't mean anything, my mom does. My mom makes the song.

I've done an awful job of showing it, but it makes me happy, because my mom loves me. And I know because Donna Lewis and my mom and I all told each other that we did. And it makes me sad, because it reminds me about the sands of time forcing their way down that narrow cylinder. My mom isn't here forever. She's here, but not forever. But her love, her love is. She sang that it's forever, and I believed her.

Fisher response

There's something interesting and romantic about seeing foods we take for granted as delicacies. Fisher's high regard for mashed potatoes with catsup and her reverence for potato chips is a reminder of our good fortune. The Washington Post paid a world-renowned violinist to play for free in the D.C. metro; nobody paid much attention to him, despite the fact that tickets for the local engagement the previous day started in triple figures.

At the same time, I disagree with Fisher's Ascetic attitude towards taste. She intentionally avoids potato chips, and describes an indulgent binge as "(eating) stupidly." Does she avoid other satisfying behaviors to accentuate their significance? Sex? Drunkenness? Bathing? Pleasure reading? I think people should live to maximize pleasure, not shun it. Fisher seems to have an aptitude at describing pleasure, and a deficiency at embracing it.