Tag Archives: personal

anaïs nin

“Do you know what I would answer to someone who asked me for a description of myself, in a hurry? This:

?? !!

For indeed my life is a perpetual question mark–my thirst for books, my observations of people, all tend to satisfy a great, overwhelming desire to know, to understand, to find an answer to a million questions. And gradually the answers are revealed, many things are explained, and above all, many things are given names and described, and my restlessness is subdued. Then I become and exclamatory person, clapping my hands to the immense surprises the world holds for me, and falling from one ecstasy into another. I have the habit of peeping and prying and listening and seeking–passionate curiosity and expectation. But I have also the habit of being surprised, the habit of being filled with wonder and satisfaction each time I stumble on some wondrous thing. The first habit could make me a philosopher or a cynic or perhaps a humorist. But the other habit destroys all the delicate foundations, and I find each day that I am still…only a Woman!”

e.b. white

“All that I hope to say in books, all that I ever hope to say, is that I love the world.”

ivan turgenev

“If we wait for the moment when everything, absolutely everything is ready, we shall never begin.”

enthusiasm

My apologies for the long absence, internet. Sketch writing is hard. REALLY HARD. Like, opening a document and staring at it for nine straight hours hard. Kind of like academic paper writing, come to think of it, but without the ability to quote from giant stretches of someone else’s text. A pity, that.

But here I am, with thoughts. And my chief concern is about tonality. I stress all the time about striking the right tone, especially when I get excited. And I don’t see any virtue in adapting some kind of jaded hipster attitude and pretending that I think everything is shit. I certainly don’t feel that way at all. I genuinely like a lot of stuff, and some of it I get downright Dug-enthusiastic over.

I was trying to hammer out some kind of piece on America– why, despite the Tea Party and vasectomy-reversal billboards, it’s kind of an amazing place. That contrary to what Fitzgerald said, there are second acts in American lives. I’m not a nationalist, nor am I a patriot, really, in the modern sense of the word. But I believe you can recognize that modern nation-states are ideological abstractions and still feel affection for them, as this Onion piece would have it.

But the tone. The tone is what’s tricky. So I shelved it.  Because I am not Sarah Vowell. I find sincerity quite hard to transmit without sounding twee, or over-intellectualized, or facetious. It’s why I also have difficulty striking the right balance when I like something.

Right now I am watching The Thick of It, an amazing show about political spin in modern UK politics. I am attaching a clip, but it is sweary beyond compare. So NSFW, unless you happen to work in a mine or a pirate ship.

I fucking love it. The swearing alone rivals The Sopranos. (And we know how I feel about epic baroque cursing. It is one of my greatest joys in life. This stuff could be Slavic in its morphology, I kid you not).  Granted, the camera work, which is done in that jolty docu-cam style, does make me a little sick to my stomach. But if you power through (and you should, you should, you should) you will be rewarded.

I like to think it rivals Mad Men in its nuance, especially with regard to the constructed nature of masculine worlds. It’s like that feminist revelation, that men have a gender, too. That it’s all just one great big pissing contest. And it’s funny. Ridiculous, awkward — bilious and bizarre simultaneously. It bristles with an amazing ensemble energy; it’s spectacularly cast. I cannot enthuse enough. I could write a whole post that consisted solely of CAPSLOCK SCREAM FLAIL OMG WTF !!!!. But I don’t want to sound like a maniacal tween girl chasing R. Pattz down the street any more than I want to sound like these guys.

So that’s that, then. I hope you are all well.

still not nick hornby

Things I want, right effing now.

1. A cigarette, recessed filter, Parliament for choice.

2. A perfectly pulled double espresso.

3. Tickets to Oaxaca for DoD things.

4. Not to have to go to campus and see people I’ve been avoiding all summer.

5. To have perhaps not eaten 2 loaves of bread in a single weekend (ow)

6. An oxygen facial (to offset smoking)

7. To somehow be paid for writing something. Anything, really.

8. For the property management to turn on the radiators.

9. To not be getting a cavity. More ow.

10. Indian pudding with Ciao Bella vanilla gelato. Or a gingersnap.

11. This dress. And the arms to go with it. (Angela Basset’s would be ideal).

12. To perhaps not think that every comment in every medium is a personal fucking attack.

finally irate enough to write something, are ya?

Of course. Of fucking course. So, anyone who has met me will know of my undying love for the Hendricks (and for curvaceous redheads kind of in general, because, COME ON. People.)

So, when I saw the Photoshopped pics of her London Fog campaign, just now, I got really irate. Enough to break the visual wall of silence and come yell in cyberspace. Mad, indeed.

In part because I think she’s glorious and find it disgusting that a company that would book her for a campaign, knowing full well what she looks like, would then go and change the thing that makes her body so amazing.

Interviews with Our Ms. H. very often bring up her ample woman-assets. And, fair enough. But her Mansfield-like proportions extend below the belt, so to speak. Girl has hips. She does not look like a Barbie. Nor does she look like she is about to topple over from imbalanced weight distribution.

Although, speaking of Barbie, they actually did the same thing to the Joan Holloway Barbie.

[pause for serious reflection, sense of perspective]

Now, I know that in the grand scheme of the universe, this is perhaps not all that important. It is not on par with the slums of Mumbai, say, or the Rwandan genocide in terms of stuff that matters a whole lot. And I am not so Oprah and self-helpy to think that the one is directly correlated to the other (No, you know? I don’t actually think we can solve the world’s problems by loving ourselves more. I kind of don’t.)

I also know that I am part of the problem– I buy makeup and shoes ad nauseum, I work for the man doing marketing stuff. But.

But.

Here’s the thing. What irks me the most — even more than the idea that people can’t handle an advertisement depicting a well-known woman’s body without shrinking her lower half down until it is smaller than the bag she is holding— is this pretty terrifying reliance we have on technology to eradicate what someone dictates is ‘imperfect’ or ‘less than ideal.’ Children in elementary school can get their school photos altered before they’re brought home. I don’t give a hoot about ‘message’ or even ‘self-image’ in this case. What scares the crap out of me is the rift we seem to be causing between the projected and the real, and how the two are becoming increasingly distant from one another.

Or something.

Jezebel has a whole series on Photoshop horrors, mostly better articulated than this.

nope, sorry.

Have some pictures. Go on, have a bit.

Note: That wedding cake is made of cheese. Really. Really. Imagine having that outside in dripping sweaty Kentucky heat in fucking JULY.