Strive as I may, sinking into a persnickety morass of disaffection appears to be my fate this evening -- as it is most evenings. A combination of mental blurriness and lower back pain, along with acid eyeballs and not enough social interaction with others during the daylight hours, leaves me feeling like a constipated honey badger. The world is dull and the people inhabiting it are blanks.
Rather than attempt an artificial cheer that I know I cannot sustain past 6 p.m. from counting my blessings, I will, instead, list my complaints and pet peeves -- which may, considering how contrary I am, actually cheer me up for real.
This morning I wrote a religious poem, inspired by a Washington Post story on women-only worship services. In the last line I made mention of Maenads, the female followers of Dionysus in ancient Greece, and Bacchus in old Rome. I thought it was pretty good, so I shared it with a bunch of reporters and some personal friends. Didn't hear a peep from the reporters, but some of my friends complained they didn't understand the last line of my poem. They didn't know what a Maenad was, and couldn't be bothered to look it up, I guess. That has depressed me all day -- my friends, my good friends, who I fancy will stick with me through thick and thin, would rather stay ignorant than look up one measly word. The next one of my so-called 'pals' who does that to me, I'm gonna send 'em a blank postcard -- that'll worry 'em until the cats come home, it will, it will.
I am going to be stoic concerning my physical condition tonight. Not a peep out of me will you hear about my dyspepsia; marthambles; emerods; water on the brain; tennis fetlock; hardening of the stem cells; unregistered mollycoddles; borborygmi; and recurring heebie-jeebies. But I suffer . . . oh, how I suffer.
6:12 p.m.
My mood is perceptibly lighter right now, because my dinner was excellent. But I'm not going to tell you about it, since these same fair-literature friends I have mentioned above so often like to tease me about my obsession with cooking and consuming food. So youse guys can GUESS what I ate tonight -- nyah!
Ah, but that old familiar black mood, those ever-lovin' blue devils, are making a valiant attempt at a comeback. From my recliner in the living room, where I am writing this, and where, in fact, I do all my writing, I can see a sink full of dirty dishes. Drat! There is a small pot stained with turmeric, a ceramic bowl with grains of this and that hardening on the inside, and a flimsy tin frying pan that is full of congealed Crisco.
I do not want my tombstone to have my name or any dates on it. All I want chiseled on it is this: HAVE YOU DONE THE DISHES YET? The anguished reactions of passersby will afford me a grim chuckle as the worms do their duty on me.
Rather than get up to attend to the rancid dinnerware, I will start a new complaint: The upkeep of my vinegar pool. A gallon of vinegar now costs $2.46 per gallon. I had to change the vinegar today, since my current scientific experiments were done and the pool was distressingly filthy. I discovered that several rocks dissolved into sand and that several others did nothing. I have discovered that horse chestnuts do not react in any way to vinegar. And I have found that on average the vinegar in my pool (which holds 3 gallons) evaporates at the rate of about a pint every other day. Currently there is nothing in the fresh vinegar except the indestructible horse chestnuts, six white plastic ping pong balls floating on the surface, and a handful of juniper berries, which I just added an hour ago. I calculate that at this rate I will have to buy a gallon of white distilled vinegar every week for the rest of my life. And with the looming tariff war, who knows how high the price of vinegar will go? Most of it comes from the squeezings of peasant socks in China. Shocking, and depressing.
6:51 p.m.
I just stubbed my toe on the living room couch. That is certainly a valid excuse for ill temper. Probably several major wars in the past two thousand years have been caused by a short-tempered leader who stubbed his or her toe on the divan and went into a fury until war was declared on somebody for some paltry reason. Especially when you consider how often people used to walk around in open toed sandals; such foot gear leaves the toes wide open to assault and battery. I bet if we dug up a bunch of old Mesopotamians their toe bones would look like they were hammered in with a mallet.
I haven't heard any more about the sale of my poetry book since I spoke to Adam last week. 8 sold, as of last week. Curiously, this does not make me very upset or downcast -- not tonight anyways. I'm afraid that the pleasant aftereffects of a good dinner are still with me. It's difficult to be temperamental or petty when I've been well fed. The best meal I ever had in my life was at Amy's parents' house in Tioga, North Dakota, on Christmas Eve 1980. She and I had walked down the deserted Main Street hand in hand as a few tentative snow flakes danced around us. I had already asked her to marry me -- she had said yes, but . . . And we finally got that 'but' taken care of during that walk. When we got home we were cold and warm at the same time, and I had a roaring appetite, inspired by love and chilblains. Amy's mother made a big pot of spitzen, Norwegian dumplings, in a chicken broth loaded with diced celery and carrots. I had 3 helpings. Ever since then dumplings of any kind have comforted me and given me confidence. In Thailand they sell Chinese dumplings at the front counter, like they do hotdogs here in the States. Only difference being the dumplings were actually edible. I used to get a half dozen of 'em whenever Joom and I had an argument that we couldn't find our way out of with a laugh.
But even the memory of that spitzen cannot bring about a change in my black bile tonight as I ponder the rotten uncomfortable benches in the bus shelters in Provo. The one above is located 2 blocks from my apartment building, on State Street. Avoid it at all costs. And if you must wait for the 850 bus there do not sit down for any reason. The bench is angled so your butt is elevated and your feet can't touch the ground; at the same time the back of the bench is angled so it cuts into your vertebrae like a scythe. It is not made for sitting, but for sciatica. Of course fat people like me cannot find a comfortable seat in a public place, ever. Park benches are too hard. Waiting room chairs squeeze the hips like a Bismarck ringed python; and the folding chairs they put out for Provo City Council meetings were designed by Torquemada. (And if you don't know who that is, just Google it for the cat's sake!)
7:40 p.m.
Those dishes, those evil crafty dishes in the sink; they begin to settle, making sly tinkling sounds as if someone were walking on crushed glass. I must go wash them -- otherwise I can't brush my teeth. Six months ago I had Sarah come over to clean up my apartment prior to a Federal inspection (since I live in a rent subsidized building, the Feds can barge in whenever they feel like it) and after she finished the bathroom sink was so clean and sparkly that I stopped using it for shaving or brushing my teeth. I don't even wash my hands in it anymore. I use the kitchen sink for everything. And I won't spit used Colgate foam on my own bowls and spoons -- I'm not that depraved yet. And if I stub my toe again on the way into the kitchen I'm going to blame pretty much everyone I can name and hate them for the rest of the night.
So put THAT in your pipe and smoke it.
Why don't more people mind their own beeswax?
Addendum: My friend in Thailand emailed me back thus:
For the record, I did look up Maenads.
I almost always look up odd words you put into your works!
Please find out how big the carbon footprint is on your vinegar pool! The ethical thing to do!
I took your order and put it in my pipe and smoked it. I think I saw Hugh Nibley walking sown the sidewalk!!!
No comments:
Post a Comment