Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
I was out of town for a couple weeks. Funeral planning and Cherry Festivaling and my sister took me to see Eric Clapton, which was, you know, really cool. She does that - she says or does something brutally hurtful and then redeems herself by saying or doing something completely unexpected and nice.
I had to return to Chicago. I'm still unemployed, I'm not even on the telemarketing schedule, and I'm about a month away from not being able to pay my mortgage. So I have stuff to do. Box up the rest of my stuff, donate what won't fit in my storage unit and then wait for what happens when you can't find a job and can't pay your mortgage. I've never been in this situation so I'm not exactly sure what happens, but I'm sure it's unpleasant and I'm sure it happens quickly. My real estate agent told me foreclosures are not taking as long as they were a few months ago. A sad reflection on society: Banks and mortgage companies have dealt with so many foreclosures in the past few years that they've finally organized personnel and systems to handle foreclosures more efficiently. My real estate agent said it was taking 6 months to a year for most people to be kicked out of their homes but now, especially in the city, it's happening in about two months. So. Yeah. I guess that's what happens next.
So, you know, I wasn't returning home to happy times.
I picked up my mail from the post office. Three job rejection post cards. (It's unusual to get these - it used to be SOP but not many companies do this anymore so that was kind of surprising.) A couple bills. A few postcards from friends on vacation. Some catalogs. And a mailing tube.
A mailing tube? Really? For me? I didn't order anything. Who sent it to me?! What is it?! What could it be?!
I haven't seen him or heard from him since the date. I'll be honest, if he called me after the date and wanted to see me again I was thinking I'd go out with him again. I mean, you know, I can't be picky and maybe under all that surface stuff he's a good guy. The fake esoterica might be getting in the way of his sense of humor. And maybe under all the phony façade of catalog trendiness he's in possession of an actual personality. But, as was made obvious on our date, we're not right for each other. And I presumed he was as sure of that as I was because I never heard from him.
That is until the tube arrived.
You might think I was so overcome with excitement that I ripped open that mailing tube right there in the post office.
I didn't.
Because I wasn't overcome with excitement. I was filled with apprehension. What's The World's Most Affected Man sending me...in a tube?
I got home, went through all the mail, read the postcards a few times, read the catalogs cover to cover, took out the garbage, did some laundry, checked job boards, applied to a couple jobs, packed my sock drawer in a box for storage, threw out some socks I deemed unworthy of storage space, took off the nail polish on my toenails, and took out my neighbor's dirty cat box litter.
The mailing tube sat there getting more conspicuous by the minute. Every time I re-read a postcard, did another chore, went to the bathroom, it loomed more ominously. It even started to look bigger. It became an entity.
I shored up my courage, gritted my teeth and opened it because I was afraid to go to bed with it sitting there all ominous and unopened.
Sidebar. I know there are people out there thinking, "What an insensitive bitch! She goes around saying how lonely and Mayor of Singlton-y she is and a guy sent her something and she's all callously indifferent. Pffft. She should be jumping up and down, ripping open that tube and calling all her friends about whatever awesomeness The Most Affected Man in the World sent her. I have no patience for her and her singleness. She needs to just shut up and be happy a man is interested in her." I understand that sentiment. I said those exact words to myself. But ye gads, you didn't see this guy's house, his traveling electronic thermocooled wine carrier with carrying harness. Or the forced esoterica in his house. And his lack of sense of humor. And apparent unawareness about himself. It's not about me being too picky. It's about me being totally wrong for this guy.
Okay, so I gingerly opened the mailing tube. It's from The World's Most Affected Man so anything could have popped out of there.
I saw a piece of parchment rolled up in the tube and something at the bottom of the tube. I slowly tilted the tube and out slid a USB drive. I'd plug that in later. Maybe. Let's see what's up with the rolled up parchment.
Of course The Most Affected Man in the World sent me a parchment scroll. Sheesh, you would expect anything less from him?
It was tied with a piece of twine with coin and a bead threaded through it. It looked like one of the things he uses to tie up his pony tail. Huh. Okay. I have an old Scrunchy I can part with, I could send him a response scroll bound with a Scrunchy.
When was the last time someone sent you a scroll? Yeah, it's been a while for me, too.
You know what's coming. Parchment. The twine-coin-bead hair tie thing. The Most Affected Man in the World.
He wrote a poem, in calligraphy, on the parchment and adorned it with what appeared to be Sumi ink drawings.
It wasn't an ode, thankfully. Or a sonnet, even more thankfully. But nor was it Haiku. It was a five stanza poem. The iambic pentameter was complexly studied and measured. Of course it is. He is, after all, The Most Affected Man in the World. And yes, yes, I noticed the iambic pentameter, which makes me almost as affected as he is. But: I'm not the one painstakingly writing a poem in calligraphy on a parchment scroll.
Okay. I'm just going to say it, rip it off fast like taking off a bandage.
The gist of the poem was that he was asking me to go to Lilith with him.
You heard me.
Lilith.
The Lilith Fair.
Though not surprising. Of course The Most Affected Man in the World has tickets to Lilith Fair.
I'm sure he's a feminist. Deeply devoted to women's issues. Probably took an Emily Dickinson course as his literature elective in college so he can better understand what it's like to be a woman.
But really. Lilith? Me? I mean, you know me, do I give off any remote impression that I might be the Lilith Fair type?
I looked at the lineup. Huh. Well. You know. I like a couple early Heart songs. And that pretty much covers my interest in the music on offer at this year's Chicago Lilith Fair.
And I don't like those few Heart songs enough to spend a deliriously hot day baking in an outdoor arena in the middle of a cornfield an hour and 30 minute drive from Chicago with Lilith Fairies. I mean, you know, rock on, sisters, girl power and all that. I'm pro girl rock in general, but an entire festival devoted to "women's music" doesn't really interest me. Plus the Chicago lineup is kind of lame. And it's in a cornfield. Or, well, next to one. It's on The Prairie, the official Prairie. And even if they magically transform it to a blissful oasis of harmony and empowerment, it's still Lilith.
Can you see me at Lilith? With The Most Affected Man in the World?
Me, either.
It was at this point I grew anxious about that USB drive. He alluded to it in the poem. Good grief, what's on that thing?
Shored up more stamina and courage and took a look at the drive's contents.
Playlists. Of course there were playlists. MP3s featuring all the Lilith musicians' music. Lilith Music. Awww crap.
I mean, it's a nice gesture, of course it is, but...even if I really liked this guy isn't this all a bit much considering we only went on one not so great date (wherein booze had to be applied to make conversation happen) and I haven't heard from him in a month?
And then I listened to a couple of the MP3s.
It was now 1 AM. I was tired and depressed and in my general state of fear that I'm in all the time these days. Based on the file names I expected to hear some Mary J. Blige.
Picture this: Me. 1 AM. Tired. Depressed. Unemployed. Soon to be homeless. Scared. On the heels of planning my mother's funeral and choosing a cemetery plot for myself. Curled up fetal in my bed, alone, in a dark bedroom, a siren and the distant roar and whistle of the L breaking the night silence. I load up a little music to keep me company and tune out the nagging fear and anxiety-ridden voices in my head. I hit play on Mary J. Blige.
And a loud, male voice starts reciting a lesson on the Kabbalah and the origins of Lilith. It would remind you of the Late Lament intro to Nights in White Satin. "Breathe deep, the gathering gloom..." (Speaking of pretentious affectations, have I ever mentioned that I don't like the Moody Blues?) I thought, "That's kind of a weird intro on a Mary J. Blige song, but okay, whatever."
And then it hit me. I recognized the voice.
Oh yes. It was The Most Affected Man in the World. And he recorded informative or inspirational introductions to each of the songs. He removed all doubt about whether or not he's a feminist. He most definitely is and he most definitely takes women's issues very seriously. And he talks about women's sexuality and their bountiful wombs and the succulent abyss of joy. Oh yes, he actually used the terms "bountiful womb" and "succulent abyss of joy." And apparently with a straight face because I didn't hear a hint of humorous inflection when he said it. More than once. And it was swutting freaky. Okay? It's freaky. Especially in the middle of the night. Alone. In my bedroom.
Up to that point I was wondering how to let the guy down easy. Prior to hearing the oral recitations on the condition woman I was thinking, "Before the scroll arrived I would have gone out with him again, so maybe if I just excuse the scroll I'll go out with him again, but not to Lilith. Maybe I can give him a call and explain that I was out of town and just got back, already have plans the day of Lilith..."
But after he used the terms "bountiful womb" and "succulent abyss of joy" there was no way I was ever going to see this guy again. And, no, no, just just because of his affected vernacular. If we'd been dating and having sex and discussing having children for, I dunno months or years, then I'd be sort of okay with him talking about my succulent abyss of joy and bountiful womb. I'd even be okay with him talking about my vagina and eggs. But we went on one date. One not so great date. And here he is alluding to sex and baby making. Okay, sure, only in general terms. You're right, he didn't specifically mention my succulent abyss of joy and bountiful womb, you know, by name. He did refer to them only in general terms. He might have just been all hopped up high on Lilith fervor and so inspired was he that he felt compelled to wax poetic about vaginas and ovaries in general (hey, don't we all). And record his thoughts and send them to a woman he took on one date a month ago.
Sidebar, again: Yes, okay, yes. I do appreciate the effort he took. Duly noted, gratitude given. He didn't just go the extra mile, he ran an entire marathon. And yes, I do feel guilty thinking of him toiling away in his library at his replica King John Magna Carta desk, dipping his authentic reproduction Benjamin Franklin quill into a certified replica Dickens inkwell. Scribing original poetry to woo a lady, pausing reflectively, thoughtfully, to work out the perfect iambic pentameter seeking higher meaning from the view to his sundial and Zen garden through the window, then in a fit of inspiration getting it just right, feverishly penning his poetry, hoping she'll notice the care and precision of each word. Using just the right calligraphy style - not too formal, not too casual, on just the right parchment - delicate but strong. Then retiring to the studio to adorn it with illustrations, using the special ritual Sumi brushes received as a gift from a master brush artist to ink cranes, turtles, rabbits and delicate bamboo leaves - honor, protection, fertility and longevity. (And you thought I was a callous bitch. Yes I noticed, I get it. He's very into symbolism and aesthetics. And I happen to speak a little esoteric. Not fluent on his level, more tourist esoteric.) Yes, I do feel guilty dismissing him like this but c'mon. I mean, it's a bit much for a second date, n'est-ce pas? (Speaking (again) of stupid affectations, I'm peppering conversations with n'est-ce pas. By the way. I know it's obnoxious but for some reason I've been doing it lot lately. I can't seem to catch or help myself. I dunno.) Yes, yes, I have considered all of his effort and I am grateful that someone cares enough to bother to care. But, it's kind of a bit much, kind of creepy, kind of like Creepy Perfume Guy, n'est-ce pas?
So now I have to either just ignore the scroll and whatever you call was on that USB drive or let him know I don't want to go. We all know the right thing to do is let him know I don't want to go. He did put a lot of effort into the, um, scroll and, um, recordings. And he was kind enough to invite me to a music festival. I have to give him the courtesy of declining his offer.
Or, I could go with him. To Lilith. And talk about my succulent abyss of joy and bountiful womb.
What say you? Am I being too picky? Should I embrace this guy and his affectations? Render unto him my succulent abyss of joy?
Post-edit: Someone asked me if he'd invited me to Lollapalooza or Pitchfork instead of Lilith if I'd go - if it's merely Lilith that's the real issue. Assuming the invitation came via a phone call or email, and there was no scroll or creepy Moody Blues-esque spoken word song introductions containing the terms "bountiful womb" and "succulent abyss of joy," maybe, maybe I'd go. But that does bring up another point. Music festivals are long. An entire day and evening, 12 hours-ish or more when you factor commute and entry line time. That's a lot of time to spend with someone on a second date, especially someone you didn't hit it off with that well on the first date. But it's a moot point, n'est-ce pas? He did ask me to Lilith and he did do so via a parchment scroll bound with one of his twine-bead-coin hair ties and more to the creepy point, he did send me mp3s of him reciting educational and inspirational introductions to songs. Introductions alluding to sex and pregnancy using the terms "bountiful womb" and "succulent abyss of joy." Both the Lollapalooza and Pitchfork line-ups are pretty good this summer, but even so, they're not good enough to endure spending 12+ hours with The Most Affected Man in the World who unironically, unsarcastically, unhumorously uses the terms "bountiful womb" and "succulent abyss of joy." Right?
