In the stairwell that first day, the very first new friend my sister made was a cute little freshman in tan corduroy jeans with her dark hair pulled into two pigtails. She looked more like a high school freshman than a college student. She was tacking up fliers for some kind of
cause (might have been related to world hunger) on the bulletin boards in the stairwell.
She was pretty and outgoing and introduced herself to us at once, "Hi, I'm Bennie, Bennie Bhutto."
Everybody probably has a story about someone famous. I have a lot of stories, because when you travel, and work at many tasks, you collect stories like brambles on your socks. Some are small, insignificant, but every one of them carries a seed which speaks of something other than itself. "looseheadprop" from firedoglake has this post about just such a bramble.
The end of the year finds everyone playing the Janus, looking forward and backward. In a society that forgets the past immediately and can't imagine that there'll even be a future, I find this time (usually around my sister's birthday) a only truly spiritual time of year. If spirituality has something to do with reverence for something unseen but believed. The past is gone, but we see the results of its presence and the possibility of its effects on the future. If we care to look.
- ALL of our teevee news is bad. Assuming that you're shallow and stupid (or trying to be shallow and stupid or are just weary of reality), teevee wants to help. I had a photo of the mangled half-blownup bodies around Bhutto's assassination scene and I was going to put word balloons having the victims saying "What about Mischa's DUI?" and "How high should zoo walls be to keep tigers in?" and "Is Obama Oprah's sexy coke-fiend?" and "Isn't Britney and Jamie's mom a good mom?" I figured I'd just describe my own momentary lack of taste.
- Somebody creamed my mailbox over the holidays. Very likely a neighbor whose other hand was holding a gin-and-tonic, so I can only complain because of the inconvenience it caused my mail carrier. Of course, she usually has to drive to The Manor over the holiday season, what with the copious abundance of parcels and such.
- Replacing aforementioned boîte aux lettres wouldn't have been as much a bother as it sounds (I always keep a spare in the rum cellar) if it weren't that the ground, slush, and old mailbox all fused together as one by the quickfreeze we had experienced. So, I awaited the advantageous Apponogansett thaw which was manifest come Christmas Adam. While I was preparing to make the necessary replacement, a neighbor in his new Chevroley Cardamon SUV ("Now with Solar Panels -- We're GREEN!") decided to swerve extra close in order to coat my trou with road salt, sand, and slush.
- Looking back at '07, I remember being glad to find "SouthCoast Blogger," an online home manufactory operative or "domestic industrialist" or "Internet entrepreneur" (she makes e-mail-order children's fashions). On her blog, she shared some refreshingly honest views about local politics and topics. She was also nice enough to contact me and to remark, very pleasantly, about her business and the state of ... our state. Just as I was about to dedicate a big entry here to her swell takes on the SouthCoast, she disappeared.
- At first, I attributed her non-blogging to a busy holiday gift season and wished her well by e-mail, jubilating what I assumed was overwhelming orders and success. I never heard anything back, and I have yet to see any new post over at SouthCoast Blogger.
I realized that I had mentioned to her that I have no children. It would be a little ungenerous to attribute to her the assumption that I would never buy children's clothes (well, okay, I wouldn't) and thus wasn't worth wasting time over in a perspective customer kind of way, so I went right on assuming that real business had trumped online local gab.
- On the other hand, I had also struck up a gauzy online acquaintance, via MySpace, with an actor who was endeavoring to direct. At the moment I commented -- positively -- on a particularly interesting use of raw footage, her account disappeared.
- And I haven't heard anything from Large or katie in ages.
- I've always been acutely aware of my audience: in writing, on stage, while broadcasting, and sometimes to my disadvantage. I've pulled a lot of punches and regretted some remarks. I'm no Doug Piranha ("He used... sarcasm. He knew all the tricks, dramatic irony, metaphor,bathos, puns, parody, litotes and... satire. He was vicious.") but when I share something online, I hope I'm clear enough to be understood, and am only offensive to the clearly-marked targets of my disdain.
- So, let's look forward with hope now to the unknowable Maybe. I'm sorry for any misuse of this my online gift, and I'll endeavor to stay true to course.
- There. Sticking with the nautical conceit of "Soles'n'Bowls," Regret leaves a hard crust on the deck in the head. It needs a little extra elbow grease with the pumice.
- Before you realize it was never there, just a vague shadow cast by a leaking deck prism.