Biggest news of the week? My dear friends, the Greenes, welcomed a new puppy into their lives. I am both incredibly happy for them and almost as intensely envious (self-pitying) – I WANT TO BE LIVING A LIFE I CAN SHARE WITH A PUPPY! Look how cute!
It’s Sunday. the fifth day of my self-imposed “wah-wah-poor-me” Twitter/social media/life break, and in other news this week: Went to the doctor — again — feeling marginally better — again — going to the doctor — again — tomorrow. This will be my first specialist in decades. Enthralling, that; yes?
I know. Well, there it is. And, here it was. Not being on Twitter seems to increase my need to blog. I don’t delude myself that anyone is listening, yet, I’ve this insatiable need to blather on about my life, perpetually Prousting pointless detail and digression in which no one — even my closest and dearest — are much interested. (Except people in France. This blog is HUGE in France. Maybe I am Proust-ian? This, you see, is how my delusions are perpetuated – thus, perpetually Prousting. Blame France.)
I think — and this is an idea in its nascent stages because it is one of the underpinnings of the “book” on which I am currently “working” — these bloggings and Tweetings I do are in lieu of the conversations and life I meant to have and had long imagined, from the time I was a precocious, pre-schooler, wandering the un-occupied, left wing of the family manse, Libertytown, there rearranging its abandoned furniture, wearing the discarded, mothballed clothes of long-gone relatives, believing it practice for my adulthood when I’d escape the hoi polloi of Frederick County, Maryland to live in a Park Avenue penthouse (or, the Algonquin!) alongside the Cole Porters and Dorothy Parkers in Manhattan, a sophisticate, a wit, an uncommonly clever, brilliant, beautiful somebody.
Decades later, dash it all; damned if it doesn’t turn out I continue to dwell (dawdle? die day by day?) in Frederick County, rather witlessly, talking to myself in this blog and on Twitter, and I could hardly be any more hoi amongst the polloi than I am.
But I’m blogging dammit. So in case you missed any, here is a review of the past week’s twaddle (you may click on each to read).
MONDAY, OCTOBER 19: READING 3 MONTHS, 25 BOOKS — in which I briefly revisit my reading material since August.
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 21: HAVING WORDS — in which I excerpt(ish) a first sentence in a work in progress and allow conflagration of real life and written life and fever and stomach cramp and dead boys I loved when I was a boy who’d not yet spent decades dying.
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 22: BITTERARY DISEASE — in which I discuss my Twitter-departure, my illness, Adele’s new release, and the $2 million advance/hot new novel making me literary-bitter, Bitterary.
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 23: NO COMMENT — in which I ogle Prince Harry’s visible penis outline and fantasize.
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 24, the first: HAPPINESS …revisited — in which I annotate and re-post from more than two years ago an exegesis on my theory of happy and why I am not.
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 24, the second: SATURDAY NIGHT SONDHEIM — in which I share my Saturday night full of fun, sitting in my room, sobbing, by sharing with you thirteen recordings of Sondheim songs.
Yes, I may be insane. Further proof, you say? Well, I think I might happily commit murder were I told a Miele vacuum would be my reward.
Clearly, I have lost my mind.
And I start to read this article from The New Yorker by George Saunders about writing teachers, this article which has been all over Twitter, and I get to this:
— and I stop reading because — well, if I have to “because” you, then, you should stop reading. I’m not for you — unless, of course, you live in France. If you do, I’m definitely for you, though fuck-all if I know why.
Here I am, going.