stalked in the forest
The Chicago “spring” wind was particularly brutal this morning, as I made my way east to the Scientific Words Factory, and somehow it was hitting my eyes perfectly awfully and causing buckets of tears. So I was that lady stumbling up Kinzie weeping hideously, making the inexpertly-applied, really-too-goth-for-the-office eyeliner even worse. HELLO EVERYONE. I’LL BE FINE. EVENTUALLY.
I was actually listening to a fairly sad song as I wept toward work, by a band called Salvia Plath. Besides making me chuckle, that band name makes me think about what a terrible trip-buddy old Sylvia would have been. Can you imagine? It would all be red blood and fire, and flying, and hospitals, and you’d be like damn girl, let’s just relax. Let’s just enjoy. Maybe you could hallucinate some peaceful shit for a change.
Reading about Plath is more fun than actually reading Plath (unless it’s her journals, which are wholly awesome, and although I’m not in the “It’s All Ted’s Fault” camp I will never forgive him for destroying the last 2 volumes). I recently read The Silent Woman, which is a pretty interesting commentary on biography and memory in itself, and then I re-read parts of Bitter Fame. Supposedly that one is meant to leave readers with an impression of what a terrible, vain, angry, badly behaved person Sylvia Plath was—but honestly, I find it hard not to relate. Plath ended it all when she was only 30 years old. THIRTY! Who hasn’t been a narcissistic jackass during the time leading up to 30? Who hasn’t invented a persona, wanted people (whom we had no intention of loving back) to fall in love with us, made a big fat hairy deal out of ourselves? Dear Anne Stevenson: I feel that some slack must be cut. (As an aside, for some reason on this re-reading the frequency and severity of Sylvia’s sinus problems really jumped out at me, and if I were in graduate school and desperately searching for a New Angle I might write a paper. “Barely Daring to Breathe or Achoo: Chronic Rhinosinusitis and the Suicide of Sylvia Plath.”)
I was weeping for real at the stupid television the other day, though, when stupid Animal Planet saw fit to rope me in with the story of two mother-rejected and hand-reared tiger cubs, and how the zookeepers loved them, and then they grew up and went into the regular tiger exhibit and no more cuddles, no more hanging out with tigers, and the zookeepers were sad about it. They didn’t play “Landslide” in the background but they might as well have. TIME MAKES YOU BOLDER/EVEN TIGERS GET OLDER. You’re killing me, Animal Planet.
OTHER THINGS
- I was just in San Francisco and although I had great cocktails/bar falafel and a great bookstore binge with Twitter pal @princesslambchop, I did not have a burrito and now I am sort of regretting that. Not that Chicago is hurting for burritos, and I have eaten SF burritos in the past, but I wanted to add some new files to my mental data bank of Burrito Comparisons. My next work trip will be Boston. Not sure if it’s worthwhile to hunt for burritos in Boston. I sure wouldn’t mind going back here, though.
- Tonight I will be at work forever, since “work” includes a dinner out with an editorial board. Pro: free wine. Con: free wine while wearing bra and pants and smiling at people, instead of at home on my couch. Then I get to snooze for a few hours and be back at work before the sun rises for the actual meeting of said editorial board, and it all feels very NOT FAIR. I see an extra-long lunch hour shimmering on the horizon.
- We had a substitute in my TRX class, and she was your typical totally-pumped fitness instructor type who walked up to the group and said, “All right! Y’all ready to get your strap on?” The best part is that it took her over a minute to figure out why we were all laughing. Are we still doing “phrasing”? Because holy cow, phrasing!
- Everything seemed to me tainted with a loathsome contagion, and inspired by a noxious alliance with the steamed chicken.
—mimi smartypants is hanging with a cool bunch.
