caesar and the masked rider

i never intended to be so personal in this blog, especially since blogs are already self-indulgent, but i'm beginning to understand how difficult it is to keep yourself out of it. after all, one of my colleagues considers it a boon to be surrounded by narcissists, since they're less likely to pay too much attention to you. (needless to say we're great friends.) so this is me, not looking at you:

my musings of late must arise from little things, because the big things have me in quite a frantic state; i'm so busy i can hardly sleep. to keep me going, i invest in small pleasures, like the sprinkle of cinnamon the gal at the coffee shop reminded me of, a funny joke told by a librarian, and a new recipe offered by a guy who's sweeter than he knows. (my other senses are dulling with lack of sleep, but my sense of taste has somehow become keener.) it's as one of my favorite Oasis songs proclaims: "it's the little things that make me so happy." so this evening i indulged in a caesar salad and a glass of pinot noir by the name of Masked Rider, and i realized this pair perfectly symbolizes my current inner conflict:

i don't know if i want to be a Caesar or a Masked Rider.

both have power, that much i know i want. (this conflicts with my personal philosopy, of course, but i can accept it; power looks good on me.) but how do i want to gain that power? i can gain it through a populist approach like Caesar, and use my political wiles to dictate, or i can be more subversive, more mysterious, like the Masked Rider, and just take power and its spoils, without all the rigmorale. for the most part, i'm a politician, but as my schedule continues to block me in, i long for the days of roaming wild and free, without fear of being discovered.
 
either way, i'll probably be shot.

[It's Good] To Be Free - Oasis

what they call a "girl crush"

I haven't kept my promise about writing with frequency and brevity, and one reason for that, as you can probably judge by the last post, is that I haven't been feeling very "up" lately--nay, I've been feeling down, making it difficult to post at all, and even more difficult to refrain from endless analysis when I do.

Another reason, though, is much lighter: Zooey Deschanel.  I've already gushed about (500) Days of Summer, and since I thought I should strive for variety here, I've held back on any items related to the actress/singer. 

But in the interest of moving on, I've decided to purge my girl crush in one go; here are some of the things I love about the ever-charming Zooey Deschanel (in addition to (500) Days of Summer):

1. She was named after the Zooey in the Salinger novel (Franny and Zooey, duh).

2. She showed up this season on Bones - and played a relative of her real life sister!

3. She said "This song explains why I'm leaving home to become a stewardess"  in Almost Famous.

4. She has an awesome recipe for spicy chickpeas (but it's even better if you add a bit of cinnamon and crank the heat to 375).

5. She was on one of the best shows ever (Weeds, duh).

And, finally, this video from She & Him, her increasingly successful project with M. Ward:



If that is not the definition of adorable, I don't know what is.

the day i stopped carrying mascara

About a week ago, I claimed that I was an empty cup, but that wasn't entirely true; my cup was brimming with those salty harbingers of emotion we call tears.  Ryan Adams would love me these days (because, you know, "Damn, Sam, I love a woman that rains").

This inability to control my ducts is pathetic; as a young(er) woman, I prided myself on an almost masculine aversion to tears, but it seems those days have passed, and crying comes as naturally as making a cup of tea in the morning or turning off the lamp at night.  This new "symptom," I'll call it, has required a few extra efforts one may not normally consider: without an emergency supply of tissues and mascara, I dare not venture into the world lest a spontaneous breakdown leave black tracks down my face and expose my weakened state. 

They say time heals all wounds, but I'm inclined to think it only dries them up; my eyes have certainly begun to dry out.  It started on Easter Sunday with my grandmother's beautiful asparagus and even more beautiful mandarin cake with chocolate-covered strawberries.  On Monday I found that my sobs were less sloppy.  By Wednesday, I was going into withdrawal, running down a list of imaginary woes to force out a drop or two.  This morning I even caught myself humming.  So I figured the rain was over. 

I stopped carrying my mascara. 

Yeah, you can guess what happened next: today was the day Apollo broke down my door and threatened to turn me into cypress tree with tears that fall for all eternity.  (It happens, it really does.)  I'm a mess. 

But now, this mess is less pathetic.  It seems that vulnerability is all the universe was really asking of me.  Fear of exposure had been holding me back; I was only barely letting myself sink into sorrow, mopping up every drop in the interest of an artificial tidiness.  So I'm confessing my syndrome publically and declaring that I will no longer try so hard to be my own protector.  Life isn't exactly something you can prepare for by packing a bag, is it?

i am april's fool

april is the best month for birthing poetry, and i've been expecting it all march, which explains my absence.  today i am the empty cup, the flight of uncarpeted stairs, and do i ever know what i know.  so edna st. vincent millay just rescued me with this perfection; may she rescue you:

Spring

To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down the hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

-Edna St. Vincent Millay

after my own dirty heart

Camille Laurens' narrator is a woman after my own dirty heart.  I recently sank my teeth into In His Arms* and it was written expressly for me. 

One day I will read her without translators--oh, those middle men!  I'm signing up for French classes this summer.

*The title was changed from In Those Arms for the US edition for some reason.