22 April 2002
Good morning! We have no internet connectivity this morning, and we haven't since before dinner last night. Woohoo. Well, it's a big step up from when we had cable modem, anyway....
Yesterday I read James Blaylock's Homunculus. There's a quote from Tim Powers on the front. It claims that Homunculus is "The fastest, funniest, most colorful and grotesquely horrifying novel that could ever be written about Victorian London."
I also started Graham Greene's Travels With My Aunt, whose cover also alarms me. It reads "A new and different novel by Graham Greene" and then the title below. That seems to imply that some of his new novels aren't different? I expect new novels to be different. Seems redundant. But there's a line I just have to quote, from the aunt mentioned in the title: "'People who like quotations love meaningless generalizations.'" So, so true.
I discovered a disturbing trend yesterday. (I initially typed "disturbing Trent," but that was not a discovery from yesterday -- Trent has been disturbing for years now.) Small trend. But still. For the second time in a year, someone I consider one of my closest friends has asked me to tell him/her more about what's going on in my life and in my head. Would like for me to be more candid. Etc.
I'm used to this from near-strangers, just as my dad is. People who barely know me at all will be startled to find that they don't. Because there are rather few things that I won't say under the right circumstances -- or because it's a different set than most -- people assume that I'm being utterly candid with them about every aspect of my life. I mean, I talked to three or four different people or groups at Ken's launch party about reindeer castration practices and laws. It came up in conversation. What can I say? It made people laugh, or at least pay attention. (And, frankly, since I'm 23 and female, if it lifts me beyond "sweet little thing" in people's memories, I'm all for it. Even if "sweet little thing" becomes "that weird chick with the reindeer." That's all right.)
So then they're tooling right along and all of a sudden, wham, something new, and they'll be surprised. They do this to my dad, too: "I never knew you liked Jethro Tull!" And Dad and I will exchange glances out of the corners of our eyes, the glance that says, "Didn't bother finding out, did you?" My rule of thumb is that if I can't tell you whether someone has siblings, what their names, ages, and current locations are, I will attempt to avoid the phrase, "I never knew you ______!" Clear reminder that I do not know everything about this person. Or even close.
It's best with newish friends, I think. For example, when I've been talking to Wendy recently, I don't think she's had an expected level of candor out of me aside from what's in the journal and the general chick code. (The chick code: when
Excuse me. In the midst of writing this entry, which I assure you was going to be quite thoughtful and personal and would deal with boundaries among friends and where they belong and don't belong, in the midst of all of that, I just got a phone call. From C.J. Saying that he's coming to visit.
I can't believe this. People don't do this. Well, evidently when they're Ceej they do. I'm not complaining. I'm just in a state of rather hyperactive shock. (Ceej can testify that my voice went up at least a fifth when he asked if we were free tomorrow.) Tomorrow.
Hee. Um. So. I have a few things to do that don't involve reflection except the kind that will be much clearer in the bathroom mirrors when I'm done cleaning them. I'll get back to you all sometime later. When I can more easily form complete sentences and am not doing some kind of psychotic cleaning bounce around the house while occasionally mumbling scheduling notes to myself about trips around the Bay Area and food and baking and errands. Hee. Bounce bounce bounce.
And the main page.
Or the last entry.
Or the next one.
Or even send me email.