Tag: introspection

A New November

Each year I dread November. As well as unconsciously shuffling through tightly compressed memories of my mother’s death (43 years ago) and all the associated bleakness both outside and within, I can hardly bear the early darkness that creeps in after a five o’clock sky, flecked with pink. I am flooded with memories of living in Britain and that particular deep reaching dampness that can only really be remedied with a large Scotch in a steaming bath. (And at seventeen, as now, I don’t even drink Scotch …)

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Villette

I am now making a conscious decision not to bang on about how long it’s been since I last posted anything; suffice it to say, that the entire blog has been in a serious coma and I have been struggling to decide whether or not to pull the plug.

Today, I say, let us limp on a little yet.

Rightly so or not, I do feel a little proud of myself for recently finishing the brilliant but painfully slow read that is Villette, by Charlotte Brontë. The novel itself is not especially toothsome but necessary French translations and classical allusions demand constant referencing to the notes. I will say upfront that I had never even heard of this book till it was referenced by the queen of obscure cool, Patti Smith, who said that she was so moved by the book she had to write an alternative ending of her own.

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Nine to Five No More

It’s been almost two months to the day since I cleared out my desk and began my (super early) retirement. I have purposefully not shared this information here because it is has been such a churning and peculiar adjustment, full of highs and lows, more than a few bracing 3 am walks around the hardwood floors but mostly, because I fear being judged as old and irrelevant, there I said it.

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Eleanor, gee I think you’re Swell!

Not sure why, but I notice that my reading tastes have been rather mired in memoir of late: The Fish Ladder (Katharine Norbury); Drinking the Rain (Alix Kates Shulman); Are you Somebody (Nuala (O’Faolain); Leaving before the Rains come (Alexandra Fuller); and Hourglass:Time, Memory, Marriage Dani Shapiro) with just a brief recent hiatus into the new Julian Barnes, The Only Story. Barnes is one of my favorite writers although his talent and intellect always leave me feeling distinctly lacking.

Anyway, I have taken to jotting down vocabulary I am not familiar with from his books lest I am ever in attendance at a clever party with him. This will never happen – obviously – but I like to pretend, in case someone drops “atavistic” into the conversation or mentions their vast collection of embroidered “antimacassars.” (Which sounds painful but really isn’t …)

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The Party Line

I remember reading in a psychology book, a simple but intriguing quiz in which one presents the following scenario to a friend:

You are at a party, everyone is chatting and enjoying some food and drink. For some reason, you are called away and leave the room.

What do you think that the guests are now saying about you?

I tossed this out to Frasier and Niles when they were hanging out having a beer with me in the kitchen one airless, summer evening. Niles really struggled and couldn’t come up with much. He questioned why they would be thinking anything at all and laughed that he didn’t much care anyway as he loped across to the fridge. Frasier, on the other hand, frowned and shrugged, shifting about in his chair; but when pressed, he admitted that he thought they would most likely be thinking: Hey, who brought THAT guy?

Which made us laugh. A lot.

For myself, I wondered if there might be a universal discussion as to how particularly unattractive I was.

SPOILER ALERT: Try it yourself before reading any further: what do YOU think these guests would be saying?

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