Some Blog

So this blog thing isn't working out that well for me.

You go along for 50 years figuring you're as self-absorbed as the next person, maybe more so, and then you commit to being self-absorbed -- in public (sort of) -- and where does it all go? Nowhere, that's where. The wimp's way is to pick on people who actually WRITE regularly, to nag at them for not borrowing from poets other than Yeats, as if I would know it if they did.

I have little to share in the way of insight from my Year of Being 50, which ended less than a week ago. I seem to recall enjoying myself quite a lot, and having had some good times with Krang and Xingu. Coming up on nine years of marriage, Krang and I are in a good place -- probably better than at any other time we've had together, and undoubtedly better than the best moments of my starter marriage. Being able to see that, having learned to appreciate Krang for his steadiness, loving him all the more for the quirks that drive me crazy....maybe that's part of what 50 brought me.

Xingu has passed the worst of being seven; I confess to being terribly in love with him just now. He sat with me through the entire broadcast of La Fanciulla del West from the Met. What's more, he seemed to have enjoyed it. I have never taken this child for granted, and what delight it is to see him growing into an interesting and good human being.

My work was tough last year, but I came out of the turmoil with some clarity....and a new business card that features that very word. Eighteen years of being one's own boss are hard to end...so I didn't. For now, at least, there are still gigs for a graying, plumping, impolitic and occasionally overcaffeinated crank.

I grew more comfortable with wrinkles, "melting" facial structure, and the noise of my knees. Plastic surgery ideation, yes; but think of the trips you could take with that moolah! I went to a place that does bra fittings and now own six bras in the same style (three colors, no prints), and the girls are perkier. I still have gray put into my hair.

But insight? I'll get back to you on that.

YEATS ALERT: KRUGMAN AGAIN!

Compare this to his July column, cited below:

Try to explain that when debtors spend less, the economy will be depressed unless somebody else spends more, and they call you a socialist. Try to explain why mortgage relief is better for America than foreclosing on homes that must be sold at a huge loss, and they start ranting like Mr. Santelli. No question about it:... the moralizers are filled with a passionate intensity. And those who should know better lack all conviction.

Where are this man's editors?
See the full piece here. (yes, I'm a little behind with this one....)

YEATS ALERT!

The ideal leader in this mental system is free from moral anxiety but full of passionate intensity. This leader pushes his troops in lock step before the voracious foe. Each party has its own version of whom the evil elites are, but both feel they’ve more to fear from their enemies than from their own sinfulness.

David Brooks, shame on you. See the whole article here.

YEATS ALERT!

....this from a source I would never have expected: Frank Rich, in today's Times:

And yet here we are, slouching toward yet another 9/11 anniversary, still waiting for a correction, with even our president, an eloquent Iraq war opponent, slipping into denial. Of all the pro forma passages in Obama’s speech, perhaps the most jarring was his entreaty that Iraq’s leaders “move forward with a sense of urgency to form an inclusive government that is just, representative and accountable.” He might as well have been talking about the poisonous political deadlock in Washington. At that moment, there was no escaping the tragic fact that instead of bringing American-style democracy and freedom to Iraq, the costly war we fought there has, if anything, brought the bitter taste of Iraq’s dysfunction to America.

YEATS ALERT!

Paul Krugman in today's New York Times:

The point is that Mr. Obama’s attempts to avoid confrontation have been counterproductive. His opponents remain filled with a passionate intensity, while his supporters, having received no respect, lack all conviction. And in a midterm election, where turnout is crucial, the “enthusiasm gap” between Republicans and Democrats could spell catastrophe for the Obama agenda.

Surely he could have conveyed this Deep Thought without going the S.C. route. Love the Nobel Prize, Paul, but find another poem to quote.

The do that did me in

The hair that convinced me to stop coloring my own. My thanks to the stage artist who put this artful streak in Stafford Dean's exquisite hair, the hair that made me want to, um, hear more.

Now leaving the comfort zone

As I write this post, my new (from the Humane Society) Jack-Rat terrier is draped across my arms and lap. My feet are up on the sofa because my ankles are swollen. They swell pretty much every day now, even when I'm wearing TED stockings (prescribed by my doctor and purchased in the same store where you get commodes and railings for your toilet and shower), which I didn't today because it's July and hot. This would be a good reason, too, to shoo the little lap dog away, but her sweet dog sigh makes it impossible.

Leaving the comfort zone has been on my mind for weeks now. My clothes no longer fit properly. My hormones are not at all themselves, at least as I have known them these last 37 years or so. My eye glasses no longer work, so I have pairs of readers -- all in zingy stripes and polka dots -- and Internet-ordered prescription glasses littering every desk and bedside table. The client for which I did the majority of my billable work over the last several years has been forced to create a leaner profile, and I have begun working for a new client, on a Mac, and the job is different and more demanding, and I am just too old to be having to disrupt my existence so completely. It's not comfortable and I don't like it.

Xingu has lost two teeth in two weeks and looks like a gap-toothed giraffe, with his skinny long legs, brown skin and blonding hair. Krang goofs along happily, replacing his old commuter bike with another old commuter bike, mowing the lawn and piling papers on his bureau until they topple. The new dog has a dreadful name because we are reading Harry Potter and "Winky" was more apt than Luna or Padma or Fleur. We are putting in some desperately needed new windows, but only on the north side of the house: the side nobody sees but us. The job transition kept me from planting a vegetable garden for the first time in 20 years or so, and the plot that should be overflowing with green tomatoes and eggplant is filled with self-sewn mustard and cosmos leftover from last year. Everywhere I look I see some kind of slop, anarchy, lethargy, disrepair, stupidity or dirt.

I spend too much time in my fantasy world, where I live a gracious existence with household help. Not only is there enough money for essentials, there is also enough for summer opera festivals like Santa Fe and Glyndebourne. Picnics on the ground, handsome and soft-spoken and witty men, well tended women in attractive linen dresses and tasteful jewelry. We listen to Mozart, maybe a little Verdi, some bel canto. Chamber ensembles play during lunch. The air is scented with lavender or sagebrush, and the breeze blows just enough to fluff the furze of gray hair we all wear with equanimity if not aplomb. We are easy in our loose skins, in love with music and oh, so comfortable.