I'm taking an online course in copy editing and as a result, instead of seeing more and more mistakes in every day writing, I'm hearing more and more mistakes in every day speech. Our collective grammar usage is atrocious. I'm okay with it, really. For me, spoken language is something that can and usually does evolve. I think written language, because it lasts longer (even digitally) should be more carefully constructed. I don't really have a logical reason for why I differentiate between the two other than to say it is an entirely personal preference, especially now that I'm even more aware of it. That is not to say any blog posting of mine will improve in quality. I only have a very limited natural talent and frankly, I am so fucking busy every day of my life that sometimes I want to update this blog thusly: #&%^&^@#$%(*)@! Overall, I'm enjoying the course and I finally know the difference between the word floundering and foundering. This is 15 years after I first heard the word founder in context of a ship in the blockbuster retardation explosion Titanic.
In brief: I am the kind of person who is good at copy editing when I feel like it but is not a qualified member of the Grammar Police, nor do I want to be.
Even though I work all the time and use what precious little free time I have in the best ways I know how (playing with cats) I've been able to catch up on Game of Thrones, the second season all in one go. The show is intriguing and wonderfully acted and I thoroughly enjoy every episode, albeit not as fanatically as I do, say, Mad Men. Still, after this most recent experience, I can't deny that stories and images in the show leave indelible marks on my subconscious. To wit: I dreamed last night that I was on trial for the murder of a peasant. In my dream, the world I lived in was akin to Winterfell. The dream began "mid-story" and I realized I was the accomplice in the violent strangulation. My dream self had the memory of witnessing my friend/accomplice's beheading via a knight's sword. I was allowed to go free for one night but knew that my "trial" was going to be the following day and had been reassured by my "lady in waiting" that the three old men who were the jury had already decided on finding me guilty and sentencing me to death. In my dream, instead of escaping like a scrappy heroine, I walked around my room (which for some reason was my actual room in the apartment I live in now) wringing my hands and trying to envision what it would be like at the moment of death. My dream self envisioned it to be a series of flashes in my mind that looked very similar to Jackson Pollock paintings.
In brief: Take a break from Game of Thrones. Sub lesson: Be grateful to your younger self that you never dropped acid or took shrooms, no matter how many times it was offered to you.
I keep running into the same person in town that for the last six months or so I have not been able to exorcise from my thoughts. Likely one is the direct result of the other and if I were the sort to believe in coincidence and fate and all that gobbledygook I'd be reading into these random collisions and assigning higher meaning to them. In fairness to me, there is a connection there that is not, for once, wholly of my own invention. Part of me wants to do exactly what I feel, consequences be damned. Then, when my phone remains silent, I remember that ascribing some higher purpose or fate to the sheer logic of probability is a mistake, and a painful illusion to disavow oneself of repeatedly. Also, people are almost never what they seem.
In brief: Just 'cause you feel it, doesn't mean it's there.
This year on Father's Day, my family elected to have dinner at a local chain restaurant. I have generally prided myself on being flexible with plans and being the type of person who is "good" with anything and the opposite of a picky eater. That is still true with one exception: chain restaurants. I have yet to, in my adult life, have a good and satisfying meal at a chain restaurant. And I don't mean a chain with one or two locations (big ups to The Curry Club), but the national chain restaurants that sprout up all over the face of suburbia (and yes, even Paris and Manhattan) like an aggressive acne. I did not enjoy the meal, even a little bit. I just wanted some damn fish with some vegetables and what I got was a glorified frozen dinner. Even my cocktail was sub par and the two mussels I had were bland and salty at the same time. How is that even possible? I was apparently in the minority however since everyone else seemed to really enjoy the food. It was a familiar feeling. I often wish I could just close the curtains in my brain and not overthink things like, oh say, chain restaurant food. Please don't mistake me, I loved eating with my family and celebrating the menschen in my life. But the food literally left a bad taste in my mouth that lingers. I'm such a whiner.
In brief: I love my family and I hate lazy food.
Before coming to dinner, my parents and grandparents went to visit my aunt, who is known as Mima. Mima is in her 90s and according to my mother is "not doing well". She has been in declining health for a few years now and we have heard this status before, most recently this past spring. However, the quiet way in which my mother described how bloated Mima had gotten and her disinterest in eating or sleeping brought me to the realization that she may actually not be doing well. Mima is that family member that many of us have: she's always existed. It is inconceivable that she won't someday, likely soon. And at dinner, after my mom said it, that fact just lingered in the air above us. How bizarre to remember now that we just carried on ordering and eating and chatting about work and vacations. I even had audacity to be dissatisfied with the food. You hear about a beloved family member "not doing well" and, if he or she is past a certain age, you shake your head and you feel sorry but you carry on saying "She lived a long and fruitful life." And because that happens to be true in Mima's case, the sadness I feel right now in the remembering of that dinner table scene is not for her, but for all of us she will leave behind. We have no idea how many times we'll have to repeat the rote phrases and consolations and carry on and on and on until we don't. But that's just what we do and there's nothing for it.
In brief: This space for rent.
If you have learned any lessons this week, well I'd sure like to know about them so please, share!