My mental circus, inside and out.

 

Emma remembers the last Democratic convention.  She was sitting on the couch, multitasking, the convention droning on in the background.   The tedious speeches, the flag waving, the snoozy commentators.   Suddenly there was this amazing visionary speech that shocked Emma into tuning in.  It was galvanizing.  It was awesome.  It was Obama.  Emma thought, my god, he is Presidential material, but he is so young, so inexperienced.    Emma thought it would be many years before she saw Obama in the running, and even then, she did not believe that American politics would allow such a visionary person into the Oval Office.  But here he is.  He might very well make it despite the viral, racist attacks from the ignorant and the downright stupid.  (Hillary has been subjected to worse.)  And this is giving Emma some hope in American politics, that sometimes, when the conditions are right,  the system actually works and that the murderously violent capitalists don't always have their way.  But, we shall see.

 

Posted by: EmmaPele at February 29, 2008 22:32 | link | comments (3)

Republican Ethnography

So he said, "when I was a child, my parents wouldn't buy me any clothes.  I had to earn the money to buy every piece of clothing I owned.  Once, I spent a day chipping ice off the neighbor's driveway so that I could buy valentines for the school valentine's day exchange."  Emma wonders how many girls got these valentines.  Horsh does not have a grasp of metaphor, and yet this story is full of metaphor and all-American Republican guy messages to Emma about hard work and acquisition, the ability to clear out the frozen emotions of the long winter of the heart.  Well.

His apartment is full of shirts and sweaters hanging from every doorway.  His closet is not big enough to accommodate these shirts, mostly striped, cotton, some with frayed holes.  Emma has never, in fact, seen so many clothes except in the case of her daughter who, like  a mouse, also finds comfort in accumulating and saving cloth.  Horsh spends time caring for these shirts, feeling the need to explain to Emma how it is best to keep the dryer on the air-dry cycle to avoid shrinkage, bringing a memory back to her of how she had once shrunk all of her former boyfriend's jeans and sweaters.   Emma's technique is somewhat different--buy everything extra-large and let it shrink.

Horsh's world is strange to Emma.  On his dining room table, heaped with papers, is a box of Donald Trump white handkerchiefs.  Emma tries to imagine why he would buy such a thing or why anyone would buy him such a thing.  The only consolation is that one blows one's nose into the Donald Trump hankies, but then again, Emma is sure she is the only one who gets the metaphor.   Another friend of theirs, John--a mensa member who makes part of his living doing past-life regression (and yeah, he really believes it)--told Horsh that in a former life he was a burghermeister.  Horsh, who does have mastery of the bad pun,  points out that he was eating a burger at the time.  And Horsh does look like a burghermeister, being a large, ruddy-faced person.  He could easily act the part of mayor in an imaginary town in a child's story.

The Donald Trump imagery (not to mention support of Mitt Romney because he "looks presidential")  makes Emma deeply uncomfortable, but this is mitigated by Horsh's amiability. his belief that it all begins at 50,  and his slow, sweet, calm, and it-is-my-pleasure-to-serve-you  love-making that lasts for hours.   So although part of Emma stands above this experience like an ethnographer, another part is enjoying the ride, as if in Horsh's carefully polished white convertible, top down, wind in the face, spring.

Posted by: EmmaPele at February 26, 2008 20:48 | link | comments (1)

Boomer Romance

It's been a long time since Emma was feeling really melancholy, but there's something comforting about self-pity in February after biting cold and a ton of snow.  The poor-old-me routine is mostly an excuse to lie around under a warm blanket, which is preferable to the angry trudge trudge trudge to work along the sidewalks that NOONE HAS BOTHERED TO SHOVEL.  Yes, lie under a blanket and listen to June Tabor's Echo of Hooves which always makes Emma  want to throw herself off  the sea cliffs.  Or drag her dead lover's body across the moors and dig his grave with her bare hands.  Or stab herself with an ivory  comb or something.  Ah, delicious!

All of this in the wake of a strange series of what one might call "dates" with Horsh, a good-time boy and well-known womanizer, who is somewhat chameleon-like in his ability to adapt to whomever he is with.  There once was a Star Trek episode about this entitiy who morphed into the perfect mate (whatever it took) for whatever man she was with.  So, for example, the entity became amazingly intelligent and cultured, and developed an instant interest in archeology when she was around Captain Jon Luc Picard.  Horsh is rather like this, pretending to be a "social liberal" around Emma (even though before they started to "date" he was a contentious Republican), and making sure he mentions that he smoked dope with his math teacher in high school.   But you know, it's hard to fake being cultured.  Therefore, Emma has had to listen to several long recountings of the only two works of literature Horsh has ever read: The Count of Monte Cristo and Les Miserables.  He confesses that he didn't actually read the latter but he did like the movie. 

So they go to this annual February poetry reading called "Burning Desires." (Emma's idea, of course.)   It's an erotic/love poem fest with a bunch of the best performance poets around the town.  Hilarious and horny describes it.  Horsh seemed to enjoy it, but when they were out in the reception area during the break, he did ask an old friend of Emma's--an octogenarian poet named Bob who was dressed like a railroad engineer--why none of the poems rhymed.  Later, when Sam, the emcee, was introducing Bob as one of the Three Tenors, "Flaccido Domingo,"  Horsh became visibly agitated.

"Is he *really* one of the Three Tenors?" he whispered  excitedly to Emma. 

"Uh, that's a joke, Jim."

That being said, a few days later at the coffee shop, he did whup Emma's ass at chess.

It's not that Horsh is stupid at all.  He just has absolutely no clue whatsoever about literature or the arts, and when he pretends, it's hilarious.  Emma figures he's probably able to schmooze a lot of women this way, by chameleon-like adaptation and understandings from the Meijers-Briggs psychological test (he tells Emma she's an IBPI or something). 

And Emma's best friend just encourages the whole thing:  "Oh for God's sakes, Emma, it's been 3 1/2 years.  Isn't it about time before you're so old you don't care anymore?  Ok, he's a Republican, but he did say that he could keep it up for 4 hours."

Such is the world of "boomer romance."  That is why all of the older woman reading at Burning Desires only had erotic poems about their high school days.  Now where did Emma put Van Morrison's Astral Weeks?

 

 

 

 

Posted by: EmmaPele at February 14, 2008 08:08 | link | comments (3)

Yesterday, the river was flowing.  Today it is frozen.  Walking along the river, Emma thought, it will be freezing and thawing long after she is gone.  Or maybe that is what it all is, freezing and thawing and freezing and thawing.

 

Posted by: EmmaPele at February 12, 2008 05:18 | link | comments (1)

There are two things that have subsumed Emma's life:  work and mahjong.  She has become addicted to online mahjong solitaire on parade.com.  She is not sure why she is so addicted, except that maybe it allows her a relaxed concentration.  However, her good friend M, when told of this recent obsession, said, "What are you? An old Jewish lady in Boca Raton?"  Well, there are probably worse things to be.  It is warm down there.

Posted by: EmmaPele at February 08, 2008 06:53 | link | comments (2)