Being my own mandolin player...
There was a story I heard once, about a woman who wanted to meet, and subsequently fall in love with, a mandolin player. It was her one goal, her aim and ambition, but every man she met never measured up to her own expectations, and she couldn't seem to find her mandolin player. So finally she got tired of waiting and taught herself to play mandolin. And that is exactly what I intend to do.
Clearly you have a dizzying intelect.
No more wallowing (until next time, I promise).
I was angry with myself for this obsession I seem to have with expressing said self to an empty screen or a world full of strangers, or (let's be honest) those people whose opinions really matter most... and so (although you probably can't tell) I painfully boycotted blogging for the last week. A whole week! Ok, so I posted a few pictures, and a few of I's thoughts that I wanted to capture (aside: this was one I wanted to remember and then promptly forgot. I love that she is so transparent. To my grandmother about the results of the Wimbeldon semi-final between Venus Williams and Maria Sharapova. "Oh, of course she won (Venus) because she is much more beautiful!" would that all of life were so simple;)
But back to the whole boycotting thing. I was plagued by my own utter instranscendence, when it finally ocurred to me. Who the fuck cares? Right. No one cares but me, and I am the one suffering because I am forcing myself not to write. So here I am, writing again, even if no one reads...
And to reintroduce myself to the rigors of writing... I will begin with a short list.
List of things that puzzle me today, and which of no one I will expect a response (here's the mandolin player part:)
1) How on earth do the standings for the Tour de France work???!
2) Is the red itchy rash on my feet, legs and arms from a) sun poisoning b) some strange allergic reaction to the run-off river that melded with the ocean at Jalama beach this morning or c) an early sign of my impending brain cancer and prompt death. d) etc. etc. Ok, see I am even feeling funny again. Thing is, I was itching (we camped last night. hard hard ground, but no mosquitoes... though we were warned of mountain lions) and I remembered that movie Caro Diario, where the protagonist and director (in real life) spent something like two years trying to find out what was wrong and the doctors and acupuncturists and everyone else told him it was all just stress and in his head, and it turned out to be a lymphoma... and so...
Maybe I should not discount my hypochondria as all being in my head! Or, um. here is another case. A friend of a friend (who shall remain nameless, though she will read this and laugh) spent the summer itching like crazy (having had a tryst of sorts with a hippie boy in the raging 90's) and telling her doctor that she thought she had scabies, and her doctor insisting that girls like her (whatever that means... just goes to show you how white privilege can come back to bite you in the butt...) didn't get scabies, and that she was just under a lot of stress and should see a therapist. This went on for some time (mind you this is all third-hand information, but makes it none the less interesting) and aforementioned friend of friend and friend took a road trip in the summer swelter on sticky, steaming pleather seats, still itching, and after many sessions, still confused about the whole stress thing. Finally having crossed the country, friend began itching too. Now this itching didn't take too long to spread to friend's boyfriend at which time both hightailed it to the university infirmary, where it was confirmed in a matter of seconds that they indeed had scabies. Point is... sometimes the obvious should not be overlooked merely because of its obvity.
And so, dear friends and readers. I'm back. and maybe (just maybe) I will do something about the rest of it. Soon. I hope.
Clearly you have a dizzying intelect.
No more wallowing (until next time, I promise).
I was angry with myself for this obsession I seem to have with expressing said self to an empty screen or a world full of strangers, or (let's be honest) those people whose opinions really matter most... and so (although you probably can't tell) I painfully boycotted blogging for the last week. A whole week! Ok, so I posted a few pictures, and a few of I's thoughts that I wanted to capture (aside: this was one I wanted to remember and then promptly forgot. I love that she is so transparent. To my grandmother about the results of the Wimbeldon semi-final between Venus Williams and Maria Sharapova. "Oh, of course she won (Venus) because she is much more beautiful!" would that all of life were so simple;)
But back to the whole boycotting thing. I was plagued by my own utter instranscendence, when it finally ocurred to me. Who the fuck cares? Right. No one cares but me, and I am the one suffering because I am forcing myself not to write. So here I am, writing again, even if no one reads...
And to reintroduce myself to the rigors of writing... I will begin with a short list.
List of things that puzzle me today, and which of no one I will expect a response (here's the mandolin player part:)
1) How on earth do the standings for the Tour de France work???!
2) Is the red itchy rash on my feet, legs and arms from a) sun poisoning b) some strange allergic reaction to the run-off river that melded with the ocean at Jalama beach this morning or c) an early sign of my impending brain cancer and prompt death. d) etc. etc. Ok, see I am even feeling funny again. Thing is, I was itching (we camped last night. hard hard ground, but no mosquitoes... though we were warned of mountain lions) and I remembered that movie Caro Diario, where the protagonist and director (in real life) spent something like two years trying to find out what was wrong and the doctors and acupuncturists and everyone else told him it was all just stress and in his head, and it turned out to be a lymphoma... and so...
Maybe I should not discount my hypochondria as all being in my head! Or, um. here is another case. A friend of a friend (who shall remain nameless, though she will read this and laugh) spent the summer itching like crazy (having had a tryst of sorts with a hippie boy in the raging 90's) and telling her doctor that she thought she had scabies, and her doctor insisting that girls like her (whatever that means... just goes to show you how white privilege can come back to bite you in the butt...) didn't get scabies, and that she was just under a lot of stress and should see a therapist. This went on for some time (mind you this is all third-hand information, but makes it none the less interesting) and aforementioned friend of friend and friend took a road trip in the summer swelter on sticky, steaming pleather seats, still itching, and after many sessions, still confused about the whole stress thing. Finally having crossed the country, friend began itching too. Now this itching didn't take too long to spread to friend's boyfriend at which time both hightailed it to the university infirmary, where it was confirmed in a matter of seconds that they indeed had scabies. Point is... sometimes the obvious should not be overlooked merely because of its obvity.
And so, dear friends and readers. I'm back. and maybe (just maybe) I will do something about the rest of it. Soon. I hope.
posted by ilana at 2:38 p.m.
5 Comments:
Me encanta el grado de independencia que se puede lograr cuando creas tu propia música. El arpegio de tu mandolina es el más dulce pues te pertenece, el problema es cuando quieres hacer dúo con un flautista y otra vez a buscar y buscar... // Has probado con homeopatía? (sulphur for rashes) Como dicen que es un sistema terapéutico dudoso (puro placebo) supongo que sería efectivo también para picazones emocionales.
¿estás sugiriendo que busque unos manantiales sulfurosos para el dolor psíquico??? interesante...creo que al menos la caminata hacia allí soltaría unas cuantas endorfinas (¿o cómo es que se llaman en español?) que elevarán mi estado de ánimo:) Gracias por la sorpresa de tus comentarios... y vos también podés sentirte bienvenido. Eso de la soledad impuesta es "overrated" ¿no?
Woman, you can't stop blogging! Even when I am an inconsistent reader, I am a reader of your ramblings. It's how I stay close to you when I'm too lazy to write!
And definitely go to a dermatologist or a decent nurse practitioner. Experience has taught me, lol, that most skin conditions present as clusters of little red bumps, and you need someone qualified to tell the difference between scabies, cancer, chicken pox, and allergies. (for example!)
Ilana, aunque me hizo gracia lo de los manantiales, yo en realidad me refería a un medicamento homeopático para la piel: "Sulphur". Me parece que se consigue en cualquier Whole Foods. // Con respecto a lo de la soledad autoimpuesta me parece que es un estado místico por el que todo ser humano debiera de pasar. En todo caso si "la soledad es la verdadera naturaleza del hombre" vas por el camino correcto para encontrarte contigo misma. // Comparto lo que dice Idealist Savant, no dejes de "bloggear" tu diario es una cuerdita más de la mandolina.
vaya. una verdadera conversación. Yuré, gracias por la sugerencia, y voy a investigar (lamentablemente no tenemos Whole Foods por aquí que yo sepa, pero algo ha de haber). También me da gusto que me leas (aunque sea en inglés - mi lengua materna, aunque renegada) Jenny dearest... tú sabes que nunca podré dejar de escribir del todo... empty threats and all that... pero funcionó el truco ¿no? No, en serio, algunas personas (que se puede leer como una persona en particular) dicen que vivo en un mundo de fantasía... Puede ser, verdad, pero ¿y eso? Yo opino que todos vivimos en un mundo de fantasía, sólo que algunos estamos más dispuestos a soltar la cuerda y volar, y otros... pues, se apegan a la tierra. Yo, como sabemos bien, soy de la escuela de los voladores o como un tal profesor, director de tesina me dijo al completar... Ilana, eres un "space cadet" - haces unas conexiones totalmente insólitas, pero terminas hilándolas al final... ¿será? Pues venga lo que venga, aquí nos veremos:)
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