ground gears and crammed craws

Ether, good morning, how are you? I am well. You will be proud, I have borrowed from your Nothingworld. Copied and pasted from Amorphilacious-Antaginons. Facebook, as we call it. It happened like this: a Facsimilarion (FB friend in this case, real friend in all others. Thanks, Mark.) posted a link which got stuck in my craw, whatever that means, though I suspect it's related to grinding one's gears. I commented as is my wont when craw-crammed; and, being lazy by nature and indolent by nurture, I have used the exchange as a post below. How does it feel to plagiarize myself verbatim, you ask? It feels good, real good.

First things first . . . homework. Read this article.

Seriously, you have to read the article first.

Well, I suppose I can't make you read the article so here was my comment in response: [Commence potential alienation]

"Grrr. I would rather kids read something else than have nonesuched-knuckleheads tweak works of art like so much play-dough. He talks as if he's translating a foreign language into English--advisedly using updated parlance over outmoded idiom. ... But he's not. He's translating English into English--absurd in most cases, harmful in this one. The TBS example is questionable. The inoculation of strong language in The Godfather was not, I'd warrant, a function of a will to proliferate the appreciation of art to a broader audience; it was a function of TBS's subjugation to the FCC and obligation to squeamish advertisers.

"Let us read the "n" word in context. If in context, it's use is still objectionable--let us be offended. Let us put the book down or press on, suspending our distaste, pending the outcome, and make our value-judgments as mature, capable readers. Let's not revise our literary history for the sake of our guilt. Let us feel our guilt in all of its reddening force. or just read Berenstain Bears and call it a day."

Now, Ether, that I have killed two platforms with one grumpy stone, I hope I don't change my opinion on this subject. The redaction process is an arduous one--not the least bit hospitable to my lethargic noggin. May I be as stubborn as usual. That being said, I would love to consider an argument less brittle than the Godfather one.

I don't mind changing my mind, it's the effort that irritates me.

having to do with the weight of words

So here is the bundle of grief. (As opposed to joy.) The Gist of Elijah--tangible, tactile. The pith and the pulp of it. Three pounds of dead tree. Three hundred and one pages of ink-stained copy-paper printed by the good folks at FedEx Kinkos for a fair market price and then shipped (via ground, so the heft of the manuscript can crawl like a tortoise--carapace heavy and plastron thick) to the sublime clime of Vermont where it will be unboxed and flipped through. Where later, the ink-stains will be Rorschach-ed and Cap'n Crunch Decoder-ringed and evaluated for relative merits against conceivably a thousand other novels.

There went my little bundle, my offsprung germ of literature, mayhaps to burrow into a judge's skull, infest and foment, bubble and deliquesce, suffuse the glials and neurons, and win a first novel contest.

Godspeed my grief. Fare thee well. May we meet again on happier, yonder shores. St. Elmo and St. Christopher guide and keep you. Bon voyage, you bulk of many hours, you girth of lost hair, you joyous, joyful, grief. Adieu.

in lieu of sadness

One of the hardest decisions I make every day is whether or not to be sad. Because there are wars and we're dying in them. Because we all prefer our own way and there are not enough ways for all of us. Because there are things I simply can not do and maybe even more that I will not do. Because sickness is cruel and accidents happen and I always feel a little stupider than I was the day before which is only slightly ameliorated by the fact that everyone else seems to be keeping pace.
Which is sad. But for some reason and by some means, I usually stave off the sadness.

Because there are planetary nebulae and darling hedgehogs. Because eventually it will be autumn so there will be magentas and Brunswick stew, whiffs of beautiful decay and barks of backyard football. Because rain both comes and goes and is welcome in both the coming and the going. Because of food. Because of books.

And books can be sad, horribly, sobsomely sad but they also smell like autumn.

Besides, in lieu of sadness, madness is a viable option. So daily I can always decide to lose my mind. Or at least let it wander for a while.

And besides that-- sad's good too. Like decay. Like winter. Like ignorance.