beware of zyrtec.

the label says, “take one tablet BEFORE BEDTIME,” for good reason. if you wake up in the middle of the night, say, three a.m. with the cats doing laps across your head and your sinuses suddenly full of solid snot (so clogged indeed that you know you’d make zero progress with the flonase inhaler, your first line of defense against your body’s hypersensitivity to everything from dust mites to animal dander to common tree and grass pollens) from all those spores drifting in the open window off the flowering pear trees– WHATEVER you do, do NOT take a zyrtec. at least, if you do, do not expect to be ambulatory and coherent before noon.

me, i’ve been downing very strong coffee and careening around the place, missing colliding with walls by merest breaths since 11. because I have to teach today. I’ve got to get my head back in the game. I need to ransack and turn my house inside-out in cleaning frenzy– because only two days left, and I can’t afford to be a zombie for an instant longer.

incidentally, check out this compelling descriptor: “In ZYRTEC studies, side effects were mild or moderate, including drowsiness, fatigue and dry mouth in adults, and drowsiness…”– anything jump out at you? actually, I edited it kind of unfairly to emphasize a point– it does go on to list other side effects “in children,” but still, I think my point holds. and, remind me again, what the difference is between drowsiness and fatigue…

the fictional tale of a guy by the name of s. morgenstern and a land called florin.

when various aspects of this life become unbearable, my best and favorite solution is retreat into story. agatha christie’s good. some days william goldman‘s even better. what mark danielewski’s done with such much-lauded postmodern panache in _house of leaves_, bill goldman executed far more captivatingly a couple of decades earlier in writing _the princess bride_— or, supposedly, “abridging” another writer’s tale of romance and high adventure, a lost classic he laboriously detailed as culled from childhood immigrant-father-readings memories, tracked down, muddled through, rights fought for, and, right, abridged. he even went so far as to make up an entire fictional family for himself, the author-abridger– a kind of fictional, reverential william goldman. so many layers of artifice and imagination. of course none of it’s directly believable, of course its terribly fantastic, of course you laugh and go, “no way” while reading it– and yet you want to believe. so elaborate is the fabrication. such a tour de force of the wonderful, innocent imagination. I read the novel long long before hollywood ever touched it, and, i’m sorry all you rabid fans out there, but much as I love ms. robin wright penn, she just can’t hold a candle to the real buttercup, the written, sassy, stupid buttercup of goldman’s crafting. as fine an actor as cary elwes is (and, remember, I love “saw”), westley the dread pirate roberts is bigger and bolder and sneakier and more real than he’ll ever manage to be. like dreams before their pale shadows in retelling– the book, lo, the veriest book before the movie. do yourself a favor, my friend: go read the book.

favorite games.

birthday parties I remember– “fishing” down the laundry chute. somebody down in the basement attaching toys and prizes to the end of the line– sister or a brother, surely, but to me it seemed magical– as if the architecture of everyday had grown transformed by MY BIRTHDAY. kept that sense for many years– listening to the beatles’ “birthday” in 9th grade boarding school dorm room, thinking my birthday– my very birthday. same way the name sarah used to feel– my very own, distinctly mine (long before the legions of the current day). something inherently mine inside a day, a name.

and the other good games– the spider web made out of eight different rolls of string for eight little girls, each line with a treasure at the end; easter egg hunt at the country club, clutches of dark chocolate foil-wrapped eggs and jellybeans in the folds of curtains in the bar room– the last time anything felt like something for nothing; capture the flag in the woods up in michigan in the summer after-dinner twilight or flashlight tag in the grosse pointe pitch-black– and the ecstatic thrill of daring to rescue prisoners from jail; spite & malice and dominoes with gran; the game of lucy that first time new year’s eve in the old henry ford cabin with the two storey living room ceiling and the windup plastic bird that actually flew in circles in the vast space overhead; masterpiece; mastermind; clue; poker the christmas the high school boyfriend came home to michigan for a visit with the parents; sardines; kings in the corners; backgammon; kick the can; boston; killer; murder.

ann arbor is overrated. so you say.

this morning while I was busy waxing nostalgic, I did a google search on drakes and ended up at the scathing “cultural commentary” site of one anonymous “unemployed gay conservative pseudo-bohemian named Ryan, or maybe Jeff, who drives around in a late-model Acura with tinted windows.”

pretty sharp stuff. makes me take a step back and go, whoa. what am I, middle-aged, suspiciously identifying more with those returning football-fanatical alumni than the cynical drakette of yore? god. for. bid.

what is it about the glowy tint of nostalgia that so sets its barb in my mandible? crikey, but I am once again reminded of my voluminous sapishness. which is, I suppose, why I seldom indulge in reading Cultural Commentary of any stripe. because I come away feeling just ever so callow and unhip. and, I mean, yeah, sure it’s the truth, but, come on, I’m trying to maintain a little momentum here, guys.

just keep swimming, just keep swimming. there ya go. that’s about my speed. no sharp edges, nothing to take an eye out on.

spam gorgeous

I am developing a new respect for spam. spam wants me to love it. I’m not talking about the canned meat– I mean those surely?computer?generated? messages that come down the wire to all of us pimping the latest viagra or mortgage rate. I have this sneaking suspicion of a lurking poetic consciousness operating amid this most mundane of means– like maybe anarchy artists, planting little unescapable bits of poetry into our daily inbox lives. there’s definitely something fishy going on. because they’re just too surprising and lovely too often for serious commercial shit. maybe its chaos theory. maybe it’s many monkeys and many typewriters locked in a room together.

but here’s this, compiled from subject lines coming down the pike just today– a bit of “found” spam poetry:

shedding a softened
the festal springfall
in the light
melancholy little lights
extensively in southwest
the black potato
what they wanted
the full bloom
the snow crunching
the flowers into
sleep was just
i no longer
but there were

and this, at the start of a message that also contained an advertisement for effexor, whatever that is:

Around the brave Tiger Lily were a dozen of her stoutest warriors, establishment, masters and boys, as his natural enemies, and that the table. All the little changes that had crept in when the Heeps Had the bosun good form without knowing it, which is the best from the Captain to the Theseus; and for this reason: that the If you cannot confidently trust me, whom will you trust? I say, Rosa, not a word. If he can stake his all upon the themselves, for the mermaids immediately disappeared. Nevertheless Debate, really did come out nobly: confirming me in good round was carpeted with moss. As they rattled up the little house they broke charges, I would be glad to know if I could get some spending-money occupation she was engaged, however interesting to her the I had no peace of my life until he was expatriated, and made as I had hung his hat, a deep tarpaulin, watertight, with a broad brim. the property into which she had come; in arranging all the affairs who chatted with them on Marooners Rock by the hour and sat on The Footman seemed to think this a good opportunity for I was, where I lived, how I was employed, and how I came there. To change of air, and who would be charmed to have it in such company. jury and a Campbell judge, and that in a Campbell country and upon a thanks. Far be it from us, in the present comparatively imperfect Without volition as it were, as if indeed the ships populace were himself had some design in operation. I counted my enemies; have been glad of an opportunity to visit the Palace Beautiful, and be herself, and that we had both been hapless instruments in designing in this case also the type of antithesis is the same. For as the earth – fell upon me like unmerited disgrace, in which I forced you sat down on the floor and sobbed, and Wendy did not know how to curdling smile lit up his swarthy face. Smee had been waiting for which I am at present rather sanguine, I find a young but valued not prefer her looking as she looked at such another time; and Now, said he, shall I give you a kiss? and she replied with a The mere vehemence of her words can convey, I am sensible, but a have indifferently smitten her or grovelled at her feet, but she gave rather sleepy, and went on saying to herself, in a dreamy sort of I really thought it was all over with Mr. Omer, after he had to all the shops in the neighbourhood to change this treasure into biped, receptive of knowledge, human, should be removed, and the

and, no, I know they don’t make sense. I know I should just attribute all of it to most-humdrum random text-parsing programs– but the result is too enchanting. I’m too enchanted.

it’s like god. little lovely blips. and you’ve either got faith, or you don’t.

hello?

anybody in here? the blogtastic is playing winky-poo…

ah, that’s better. felt myself disappearing for a minute there. all but the smile.

nobody in here but us dames

we’re shooting a live-action comic book– or at least blocking the scene with live actors prior to inking– the play centers on a bunch of tough guys and a single dame, and it’s moving right along when the director yells, cut! the problem is, he explains, she’s getting upstaged by the guys– and that cannot happen. come on, sweetheart, snap to it! and she just stands there for a count of ten, vaguely insulted– no one moves (they all know it’s a good call)– but then she’s moving, sashaying across the floor right into the clot of men, and, as she swishes past, swinging her purse with deadly accuracy a hair’s breadth from one guy’s face– it whistles through the air and his hair luffs back. the action comes out of nowhere, and he just stands there gaping, unsure how to react. she’s not a star for nothin’. and now the chips are all hers. she reaches the far side of the room and pivots on her spike heel, gun barrel tracing a wide arc parallel to the floor to come to rest– and she stops. the face in her sights stops her dead– his face, his deadly beautiful face.

I’m visiting my sister who’s staying with her in-laws, a bunch of israeli jews– the grandmothers sit holding the babies, and they’re tough old bats. the mothers are breast-feeding, though one of them hasn’t gotten the hang of it, and she asks me to turn away– I’m embarrassed to have been staring, and I wish I could explain how happy the sight makes me, but it’s evident I’m intruding here. rain comes through the ceiling and fills up the light fixtures and clocks.

there’s bombing in the sky, zapping alien laser warfare, targeting just over the ridge– we’re unsheltered and sneaking through the night, trying to get a sense of what’s going on– but then the zaps are coming too close, and we realize we should take shelter. the others go on, and I climb up into a slatted outbuilding, kind of a chicken coop but clean, up and up the rungs of roosts– it’s dim and blue inside, and after sitting quietyly in the shadows for a bit, it comes to me that the place is full of people– and I make my way down to join them in the darkness.

bull in emotional china shop

for all my being this definitively Sensitive Person, I can really be an incredible blunderbuss. the problem, indeed, is that I’m unable to screen it, not to let the Inside show on the Outside. I wear it all right out there on my face, as people close to me are forever informing me, as much as I might try to dissemble. I’m like saran, not sarah. also, I tend to have strong responses—so compound my inability to hide them with the, at times, melodramatic degree of the response, and you end up with a social occasion, say a nice little dinner out with close friends, that blows up in your, and everyone else’s, face.

and even if it’s honest, even if it’s coming from a caring place, it seems in the harsh light of day to be kind of… I don’t know exactly—difficult of course, but also harsh—a harsh way to be with people you love. kind of violent, emotionally. in any case, not easy.

the other thing this calls to mind is– just how the fuck my ex never clued in that I was lying and miserable for so long is a mystery.

no. not a mystery. an explanation. not an excuse, but an explanation.

it’s not about the suitor (he’s just a gorgeous, unforeseen and most welcome side-effect)

building community– aka “social networking”. sometimes, I would even venture so far as to say, social engineering— but that’s when there’s actually an engineer at the throttle– and indeed power can go either way– become corrupt or simply, well, powerful.

the question at hand is: what do we make of the social relations we extend into the digital realm? and I, by no means, am without ambivalence on this topic. I’ve been seared crisp in the past. by a glorious email-based community, dammit, that disintegrated under my very fingertips at the keyboard. by a set of friendships that flew apart into poor judgment and spite on a public web page. by a marriage that could not survive, in part, creepingly, the promiscuity inherent in my exposure of self through electronic means. and by relationships that have been so attentuated by mediation that it’s hard, at times, to tell what’s real. but then, sometimes, astonishingly real things emerge from all the attenuation of prose and pixels.

I realize that I’m speaking very abstractly, which is far from my best mode, so let me revert to a concrete example: a so-called, depending on your perspective, flamewar that’s sprung up in the last day on a heretofore stolid and businesslike graduate student listserv I’ve been a subscriber on for a couple of years. here’s what’s happened, in a nutshell, in an attempt to concisely put it in context for the discussion here–

first someone (female– does this matter? it might) sends a post calling out for collaborators in a letter-writing campaign planned one evening on behalf of the tenants of an apartment complex in town who were being summarily turned out of their homes at the end of the month in favor of renovations. next, another student (male) replies with a, frankly, curt and withering little piece about how this particular neighborhood is a local hotbed of vice and dissolution, and how, just possibly, the landlords are doing the community a public service, and then continuing on to slap the first writer’s wrist for apparently indiscriminate use of words like “justice” and “solidarity.” at which point– shit, fan. just about every articulate male I know in the department flew into the fray, mainly in defense of the original student’s intentions and right to post her message in this venue– a portion of the shitstorm, granted, is also constituted by the (typical) Voices of Discipline that perennially complain about the deluge of Irrelevant email messages and wasted computer hard disk space, slow dial-up downloads, blah blah blah.

so. what do we make of a social situation like the above? I say, lively debate. I say, investment and interest in one another’s lives. I also say, participation in a medium which is really good at siphoning emotions into distilled essences and intensifying experiences over dislocated space.

personally, I say, we’re working with hydrochloric acid here, folks. incredibly useful stuff– when directed conscientiously– and also powerfully destructive stuff.

the tools we’ve inherited for such casual use are potent. and there is an associated level of responsibility in using them that should be assumed, should be remembered, I would venture. because it’s people on the other end of the line, after all– people who are sensitive, people who are volatile, people who are what it’s all about. for me at least.

people are the grand project of the world, I feel (even tho the lovely and confounding amy leach makes such a compelling case for the non-self-marketing living creatures of this world)– or helping to forge productive and creative connections between them, between us. and it’s dicey and painstaking work. multi-tiered work. sometimes blow-up-in-your-face experimental work. but the best work of all.

and that’s why I’m on friendster, now. you could say I’m finally ready for it.