gratitude
Thursday 26 October 2006 | 2 cookies in the jar
On the way to group, suddenly bethinking with warm squishy rosy feelings of our faithless readers, sparse though they be in numbers…or as Woolf said of the young ladies of Girton, “starved but valiant.” (They hadn’t invented eating disorders yet so she had no idea how prescient she was on the subject of women in higher education and their tendency to think, as the Professor once tartly said of us, that they have to give up a meal for every book they read.)
Where would we be without: oleoptene [who keeps bringing tears to our eyes with her eloquent cookies, and has her own blog, The Mama Chronicles], defixated [who left his umbrella in SanFrancisco], sourdean [accompanied by acupuncture angels], and our own personal mandarin and stochasticactus—to say nothing of the ersatz florist and drug rehab counselor? It means everything that you care enough to read—especially because you aren’t ex-flames or ex-employers and thus won’t be livid if we casually mention how deeply unfun it is to get fired/dumped, or won’t be judgmental if we impartially observe medication side-effects. A precious group of others who won’t slap down hesitant confessions with a snort or contemptuous eye-roll. Who knows, maybe you do greet such information by banging shut your laptop, turning to your better half and saying, Good Lord, I don’t know how much more of this self-pitying nonsense I can stand to read—is she ever going to post those promised hundred movie reviews? Cos that’s the only reason I’ve been staying in this bloody game. But even if you do think such sentiments very loudly, at least you don’t put them in the comments jar; and we love you for it. There are enough people in waking life (most of them completely internal) who like to tell me that bipolar II really can be cured with flaxseed oil; and if only I would go jogging when I get my period, I’d feel fine; and why don’t I just quit shelling out cash for therapy and sponging off other people and apply for a real job; guitar guitar guitar guitar. So: thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you. And bisous—gros bisous!
This just in, a characteristic piece of political hilarity from Mr. Flipper, all the way over in big old New York City, to whom we send more gros bisous than he (and his own brilliant, elegant better half) probably know what to do with:
I am for all intents and purposes politically inactive at present, but amuse myself occasionally with the $100 elevator question, today directed at a very tall and very weary-looking establishmentarian as we descended from the 16th floor together:
—Wellsir, is the GOP going to drown in its own vomit at last?
—I’m a Republican.
—Please accept my sincerest condolences.
Exeunt, stage left. [Pursued by bear? —Ed.]
2 cookies in the jar
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So you’re neither literary figure nor friend but fill some murky place between the two.
Sometimes I imagine some ultimate consumer dystopia where the true currency is attention (ok, not hard to imagine, I’ve got four sons, and attention seems to be the most sought-after commodity here) but if I am investing attention in your fabulous blog, oh dear, the metaphor marches inexorably towards dividends in this spark of connection, getting to be happy on your good days, on the rough days thinking “yes this is a rough day, but how much cooler is it to have even the tenuous connection of the blog than those long dark nights I remember (sort of pre-four-sons who present other sleeplessness problems entirely) challenging the universe just to give me an interesting phone call, a fortuitous poem, even a shooting star as some evidence that being alone wasn’t going to crush me.
No it’s not just attention invested, it’s being drawn, rather to my surprise to caring. And that’s not just liking your writing or suspecting that I’d really enjoy having lunch with you, but, despite being given to my own bouts of self indulgence and self pity, finding the act of caring enriching in and of itself.
And writing back is peculiar, because I think I am perfectly happy with the one-sided nature of it (though there’s a self-conscious, “oh she’s going to see how many times I’ve checked for a new posting today on sitemeter and realize I REALLY have no life.”) So the gratitude flows both ways, baby.
You are bloody brilliant, gorgeous, and you write the bestest ever. I am wordless in any language at present and thus I haven’t prose to say this in more evocation language: I love you.