No America without democracy, no democracy without politics, no parties without compromise and moderation.
diabola in musica
because perfection isn't easy
Anne got herself to her room, sat down on her window seat behind the pines, and cried bitterly. She felt as if something incalculably precious had gone out of her life. It was Gilbert’s friendship, of course. Oh, why must she lose it after this fashion?
“What is the matter, honey?” asked Phil, coming in through the moonlit gloom.
Anne did not answer. At that moment she wished Phil were a thousand miles away.
“I suppose you’ve gone and refused Gilbert Blythe. You are an idiot, Anne Shirley!”
“Do you call it idiotic to refuse to marry a man I don’t love?” said Anne coldly, goaded to reply.
“You don’t know love when you see it. You’ve tricked something out with your imagination that you think love, and you expect the real thing to look like that. There, that’s the first sensible thing I’ve ever said in my life. I wonder how I managed it?”
“Phil,” pleaded Anne, “please go away and leave me alone for a little while. My world has tumbled into pieces. I want to reconstruct it.”
“Without any Gilbert in it?” said Phil, going.
A world without any Gilbert in it! Anne repeated the words drearily. Would it not be a very lonely, forlorn place? Well, it was all Gilbert’s fault. He had spoiled their beautiful comradeship. She must just learn to live without it.
The idea that women should have to flirt in order to get on is just as vexing as any other thing women are supposed to have to do – such as be thin, accept 30 per cent lower wages, and not laugh at 30 Rock when they have food in their mouth and it falls out a bit, on to the floor, and the cat eats it.
Some women just don’t flirt. They don’t want to and they don’t have the bones for it, and it makes them feel tetchy, and like they might punch someone. They feel about flirting like I do about anything that involves upper-body strength, high heels or spatial awareness. They just want it to fuck off.
But for other women, flirting’s just … how it comes out. It’s not there as a defence mechanism, or as a result of years of being unwillingly sexualised by the goddamn patriarchy. It’s not a consequence. It’s an action. It comes from an almost demented joy in being alive, talking to someone who isn’t boring you to death, and conspiring in an unspoken, momentary, twinkly, ‘I like you, and you like me. Isn’t it lovely that we’re being total lovelies together?’ conspiracy.
If you’re a natural flirt, it’s not even a sex thing, really. You flirt with everyone – men, women, children, animals. Automated response ticket-booking phone lines (‘Press ‘3’ for more options? Oh darling, I don’t think you have a button for the option I’d like’).
Some women just don’t flirt. They don’t want to and they don’t have the bones for it, and it makes them feel tetchy, and like they might punch someone. They feel about flirting like I do about anything that involves upper-body strength, high heels or spatial awareness. They just want it to fuck off.
But for other women, flirting’s just … how it comes out. It’s not there as a defence mechanism, or as a result of years of being unwillingly sexualised by the goddamn patriarchy. It’s not a consequence. It’s an action. It comes from an almost demented joy in being alive, talking to someone who isn’t boring you to death, and conspiring in an unspoken, momentary, twinkly, ‘I like you, and you like me. Isn’t it lovely that we’re being total lovelies together?’ conspiracy.
If you’re a natural flirt, it’s not even a sex thing, really. You flirt with everyone – men, women, children, animals. Automated response ticket-booking phone lines (‘Press ‘3’ for more options? Oh darling, I don’t think you have a button for the option I’d like’).
La Nuit S’ouvre, L’orage
I laughed. I had heard the joke before, and there were many variations. It’s hard to be depressed about cognitive dysfunction when you don’t remember that you have it. There’s no need to worry because I will forget what’s there to worry about. Family, friends, medical professionals, and even I had quipped about my condition, but these days I prefer not to mention the TBI. I am meeting too many people too often, and I too easily forget who I have told.
The story was engaging, not for its whodunit thriller but for its haunting familiarity. Written as a piecemeal stream-of-consciousness, those words I could have written years ago when I was more aware of my disability in my everyday life, when I was still fighting for my mind, when I was so desolate at my loss. The harsh shifts in mood and mental clarity were pages from my own journal. The uncomfortable mix of sly wit and social detachment was reflected in my mirror. The profound disintegration of a knowing mind was a glimpse into my possible future.
Writing helps. Writing helps me focus, and shape these amorphous thoughts into a concrete chronicle. Writing helps me remember, not just details of the narrative but character of the narrator, every single day.
He refers to what we do as the Two Circular Steps. Step One is admitting you have a problem. Step Two is forgetting you have the problem.
It gets a laugh every time, from some because they remember the joke from the last meeting, but from most because it’s new to them, no matter how many times they’ve heard it.
Today is a good day for me. I remember it. I would even add a third step: Step Three is remembering that you forget. Step Three is the hardest of all.
Science tells us we are merely beasts, but we don’t feel like that. We feel like angels trapped inside the bodies of beasts, forever craving transcendence.