National Panic Awareness Day

Not much time to write today. As indicated by the low wail of sirens outside my office window, today is National Panic Awareness Day. Hooray! Tomorrow I will hand over my thesis, for which revision is going well, but I wish it were just *better* than it is. Maybe this is part of why writers usually keep writing all their live-long days. Plus, it's been a busy week what with a ballet review (Cinderella re-choreographed by Jacques Cesbron), preparation for classes, and my very least favorite activity ... grading. It's enough to make a person move to California, where instead of a grade, instructors draw a shape at the top of assignments.

Jimmy: "What do you say, Mom? Can we go get ice-cream?"
Mom: "I'm afraid not, dear. You brought home straight triangles this week."

Still the weather is warm, the living is easy, what's not to enjoy? Oops, now it's time for a Level Orange lunch break. Don't worry, more to come - this stream will pour from my mouth until I no longer have one.

French it up, baby

I have had the pleasure of knowing a Frenchman in Indiana. My Frenchman was a marvelous guy, but I don't know if he was quite representative, since he was a student in American Studies back home, Maxime Herbaut. His eyes were a bit small and his glasses a bit large, lending him a look of reserved wisdom, like a diplomat. His goatee and constant punning were more reminiscent of a Beat Poet. I told Maxime his name translated into English was "Maximum Hairball." He said my name translated to "Slippery Toilet Seat" in French.

He was generally a star in whatever social circle I encountered him. He was a master of witty rejoinders and amusing anecdotes. He also differed from most Americans in that his charm involved subtle self-effacement. One of my favorite of his stories was about the French news parody program in which figures in the news are portrayed by hand puppets. America's symbolic puppet took the appearance of Sylvester Stallone, who communicated in a series of grunts. The Bush puppet would either be bullied into action by Sly Stallone or by Pope John Paul II. The latter is a real study in perspective, given that we invest the Pope with symbolism of Catholicism, an example (for Methodists) of backwards conservatism or of the path to the devil's doorstep (for Baptists). I can only imagine that to the secular French, George W.'s born-again non-denominational Christianity is compatible with the will of the supreme pontiff.

Which brings me to my digression: Frenchification. What is it that French-Cut Green Beans, French Fries, French-Cut Panties, the French-Tickler, French Doors, French Toast, and French Kissing have in common? Shared American connotations of sophistication and sex. Well, maybe all except for French Fries.

Note that when Americans talk about sex, they usually do so in either elevated or profane language. Consider "make love" and "knock boots." To say "sexual intercourse" out loud sounds ridiculous or overly scientific to most American ears. So here's my current theory: When we want to elevate it, we usually rely on the French; when we take pleasure in the profane, it is usually borrowed from Black English. It begs the question: why can't most white Americans talk about sex in our own ordinary words?

I should note that Maxime once showed me a play he'd been working on: a satirical farce about Hell's waiting room. Written in American English, it was anything but elevated; it featured numerous scatalogical jokes. One may only hope that farts in Hell are not French... or worse, American.

Stir-Crazy

Have you ever felt as though you were living trapped indoors while outside the world was beautiful, sunny, and warm? Was it because you were trapped indoors while outside the world was beautiful, sunny, and warm? This is where I begin my blog. Typing in the lab at my office (beneath my office, to be precise) on the first 70-degree day of the year. I would say this place should be condemned, but it has been. The university, in their wisdom, just hasn't leveled it yet. After all, they don't have another place to put us.

This is a noteworthy week for other reasons. This is the week I scheduled to turn in my MFA poetry thesis to my advisor. It feels like my last chance to have "accomplished something" here in the Creative Writing Program. Looking over it, I am content with some work, and I can see how the work has changed while I've been here. As usual, the old anxiety arises: "What next?" Anyway, the only way to know what next is to stop asking and get to the next.

I took my friend to the doctor's office today to put her broken hand in a cast. I feel some of the discomfort most people associate with the doc's, but I express it by being really corny, unlike my friend, who expresses it through active hostility towards everyone there. The doc tried one style of cast and it wasn't adequate, so he had to cut it off and start over. She was grousing once he had left. When I suggested wearing the old cast on the left and the new on the right, and made a Power Rangers-esque gesture, she said, "Whose side are you on, anyway?"

I have been wanting for a long time to wear a white suit and a dapper hat and just sit on a porch on a warm summer's day. It may be a long time before this desire is fulfilled.