I Am Not On Fire

I am not on fire.

I am learning this.

One might think it’s one of the more obvious facts of life, that one is not aflame, an incendiary, as it were. After all, there would be the issue of heat… the occasional wisp of smoke, the melting of flesh? But no. Fires, in the business world, are things which are Immediately Important and Must Be Dealt With Now. As my mother runs a business, she is faced with fires daily; estranged parents quarreling over their children in the lobby, grumpy board members, late fees, vendor rate hikes. These things require immediate attention and instant intervention before things swell completely out of control. These things are On Fire.

But I am not on fire.

If I were on fire, my mother would RACE to deal with me. She would hook up her camera phone so her Skype would work. She would schedule time to talk with me. She would, I don’t know, do Mother-y things, like …worrying over me, or fixing me internet cocoa or something close to that. If I were on fire, I would be an Issue. A Disaster. A Priority.

But I am not on fire.

If I were a real child, I would douse myself with gasoline, and hunt down a flame.

Man Bags & Lady … Er, Luggage

“By the same token, the handbag may only be a shrewd invention on the part of patriarchy to keep women enslaved. The dead white male who invented it knew that it was an accessory that we wouldn’t be able to resist.

I think this author has been reading my mind. Or, at least, my blogs. Since I’ve recently been mildly obsessing about the contents of my purse — now dramatically scaled back — and we’ve snickered at Certain Persons’ Man Baggies — which just sounds SO much worse than the equally tasteless ‘man bag’ — I’ve come to my own conclusions about bags and the reasons for them.

I refuse to believe I carry a purse because of a nesting instinct. Having everything you need always to hand doesn’t mean you’re nesting, it means you’re READY. Ready, just in case this is where you have to live for the rest of your life. I prefer to think in terms of Girl Guides and always having a length of string, a book of matches and a safety pin in a film cannister in your pocket, in case you have to build a fire, catch a fish or set a rabbit snare. Semper Paratus! The only think I can’t figure out how to take is my hatchet and my TP…

The author made a broad statement — “A recent survey states that the average American woman buys at least four handbags a year.” That makes me really wonder… who the average American woman just might be.

In school we learned that Average is a bell curve that looks like a C. There just aren’t that many people at the top of that ‘C’ curve. My guess is that the so-called ‘survey’ took place in one of those goofy women’s magazines that has quizzes “Are You Hot Enough for Him?” “Thirty Ways to Know If You’re A Gossip. Take Our Poll!” In the name of completely unsound research, I refuse to believe it. Nobody buys four purses a year. And anyway, I’m totally skewing any poll they might take anyway, because, get this — I’ve never bought a purse. EVER.

My first purse — was a dark navy cotton bag with a one inch wide strap, and rainbows embroidered on it. I left it on a train. In Mexico. In one of those blindingly ridiculous but world-affirming occurrences, a couple who found it and found my address inside sent it back. If they were looking for a reward, I’m sure the experience was less than world-affirming for them – there wasn’t any money in it to begin with, and I was all of fourteen. And shocked. I’m sure I wrote them an appropriately sticky-sweet letter, however.

Subsequent purses have been rejects from my mother, dug out from my grandmother’s Salvation Army stash (once she died, anyway — nobody wanted to dig through that rabid pack-ratting rottweiler’s possessions while she was still alive to leave teethmarks in your arm for looking at them too hard), and fashioned from — florist baskets, and don’t laugh until you’ve seen them – I think they’re perfect. I managed to hook someone who likes to shop for me — he’s bought me a couple of purses, the most expensive ones I’ve ever owned. But buying four a year? I wouldn’t – and I sincerely hope he wouldn’t — know where to begin.

Men get by with carrying less, the author fumes, and wonders why. I don’t know why either, really, except that it seems that women are really willing to take things on — requirements and requests that no one has stated, that no one has made of them. They’re ready to carry aspirin for the world, should the world ever have need. It usually doesn’t and so one has a bottle of four year old aspirins forever rattling down there with hair clips and old eyedrops and the permanent paranoid mental state that is Justin Case. I hate to say I’m going to become more like a man, and have it mean a positive thing –because I’m just categorically against the idea that there is a “like a man” and “like a woman” way to be, but I think that at least as long as I’m in the middle of a city with shops every four feet, I’m going to stop carrying things that people can pop into a chemist’s to buy, and certainly I’m not carrying anything for anyone but me.

No one died and voted me Mother Theresa, after all. Here’s to further general mean-spiritedness. I see your man bags, and raise them my lady luggage. Huzzah!

Drifting Past…

I make a point of a daily visit to the greatness that is the snowflake exhibition in promotion of Robert’s Snow, and I know that you probably do too. I thought my favorite snowflake today would be Graeme Base’s featured at Just One More Book, because I love getting — anything, and bright little packages wrapped up with string feature highly on my list of ‘favorite things.’ (Why, yes, I AM gifting you with yet another wee song to rattle around in your synapses until you run screaming into the yard. Er. Sorry. But there’s a song for every sentence, that’s just how my mind works.) I also thought it might be Ruth Sanderson’s over at Book Moot, but …well, I won’t discuss it, since there’s a song attached there, too. However, I was sneak attacked by Jeff Newman’s, hosted at A Year of Reading. There might be no song attached with it, but… that guy on the snowflake… has my bedhead. Jeff Newman also is the guy who illustrated that funny hippo/rhino picture book — go, read the interview.

Stay tuned: Wonderland is going to bust out with our own snowflake madness on Monday!

Poetry Friday: You Are Here

“Why You Travel” by Gail Mazur from Zeppo’s First Wife: New and Selected Poems. © University of Chicago Press.

Why You Travel

You don’t want the children to know how afraid

you are. You want to be sure their hold on life

is steady, sturdy. Were mothers and fathers

always this anxious, holding the ringing

receiver close to the ear: Why don’t they answer;

where could they be? There’s a conspiracy

to protect the young, so they’ll be fearless,

it’s why you travel—it’s a way of trying

to let go, of lying. You don’t sit

in a stiff chair and worry, you keep moving.

Postcards from the Alamo, the Alhambra.

Photos of you in Barcelona, Gaudi’s park

Swirling behind you. There you are in the Garden

of the master of the Fishing Nets, one red

tree against a white wall, koi swarming

over each other in the thick demoralized pond.

You, fainting at the Buddhist caves.

Climbing with thousands on the Great Wall,

Wearing a straw cap, a backpack, a year

before the students at Tiananmen Square.

Having the time of your life, blistered and smiling.

The acid of your fear could eat the world.


I love this grimness, this “postcards from the freaking edge” feel, the knowledge that she travels to look like she’s more a blithe soul than her reality. So familiar. Wishing you were here, love…

Poetry Friday: A Divine Madness

In graduate school that first semester, I often had the feeling of Ohhhh, this was a HUGE mistake,” and as I delved into my texts for 18th century literature course, I feared I would be permanently lost at sea. Through my reading I discovered Christopher Smart, a man who at first was merely a starving artist — someone who drank too much and was in debt, but later on developed some kind of a religious mania that was remarked upon by Samuel Johnson and others of his day, as kind of fits of praying, usually in public.

In that exceedingly rational time, Smart’s kneeling in prayer in the streets was feared as possibly contagiously insane, and, as there was at that time a backlash against all religious anything, due to the extreme rigid, punitive and narrow religiosity of the past, Smart was institutionalized in Mr. Potter’s Madhouse in Bethnal Green, beaten daily (because that’s what 18th century people did to the insane — hurray for modern psychiatry!) and locked up in extreme privation — yet, he wrote a most amazingly observant poem, a psalm-esque, mostly rational rendering of the mundane, as he considered his cat.

I read this poem slowly, savoring the moment of feeling included. This, I could understand. A crazy cat guy made 18th century literature unforgettably accessible to me — I hope you enjoy it, too.


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from Jubilate Agno, Fragment B, lines 695-768
by Christopher Smart 1722-1771

For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry.

For he is the servant of the Living God, duly and daily serving him.

For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way.

For is this done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness.

For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer.

For he rolls upon prank to work it in.

For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself.

For this he performs in ten degrees.

For first he looks upon his forepaws to see if they are clean.

For secondly he kicks up behind to clear away there.

For thirdly he works it upon stretch with the forepaws extended.

For fourthly he sharpens his paws by wood.

For fifthly he washes himself.

For sixthly he rolls upon wash.

For seventhly he fleas himself, that he may not be interrupted upon the beat.

For eighthly he rubs himself against a post.

For ninthly he looks up for his instructions.

For tenthly he goes in quest of food.

For having considered God and himself he will consider his neighbor.

For if he meets another cat he will kiss her in kindness.

For when he takes his prey he plays with it to give it a chance.

For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying.

For when his day’s work is done his business more properly begins.

For he keeps the Lord’s watch in the night against the adversary.

For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes.

For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life.

For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him.

For he is of the tribe of Tiger.

For the Cherub Cat is a term of the Angel Tiger.

For he has the subtlety and hissing of a serpent, which in goodness he suppresses.

For he will not do destruction if he is well-fed, neither will he spit without provocation.

For he purrs in thankfulness when God tells him he’s a good Cat.

For he is an instrument for the children to learn benevolence upon.

For every house is incomplete without him, and a blessing is lacking in the spirit.

For the Lord commanded Moses concerning the cats at the departure of the Children of Israel

from Egypt.

For every family had one cat at least in the bag.

For the English Cats are the best in Europe.

For he is the cleanest in the use of his forepaws of any quadruped.

For the dexterity of his defense is an instance of the love of God to him exceedingly.

For he is the quickest to his mark of any creature.

For he is tenacious of his point.

For he is a mixture of gravity and waggery.

For he knows that God is his Saviour.

For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest.

For there is nothing brisker than his life when in motion.

For he is of the Lord’s poor, and so indeed is he called by benevolence perpetually–Poor Jeoffry!

poor Jeoffry! the rat has bit thy throat.

For I bless the name of the Lord Jesus that Jeoffry is better.

For the divine spirit comes about his body to sustain it in complete cat.

For his tongue is exceeding pure so that it has in purity what it wants in music.

For he is docile and can learn certain things.

For he can sit up with gravity, which is patience upon approbation.

For he can fetch and carry, which is patience in employment.


For he can jump over a stick, which is patience upon proof positive.

For he can spraggle upon waggle at the word of command.

For he can jump from an eminence into his master’s bosom.

For he can catch the cork and toss it again.

For he is hated by the hypocrite and miser.

For the former is afraid of detection.

For the latter refuses the charge.

For he camels his back to bear the first notion of business.

For he is good to think on, if a man would express himself neatly.

For he made a great figure in Egypt for his signal services.

For he killed the Icneumon rat, very pernicious by land.

For his ears are so acute that they sting again.

For from this proceeds the passing quickness of his attention.

For by stroking of him I have found out electricity.

For I perceived God’s light about him both wax and fire.

For the electrical fire is the spiritual substance which God sends from heaven to sustain the

bodies both of man and beast.

For God has blessed him in the variety of his movements.

For, though he cannot fly, he is an excellent clamberer.

For his motions upon the face of the earth are more than any other quadruped.

For he can tread to all the measures upon the music.

For he can swim for life.

For he can creep.


Poetry Friday further creeps and pounces on you at Writing & Ruminating, where you are bound to find poems a bit more… sane. But probably not more fun. I don’t believe you should miss this original beauty from Read, Write, Believe – but then, my personal poetic credo might not be the same as yours.