Have I mentioned yet how excellent it is that you are coming here? Really truly, you’ve made my week. My mom promises me that she is only clicking on my blog once a day, and even if “once” is actually code for “a dozen or so times,” the math still suggests that other people are actually coming here. And by the math I mean the WordPress generated stats, and whoa, are they hella addictive. Everyone should get a blog if only so they can have a line graph of their relative popularity to consult on an hourly basis. Or not, if you have a job or some other frivolous outlet for your time like that.
Rereading that paragraph, I want to ask: is “hella” still okay if dripping with ironic distance? No? I don’t want to alienate you, dear reader, whomever you are! If you don’t like “hella,” I won’t use it. This is a cheerocracy and I take your thoughts on slang seriously. Not so into Bring It On references either? Well, dear reader, now you are starting to cramp my style. Just kidding. I won’t use “hella” or reference teen comedies if it bothers you. But “heaving”? Have you jumped on “heaving” yet? If you haven’t, I suspect that part of the problem is that you don’t know personally the delightful individual from whence this little gem sprung. The key is her high-pitched inflection on the first syllable. It seriously kills me. Maybe I can upload an audio file? That sounds like it might be difficult. Perhaps a list of sample sentences to demonstrate how you could incorporate “heaving” into your daily life? Or you could submit your own! Look, I know it’s waaay too early in our relationship for me to be making demands of you, dear reader. You’ve barely decided if you like me yet! You’re probably just here because you fear slander! But it would mean a lot to me if you tried on “heaving” for size. It’s multipurpose, gender-neutral, and British but not affected. How often does something like that come into your life? You should thank me.
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Those of you in the know might recognize this beseeching “dear reader” from one of my very favorite books that I would never recommend to you, D. H. Lawrence’s 1921 and 1922 screeds against psychoanalysis Psychoanalysis and the Unconscious and Fantasia of the Unconscious. Lawrence spends a lot of time in this very bizarre mode of address to his “dear readers,” whom he largely loathes but nevertheless requires as an audience. He’s a jerk, and it’s one of his jerkiest pieces of writing, and I fully understand that virtually no one is as interested in psychoanalysis AND jerks as I am. However, if my blithe self-description as a Freudian makes you a wee bit uncomfortable, you might really like it:
With dilated hearts we watched Freud disappearing into the cavern of darkness, which is sleep and unconsciousness to us, darkness which issues in the foam of all our day’s consciousness. He was making for the origins. We watched his ideal candle flutter and go small. Then we waited, as men do wait, always expecting the wonder of wonders. He came back with dreams to sell. But sweet heaven, what merchandise! What dreams, dear heart! What was there in the cave? Alas we ever looked! Nothing but a huge slimy serpent of sex, and heaps of excrement, and a myriad repulsive little horrors spawned between sex and excrement!
I mean, I get it. Not everybody is as interested in the convergence of sex and excrement as I am. Or maybe you are just uncomfortable with the vulgar Freudianism that results in a Jersey Shore-style culture of hyper-sexuality and self-promotion (“Everything comes back to sex anyway, so take look at my tits!!!):
If it is a question of origins, the origin is always the same, whatever we say about it. So is the cause. Let it be a comfort to us. If we want to talk about God, well, we can please ourselves. God has been talked about quite a lot, and He doesn’t seem to mind. Why we should take it so personally is a problem. Likewise if we wish to have a tea party with the atom, let us: or with the wriggling little unit of energy, or the ether, or the Libido, or the Élan Vital, or any other Cause. Only don’t let us have sex for tea. We’ve all got too much of it under the table; and really, for my part, I prefer to keep mine there, no matter what Freudians say about me. But it is tiring to go to any more tea parties with the Origin, or the Cause, or even the Lord. Let us pronounce the mystic Om, from the pit of the stomach, and proceed.
Oh, David Herbert, I love you. Even when you punch me in the face, you never fail to make nice a little later on. Let’s hang out always. Om.
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Finally, more fan mail! Just kidding. However, one M. Starik remarks: “I don’t mind you using my photos, but does it always have to be in context of the entries tagged barf, solipsism, or funk?” Point taken, M. Starik. Your photographs and general bearing in the world in no way reflect these pitiful categories. From now on, I’ll try to incorporate your work (and the accompanying adjective game!) into more cheerful entries. Forgive me, divine Miss M. You really are the wind beneath my wings.