I'm experiencing some blog malaise. It started last Wednesday when I began the morning by calling my husband "buddy." He had said something and, not having heard, I said, rather wearily, "I'm sorry, buddy." My husband is many things to me. He is not and, I would argue, ought not, be my buddy. A little while later I had washed my hair and was trying to blow dry it using some techniques my friend Laura had passed on. I was desperately hoping that if I could just get the blow dry right, I wouldn't need the flat iron. In my zeal I burned off a sizable chunk of my hair. Looks great, smells even better. I need a new blow drier apparently. So.
I read an article in Sunday's paper about an online magazine that asked people to send in six-word memoirs. It was based on a (possibly apocryphal) story that Hemingway was once asked if he could write a novel in only six words. Here's what he came up:
For sale: baby shoes, never worn.
The article listed some of the entries. Here are the two I liked:
Put whole self in, shook about. (by Melissa Delzio)
I still make coffee for two. (by Zak Nelson)
I've always been a fan of economy when it comes to words though I don't tend to do a great job of living it out de facto. I ramble on answering machines. I write in stream-of-consciousness. But I would like to do better. I had chosen Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning for this month's poems but I only today found my Robert Browning anthology and still don't know where Elizabeth is. Mr. Browning was often accused of being too obscure and I don't think my hair-singeing brain is ready for obscure right now. I think I'll work on some six word memoirs instead.
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12 comments:
I would like to know what blow drying techniques you borrowed that resulted in your hair burning.
I like the rambling phone messages and stream of consciousness - do not change, Patti
Well. It was supposed to go like this: Use a round brush and hold the drier (dryer?) on the section of hair, and I quote, "Until it smokes." Then blast it with a little cold air. So, I did that. Only I wasn't supposed to actually touch the end of the drier to my hair apparently. Because not only did I see smoke, I also saw a clump of my charred hair wafting down like ticker tape. I got a new drier last night at Target. It has a little attachment thing that is supposed to help me tame the wildness without rendering me bald. Fingers crossed!
sweet!
Patti, I had suspected the malaise from your long absence. But I must say I cannot stop thinking of the six-word novels, especially Hemingway's and Zak Nelson's. It's got me thinking about what my 6 words might be. Have you gotten feedback from anyone else about a submission of 6-word "novelettes" on your blog?
By the way, I perceive a big empty silence coming to my blog, too...I'm just. so. tired. (Which means I'm still waking up at least two, usually three times a night.)
I would LOVE to hear a discussion of your aversion to husband=buddy.
Steven, I will substitute a response. I am quite sure the aversion ranks among other universally acknowledged self-evident principles as life, liberty, and property. A husband is something, but is not (or decidedly should not be) a buddy. In any event, especially where common household usage has subordinated the term's range of meaning to that of said child or stuffed dog, the contextual restraint further compels such an aversion. It is also a biblical distillation, though I think, undergirded more positively in the Greek versions than in modern equivalent translations. (wink)
uh...
Hm, yes. Even though I have tried to stop, I call my son "buddy" and also all smallish boys I encounter at the park etc. It's not really a term of endearment, it's more a distracted way of not bothering with someone's name. Remember how Gatsby called everyone "old sport" (or was it "skippy"?) and it made everyone feel condescended to? So, while my husband is my dearest, deepest friend, and while we do partake in a term of endearment or two on a daily basis, I don't think of him as a pal, a puppy, or a smallish boy. And that, to restate my thesis (as I was taught to do in the creative writing mecca that is Port Neches-Groves High School), is why My Husband Is Not My Buddy.
i like that answer better than seymour's
Shane, I fear you must have read too little into the parenthetical wink. Also, did you read it in an English Accent? I was, of course, trying for a Psmithish response.
Alas, I like her response better too.
I generally everything about her better -- including her fine eyes.
I will try to refrain from comment unless absolutely necessary.
i actually translated it into Spanish and read it as a young man named Pepe
please do not refrain from commenting - i just liked what Patti said, perhaps because it was easier for me to understand.
Clearly, I need to make sure I'm reading your blog more when I am credited with giving you the advice that helped you burn off a chunk of your hair! It's hard to live up to your hair potential, I tell you! Is this going to be my claim to fame?
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