Life of the Loon

Dears, I have an announcement. As much as I love and honor the majestic Bathynomus Giganteus, it is time I bid the isopod farewell. Because I have found a new passion: Loons. The triumph of birds and a gorgeous specimen with an otherworldly call. They soar through the heavens dipping their tails in the night sky’s ink. The winds carve out invisible pathways for their earthless wanderings. Loons live in marshes and commune with one another in perfect harmony. Theirs is bird paradise; a beautifully sculptured social system of order and understanding, in which loon and loon live together.  

My dear friend Julia introduced me to their divine call, and I have since not been able to satiate my desire for this feathered wonder of the world. They are a wholly otherworldly animal.  

My consulting work is slow right now, so I have planned a rather impromptu trip to a bird sanctuary in New Hampshire. I wish to live and breathe these birds, understand their lives and how they think, feel, love.

 

Sadly, the Yamaguchi’s daughter is now pregnant. What happens when you go to private school, I’m afraid to say. She and the father will be infesting my small apartment in a month’s time. Rather than suffer through another apartment search with a view of the river and adequate sunlight, I have decided to extend my trip to the bird sanctuary. Perhaps it will provide sanctuary for myself as well as my feathered friends.  

Life is never an easy road. Mine has been full of twists and turns, dead ends and murky fog. But I have triumphed and now I find myself at another crossroads. You, my dear readers, are my new chroniclers of this next step in my journey. I have found a small rented room near the sanctuary into which myself and my three life companions will follow.  

May the road rise with you
May with wind be always at your back
May the sun shine warm upon your face
May the rain fall soft upon your fields
And until we meet again
May God hold you
In the hollow of his hand

A Fun Tryst

  After urging from some library friends, I have finally begun to watch The Tudors, a show about King Henry VIII. I was initially resentful of the historical inaccuracies and the liberal display of women’s chests. But it is a fun little jaunt and I, surprisingly, enjoyed myself rather tremendously. Jonathan Rhys Meyers is dishy as the title role, though he overuses his eyes as a dramatic device one too many times. The romantic scenes are a bit over the top but I found they were quite successful at imparting the passion and intensity of that era.  

Georgie also found Jonathan enjoyable, as he sat on my lap quite intently watching the screen for the entire show. I do not entirely agree with the BBC’s decision to broadcast such an, well, explicit show, no matter how late it screens. I think the American’s way of broadcasting The Tudors on cable is much more favorable. We can’t be too careful in protecting our children.

I leave you, my dear readers, with a hint:

A Bit of Poetry and the Bathynomus

Today has been another slow day. The post was late, again. The Yamaguchis have returned and I attempted a sojourn to the country and was repeatedly foiled by train schedules and antagonistic cab drivers. What I don’t understand is how such a person can live a fulfilling life at all. I am repeatedly surprised anything gets done.

On a lighter Bathynomus note, there is a rather popular image from the website icanhascheezburger featuring several Bathynomi. The caption reads “prehistoric Trilobites struggle with modern packaging” or some such. I gather this is the inspiration for the music video I linked to earlier. The truth, as this handy site and others have aptly pointed out, is that the Bathynomi are not Trilobites, but descendants. Trilobites 2.0, for the technologically savvy. Though the caption would not have nearly the comic effect, I reckon, and the cheese website does not seem particularly concerned with correct facts or grammar.

I cannot stand by such grotesque manglings of the English language. Though I confess I am a great fan of “Jabberwocky,” the poem by Lewis Carroll that invents words still not adequately defined:

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

However modern the poem was upon its publication, I am not nearly as startled in my admittedly conservative sensibilities by it as I am by hyper-modern (or postmodern as some people seem intent on calling it) poetry of any kind. “Jabberwocky” is a lovely play with words and English without throwing it to the wind. However, I cannot say the same of others. Gertrude Stein is one of my great enemies. And though we have never met, I am far too young, I am sure we would have clashed horribly.

The writer in me demands I quote the poem in full, but I will not allow it to take up so much space, so if you cannot read it in the small font displayed here, you may look it up elsewhere, though I discourage it.

A Piano
If the speed is open, if the color is careless, if the selection of a strong scent is not awkward, if the button holder is held by all the waving color and there is no color, not any color. If there is no dirt in a pin and there can be none, if there is not then the place is the same as up standing.
This is no dark custom and it even is not acted in any such a way that a restraint is not spread. That is spread, it shuts and it lifts and awkwardly not awkwardly the centre is in standing.

What a jumble of words! What disrespect for the conventions of the English language! What a tragedy, a pox. I cannot begin to understand it: the whole thing is a deep sludge of mud and vile water. A bit histrionic of me, perhaps. I have been reading about the trial of Joan of Arc, and impassioned speech seems to the mode of the day.

French and Saunders send up Mamma Mia!

There is a rather funny clip from the fund raising event Red Nose Day by French and Saunders. They really are the epitome of comedy: truly hilarious women with the acting chops to prove it. The pair take on Mamma Mia! in this particularly sketch. I am not a great fan of the original musical (which I saw on the West End in its first production) or the film. Far too showy and lacking a particular depth for my taste. However, I am a great fan of Ms. Meryl and attended despite my better judgements. She was lovely, as was my Pierce. But the young actors were atrocious—why they let anyone under 25 in front of a camera I don’t know—and the music, well, all I have to say is Swedish “dance hall” music is not my idea of quality. Chopin, Mozart, even Wagner. But I have standards.

French and Saunders’s send-up, however, is priceless. They captured the rather perverted happiness of the thing and turned it back on itself:

Part I:

And part II:

Speaking of which, apparently the Americans are making a remake of AbFab*. I’m not expecting much, though it should be diverting to see how much they manage to mangle it. I’ll be interested to see how many of my American readers react. Do keep me posted.

*the groundbreaking comedy starring Jennifer Saunders and written by her and Dawn French. A real gem of a time where two middling ladies of high fashion live to the fullest.

Update: Apparently, some genius at YouTube has made it impossible to embed the second half of the parody.  Though for some strange reason I can embed the first half with no trouble at all.  Perhaps there is a secret message of some sort hidden within the film that makes it highly dangerous for anyone on a blog to view it.  

In Which the Rain Does Not Cease

My dear friend Julia just gave me tea at her house, and I must say it was lovely. She certainly knows how to make a pot of tea, despite the fact she is half-Indian. Though I suppose her ancestors had plenty of practice under the British Empire. We were commenting on the rainy weather and how it wreaks havoc on our sinuses. She said something to the effect that she was rapidly becoming like those elderly women who keep bunches of tissues in sleeves and in huddles by their beds. I responded that I had already become one of those ladies, holding the firm belief that one should never leave the house without an umbrella or tissues.

With the rainy weather—it is spring, after all—I am forced to bring huge clumpfuls of tissues to the grocery store and library. I’ve even taken to untangling the messes of Kleenex in a private corner or even the bathroom just to avoid stares.

Julia agreed such sinus problems are a great burden and reminded me that we had been talking about Sudan just a moment previous. I clasped my hands and apologized: I’m just such a scatterbrain! Begin on one subject and my mind naturally gravitates toward another. My creativity can be a burden.

Julia showed me some lovely little measuring cups she got at this store Anthropologie that were so quaint. But now I am afraid they are too much like something an old cat lady would own, so I have declined her offer to visit the store some time later this week. One must have boundaries.

A Little Dinner Entertainment

As I was preparing some lovely pasta and mixing my dear cats' food, I thought of a lovely film my readers might enjoy. It is called Vampyr: Der Traum des Allan Grey and it is a lovely little film by Carl Dreyer (whom you may know from his The Passion of Joan of Arc fame). It is a bit older than the more famous, though undeservedly so, Nosferatu. I bring up this subject as there appears to be a mild furor in the States, according to my niece, over the paranormal.

I look forward with great enthusiasm to watching this gem once more. On occasion, when the moon is decidedly full, I think my cats are such "creatures of the night" as they lurk in bed yawning and mewing slightly. My dinner will be a quiet one, my favorite mode of eating. All this tradition of eating with such noise and conversation I really cannot fathom. Why would one wish food so decidedly distracted with company and other people? Fortunately, I do not make such a sacrifice and instead I can eat quietly and watch a little of Vampyr.

Here is a short clip:

A Rainy Day with the Bathynomi and a Few Tabbys

My dear readers, today there is a light rain though I long for the days of sunshine and warmth that pervade with the encroaching song of summer. My cats have longed for this day as much as I. Not only Georgie, for his arthritic limbs cause him much distress, but also Alice and Alfred (my twins) who have a great dislike for the spring rains and yowl such pain I do not know how I can stand it.

There is, however, one advantage to this dreary weather. The noodle owners downstairs go on extended vacations around this time, and for a few brief weeks I do not have to continually wash my sheets of eau du soy sauce or continually chastise Mrs. Yamaguchi for failing, yet again, to resist throwing out my mail. It is also at this time that I enjoy unlimited phone privileges.

You might wonder why a woman of my age does not have a phone line of her very own. Though, come to think of it, you wouldn't know my age at all, only my sign (Libra) and birthday. Well, I am steadily encroaching a fourtieth and some birthday with no husband or children to speak of. I could lie and say this does not cause me some pain in the later hours of the evening, but in truth I am quite happy and, compared with my married friends, I feel positively carefree and unfettered.

But back to the phone line. The Yamaguchis were not keen on offering me an addtional line as it would require them to phone up the phone company and change their current plans, something Londoners all the world over are loathe to do. So, for a reduced rent, I share their phone. It was rather inconvenient at first, what with the running down the stairs and having my messages mixed with orders for pounds of noodles and dried seaweed, but we have found something of a balance. Though I say that now, while they are away and our building is blissfully quiet.

I have joined the digital age, though not without some trepidation. My dear niece in America has taught me this lovely contraption called Skype and I have even considered buying one of those digital book things, though I can't quite bring myself to take the plunge.

I have also taken advantage of this, my new avenue for self-expression and passionate discourse, to practice my writing style. I have been reading Mary, Queen of Scotland and the Isles by Margaret George and I heartily recommend it. Unlike the rather airy historical fiction trumpeting around booklists these days, George seamlessly melds the historic and the fictional. It's truly a triumph, an epic, if you will.