On Bandaids et al

I was asked recently how I had mended my V-necked shirt with a bandaid, which tells me that my writing is not quite a crystal clear prism of brilliant thought. The bandaid was in fact an unrelated accessory, the result of an attack in the bath by a razor wielding maniac a day or two prior. Now that the hot weather is upon us, and even lukewarm showers are not enough to make balance and coordination simultaneously possible, these attacks are becoming both more common and more grievous. In fact, I am becoming piqued at their frequency, though I've been assured in no uncertain terms that I am not only alluring but sultry when plastered with bandages. (Of course, I do lose a significant amount of weight—albeit from only one spot—with each incident.)

However, razors have also brought happiness to these quarters. I consider the following to be a definitive refutation of those who believe that literature cannot teach:

A Willa Cather character sat down after a long day hiking across southwestern deserts to hack at his callouses with a penknife.

Hercule Poirot, in need of a small, very sharp knife to slice open a knapsack which he suspected of containing smuggled heroin, went to his bathroom for a callous knife.

After reading these passages, I went straight to the drugstore, found that callous knives still exist (though they are more razors than knives), purchased one, and successfully removed the callouses from the sides of my feet. However, something that looked very similar came back as soon as I got to my current residence and the semi-public shower, as noted in a previous post. Now I wish I'd never brought the topic up, as the treatment was not successful, perhaps due to my fabulous disappearing immune system.

A New Hope

Only today I was wondering what The Royal Tenenbaums being my favorite movie said about my subconscious. And now I see that Wes Anderson is poised to release a new movie! The dread question is: will it, like another film we could mention, be all wet?

Today I Bought Into Mass Hysteria

And I feel Fine.



But I have to read it hidden in my room as my coworker will burn both it and me if she finds out!

The Gloved Left Hand

Is Facebook.com the gloved left hand of the man (as Mrs. Bear insists), or is it a fun and harmless way to keep in touch with friends who have heartlessly abandoned the blogging world?

Also, is it as prone to being broken into as myspace?

In other words, if I sign up, am I asking to be found the next day with a dagger in my back and an expression of unspeakable horror on my face?

A Picture of Now

From Mrs. Bear

A picture of now, between past and future.

1. a. Describe your outfit. I am wearing a heather-wine-red T-shirt, jean capri pants, and a Band-Aid. I bought the shirt for the color, and didn't notice that it had a V-neck until I got home from the store, so I have to do a lot of re-adjusting so that the world doesn't see more Flannery-flesh than is strictly good for it.
b. What associations does the main color evoke? The main color is one I've rarely worn, and the "heather" texture makes it pretty new in my world (and therefore non-evocative). When I first came across this question, I was wearing a bright turquoise shirt that was the color of joy.
c. Is there a memory associated with that outfit (or part of it)? Unfortunately, this outfit is new enough to justify a judgment of "soulless." I bought both the pants and shirt in May as part of a campaign to dress appropriately to my station in life (which I interpret to mean more than three pairs of weather-appropriate pants). The Band-Aid is new as of this morning. My primary memory in future will probably be twitching the neckline up.

2. a. Are you listening to music? No, it's hotting up around here, so that means no more migraine-making music. However, I was just listening to the song I linked to in question 5.
b. Was this intentional? Yup. But when I first came across this question, I was listening to the Cranberries' first album, which is replete with memories of 1996-1997, the year I first lived away from home, moved four different times in 12 months, and in general experienced an alternative-rock version of Dostoevsky's universe.
c. What does the music make you remember? Exhaustion, getting home at midnight and watching the last of Late Night with David Letterman with my older brother on our functional TV which sat atop our non-functional one, darkness of late night and early morning and the darkness of a bank account with nothing in it.

3. a. Describe the objects within arm's reach. My appointment book (from Barnes and Noble. It is the only day-planner which has ever worked for me, and now my life falls apart without it.) An almost finished baby blanket (which is a surprise for a couple that doesn't ever read the blog), my craft tote-bag and scissors, a packet of fountain pen cartridges (I haven't gotten a needle and syringe, so I can't refill the old cartridges myself), two decorative boxes (still in the bag, just purchased from the clearance table), a bag with a couple of makeup sponges, a P.G. Wodehouse book, I Believe in Love, my watch, a glass of water, a few other books and a journal, and my cell phone.
b. Choose one object and tell where you acquired it. I bought I Believe in Love at a small Catholic bookstore in Plano, Texas. A friend had read the first chapter out loud to me, and I'd been wanting to read more on St. Thérèse of Lisieux's spirituality, since I love her dearly. If I were marooned on a desert island and could only have five books, this would be one of them.
c. On the whole, are the objects new (memory blanks) or old (memory filled)? I don't think any of the items are more than a year old, and some of them were just purchased tonight, while the baby blanket is still coming into being. The day-planner is old in the sense that it shares in the two or three prior ones which were the same in kind but different in number—and they are all very much memory filled.

4. a. What room are you in? My tiny bedroom, chosen over a larger room because this one has two windows and only one mirrored closet (rather than two).
b. To what extent is it yours? It's mine in the sense that if I find anyone sleeping in the bed, I can dump them out of it, and people have to knock before coming in. But I don't own it and didn't even sign a lease for it. It's just part of the job.
c. What kind of memories will you have in the future of this room?I'm not sure. The fact of the matter is that anywhere that I have lived is capable of generating bittersweet nostalgic memories such as featured here. (Actually, there's one exception, but that was pretty exceptional.) I don't know if it's simply that these things in the past are part of me, and thus have a hold on me, or if there is enough good in pretty much anything for it to be a wrench to let it go.

5. What were you doing before starting this post, and what would you like to do next? I was shopping (escaping from the house), then took a break to talk to a friend and crochet, and hope to talk to Mrs. Bear shortly.

I tag Hélène, Sapientiae Amator (i.e. The Slacker Who Uses Classes as Lame Excuses—he probably tells his professors that he'd love to write his papers but can't because his blog keeps him so busy), and Guy Crouchback (Mr. I Just Gave My Sister the Surprise of Her Life by Posting Twice in One Day after 1.5 Million Years without a Post).