Vaca!

Not a true vacation, but off to Madison for four days!
(!)
Post and pictures upon return.

I was shocked to hear about David Foster Wallace. Yesterday morning, I had the TV on as I puttered around the living room. I was halfheartedly watching a morning soft-news program, but devoting most of my energy to rearranging the bookshelf. A slide show came on the screen: pictures of a silent-film star and stills from her movies, then a picture of DFW. Then, "In Memoriam." I thought, This must be a fluke, so I called Eric and asked him if DFW was dead. "I don't think so," E. said, "but maybe you should check the internet."

Some people seem to me perplexingly immortal: their particular personalities [those they share with the public] and histories of accomplishment make them seem, to my mind, unable to die. This isn't repression or immaturity on my part: now, more than ever, I've been thinking about mortality (my own, that of those close to me) and how its nearness accelerates the older I get. I wouldn't say I've grown accustomed to the thought of my own death, but I'm acclimating. Despite my very logical understanding of the necessity of death, I still experience cognitive aberrations. DFW existed for me as one such aberration.

This afternoon, having completed my sundry errands - grocery shopping for the week, picking up a few school supplies, dropping off library books, mailing a letter - I returned home and opened a beer. The beer was an Opa-Opa IPA. It was my intention to sip said beer while starting a new book - Joan Didion's The White Album - in the few quiet hours before dinner. The beer was bad: undrinkably bad. I dumped it down the sink and had seltzer, instead.

I used to love IPA. I distinctly remember, on more than one occasion during my first year of grad school, proclaiming that IPA was my "new favorite beer." What's going on, here? Does Opa-Opa's version just suck? Do I have rapid-cycling changes of my taste buds? Maybe I'm having an off day.

It fascinates me to remember the foods and beverages I used to love which I now approach with lukewarm enthusiasm: Gardetto's snack mix, Sunny Delight, pickled beets, any variety of personal-size frozen pizza. Sweet wine. Microwave popcorn. Diet Coke. This exercise begs the question: what do I like?
Here are a few: sharp Vermont cheddar, Belgian whites, fresh corn, snap peas, pumpkin anything. Some Cabernet Sauvignons. Chocolate with a 70% or higher cocoa content. Red licorice. Seltzer. The list continues.

Decision!

A decision has been reached: I'm going to get my hair trimmed (not cut: trying to preserve some length, here) and highlighted. I'll likely go with a combination of highlights (honeyish shades) and lowlights (two shades darker than my natural color), making sure the strands of color are thin, as to be less apparent against my "real" hair. Thank you to those who shared their insight: sometimes, a little advice from friends is all one needs in revamping one's hair.

I have still not decided whether to get bangs cut, but I have time to consider and reconsider my options.

It's strange: I began dyeing my hair in high school, using drugstore color, and have dyed it fairly steadily ever since, but I don't consider myself - think of myself - as someone with dyed hair. Two factors lead to this misclassification: first, I don't dye my hair very often. (Embarrassingly, the last time I got highlights was January. Ouch.) The infrequency - or sporadicness, I should say - of coloring allows me to think of the process as an action of whimsy rather than a ritual or tradition. Second, I've never dyed my hair a "weird" color; Manic Panic wasn't allowed in my house, and after I turned twelve, I never had much desire for hair in a non-natural shade. Having hair that's "naturally" tinted, even if the tint isn't natural to my head, lets me feel a little less conspicuous.

Where was I going with this?

Yes: I'm really looking forward to these highlights. I used to love getting haircuts, and since I'm letting my hair grow out (i.e., no longer getting cuts), I've missed that specific excitement which accompanies ever-so-slightly modifying one's appearance.

Anyways: today is my last day of summer work. (Aside: I will be working in the key office one day/week during the school year.) I really can't believe that school starts on Tuesday - it barely feels like we're done with July - but start it will. And I'll have to be ready. Have been under the weather for the past few days; I hope to catch up on sleep and chug Emergen-C this weekend to recuperate.

Decisions, decisions.

Friends, I'm at an impasse: I don't know what to do with my hair.

For the longest time (i.e., the last month), I've wanted bangs: swoopy, sideswept bangs that would miraculously stay out of my eyes. My hesitation? I'm not sure that my hair is long enough to complement these dreamed-of bangs. You see, my hair is still only a bit longer than shoulder-length. Yes: I've been growing out my hair for at least 1.5 years, and it's still only this long. Be that as it may, I don't want to look like a weird schoolgirl, or just someone with no sense of hair proportion.

My other idea is to have my highlights redone. I like highlights (even in the fall and winter, when even the subtlest light-tones are conspicuously man-made), and I know that having them done again would make my hair "new," which is probably what I'm seeking in bangs. What to do? I realize these paragraphs are filled with the abstraction of my hair: what it actually looks like. I could post a picture, but that would require me to take one/have one taken, and then upload it. BAH. This is getting too complicated!

Just expect that I'll be undergoing major hair renovations in the near future.

Knox people! Who among you are going to homecoming? (I'm not sure that people will answer this, but I thought I'd throw the question out there.) I'd like to go to homecoming, but am not sure of how practical the trip would be. Since I'm not old enough to rent a car, I'd have to coordinate my arrival with someone who could drive me to the wonderful 'burg. And, I'm not sure who's going. Still: KNOX COLLEGE AND HALLOWEEN WEEKEND!

Rabbit.

I'm about halfway through Rabbit is Rich and am totally obsessed with it: to the point that I want to secretly read while my boss is out of the office. To the point that (yesterday afternoon), instead of attacking the massive list of chores I've been meaning to do all week, I made some tea and read until dinnertime. I am forcing myself to read slowly and relish each sentence. This is difficult for me, with my tendency toward speed reading. (Aside: I don't remember in what context I learned to speed read, but I think it was taught in middle school. In conjunction, perhaps, with typing?) But I'm doin' it.

The other day at work, I Wikipediaed Updike and was surprised to read that "some people" have criticized his work for being too rambling: sprawling. Here's the exact quote:

Updike is one of the most exquisite masters of prose style produced by 20th century America. Yet, his novels have been faulted for lacking any sense of action or character development. It appears at times that his ability to spin lovely phrases of delicate beauty and nuance overwhelm his desire to tell a simple, important story in the lives of his characters.

Whaaaaaa? First off, I know I shouldn't have expected to find serious, peer-reviewed lit-crit on Wikipedia - and I didn't expect this, actually - but... But. The above statements are just so global and unevinced. I mean, "any sense of action or character development" - is it possible for a work to lack entirely a sense of action? Even a speaker's leap from one thought pattern to another could classify as action. So, yeah. I don't know about Wikipedia.

What miffed me more, though, is Wiki's assessment of "no character development." I don't know about y'all, but to my mind, Rabbit Angstrom is one of the best American characters: ever. By "best," I mean not only most convincing (i.e., having consistent personality traits, seemingly-logical or consistent lines of reasoning, resembling an actual person), but most likely to earn my sympathy as a reader. I don't, on a superficial level, want to identify with/feel empathy for Rabbit: he's philandering, mildly overweight, a car salesman. But he's human, and his actions are presented in the context of his complete environment, which, having been developed for hundreds and hundreds of pages, and several decades, provides the reader a means to more profoundly understand Rabbit's motivations. Rabbit, like all of us, is inextricable from his environment; Updike's meticulous attention to environmental detail - the rings left on the patio table by a sweating glass, or a woman's constellation of freckles - suffuses his work, and informs the [psychic, physical] motion of his characters.

***

Today is legit sweatshirt weather! (Last night was also sweatshirt weather, but I wasn't so excited then: I haven't taken out my intermediate-weight comforter yet, and I kept waking up because I was cold under my summer blanket.) Soon, it will be time for a trip to the apple orchard, and for pumpkin carving, and for pies.

The awkward hush.

My latest obsession? Totem poles and shame poles. I spent a goodly chunk of time on Friday afternoon doing internet research, learning the basics about both types of poles, and even finding an artist who, for 1,000 Canadian dollars/foot, will custom-make totem poles.

So there you go.

I consider myself a more-or-less disciplined person: I clean the house once a week as a matter of habit, have begun flossing semi regularly, have curtailed my Dorito consumption, and so on, and so forth. Successful regulation of adult life. But there are some tasks which, despite the minimal amount of time and effort they would require, I just keep putting off. For example: I usually don't get my car's oil changed when an oil change is actually due; I invariably postpone said change until I'm afraid that the mechanic will shame me for taking such bad care of my car. (This happens about 1,000 to 2,000 miles after a scheduled oil change.) This weekend, I was cleaning my room (see? discipline) and happened to be dusting my boxes of letters when I thought, "Wow, I really should just buy one large storage box for all my letters." I've come to this realization many times since college, but never have I purchased the larger box. Is it because I prefer to store these letters in scattered, crappy-looking vessels?* No. Is it because a new box would be costly, or difficult to find? Probably not. So what's holding me back? I realize this is a trifling matter, and that I'm starting to talk at length here. It just perplexes me that there are certain tasks that, without fail, cause me to dig in my heels.

A hazy, meandering weekend. Worked a bit on a short story, but set it aside again because it's becoming an entirely different story, and I need to think about where it's going. Watched "Old School" for the first time (zow!) and a few Olympic events: women's marathon at home, Saturday night (it was awesome), equestrian stuff whilst at the gym. Oh, and men's swimming. Yes. Got some peaches at the farmers' market and am waiting for them to ripen. Rode my bike, with Ali, to Maple Farm Foods and bought some excellent grapes. Started reading Rabbit is Rich. Mailed letters.

It's starting to seem like fall.

*Most of my letters are divided among three Whitman's sampler boxes, emptied of their contents and cleaned with a damp cloth. I never especially liked Whitman's candies, but got the samplers for their boxes, which are sturdy and easily stacked.