I spoke to a friend recently who expressed concern that my blog wasn’t quite high-brow enough for him. Actually, he said, “I don’t want to read about shoes, I want to read your poetry.” Now, as most of you know, shoes have only appeared in my blog twice (at which point I must have lost my friend as a reader) and as you may or may not know, I don’t write poetry.
However, among the things I’ve written that are (questionably) more intellectual than shoes, are some philosophy papers on St. Augustine. In honor, of that great ideological Daddy of Catholicism, the theme of today’s entry will be: Confessions. Simultaneously, as a kind of bugger-off to the person who mocked me for using the term “sig oth,” I will write my confessions in a manner that makes the ladies Cosmo Mag. sorry they’re not paying me 2 bucks a word to spill.
So, with a nod to my editor whose philosophy of the day was: writing is problem solving, here I go.
Confession: I robbed the MTA.
Defense: I have none. This was one of the pathetic things I’ve done, and also one of more undignified experiences of my life. (And coming from me, you know that means something.) What happened was that I paid my two dollars to get on the subway to go to the gym at 7:15am. At 8:57am, I again returned to the subway and walked up to the ticket window.
“Is the time limit for tranfers two hours?” I asked in my unnaturally high pitched voice I used to feign politeness.
“Yes, two hours.” The woman smiled. She seemed to buy my facade of goodwill.
“And I can go subway to subway?”
“No. Subway to bus. Bus to subway. And bus to bus.” No longer as friendly.
“Oh. So I can’t get a transfer from subway to subway?”
“No.” No longer friendly at all.
I glance to the swinging door of the handicap entrance. “So, can I get a transfer anyway?”
“Can you what?“
“Can I just…have a transfer anyway?” Really high-pitched, really not convincing. Thinking back to 7th grade when the director of the musical laughed at me while I squawked in a wide-mouthed attempt to hit the C above middle C.
She rolled her eyes. “Give me that card.” She swiped it. She saw that not only was I trying to cheat the MTA, I was trying to cheat the MTA after having been off the subway for 1 hr and 45 minutes. She snorted. She shook her head. She handed me back my card with an arched wrist that indicated fear of catching my base stinginess.
“Go ahead.” She said. And I went through the gate.
Judge me if you will. Thank God St. Augustine understands that sinning can be addictive.
Confession: I saw I’m Not There and came away from the movie thinking primarily about Heath Ledger.
Defense: As I was explaining to my brother today during a few minutes of phone time I was lucky enough to secure with him, Heath Ledger plays a character in the movie that is uncannily similar to the one he’d become in real life. He’s a star that gets too big for himself, alienates his wife and family, and most of his words and movements are addled by glaringly absent sense of self.
In fact, all the “Bob Dylans,” with the exception of Cate Blanchett appear uncomfortable enough in their roles to inject an awkward feeling into the space between the screen and the audience. However, I thought this worked in a film self-consciously set out to capture the life of man who could never be pinned down. Blanchett gets to act out all the anxieties, whereas the other personas are forced to chock them down. I liked it; I thought tenuous acting brought an aura of wandering angst to the whole movie.
But mostly, I felt kind of depressed about Heath Ledger. Fortunately, Stephen is also upset about Heath Ledger, which a) gave me someone to talk about my feelings with and b) assured me that my feelings were valid, because Stephen never worries about anything that is not of Supreme Importance. I told Stephen about a disturbing and thought provoking piece about Heath Ledger, New Media, and celebrities I’d read, and he observed that over the years, acting had a become a pretty crappy job. (But don’t worry, he’s still comfortable with his current level of Wicked-Witch stardom.)
Confession: I may be starting a training program to get faster at running, but I’m probably not going to refer to it ever again.
Defense: However many readers I have, it would be embarrassing for me if any of them watched me fail. Think: lady in the subway who gave me the transfer, but way more than 2 dollars at stake.
Confession: I’m so long-winded, I have run out of time for more confessions.
Defense: If you don’t really delve into your problems, they’ll never fully go away. If writing is problem solving, then writing-it-out will ensure that I never try wheedle my way out of subway fare again.