Mansfield Park

I just finished Mansfield Park by Jane Austen.

Every girl loves Jane Austen, and wants to be a character in one of her books, right?

I definitely do not want to be a character in this one. None of the female ones, at least.

In Mansfield Park, Austen gives us a cast loaded with females that I don't think even Austen intended for us to like very much. We have Fanny's mother, who gives her to her sister, as she has children to spare. Even when Fanny comes "home" to visit years later, there isn't much maternal love to be had.

We have Fanny's aunts. One of whom will not let Fanny forget her place (beneath them all), and another who either can't think for herself, or just won't. She asks her husbands to make all of her decisions, even asking which game she will enjoy playing after dinner. I wanted to reach into the book and smack her.

Fanny's cousins might be slightly better. One marries a man that she doesn't love, perhaps out of a sense of duty, then leaves him for a tryst with the womanizing man she favors (this does not end well). The other wisely elopes and removes herself from the story entirely.

We are left with Fanny, the "heroine" of the story. I think we are supposed to like her. She refuses to marry a man she does not love. She does everything she can to make her family's lives easier. She asks for nothing.

I don't like her.

Fanny does not seem to do anything in this story. She moves through her life, going where she is told, doing what she is asked. And nothing more. She sits back and waits to see what life will give her, rather than going out and getting what she wants. This is not my kind of woman.

The Oresteia

I have a confession to make.

I tried to make myself read Aeschylus' The Oresteia (Agamemnon, The Libation Bearers, and The Eumenides). I couldn't do it.

I know there is a great story in there. There's war. Sacrificial virgins. Prophecies. More war. Cassandra (my all time favorite bit of mythology) is in there. But I just couldn't do it.

I hate reading Greek Dramas.

I have another confession. I hate reading Shakespeare, too.

Don't get me wrong. I love Shakespeare. I love watching his plays. I love acting in his plays. But I can't make myself sit down and read one.

Maybe this makes sense. Greek dramas and Shakespeare weren't written for someone to read off the page. They were written to be performed. To live on the stage.

Does anyone want to act out The Oresteia for me?

The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon

I have been working my way through all of Stephen King's books. Again. I finished The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon last night.

It's a story about a girl who gets lost in the woods and is saved by baseball.

Really. That's it.

But like all of us, Trisha (the heroine of the tale) has that little part of the brain that I like to call the What If Generator. You know, that part of your brain that is most active in the dark of the night. The part of your brain that takes the innocent creak of a house settling and asks "What if it's a giant, hairy monster that is coming to eat you, starting with your toes?" Imagine what this part of your brain would do if you were nine years old and lost in the woods. That's the story.

That little part of your brain is why Stephen King is a genius. He has taken his What If Generator and allowed it to grow. If you can do that as a writer, then your job becomes just writing down everything your What If Generator comes up with.

Last Words

            Your last moment with someone is important. It should carry some weight. Some emotional significance.

            My last moment with my mom before she died was just horrifically average. On my way out the door to school, “Bye Mom, see you this afternoon.”

            “Have a good day,” her reply.

            No sense that that was the last moment.

            I would have preferred to have an argument. Nasty, spiteful words would have been better than what we actually said. A fight would have proven that we mattered to each other- we cared enough to try and change the other.

            From what we did say, we could have been strangers.

            I wish we had chosen that moment to have one of our ritualistic arguments over my holey jeans and the fact that it was cold outside and I should be wearing a jacket. Even though those arguments were usually filled with mean, hurtful words, they proved that we cared enough to fight.

Going up

"Hold the elevator!"

I wedged my toes in the crack just before the doors closed. I've learned feet are more resistant to pinching than fingers in my daily trips up this slow elevator. Thirty-two floors. Thirty-two chances for someone to ask me to hold the elevator. On average, it happens three or four times per trip.

This time I held the elevator for a man I hadn't seen before. Close to six feet tall. Dark hair. Light eyes. Crinkles at the corners that hinted at laughter just restrained. And a gorgeous smile. Flawless even white teeth.

He stepped into the elevator and into the back right corner. I stood in the opposite back corner. We were alone.

I exercised my peripheral vision.

As I watched without watching, he turned his back to me and peered into the mirrored wall. Smiled at himself.

Then he leaned closer to his reflection, blocking my view of the mirror.

"Huh. Do you see that?"

"Excuse me?" I said.

"Do you see that? In the back, just inside my molars."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

He turned and looked at me. "Come take a look at this."

Willing the elevator to hurry up, or for someone else to join us, I stepped over to his side. "What are you looking at?"

"In the back of my mouth, on the right. Do you see anything?" He tipped his head up a bit and opened wide. Giving him an awkward grin, I leaned closer to take a look.

He smelled of minty fresh breath mingled with male musk. Clean dirtiness. Despite the odd situation, I found this man attractive. And then I saw it. Tucked next to a molar in the back of his mouth. "Whoa. That looks like a baby shark tooth!"

That's when he bit me.

Just one sip

"Here, take a sip."

My eyes popped up from "The Raven" to see who was talking to me. Standing before my park bench was a man. That's all. An average, ordinary man. So average and ordinary that I remember nothing about him.

What I do remember is what he held in his hand. A sterling silver hip flask. Engraved with the words "Drink Me." Thoughts of Alice in Wonderland wandered through my head. "Excuse me?" made it out of my mouth.

"Take a sip," He repeated.

"What is it?" I asked. I had no intention of drinking his mystery potion, but was deeply curious.

"A potion. A potion to make any sense of your choosing greater than you can imagine."

"A potion," I repeated.

"Yes."

I stared at him for a long minute. He stared back.

"Does it have any negative side effects?" I asked.

"It depends on what you expect from the potion. And how you define negative."

Another long minute of staring. I reached out and took the flask, removed the cap, and sniffed. I smelled nothing.

"Do I have to tell you which sense I choose?"

"For the potion to work properly, yes."

"Does intuition count as a sense?"

"Sure."

I didn't have anything better to do. And I had a shocking lack of intuition, so I took a big swig.

Now I have intuition. Now I know what a big mistake I made. And how to define negative side effects. Negative side effects include dulling of all the senses other than the sense you chose to enhance. It says that on the side of the flask, in fine print.

My PB&J

                The ghost was eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  My peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  Loaded with a double wallop of crunchy peanut butter and just a hint of raspberry jam.  Seedless of course.  Crusts cut off.  Sectioned into fourths on a diagonal.  Placed on a plate with a pile of cheddar and sour cream Ruffles.

                My lunch.  Not my ghost.

                At least, I didn’t claim him.  But he did seem to claim me.  And my sandwiches.  This was the second time I had created the perfect meal and stepped away to the bathroom only to discover a ghost thief on my return.

                Yesterday, out of shock, I had simply made another sandwich and sat down across the table watching him eat the sandwich as if I was only looking in a mirror.

                Today I wanted my sandwich. I marched up to my stealing specter. “I made that for me, you now. Besides, I don’t think it would kill you to miss a few meals.

                Clearly not appreciating my humor, he rolled his eyes and took a super-large bite of my gooey goodness. I swear the bite was so big that if the man had been in need of oxygen he would have choked and died right there at my table.

                The look of annoyance on his face was instantly replaced by a look of pure bliss. Eyes drifted closed. Shoulders melted down. Brow relaxed. Corners of mouth tilted up into a hint of a grin. One tiny dimple briefly popped into view.

                I caught the grin spreading to my own face as I soaked up his rapture. It was almost as lovely to watch him eat my sandwich as I knew it would be to eat it myself.

                As his eyes started to open, I remembered that it was my sandwich and I meant to have it. I slammed the lid down on the joy he had passed to me and snatched the sandwich out of his hands. “Gimme that.”

                Saying not a word, he stared at me. He rose slowly from his seat and drifted toward the door and through. Leaving me alone with my beloved.

                I watched the door.

                Sinking slowly to my seat, I raised the sandwich to my mouth, took a bite, and closed my eyes, waiting for the bliss.

                The sandwich tasted terrible.