The other day I got this craving for the literature of my early youth. (The ladylike literature. There was also a good amount of Edgar Rice Burroughs in the same epoch.) I loved all things L.M. Montgomery, but the Emily books were my favorite because they were a bit darker than some of her other stuff, though there were no walking heads or thoats. I found all the Emily books online, but of course forbore to read them because copyright is such a vital institution within our culture. While I was not reading them I thought of a few things. Thing 1: Boy, are these ever about a pretty naked ambition. Getting paid and being published was just part of it so it wasn’t all Room of My Own business. There was a grand obsession with fame. Huh. Did I want to be famous when I was little? I don’t remember, exactly. I also don’t recall how shadowy all the other characters in those books actually were. Emily was the only person with a real face and personality. I’m pretty sure I didn’t mind that at the time, though it bugged me a bit as an adult. Finally, I started thinking about how people used to live in one place all their lives and how some people still do and how one’s actions accrete and everyone knows everything about you and the only way to live anything down is to keep on living, right there in the same place, to keep laying down layers of yourself. I and most of my close friends grew up saving our energy to go bursting out of the places we grew up. It’s so (modern) American to start fresh over and over again. I can’t imagine the weight of knowing that all of my actions were public and known and that I would have to live right there among them for ever and ever. Even if the reality is that more of me is known now, electronically, it’s not the same. I can unplug and walk away. A friend of mine once said, I don’t mind people staring at me when I’m naked as long as I don’t know about them. Exactly.

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Some things Aure said recently. I note them because I haven’t got a clue where some of the language and ideas are coming from… I mean, I did read many of those essays on research babies aloud and probably I should keep the uncensored National Geographics full of disemboweled mammals out of his reach.

I don’t like tigers to eat my brains, I like them to eat greens. Greens and leaves. From a tree. And mud. They can eat mud. Gusanos eat mud.

Congratulations, Keeker. You are so crazy! Hmm, what’s your schedule? (To the cat.)

I’m spanking you, I punish you! I hate leche, I don’t like it! I punish you! Go lie down! You need a nap. (To me.)

I eat peppers with gusto. (I double checked this one. You eat them with what, I asked. With gusto, he said.)

I realize I’m a little bit gorgeous and sticky. (Sitting in a pee puddle in the bed.)

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Watched Julie and Julia online. I’m sorry to say that was not a very good movie, fellas. I loved the blog and everyone loved Julia Child, but bleh. What was I expecting, it is a movie about typing, and sure enough there were a lot of typing scenes with voice overs. I laughed at the first one, but then I realized they were really going to continue with the typing and I sighed and went back to eating my bean stew and tried to concentrate on how adorable Meryl Streep and Stanley Tucci were. (My sister once sat next to Meryl Streep in a restaurant, so it’s sort of like we’re friends.) I got up and went to the bathroom when the younger characters started in on the inevitable flight about how narcissitic blogging is and how it makes you not have enough sex with your longsuffering husband. Fortunately everyone got published and lived selflessly ever after because once something’s printed and the author gets paid, the writing magically transforms into a sort of postdated community service coupon with which she can be excused from any of a variety of future misdemeanors (up to three jaywalking or one drunk driving conviction). The dialogue between the contemporary couple was bad. It reminded me of Woody Allen’s younger characters in his more recent movies. The twenty six year olds dress and move and speak like they were twenty six in the early seventies. But no one really says anything in the reviews. It’s odd. Leaves me wondering if I’m crazy, but then, sure enough, I watched a bit of that tennis death movie again and the characters are totally unbelievable. The last few films were so awful (actually I couldn’t bring myself to watch the last two), that they actually soured my recollection of his older stuff. Then I watched Annie Hall and remembered why it’s really one of my favorite movies. I will watch it over and over again forever and ever and not get tired of it. I feel annoyed with him for making me have to like his older stuff better. It makes me sound like some music nerd. Oh yes, speaking of music: Screamin’ Jay Hawkins: Ice Cream Man. There you go, a very good earworm.