Yesterday, I signed a form surrendering the parental rights to my one year old son, Henri, whom I've never met.
There's a lot more I could say about it, but I won't. Maybe someday he'll come looking for me, punch me in the face, and listen to me tell the rest of the story.
Earlier this year, I bought my first real acoustic guitar and remarked that it sounded lousy, but I liked it. Well, after noodling on it occasionally since then, I've learned that I would've been better off with a classical guitar because I never use a pick and have trouble with strings that are so close together (the bassist in me hasn't gone away). Also, the lousy Yamaha has continued to sound lousy, with frets that wear down at an alarming rate.
After trudging through the rain earlier today, I stopped in at Sandy's to see what inventory he had and fell in love with this wonderful guitar. It's a Goya F-11 made in Sweden sometime between 1963 and 1965. Designed as a "folk" guitar, it has a slightly narrower neck than a classical guitar, which works really well for me and my ladylike fingers. Although the higher action will take some getting used to, the flat, well-carved neck already lets me play fingerstyle stuff much better than I could before. I now have even less to blame on the instrument for my suckiness as a guitarist!
I was so enamored with the bold sound and comfortable feeling of this little bugger that I didn't even care about the cracks in the top. It's lasted 45 years already; I'm hoping I'll be able to take care of it for the rest of its life. The price was right, too — it was cheaper than the Yamaha. Truly, this Goya is a gem. If I could cuddle with it, I would. Barring a more intimate relationship with F-11, I think I'll just enjoy playing it and will see how well I can harness its potential.
What torture it is to walk upon concrete slabs shorter than my stride.
Must. Not. Step. On. Cracks.
Despite coming from ancestors who braved harsh winters and long nights, I'm not built for this weather. Perhaps if I ate enough to turn me as stout as my elder French Canadians, I'd fare better outdoors. Underneath the covers, I will myself to warmth through tension and concentration, quickly becoming my own space heater, but in the open air, no amount of willpower can overcome the thermodynamics of the situation.
Speaking of the covers, or rather, the business under the covers, I've always had difficulty sleeping next to another person, especially someone new. Whether due to tossing and turning, numb limbs, or abrupt snoring, I usually wake up drained, even if I'm happy to wake up next to the perpetrator of my unrest. I had assumed that sleeping with somebody would always mean a certain amount of irritation as we learned to cope with or ignore each other's slumber style. That is, until now. I've met someone with whom I feel comfortable at night and magically rested in the morning. It's really surprising.
I wish I could elaborate on how fond I am of this person, but as with most good things to come my way, there's a snag. She's afflicted with a kind of confusion I've witnessed too often — unsure of her state of mind after exiting an important relationship, she doesn't feel as willing to start anything new. Although it should come as no surprise (to me) that I'm most attracted to people who may be unable to care about me, I consistently avoid thinking too deeply about why that is (though I suspect I know the cause). Suffice it to say, I fare better in relationships when the balance of emotion lies further in my court than in my partner's. If someone likes me far greater than I like her, things will quickly go sour unless I have an epiphany and change my feelings. On the other hand, if I'm in pursuit of hitherto unrequited love, I have a greater hope of flipping her feelings than I have of evolving my own gut instinct.
Besides, I know Confusion. We've met several times, and every time Confusion comes my way, I learn a tiny bit more about the impenetrable mind of Woman. If she's worth knowing, which, by virtue of her sincerity, wit, generosity, intelligence, and natural beauty proves that my new buddy is, then she's worth the patience to wait for Confusion to exit the scene. But who knows? The whole shebang could fizzle out soon enough, considering she doesn't seem to give a damn about me yet. I sincerely hope not; I've never felt so rested on such little sleep.
Alvy Singer said it well:
...this guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, "Doc, uh, my brother's crazy; he thinks he's a chicken." And, uh, the doctor says, "Well, why don't you turn him in?" The guy says, "I would, but I need the eggs." Well, I guess that's pretty much now how I feel about relationships; y'know, they're totally irrational, and crazy, and absurd, and... but, uh, I guess we keep goin' through it because, uh, most of us... need the eggs.
Even I was surprised to see that Barack Obama received 88% of the vote in Cambridge. Cambridge had a more lopsided turnout than any other Massachusetts city.
Although living in an ideologically homogenous zone can lead to the laziness of groupthink, the election results further reinforce my belief that I've come across no other place I'd rather live than Cambridge.
If only the rent weren't so damn high...