The Furious Spinner

Roger Glover is singing "Queen of England." Wind is stroking the house. Reminds me of someone blowing in my ear. I'm not sure at first whether it'll be sensuous or annoying. Maybe both. Is that possible?

Have had someone writing to me about my essay "Communication Breakdown." Screaming at me about how stupid, ignorant, decadent, and narcissistic we Americans are. She went on and on about the sins of our government—and how we Americans are the cause of all the problems in the world. I'm the first to criticize our government, and I've worked for years trying to stop or at the very least mitigate the damage the US has done to the planet. That fact did not make a difference to this letter writer. I was just plain ignorant because I was American.

She said it was unbecoming of me to use "I." In her culture, this was NOT done. I explained that in creative nonfiction, a personal essay kind of requires an "I." Then she could not fathom how I could grieve for the dead in Madrid and then go rent a movie. Pardon me? I explained that I had had a bit of suffering in my own life and what I had learned was that there was absolutely no value in suffering. How we can honor the dead and the living is by living. That was the wrong thing to say; I got the lecture about using "I."

I don't mind when someone disagrees with me, but when someone is not listening, I have no patience. She was so deaf—except to her own propaganda spiel—that she couldn't hear that we agreed on many issues. Made me want to scream.

I have never been able to abide people who talk and don't listen. I mean as a way of life. We all space out and don't hear what someone is saying. I'll often ask a question and then forget to listen to the answer. So I'm forced to out myself. "I'm sorry, I wasn't listening." Usually the person I'm not listening to is Mario and he is charmed that I will admit it, so he laughs and is not offended. Sometimes he'll talk and talk about something, and then he'll notice I haven't said much and he'll say, "Are you wondering what I'm babbling about?" "No, darlin'," I'll say. "I wasn't listening." And he'll just chuckle, as if that is the punch line to a great joke.

Her accusing me of every crime under the sun reminded me of when I was very young and my live-in was always accusing me of running around on him. After a while, I thought, "What the hell, I'm getting all the grief I might as well have the fun, too." After listening to this person rant and rave about how ignorant, decadent, imperialistic, and narcissistic I was (she knew this because I was an American and how else could I be?), I wanted to be all those things. As Mario and I were driving home from Vancouver, tonight, I said, "What is this crap about us living simply all these years? Where's my hummer?" I was wearing a coat that was ten years old. My clothes were from the Salvation Army, bought at least five years ago. My shoes were fairly new: five years old? I must admit, the car is decadent. It's five years old.

The thing is I recognize that I am extremely fortunate to have a coat, clothes, shoes, and a car. I know how lucky I am. But decadent? I will cop to narcissistic. But not ignorant or imperialistic.

Yes, this post is all about me. I. I. I. I. I.

I have no news.

The Yardbirds are singing, "Please don't tell me 'bout the news."

So I won't.

I shall endeavor to be less narcissistic and more informative on the morrow.

But I wouldn't place any bets on it.

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