How did I get so busy?

Back when I was in grad school, I would fantasize about how wonderful it would be to be done. There'd be nothing but time on my hands to read, be crafty, clean . . . but somehow I seem as busy--if not more so--as I was back in those dark days of evening classes and literature searches. (Oh, wait, I still search for literature.)

Image from Flickr

The last few weeks I've barely been home in the evenings, even when you exclude my work trip to Virginia. With Nick gone the last few days I've not only not been home, but it seems like the whole house has entered a time-warp where everything stays exactly the same. I'm not there to clean, but I'm not there to mess either.

In fact, when I discovered that the phone wasn't working last night, I had no idea how long it's been down. That, plus the whole woman-at-home-alone /horror-filmesque-plot-point, made it a rather surreal experience. Luckily Moxie is my cat in the coal mine - if she doesn't act frightened, then there can't possibly be an intruder lurking behind my shower curtain. This was especially important the night I went out without locking the door. So, Nick not only cooks, but he locks up behind me as well.

I did shovel the snow, though. Nick doesn't manage that one very well ;)

The funny thing about having no phone service is that you're really stuck. I couldn't call the phone company about it (obviously) and I couldn't look them up online either. When I did call them this morning they gave the whole "we'll charge you up to whazoo if it's an internal wiring problem" spiel, so here I am, no phone, and stuck trying to figure out the source of the problem before I call them to fix it. Good thing Nick'll be back with the cell phone soon. Being incommunicado while home alone makes one really want to reach out and touch someone. Lucky for Nick he can sleep through most conversations - and does so nightly in front of the t.v.

Speaking of t.v., I love my digital converter box (with the one exception of it making it tougher to Retro TeVo my favorite shows). Seven channels of PBS is fabulous. And the three episodes of Eastenders per week starts up soon - I'm in television heaven. Thank you wasteful, pandering demagogues of Congress!

Why don't I care when memoirs are faked?

It seems that the last few years have seen several high-profile cases of faked memoirs. And each time I find myself interested in the details, but also puzzled by all of the hoopla. Now, I get my undies in a bunch every time I hear about plagiarism, but that seems different to me. Of course taking someone else's written work and pawning it off as your own is wrong. Insert "television" for "written work" and you can see how it directly resembles theft in the cops-and-robbers sense.

But making up a memoir? No one is out any money because they've had their own endeavors stolen by another. If not being the writer of the life portrayed were wrong because the person who actually lived it isn't benefiting, then biographers are consistently and permanently in the wrong. But many times the fake memoirist isn't even stealing someone else's life, they're merely playing pretend and neglecting to put the word "fiction" above the ISBN on the back cover.

Printing a false "truth" is hardly new. In fact it seems to have been a preferred literary model in the 18th century. Dangerous Liaisons, Moll Flanders, the Castle of Otranto: these are all faked works that falsely purported to be real, and while they fooled some, they were not shredded for it. In fact, many of my favorite works of fiction are memoirs.

So why are we so angered by this long-standing genre? Are we so wedded to a world of anecdote that we can't understand the problem of drug addiction without a Million Little Pieces to make it real? Is the only thing keeping us from being Holocaust deniers the ability to peek into the diary of a young girl? That would be far more worrisome than a fictional life story.

Or is there just too much shame in being labeled a fool? Are we collectively terrified of being Blair Witched? We place such an emphasis on the individual in America that maybe being tricked by a memoir is just an unforgivable sign of weakness in ourselves.

Personally, I kind of like being tricked this way. The faked memoir shows a slyness that is appealing -- it doesn't hurt me to believe in a life not lived. I certainly don't rule my own life by example of a memoir any more than by a novel. Both can illuminate how I see the world and how others experience it. Isn't that the point of fiction as much as biography? If there must be mendacity in the world I would rather it be between the pages of a memoir than in the content of a scientific research paper, or in the mail that comes to my grandmother.

So, perhaps I should content myself with Thackeray's Barry Lyndon, a lie on so many levels. A fake editor brings us the fake memoir of a man who never lived, but who nonetheless feels the need to lie about the true events of his life in order to protect his own, completely fictional, ego. Thank goodness for his Million Little Duels . . . I can't imagine a better joke in reality.

Kirk wishes he had pursued a different career . . .

as a librarian. Why would he want to be a Starfleet captain when he could know how to find everything in the universe?

I suspect Picard actually was a librarian at heart.

Things are happening . . .

We've had a parade of laborers around here as we start to get down to brass tacks with all the remodeling. Plumbers, tilers, and concrete installers have been coming through with their quotes. It looks like we may actually get some things done around here. And then I can say goodbye to the ugly kitchen countertops for good.Aren't they ugly?

The orchid is finally coming around, too. It's about time.
And the cat's are being their usual naughty selves, as you can see by Moxie's worrisome interest in my orchid. But I guess they're cute enough to keep around for a while.