XII. Roofied by life

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What the hell happened to the past month? Seriously, I apologize to all friends, family and internet stalkers for my long hiatus while I – to sum up a blitzkrieg of writing, archiving and swashbuckling – got shit done. I can’t believe how much time passed so quickly. I feel like I’ve been roofied by life.

But let’s skip the excuses and apologies and get to the juicy stuff, shall we? First, however, a rant about what the hell happened to the past 30 days, because honestly I don’t know, and also because I feel that you, my dear reader, have been conditioned to gnaw through a slew of digressions before reaching the rich marrow of my prose, and I would hate to deprive you of the foreplay. And yes, I am aware of how perturbing and (hopefully) off-putting that metaphor mélange must have been – unless, of course, cannibalism is your thing, in which case, I know a great guy in Poland – but once again, it’s all part of the conditioning. Take solace in the fact that you will be a stronger person afterwards.

So I have this inchoate theory that time develops the same way humans do, with the same progression of mobility. First, that little lump of time just lies around, occasionally kicking or screaming, but generally immobile. Then it learns to crawl, followed by some teetering steps, until, one day, abruptly and without ceremony, it walks (and here is where the nostalgia and pathetic attempts at atavism often kick in). Then it figures out running, followed by its first tricycle, which quickly gets traded in for a bicycle. A few years later, time is running through the house waving a big driver’s permit in your face. Then it gets a car. Next thing you know, your little time goes speeding down the I-20 without you.

Well, I feel like my time just got its pilot’s license.

Thankfully, most of the month’s events aren’t particularly blog worthy, which we all know is an incredulously low standard (seriously, I just read an entire entry about morning toast. Our generation has some major disclosure issues). I’ve been focused on applying to MFA programs, in the hopes that someday I won’t have to dole out my brilliance for free on a self-created blog. In reality, what it means is that I’ll be doling out my brilliance on my self-created blog while interjecting every paragraph with a plug for my new novel no one buys, but maybe gets opted for a Hollywood movie. An MFA also means that my prose will get suffused with a somnolent lyricism, with poetic limitations and the cadence of an autumnal creek. In other words, it may mean I will start to sound like everyone else. At least, that’s what I think as I stir the last of my oatmeal in an old pickle jar. I’m still wearing the purple spandex dress with black tights, and my hair feels smoky and oily, every strand still permeating of sweat and cigarettes. I spoon a small lump of oats and try to swallow, but it feels too dry, and flavorless. I’d forgotten to add sugar. I fill the last clean receptacle in the apartment with water to help wash it down, but it just makes it worse. The water tastes like last night. Like counterfeit vodka and chasers from concentrate. Maybe the cup wasn’t clean after all. Maybe I should have stayed home with Primo Levi rather than suffer the frivolities of living people. After all, that's what books are for, aren't they? To be friends with the dead and imaginary when the live ones fail you…

Yep, you should probably get used to that, maybe subscribe to the New Yorker to prepare yourself, because this little vegetarian is stepping into the literary meat grinder. (She also just made her second cannibalism reference of the day, thus filling her weekly quota. Second parenthetical: I actually love the New Yorker. Deborah Treisman, if you ever read this, you are my heroine, and your fiction podcast my heroin.)

Okay, digression complete. Onto the past month. Okay, fine, I’ll admit it: month and a half.

1.     Family vacation: My mother and sister used the excuse of my ex-patriotism to fly over and see Prague and the Bavarian alps. It was the first time in almost a decade that we took a girls’ trip (my parents are in medias res of divorce; the “I survived…” t-shirts will be distributed as soon as we actually do). Honestly though, it was the best family vacation we’ve ever had. Relaxing, heartfelt and full of rich conversation. The only weird part of the trip (other than all of us getting along) was our tour guide in the alps, who kept trying to force us to visit a village called Oberammergau [five syllables: Oh-ber-arm-er-gau]. She wanted us to see Oberammergau because it puts on a passion play once a decade, but given that the village was the midst of its nine-year off-season, we didn’t feel particularly compelled to drop in. Well, that’s not entirely true. At first I did, because I assumed a passion play was some kind of tumescently erotic showdown, full of hyperbolic professions of love and hate between love-making. I mean, how can you hear the words “passion” and “play” without thinking it must have something to do with ecstatic sexual encounters? But, no, once again my Jewish ignorance misleads me. Apparently a “passion play” is the reenactment of Jesus’ death. Ew. Gross.

Okay, time to save myself 1000 words. Check out the Bavarian alps:

My family on a hike

 

 

This is medieval instrument is called the hurdy gurdy.

This castle is Ludwig II’s Neuschwanstein, probably the most flamboyant structure ever built. Basically, Ludwig wanted a big Broadway musical set of a romanticized medieval castle, with no regards to budget or historical accuracy. I had read a lot about King Ludwig II before seeing Neuschwanstein, so I knew about his underground grotto with the swan boat and the opera stage, and the fact that he never had a wife despite incessant pressure from an entire nation to do so, followed by his deposition and suicide. From these ad hoc facts, historians often conjecture that the king was gayer than Elton John’s bedazzled sunglasses. But after walking through the valley of unicorns and gilded swans myself, I feel that Elton John’s paraphernalia are much, much too straight for this to be true.  

If you ever find yourself in Germany, this castle is a “must-see.”

2. Visiting the Keret House, aka Dom Kereta. I will elaborate on this in my next entry. Also, there might be an article about this getting published soon. I’ll keep you posted.

3. Prague: the sequel

So two weeks after visiting Prague with the family, my friend Ira invites me to a Swedish House Mafia concert in Prague’s O2 Arena. I’d never heard of Swedish House Mafia, but Ira was driving and paying for the hotel, and I wanted to return to Prague. Besides, every time I brought up that I would be going to see these mafiosi, my friends would immediately implode with jealousy, so I very well couldn’t forfeit an opportunity to make them think I’m cool.
On the drive, Ira played a Swedish House Mafia song called "Don't You Worry Child." The lyrics were nostalgic and wistful, the piano chords were simple and rhythmic and I liked the opulence of the singer's timbre. I started to get genuinely excited to hear what else this band could do.

The day was incredible. Endless and delicious food, phenomenal sightseeing and thigh-slapping company. Finally, we left the main square to go to the concert. Well, Swedish House Mafia, very much like the Swedish mafia in general, doesn’t really exist. You see, Swedish House Mafia is not a band. They don’t make music at all, actually, because they’re disk jockeys. Yep, I paid over $100 to sit in an arena full of coked-out Eurotrash wearing sunglasses at midnight to watch a DJ spin records. I felt like such a dupe for unwittingly participating in a multi-million dollar scam, and there was nothing I could do about it. Well, nothing except get hammered enough to forget the fact that we were at a concert without musicians. I really fucking hate my generation sometimes.

How did I not kill myself again?

Oh right: this pretty much captures the lack of sobriety

And I happened to be in good company :)

Alright, that’s enough catching up for now. More to follow soon. In the meantime, there’s a grad school application just waiting to be cried over…