FUCK YOU I’M MILLWALL

June 8, 2017

So, as most everyone knows by now, we had a wee bit of the TERROR here in London last weekend.  Not ideal.  But one of the things that always follows terrorist incidents are stories of human bravery.  Case in point: this absolute legend, who, unarmed, charged the terrorists yelling a battle cry of, “Fuck you, I’m Millwall!”

For the Americans amongst my readers, Millwall is a football/soccer club that is, how should I put this: thoroughly disliked.  Their fans are known to be uneducated thugs. In fact, a common cheer they use as a retort is, “No one likes us, we don’t care.”  So imagine how exciting it is for them––whether they’ll admit it or not––to all of a sudden find themselves VERY liked!

My husband and I have, like many others out there, found the story and the tagline pretty amazing.  So the other night, we were joking about making t-shirts with “Fuck You, I’m Millwall” on them, because of course when something is funny, the first thing you should do is make a t-shirt of it.  I was one click away from ordering 400 customized t-shirts (to the tune of nearly 1,000 GBP) when my wet blanket husband decides actually, it would be weird, and maybe we’d have to check with Millwall (even though I wasn’t planning on using the logo) and instead we could think about just having them say FYIM even though exactly two people in the universe (him and me) would know what the fuck that meant.

So fine, even though we were going to donate the proceeds to the victims’ families and other charitable causes, and even though I’m sure Millwall officials would be thrilled to partner with us on this initiative, the project will go on the shelf for now.  But let the record show that this shirt would have been bomb.

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Comforting Rejections

June 4, 2017

In the not-so-distant past, I had a short, experimental-type thing rejected from a small literary magazine.  I must have succeeded in making something truly disappear from my Gmail–no small feat––because I can’t find the rejection note, but I’ll approximate here:

“Dear Itinerant Daughter,

Thank you for sending us A Short, Experimental-Type Thing.  While we are going to pass on this, please be assured that every submission we receive is read and evaluated carefully by our esteemed staff.”

Which got me thinking… why would it be comforting to me to know that you guys really thought hard about it but nonetheless decided my piece was crap?  In actuality, the rejection note I would be happy to receive would go more like this:

“Dear Itinerant Daughter,

Thank you for sending us a piece we can’t be bothered to remember the name of.  We’re passing, but only because we have so few staff members––all undeniably lazy and lacking in erudition––that we in fact haven’t gotten around to reading anything anyone’s sent us in… gosh, going on two years now.  Mostly we just assign numbers to submissions and then pick digits at random out of a hat and run the corresponding essays.  Unfortunately, your number didn’t come up this time.”

That’s more like it.

One of my favorite signs in London

May 26, 2017

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Monastic Sign Language

May 17, 2017

In a biography of Thomas Merton, a mention of “Cistercian Sign Language,” one of a few monastic sign languages developed in order to help monks communicate with one another.  A bit on Catholicism and sign language, from Jonathan Burgess:

Monastic sign language, much like the sign language with which most of us are familiar, is based on symbolic gestures involving the hands and face to communicate basic concepts. A Catholic who regularly attends Mass already knows at least one. Tapping one’s chest with a closed fist means, “Forgive me” or “Pardon me.” Pressing one’s thumb under the chin can mean “Alright. That’s it.” or “Enough.” Pressing one’s index fingers together to create the shape of a triangle means “Finish[ed].” Spreading the fingers of one’s hand and sweeping them across one’s cheek means “Pretty” or “Beautiful.” To sign “God,” touch the thumbs of both hands to the opposite palm while touching both index fingers to point upward in a triangle to indicate the Blessed Trinity. “Soul” is indicated by making a semi C-shape with the index finger pointing upward, touching the hand to one’s forehead, and then extending the hand upward. If a friend or interlocutor asks how one’s day is going, a brief touch of the cheek is “good” and a rub of the nose is “bad.” Touch one hand to the chin, and extend the hand forward keeping the fingers extended and joined with the back still facing the other person to say “thank you.” He or she returns the gesture to say “you’re welcome.”

Does this stuff really all come up in mass?  Or only the first one?  Anyway, I would fucking love to learn Cistercian (a specific order) sign language.  I’d put it in my bio and show off my skills at parties.  I’d sign my accomplishment from the Seven Storey mountain!

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Life Lessons

May 14, 2017

Things children in Samoa must learn before the age of five:

To sit or crawl within the house

Never to stand upright unless absolutely necessary

Never to address an adult in a standing position

To stay out of the sun

Not to tangle the strands of the weaver

Not to scatter the cut up coconut which is spread out to dry

To keep their scant loin cloths at least nominally fastened to their person

To treat fire and knives with proper caution

Not to touch the kava bowl, or the kava cup

If their father is a chief, not to crawl on his bed-place when he is [near]by

~Margaret Mead, Coming of Age in Samoa

Jacques Lacan Being a Dick

May 3, 2017

Interviewer: In your philosophy…

Lacan: I am not a philosopher, not in the least.

An ontological, metaphysical notion of the real…

It is not at all ontological.

You borrow a Kantian notion of the real.

It is not even remotely Kantian.  I make that quite clear.

***

“The Triumph of Religion” comes from a press conference held in Rome on October 29, 1974, at the French Cultural Center.  Lacan was interviewed by Italian journalists.

Someone Please Remember

April 14, 2017

Remember when I had an idea to make a TV show (equal parts Knick and Mad Men) about RD Laing’s Kingsley Hall?  No?  I know someone has a record of this somewhere.  Although I guess it doesn’t matter now, because screenwriter-director Robert Mullan has beaten me to the punch with his new movie Mad to Be Normal.  From The Guardian‘s (much maligned) Peter Bradshaw:

David Tennant is on pugnacious, mercurial and beady-eyed form in this very interesting and absorbing film. It’s one of his best performances. He plays the psychiatrist RD Laing, who became a 60s counterculture hero for challenging what he saw as the profession’s heartless prison-hospital ethos of tranquillisers and electroconvulsive shock treatment. Instead, Laing proposed a holistic treatment without drugs (although medically licensed LSD was acceptable), using group therapy and communal healing. He set up a refuge at Kingsley Hall in east London, that was regarded suspiciously as something like a Bedlam cult.

Hard-drinking, hard-smoking Laing laughs and cries along with his patients – who adore him – and angrily tells interviewers about the people “out to get” him. Elisabeth Moss plays Laing’s (composite-fictional) partner Angie, and Gabriel Byrne and Michael Gambon are excellent as his patients: old men who in a later era might be overlooked as care-in-the-community homeless. The screenplay by Robert Mullan and Tracy Moreton does not take a conventional biopic line but instead shows scenes from a life, with influences from Beckett, BS Johnson and perhaps David Cronenberg’s Spider in its images of broken things being put back together. Now I’d like see Mullan direct a biopic of Laing’s French counterpart, the philosopher and critic Michel Foucault. Perhaps Cédric Kahn could shave his head for the part.

Short Story

April 12, 2017

Someone base a short story on the moment they broke the news to Elmer, please!  I’d do it myself but I don’t have the time at the moment…

“In questions of administration, [McLean Hospital head] Stanton could simply get lost.  Longtime facilities manager Henry Langevin remembers presenting Stanton with three competing bids for resurfacing McLean’s central tennis court, where Stanton himself often played.  But the director was paralyzed by indecision because the switch from the clay to a hard surface would eliminate a cherished job––rolling and sweeping the ochre-colored clay––for one of the hospital’s elderly, chronic schizophrenics.  ‘What’s poor Elmer going to do?’ was Stanton’s plaint, as the trial court resurfacing decision hung fire for months.”

I know Stanton’s indecision is supposed to be annoying, but I find his concern for Elmer rather sweet, don’t you?

 

(From Gracefully Insane: Life and Death Inside America’s Premier Mental Hospital by Alex Beam)

Resemblance

April 2, 2017

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Smoking

March 31, 2017

On rare occasions I’ll feel a bit sad that my days of being a stupid kid are coming to a close.  When that happens, I tend to envision myself doing something like smoking one of these Sobranie cigarettes––kinda kitschy, but undeniably glamorous.  I can probably have one a year or so even now that I’m a grown-up, right?

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