Eccentric Flower:199810/lovely weather and vicarious lives
From Eccentric Flower
«October 1998 «Eccentric Flower
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twenty october ninety eight two p m lovely weather and vicarious lives Lunch made me aware that it is a beautiful day to be outside. And I am inside. This is Not Right. Nonetheless work must be done. I actually had a good meal from The Institvte's food services (read: the cafeteria). I try their food now and again, on the basis that it's got to be better for me than Burger King. Also, one does crave vegetables. I never would have guessed, as a child, that I'd get to the point where I'd crave vegetables. The food service here is notoriously bad. The students are always grousing about it. Of course, students grousing about the cafeteria is a time-tested and universal tradition, but having eaten at a bunch of other universities, I feel I can make a judgement: This place is definitely below average. But today it was good. And afterwards I strolled across the campus in the piles of bright yellow and orange leaves with my coffee, and now I'm back at my desk, and ooh, I don't want to work. - - - I suspect some of my email is being lost or ignored, and I can't decide which bothers me more. I hesitate to name names, because I could inadvertently pick on someone who is unexpectedly backlogged for other reasons - after all, you have lives. Kymm, for instance, is doing a lot of Things right now, so it doesn't fret me that she hasn't responded - I just wish I knew if she even got it in the first place! Oh, and thanks to everyone who wrote me about Ursula LeGuin and The Left Hand of Darkness. I don't think I've ever gotten that much email from a single journal topic before, and it was all good stuff. - - - I noticed an unusual phenomenon a few days ago, during another of these brilliant fall afternoons. I was out walking, and I had my customary cup of coffee in hand. Sitting in Seven Hills Park was a woman in a pink skirt and loose, tied-off black blouse. She had large black square plastic handbag, a small dish of soft ice cream, and a little white dog of indeterminate breed. A puppy, I think, as opposed to being just a small dog. She had brought a plush toy for it to fiercely attack. The puppy was so excited to be outside and on the grass without a leash and all that its brain just couldn't handle it. It kept running around in circles, in a state of sensory overload. At one point, a very small child encountered the puppy, and both were so thrilled that they just sort of ran around each other aimlessly, not noticing that they never actually made contact. Anyway. I found myself staring at this woman, who was obviously enjoying the outdoors and the ice cream and the antics of the dog, and I realized that I was not staring at the woman. I was trying to envision being the woman. I wanted to be her for a little while, just to see what the story was, just to see what it felt like. Now, although I do that all the time - imagine being female - it is generally with a female version of myself, generally a mental construct. I have never before found myself involuntarily wanting to project into another actual, random human. I've wanted to live a female life, but always my own; never someone else's. I'm not sure if this is gender-related or not; it seems to me it's not especially, except that I'd have been much less likely to want to step into her head if she'd been male. It was both an interesting and disturbing phenomenon. I think I also felt some of that when I first started reading Anita's words ... but never before with a person whose life I knew absolutely nothing about. I hope she didn't think I was staring for other reasons!
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