imkittymyers at hotmail dot com
Saturday, March 17, 2007
CÉAD MÍLE FÁILTE
Whenever I begin to romanticize those charming Irish cottages, I think of this ...
Above all—we were wet.
From October to April the walls of Limerick glistened with the damp. Clothes never dried: tweed and woolen coats housed living things, sometimes sprouted mysterious vegetation. In pubs, steam rose from damp bodies and garments to be inhaled with cigarette and pipe smoke laced with the stale fumes of spilled stout and whiskey and tinged with the odor of piss wafting in from the outdoor jakes where many a man puked up his week’s wages.
Angela's Ashes, by Frank McCourt
May you live as long as you want, and never want as long as you live.
Happy St. Patrick's Day!
Thursday, March 15, 2007
BEWARE THE IDES OF MARCH & MRS. GRISWALD'S PITS
I took Latin in the ninth grade, and I loved it. I learned more about English by taking Latin than I did when I took three years of French later on. It was common for my class to begin with Latin, or possibly Spanish, and then to progess to the rigors of the regents classes in high school. (Ninth grade in my school was still considered middle school.) Years later, when I began writing, I dipped into those memories to write this piece of fiction:
March 15th always reminds me of my Latin teacher, the gawky Mrs. Griswald. She would drape her bony body with bed sheets and flounce about the classroom giving her own melodramatic interpretation of Caesar’s doom, always ending with the foreboding, "BEWARE THE IDES OF MARCH!" She fancied herself Sarah Bernhardt, yet she was hopelessly Lucille Ball. There she stood, arms stretched heavenward, waiting for a standing O, while the class sat there repulsed by the sight of her hairy pits.
Latin was not my choice. I wanted to take Spanish with all my friends, who thought that Spanish was an easy language. Only nerds took Latin, a dead language. But Grandmother had decreed that I should take Latin, and to insure I was learning I had to recite my lessons after each traditionally sedate family full-court weekly Sunday dinner. She positioned me in front of the library fireplace – SHOULDERS BACK! EYES FORWARD! -- while she thumped cadence with her walking stick as I plodded through the declension of nouns and the conjugation of verbs. Amo, amas, amat. Servus, servi, servo, servum, servo.
I always wondered if Grandmother was fluent in Latin. I asked Mother but she didn’t know. If I had asked Grandmother, she probably would have smiled and said nothing. This was when I still possessed a healthy intimidation of authority, so I never tested her with mistakes. Instead, I was always prepared and, as a result, I was Mrs. Griswald’s prize student, the nerd of the nerds.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
SO MUCH FOR POWELL'S LOYALTY TO HIS COUNTRY
I hope this forever ends any talk of Colin "back stabber" Powell for any elected office. What a total disgrace he is.
Perverse Libby trial was revealing: As for Scooter Libby, he faces up to 25 years in jail for the crime of failing to remember when he first heard the name of Valerie Plame -- whether by accident or intent no one can ever say for sure. But we also know that Joe Wilson failed to remember that his original briefing to the CIA after getting back from Niger was significantly different from the way he characterized it in his op-ed in the New York Times. We do know that the contemptible Armitage failed to come forward and clear the air as his colleagues were smeared for months on end. We do know that his boss Colin Powell sat by as the very character of the administration was corroded.
Here's a bit of interesting speculation: Joe Wilson, CIA Operative?