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Monday, December 15, 2003


Part of me recognizes elements of myself; part of me screams "Stop the Madness!"...

Wednesday, December 10, 2003

The next book on my list.

Monday, December 08, 2003

If the body is a machine, yoga is motor oil. I can never quite understand why I stop for long periods of time, as corpse pose is always ALWAYS worth an hour or two of contortions and muscle spasms.
I am melted and poured out like wax.

Friday, December 05, 2003

The Hazards of the Season.

Thursday, December 04, 2003

Ahhhhh. These are my kind of people.
It's SNOWING!!!!!!

(I love snow.)


Tuesday, December 02, 2003

I have found my signature scent for winter.

I feel as if I should be announcing this from a high, pennanted balcony, as it is an issue of great concern among the cognoscenti of my inner circle—so fantastically consuming a subject that we never speak of it at all. (On a slant-wise related matter, I have been reading/watching too much Oscar Wilde for my own good.). But really, I jest.

I suppose the purpose for my mentioning this minor tidbit at all is to segue into a discussion about what it means to be picky or, as I like to recast it, particular.

Let me start by saying I don’t quite understand this label. I use it myself, but only because it seems to correspond to something similar in the world outside of my head that allows other people to easily integrate me into their conception of things.
I will be the first to admit that I like things a certain way--not coffee, but a specific brand of coffee (Caribou, House Blend); not apples, but precise types of apples (Fuji, Gala, Pink Lady); etc…
But doesn’t everyone make choices about what they do and do not like and pursue those choices to attain maximum satisfaction? It is a function of our personalities. We define our humanity, our selves by what, who, how we like and dislike, and these decisions about tastes filter into the way we move, the way we speak, the way we dress ourselves, and so on into the usual minutia of existence.
In this kind of framework what does it mean to be picky/fastidious/particular (slice it or dice it any way you please), as it seems to me that pickiness is a function of being human?
I suppose the answer lies in the matter of degree.
Some people like pizza. Some people like cheese and meat pizza. I am really only satisfied by a Gouda and barbeque chicken pizza from California Pizza Kitchen (sometimes the Jamaican Chicken is also acceptable).
But I think that, if a person who likes pizza were to be honest with herself, there’s a platonic ideal of a pizza that satisfies her desires better than any other kind of pizza. She is willing to accept inferior interpretations of that perfect pizza, but it doesn’t quite reach the level of satisfaction attained by that REALLY GOOD pizza.
I don’t see the point in lesser satisfaction.
Okay, I suppose it’s an issue of priorities as well, but it just doesn’t seem logical to me to not care about these details. They do add up, and then before you know it you live in a dank basement apartment, eat Hungryman dinners, and wear cargo capris.

I hope you have enjoyed this little excursion into Shangrilogic and have managed not to become too ill from the vertigo.

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