An undercurrent of air horn.

Two separate things tonight, both stemming from conversations with friends and I felt like processing them further here.

First, a memory.

A few years back I read The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen. I liked it pretty well, but there were a few areas where he described a person or a situation by which I was quite taken. One of these was a male character who kept a mental list of things that had been said to him to which he would periodically return as a "source of strength and sustenance." These statements were things like, "You're nothing like your father;" "Let's buy both!" or "I love the taste of your cum."

I was always struck by this idea because I, too, had such a mental list even though I had never thought of all the statements together at once. I tried formulating them in a coherent way so that I could describe them to someone else. So far I've come up with eleven items.

Believe it or not, there really is a point to this.

One of these items that I mentally cherished, although I had not thought about it in quite some time, consisted of two sentences my first grade teacher wrote on my report card. Mrs. Nease said, “Amie is very talented in art. Maybe you could check into an art class for her.”

I was terribly proud, because I really did love to draw and create things. I was even more excited when my mom enrolled me in an art class at the local YMCA. My eagerness diminished quickly as I walked in the class and saw that everyone was much, much older than me and they all had fancy sketchbooks and pencils that we couldn't afford. I still tried to do a good job, but I got frustrated quickly because it seemed like all we did in the first two classes was draw and shade pears. I was used to drawing much more exciting things, such as Luke Skywalker swinging on a rope with Princess Leia snugly in one arm, or sketches for roller coasters I wanted to design someday complete with people riding them, their faces locked in sheer terror with pens, wallets, and glasses falling out of their pockets.

Unfortunately, my art never progressed beyond the first grade level. Looking back, I think my teacher mistook my obsessive attention to detail and accuracy for talent.

For example, I used to create elaborate Indian villages out of Play-Doh. I tried to be as detailed as possible, down to rolling little individual logs for the fire between my thumb and forefinger and then blunting the ends so they would look freshly chopped. I insisted on making footprints in the “mud” all over the village because the Indians would have walked there. There were elaborate footprint paths between all the tipis, out to the canoe and back, to the fire pit, and around in circles where they had been dancing.

I also used to love to draw Santa Claus complete with reindeer and sleigh, except that I always got hung up by the one big bag of toys in the back of the sleigh that most portrayals of him showed. Tales of how he was "magic" and that they bag of toys was "bottomless" didn't satisfy me. In order to explain it to myself, I piled the back of the sleigh with multiple bags. And then, not convinced that this was indeed enough to provide toys to all of the children in the world, I would attach bags on ropes hanging from the rungs of the sleigh and slumped over the reindeer's backs.

I realized the sled would weigh too much for them to fly. The only way I knew how to resolve this problem was by adding extra reindeer reinforcements. By that time, I had already drawn Rudolph in the front guiding the way, so I felt I had no choice but to add extra reindeer and reigns off to the sides of the sleigh to provide additional flight support.

It was nearly a complete army in the sky by the time I got done. Or a chaotic mess. Depending on how you choose to think about it.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Second, an annoying thought pattern. (Completely unrelated to the above story.)

I cannot even tell you how much it goads me to admit this, but it is a persistent problem and I'm hoping that slipping it in here quietly in between entries will be another step toward addressing it. This also stems from a conversation with a friend, incidentally.

I have noticed that if it appears that someone likes me, I am immediately suspicious of them. This is because I assume that:

1) They obviously don't really know me.
2) They are really screwed up themselves.
3) They have very low standards.
4) All of the above.

God, how annoying. Boo hoo hoo. But anyway, there it is. Let's move on.