This Just In...
8.31.10
Hello Ms. Metaphor,
Why do people water, and then mow their lawns to get rid of the grass instead of growing edible plants?
A Question From Mars
Dear Mars,
I suspect those Kentucky blue grass dreamers are nostalgic for a prairie childhood. Or maybe they are channeling visions of their mother’s English rose garden. Certainly a more meaningful metaphor for beauty and sustainability is the Slow Food Nation Victory Garden in San Francisco. The raised beds around San Francisco’s City Hall were tended by organic gardeners who grew produce for local food banks and meal programs in 2008. That was a good idea that really took root. Why not plant the seeds for something similar in your own neighborhood?
Such a project will require some planning, so enlist the help of local energetic experts to offer hands-on workshops in soil preparation, water-wise gardening, starting seeds, and the like.
There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower,
There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree,
There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower,
And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.
—William Cullen Bryant, “The Gladness of Nature”
If you really want a grow-your-own revolution, begin now. Your own garden and enthusiasm for the community effort could be the start of something big and beautiful.
❊
And Previously...
8.30.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
On a hill above my apartment, is a home where several times a week numerous people gather to laugh. Loudly. Apparently it is class in laughter therapy. In theory I have no objection, and if it makes those who are ill feel better for a while, I'm okay with it.
The problem is, it isn't real laughter, it sounds exactly like a theater troupe party scene, with people laughing in the manner of their perceived character, which is to say awful. It sounds like a dinner table of old people simultaneously choking on chicken bones. It drives me bat guano insane, as if they were telling knock-knock jokes or singing And Bingo Was His Name-o for two hours. In me, it has the exact opposite effect hoped for: I want to kill.
I understand laughter is considered the best medicine, but what about false laughter? Wouldn't poetic souls shun false laughter as they should shun false sentiment? Do people really have to be taught how to laugh?
Signed Argyle
Dear Argyle,
Most urban neighborhoods have noise ordinances. According to the LAPD Noise Enforcement Guidelines: “Excessive, unnecessary, and/or annoying noise is subject to regulation.” So, if you are truly going bats, call the cops and have them zip it for you. That’s that. But then you get the reputation as Crankiest Old Man on the Block.
Or, you could visit your neighbors at Happy Hour and see what’s so darn funny. Aren’t you curious? Maybe chicken bones in the throat sound more genuine close-up. Laughter is a social construct, so yes, in a way we are taught to laugh by those we’re laughing with. The body does not discern between forced or spontaneous laughter—the mind makes that distinction. Laughter is also contagious, which is the idea behind the therapy you find so annoying.
“. . . Our lives are spinning out
from world to world;
the shapes of things
are shifting in the wind.
What do we know
beyond the rapture and the dread? . . .”
—Stanley Kunitz, from “The Abduction”
Ms. Metaphor consults with the poets for practical poetic advice and cannot speak for poetic souls, and whether they ought to shun false sentiment or false laughter. Some poets are actually pretty corny. Some are genuinely funny. That’s just it—if you could see the humor in this situation you’d have enough material for a book.
P.S. Can pretending to laugh make you happy?
(See for yourself.)
❊
8.20.10
Okay. Here's a question for Ms. Metaphor:
Why do some people call it love when the moon hits their eye like a big pizza pie, and others call it love when the stars make them drool just like pasta fazool? What's with all the references to Italian food? And what the hell IS pasta fazool anyway?
A Texas Barbeque Guy
Dear T.B. Guy,
Pasta fazool is a rustic Italian tomato stew made with short pasta and borlotti beans. Italians, and those who love Italian food, know that love and food are twined like spaghetti around a fork.
However, my dear T.B. Guy, Ms. Metaphor is unclear what advice you seek. If you are looking for definitions you ought to visit my sister-in-law down the hall, Mrs. Metaphor. She’s the librarian.
“. . . .The first white wall of the village
Rises through fruit-trees.
Of what was it I was thinking?
So the meaning escapes.
The first white wall of the village . . .
The fruit-trees . . . ”
—Wallace Stevens from “Metaphors of a Magnifico”
8.18.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
My boyfriend and I have been dating for over three years. We both have our own places, and have lived alone for nearly a decade—obviously we are independent people. We live an hour apart, but now we are thinking about renting a place together.
Sometimes this feels right, other times I am still glad to get away to my own place. Weekends I usually drive down to his house, since he's allergic to my cat. The drive is getting tiring, but I do love spending time with him. Plus, I feel there is a depth to a relationship that one cannot reach when living apart.
What do you think? Is it a good idea for two independent people to live together? Is there much to gain?
Contemplating the Next Move
Dear Contemplator,
Is convenience at the top of your cohabiter list? Then it would be sensible to share expenses as well as companionship and move in together. If you have similar tastes in food and decor, even better—playing house would be fun. But, what about your cat friend? Doesn’t sound like kitty is invited. Are you willing to walk away from that relationship? Curious. Do you love your cat? Love your boyfriend more?
Love and convenience don’t always make great bedmates. (See Yours Truly Sleepless, 8.16.10). A roommate is someone you can live with; a bedmate is someone you can’t live without. Which one would you circle in the want ads?
Heed the poet Christina Rossetti:
“. . . I loved and guessed at you, you construed me
And loved me for what might or might not be—
Nay, weights and measures do us both a wrong.
For verily love knows not 'mine' or 'thine';
With separate 'I' and 'thou' free love has done,
For one is both and both are one in love . . .”
Now, if you were Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered you’d be humming Ella Fitzgerald. Who do you suppose she would choose?
❊
8.17.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
I am wondering how to beat summer heat without leaving town? Please help.
Hot as Hell
Dear Hot,
Ah, the big weather question. Whether to weather the hot season, or to while away far away from the maddening shroud. How soon we forget the cool spring rains and dark winter nights of seasons past. If only we could remember how we longed for hot summer nights in the dead of winter. How we wished for a sunny day when it was raining. None of that seems to matter when it’s 110 in
the shade.
Try to mix-up your routine so that you rest during the afternoon heat and save your energy for the night. If you must be about during the day, you might find a sweet spot in town—it could be by the fountain in the park or in the shade of a mother oak, to take your ease. If the heat is really unbearable, a short day trip to enjoy a foggy morning by the sea or breezy afternoon in the mountains will restore your spirits.
“In summer's heat, and mid-time of the day,
To rest my limbs, upon a bed I lay;
One window shut, the other open stood,
Which gave such light as twinkles in a wood . . .”
—Ovid, “In Summer’s Heat”
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