Blondage

The two primary things on my mind this morning are as follows:

1) blondes
2) The song "Leper Madonna" by Beatallica.

The former is obvious while the latter, not so much. I downloaded a Phil Collins show a couple days ago and finally got around to listening to it last night. The penultimate song of the show is a cover of "Lady Madonna" and, for some reason, it inspired my grey matter to fixate on the Beatallica song. And so it's been playing in my head since last night.

This morning started off oddly and I fear that it may be a portent of an even odder, if not worse, day to come. From what I can recall, my alarm went off at its usual antelucan hour. Groggily I hit the snooze button. I awaken again but not to the alarm. The time is 5:43 and there's the dot indicating that the alarm is active. How queer. But I need to get motivated regardless of the predispositions of any electronic devices. Going downstairs to burn a rope, I find that Stevie isn't up. Normally he is brewing coffee a bit after 5. I checked the bus schedule and then showered. While I was dressing, Stevie ran into the bathroom. It seemed that everyone was sleeping in a bit this Wednesday morning.

Since I start work later than he, I wasn't worried about being late and I arrived at Ancora perhaps only a minute or two later than normal. Much to my surprise, I was greeted by the visages of two young, nubile, and very attractive frauleins who were very nice and talkative as well. They were amused when I asked for "Twenty ounces of your finest Fireside blend." I then proceeded to do a spot of reading before moseying over to 1WW.

I finished the last several pages of a chapter which concerned Proust and Freud. While there is a certain visceral thrill reading about the sexual proclivities of famous people, Ackerman seems all-too willing to psycholanalyze them. She assumes that the reader subscribe to various pop-psychology tenets in her explanations, which I find disturbing. Rather than simply informing the reader of Proust's view on love, Ackerman feels compelled to sift through his childhood, especially his relationship to his mother. From this, she draws various conclusions which we are to accept. Here's an example of her reasoning:

a) Proust lived a very hermetic life.
b) Proust and his mother had a very close relationship - almost too close.
Ergo his lifestyle was the result of his relationship with mommy.

She then proceeds to analyze the guy, pointing out how he tried to find this or that in womyn to account for this or that aspect of his relationship with his mother. Blah. Stop with the pop psychology! Either she sees the Oedipal Complex at work everywhere or she's setting us up for something that comes later in the book.

Complaints aside, it was still pretty interesting reading. And I think the parts about Proust's view of love and how it mediates our relationships with nature and other human beings got to me. As I was walking down Main Street, I felt very happy, very connected in some odd way. (Sorry, no thoughts about my mother.) I met the glance of a beautiful blonde who had big blue eye with one of my own. It was one of those moments when eye contact seems to last an hour when it only lasts a fraction of a second.
Now, whether I felt this way because I'd read about love or because I'm just frisky is something I'll leave to the experts.