It should feel momentous, the initial post, n'est-ce pas? But it doesn't. In so many ways, the Internet has worn me out.
I am Bianca Castafiore, diva and scourge, known but little loved by tintinologistes the world over.
Yawn.
As a defunct and decrepit former French professor, the life of the mind becomes a rather childlike experience, replete with rapt sessions of navel-gazing. In truth, I've become childish -- the claim of childlike is outrageous. I have too much respect for children to carry that farce any further. Other farces? Sure... But not that one.
I have no children. I have adults instead. And cats.
Every day, I try to learn but am in dire need of systematization -- otherwise, I am but a dilettante of learning, and hardly an academician, ex officio.
How long before any readership that I may cull will revolt when they see my penchant for the foreign phrase? Will they think me... affected? Somewhat... false? Well, darlings, whose blog is it, anyway?
I think I am getting the hang of this. Yes, this will do nicely.
In the several minutes from there to *here*, the ringing refrain of Whose Life Is It Anyway? clambered into my brain. I am trying to ignore it, for introducing anything somber in an initial post hardly seems very hospitable. Nonetheless, you, my as yet nonexistent readership, are forewarned that the theme of being trapped in a body is one that will resurface.
Freud has forever been on my Shit List, the perspicacious son-of-a-bitch.
I am Bianca Castafiore, diva and scourge, known but little loved by tintinologistes the world over.
Yawn.
As a defunct and decrepit former French professor, the life of the mind becomes a rather childlike experience, replete with rapt sessions of navel-gazing. In truth, I've become childish -- the claim of childlike is outrageous. I have too much respect for children to carry that farce any further. Other farces? Sure... But not that one.
I have no children. I have adults instead. And cats.
Every day, I try to learn but am in dire need of systematization -- otherwise, I am but a dilettante of learning, and hardly an academician, ex officio.
How long before any readership that I may cull will revolt when they see my penchant for the foreign phrase? Will they think me... affected? Somewhat... false? Well, darlings, whose blog is it, anyway?
I think I am getting the hang of this. Yes, this will do nicely.
In the several minutes from there to *here*, the ringing refrain of Whose Life Is It Anyway? clambered into my brain. I am trying to ignore it, for introducing anything somber in an initial post hardly seems very hospitable. Nonetheless, you, my as yet nonexistent readership, are forewarned that the theme of being trapped in a body is one that will resurface.
Freud has forever been on my Shit List, the perspicacious son-of-a-bitch.
i'm on to you, bianca, you and your little dog, too.
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