Dear Millicent,

I would like to offer you thoughtful thoughts on everything, but I’m very warm, and trying to quell general angst, anxiety, and the desire to nap. I wonder with David Foster Wallace (who I sometimes want to call Wallace, and then just go ahead and type it all out), if we have the right to look at his public footage and assume insight. And then, I think how irritated I get when people speak of ‘rights’ like this, because if one is going to go ahead and do it anyways, almost as reflex, the idea of rightness becomes as snide and affected as the “sorry, I don’t have a television” refrain.

I am also still a fusspot about the irritable men of my company. I have no stomach for them (really, no more stomach, and I consider myself a bit of an ironsides, but I am out of acid to digest them with). This leaves me in a wake of worries about success/place in the world/external praise/and understanding of my field. Then I calm down. Then I get worked up. I think I might be an eternal fusspot–one always proclaiming that it is everybody else that is wrong, everybody else that just doesn’t understand. And then (there are lots of thens today), I think of Dawn Weiner, and your description of the control of hate. Are we put in motion (backwards as it maybe) by repulsion. If pulsion, as defined medically, is “a swelling or pushing outward,” is repulsion an active shrinkening? Are we on the verge of imploding? Not creating and expanding, but erasing our initial ferocities?

That’s a bleak one for me, and I don’t want to poke it too much. It might swing me back to the superangst.

Some social questions about Pocketful of Miracles…is the movie’s thesis that goodwill is fine as long as there is no actual social mobility? Everybody rich does quite well by the great charade–the Governor forgives the Mayor for his corruption, the Mayor gets a kiss on the cheek, and they all get the fine warm glow and Christmas cheer of having done something for the sake of help alone. But, then Annie is straight back to the streets, as are her fellow urchins. I almost expected somebody to come up behind her and demand she hand over her gown and borrowed jewels ASAP. Did she drink her gin that night, in her cold hovel, and wish her apples brought something a little more substantial than an expensive kid into town and a nice little game for the upright of New York?

To think of Bette in her full power–I love the quote where a young actress asked her the best way to get into Hollywood, and she said “Take Fountain, dahling.”

To the view from the other side,




2 Responses to Bramblies

  1. Millicent says:

    Carlita, if you have no more stomach for them, may I recommend a belly-stimulating diet of chocolate and eggs?

    You’re right about the problems with perusing Wallace’s public record. (You’re right, that feels off. Is it that Wallace alone wants so badly to be followed by a Gromit?) Since public info’s all we have, I’m counting whatever he said on the record and labeled nonfiction as fair game. The depressed person is off-limits, so are the Hideous men and the hero of The Girl with the Curious Hair.

    For the irritable men: what can I send you? Pink Pepto-Bismol? Toontown Dip? A wig?

    How about tea?

    Much love, incandescent sparkler mine,

  2. Carla Fran says:

    Wig please! That’s the answer. You found it! the delightful answer!

    Off to bewig,

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