Every day I wake up and by osmosis FLY to the kitchen to fill up the Cuisinart and wait for the sweet and robust smell of my own little Starbucks infusion. My old-school NYC Grandmother was similar in the morning coffee ritual, “like an alcoholic” with the morning Java she would say. She’s gotta have it. 7 a.m. High. It’s downhill from here.
I took a pic once on a San Francisco sidewalk of a stenciled spray paint statement art piece, which is pretty much the only art you’ll find in San Francisco, on the street anyway, saying succinctly: social media is stupid. Alliteration boner! Ssssssssssssssstr8up! I used to agree but no more. Social media, like all other momentary ubiquitous fancies in culture, is subject to its own interpretation on usage. My social media is all over the board, from slutumblr to lifestyle-tumblr to look-at-me Instagram to regurgitation Twitter and mothball Facebook, all serve a small purpose besides a reason to look at the iPhone. Facebook is my least fav, but like an old American car, comfortable and easy to navigate and escape from. Here comes the bubble…
Varied interests on Facebook and Twitter are NY Times, Harvard Business Review, NPR, WSJ, Bret Easton Ellis, AbFab, The Onion, RuPaul, and, clutch those million dollar pearls, Town & Country. Nothing represents the bubble like Town & Country. When the rest of the news feed talks of civil unrest and political discord, one can rely on T&C to step in with the TOP TEN PREPPIE NICKNAMES or ” Actual complaints from rich people to their servants.” BUBBLE! Now I realize the metaphorical beauty of the reasoning behind Edina Monsoon’s useless conceptual personal assistant Bubble. She’s in her own world yet floating amongst the real one not paying any attention to the daggers of derision aimed at her. Perhaps I live in the same bubbliciois stratosphere. To call myself an enigma is a bit much; to call myself anything is beyond pretentious. But I’ll say that most of my life I’ve lived the way I want in the moment, money and circumstance aside, I’ve rarely had a boss or compromised my soul to attain an unreachable outcome. Is this its own bubble?
I was reading this morning between the Trump-versus-everyone real time loop a story in Town & Country about a guy who started an experiment in 1960. He placed some compost and a quarter pint of water in a ten gallon glass bottle with a spiderwort sprout at the bottom. He’s only watered it once more in 55 years yet it continues to grow by being sealed and left in the sun, a self-sufficient ecosystem using photosynthesis. But the metaphorical meaning is: leave me alone and I shall continue to thrive in spite of the shenanigans going on around me. See, I’m like that garden in a bottle. I may not be fast or even admired, but I thrive at my own pace and pay little attention to over trying. It’s nice, on this Hump Day, to come to spiritual realizations after strange dreams about having to have three room mates and trying to squeeze a big dog into the back of a Mercedes Convertible. It’s those ibuprofen night terror tablets I take to sleep; they give way to Picasso dreams, noting makes sense. Ambien at least gives Jackson Pollack dreams; they don’t make sense on the surface, but the peripheral scope of underlying meaning becomes apparent by the end, thus leaving a satisfactory sensation.
Sure I have work-work to do but I think I’ll stroll the UWS today and CPW; perhaps run into Suzanne Vega or Alicia Keys. Maybe something bubbly will happen and not in the form of a terrorist attack. Maybe it’ll be a two-for today. Bye, Felicia. TTYML. 🍎