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Degrees Kelvin
Oct. 21st, 2001 12:53 amAs anyone knows who spends a sufficient amount of time around me, my accent is strongly correlated with my stress level. It makes perfect sense to me: when I am uncomfortable, I become infinitely more formal in a queer sort of survival mechanism. As a result, if I am being very polite to you, especially if I sound very English, it probably means I am very angry or very afraid. (This should not be confused with a Scottish accent, which means I've been drinking, or a Texan accent, which means I've been smoking, or a South Carolignian accent, which means I'm smoothtalking you and about to pull an elaborate con.)
In any case, when I looked at my shoulder a few minutes ago and said "good lord," in an absently British sort of way, it should have been sufficient to set off warning bells in anyone's head. I was, in fact, nose to tail with a Texas scorpion -- small, fast, and much more venomous than the larger species. The arachnid and I blinked at each other for a bare second, and I found myself wondering what had become of my scorpion ring, the one with the black stone; then Val was flicking it off my t-shirt and enthusiastically mashing it to death with a ten pound weight.
"Well," she said, "that was certainly exciting."
"Rather," I replied. "I daresay I'd like some hot chocolate."
It occurs to me that although I was not stung by the scorpion, I have managed to garner more scars in the past month than in the rest of my life put together. I've scraped elbows, skinned knees, burned arms and hands, cut legs, a twisted ankle, and an assortment of other minor injuries. I'm quite delighted by this -- I feel it gives me the same cachet as people who smoke and drink too much, go out without putting on sunblock, and drive without seatbelts. People too busy living their lives to worry about what might haunt them ten years down the line.
Yes, pleased indeed, because scars mean life, scars mean survival, scars mean past history.
Incidentally, I reseasoned my wok today, and it is stronger than ever before. Less pretty, to be sure, more battered, but with a vital energy -- a stoicism that came with hardship. "Remember your failure at the cave," it seems to be saying, and I can only reply "but I've learned so much since then!" And truly, I have; one need only look to the sumptuous Marsala sauce I prepared this very evening.
Dash it all, I desperately want to reread Prince Caspian, to the point where it's becoming an obsession and I'm searching the web for minor quotes, but my copy is in Boston, (drat the luck,) and Val's is in Duncanville. Woe are us.
In any case, when I looked at my shoulder a few minutes ago and said "good lord," in an absently British sort of way, it should have been sufficient to set off warning bells in anyone's head. I was, in fact, nose to tail with a Texas scorpion -- small, fast, and much more venomous than the larger species. The arachnid and I blinked at each other for a bare second, and I found myself wondering what had become of my scorpion ring, the one with the black stone; then Val was flicking it off my t-shirt and enthusiastically mashing it to death with a ten pound weight.
"Well," she said, "that was certainly exciting."
"Rather," I replied. "I daresay I'd like some hot chocolate."
It occurs to me that although I was not stung by the scorpion, I have managed to garner more scars in the past month than in the rest of my life put together. I've scraped elbows, skinned knees, burned arms and hands, cut legs, a twisted ankle, and an assortment of other minor injuries. I'm quite delighted by this -- I feel it gives me the same cachet as people who smoke and drink too much, go out without putting on sunblock, and drive without seatbelts. People too busy living their lives to worry about what might haunt them ten years down the line.
Yes, pleased indeed, because scars mean life, scars mean survival, scars mean past history.
Incidentally, I reseasoned my wok today, and it is stronger than ever before. Less pretty, to be sure, more battered, but with a vital energy -- a stoicism that came with hardship. "Remember your failure at the cave," it seems to be saying, and I can only reply "but I've learned so much since then!" And truly, I have; one need only look to the sumptuous Marsala sauce I prepared this very evening.
Dash it all, I desperately want to reread Prince Caspian, to the point where it's becoming an obsession and I'm searching the web for minor quotes, but my copy is in Boston, (drat the luck,) and Val's is in Duncanville. Woe are us.
