The Gift of the Magi

Among other things, I am tutoring an adult literacy learner. He enjoys reading and seems interested in vocabulary, word meanings and derivations ... The workbook we are using had an "adaptation" of an O. Henry story ... and I let myself get carried away. We are now reading "The Gift of the Magi," in its original, un-adapted glory.

Since he's devout, I thought he would like the reference. But he didn't quite recall who the magi were, or what the kings did. When I told him, and explained about metaphors, he got it right away; and yet when we began to read, stumbling on the old-fashioned, ten-dollar words and periphrases, he lost the trail of meaning. And I thought, what have I done? Am I making him feel bad because he doesn't understand?

And then, not two pages in, as soon as we read about Della's hair and Jim's watch and their poverty on Christmas eve, he said: She's going to sell her hair. And he's going to sell his watch.

And when the watch chain was described as chaste and lacking meretricious ornamentation, and I said that "meretricious" came from the Latin word for prostitute and that meant the chain was beautifully simple and not all tricked out like a hooker, he laughed.

Metaphor of the day: "Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi."

raw silk

Have you ever bought anything made of raw silk? There's always this tag that says something like this: "Any slubs or imperfections in this garment are a natural part of the fabric and are part of its beauty."

Now, apart from the fact that the word "slubs" is perhaps one of the coolest words around, let's think about this for a minute. Message: this thing has bumps, lumps, and is most definitely not perfect. This is intentional. This thing's beauty lies in its imperfection. Its imperfection is what makes it perfect.

My daughter celebrated her bat mitzvah a few days ago. A friend made her a tallis of dark red raw silk, a color and fabric my daughter chose. I presented it to her with words about how it was like her: small yet strong, bold yet nuanced, with a gold stripe as sunny as her smile. But as I looked at her leading services I realized the true simile. She is like raw silk: her beauty lies in the fact that she is exactly as she is, slubs and all. The lumps and bumps, the parts that I can't smooth out - they are what make her unique and wonderful.

And yes, I was wearing raw silk myself.

Migraine, Your Grain, Our Grain

Similes (or for that matter, metaphors) about migraines are just too easy. I recall seeing an art project someone commissioned once about migraines: visual similes and metaphors galore. The one that really stuck in my head (just behind my right eyeball) was an intricate drawing of teeny tiny little devils with teeny tiny little jackhammers.

In my case, there is no pounding, and I have never imagined any evil spirits taking up residence. Mine is quite specific, though: it is just like a closet pole going through the aforementioned right eyeball and coming out the lower back of my head (what I now know to be the occiput. Occiput it right there, buddy).

How do I know it is exactly like that? Have I ever had a closet pole going through my right eyeball, etc.? Don't be silly, of course I haven't. But ask anyone who's ever had a migraine. I know it is exactly like that.

May you live without teeny tiny devils in your head, or closet poles either for that matter.

Simile of the day: Like clay are we, like fragile clay in the hands of the potter: at her will she shapes us into things of beauty or breaks us.
May we all be written and sealed for good in the coming year.

knitting and nipple clamps

I was sitting at a cafe with my herbal tea and my knitting. A picture of quiet propriety that might well fit into Jane Marple's St. Mary Mead. An extremely handsome man and woman, some ten years younger than I, sat at the next table. He asked me if I was from the neighborhood or just visiting. I'm from across the bay, I said, but I know the neighborhood reasonably well. Can I help you? Well, we want to know if this area is more friendly to women or to men. Hm, I thought. What???

Choosing my words carefully, I said that I thought perhaps they might be confusing the area with the nearby Castro. The Castro, I said, was the traditionally gay area of San Francisco, but really was quite friendly to everyone. I thought they'd be comfortable walking around together.

Oh, he said, we're walking down the street with a riding crop sticking out of a Good Vibrations bag, so we're quite comfortable. That wasn't really the problem. They were visiting from Pennsylvania and they were looking for something and they couldn't find it. Perhaps I could help.

I'd try, of course. What were they looking for?

A store where they could buy nipple clamps.

I see. (And you chose to ask me ... why exactly?) But you were just at Good Vibrations ...?

They were really too female-friendly.

(I'm just a friend of Jane Marple's, sitting here in the late afternoon sun with my knitting and my tea ...)

Now I wish I could end the story here, with me giving a helpless little smile ... but when you've been brought up to be helpful, and you've passed a certain store every week for years, you really do have to help the tourists. Especially when they're walking down the street with a riding crop.

Simile of the day: "Like a bird on a wire, like a drunk in a midnight choir, I have tried in my way to be free." - Leonard Cohen