Where to begin? I’ll start by introducing myself. I’m your whit. ing. addict. You may note the errors, or rather creativities, in the aforementioned. Please do not be alarmed; I know what I’m doing. Think of it more like an e.e. cummings gesture–
I’ve been a resident blogger for three years now. It’s amazing what infidelity can do. For some it provokes sharp objects and severed body parts, for me, words; I find them much more powerful. Don’t worry, this blog isn’t about infidelity anyway. It’s about life. Although I do recognize that infidelity is a way of life for some; however, I operate on the premise that those individuals are at some far away clinic right now explaining to a puzzled physician why their syphillus test is positive after a week-long vacay in the Mexican city of Chiapas. Moreover, this blog’s only stipulation: wit, and thus the title.
Wit: humor, aphonism, bandorage, whimsicality, pun, wordplay.
This is the wit definition we typically associate. I did, until I saw a very inspiring film, which provoked me to explore the term a bit further (it wasn’t a very funny film).
Wit: intelligence, acuman, common sense, comprehension, judgement, perception, brainpower, rationality, sagacity, sageness, reason, lucidity, ingenuity, soundness, sapience, and the list goes on and on…
Truth be known, I think we need a little of both in order to properly explore and enjoy the world. Jestful wit without the accompaniment of witiful reason is just a bunch of banter. Turn it around and all you got is research so dry your eyeballs wanna fall out.
I live in a San Francisco flat, just on the edge of the Marina, beautiful view of the city. It’s a tiny place for a hefty price but I’m a writer–whatever that means. I have a wonderful husband who always leaves the toilet seat down, brushes his teeth, and wears cologne. Sometimes on the weekend, he even wears silky boxers. Lucky lady, I know. There’s a little boy too, Emerson, and a japanese-speaking dog, Ini. Most days you’ll find me at my kitchen table writing and if we need milk, on my beachcruiser en route the local market. When we need other things like–groceries–you’ll find my husband strolling the deodarant aisle inquiring of some old blue hair if he’s close to the canned tofu. That’s the outside of me; what you see. For the inside:
If you were to ask me what I most think about, it would be what I call, “the paradigm of others.” I look around and all I see is perfection, as others live, like they’re some beau ideal, and I can only stand by watching, or riding my beachcruiser, or phone-coaching my husband out of the toiletries section. Then I’m reminded, the philosophy of other minds— for all I know they got an ant up there running the show. Behaviors don’t equate to what’s really on the inside; it’s just a guess. Life is a series of uncalculated guesses and if we’re lucky we pick the right choice, if not, then we end up with orange hair or one eyebrow, true story.
I remember visiting Chicago and admiring how vast the buildings are there. At the top of the Sears Tower the entire city is visable, during the day, but as the haze of night creeps in the view changes. The lights are the only thing left to guide an onlooker, appearing as millions of tiny dots, millions. They piece together somewhat of a coherent picture but nothing like that which is seen throughout the day. To me, the paradigm of others is the same way, once you remove the lightness of day, things aren’t so clear, everyone and everything isn’t so perfect. All that’s left is a bunch of imperfect sporadic spots–and the game begins. That’s why it’s all a guess. We connect the dots best we can.
Now you see why this blog is about humor, and wit, and intellect, and life. They are all bound together to hopefully make something worth looking at. Something that it isn’t so boring your eyeballs fall out or so funny you pee your pants (okay at times this is fun). Something just in the middle, but even that’s a guess too.
a whit. ing. addict.