Last night we watched "The Threepenney Opera" by Bertold Brecht and Kurt Weill. It was a great film, and it was also interesting to see the "plus ca change, plus ca la meme chose" theme: the people getting preyed on and manipulated by the rich. The movie could have moved a little bit faster, and sometimes the acting was the heavy Teutonic variety, but heck, it was still good.
I pranced around a little before going to bed, posing like Lotte Lenya and singing "Mac the Knife" in a gravelly voice.
My boyfriend was having some heavy duty weltschmertz himself these last couple of days. I told him he should set up his own "Weltschmertz Man" blog and give the male view of the depressive side of life, but he demurred. Come on, T.D.! You can do it! A little hopeless scribbling never hurt anybody!

It took a bit of chutzpah on my part to write something that the public could read. I don't know who's sitting out there in the Web, looking at this. Are they kind or psychotic? Are they highly judgemental or easygoing? Is what I'm putting here worthwhile? It's hard to describe how I felt when I signed up for this blog. Queasy? A intense, smooth wave of anxiety? This is a feeling that is not in the least akin to stage fright. I guess it's closer to something more elemental: letting myself, even in this small way, become vulnerable to an awful lot of unknown people.
A form of torture in the old days was to pull the intestines out of the person while they were still alive. The gut is exquisitely sensitive and to have it exposed like that would be horrible and cruel. I hope that my fears of exposing my own "gut feelings" to the world here, in an arena filled with strangers to me, are not justified.

Day two of my blog! I cleaned a really gnarly part of my basement yesterday. A good friend of mine helped me. There were lots of spiders, some of ghastly shape and large size. It's a corner of the basement in which the spiders LOVE to congregate.
A strange sort of resurrection/archeology ensued from this project. Under the cobwebs, spider crap and dust was a box full of my artist supplies from who knows when. There was a photo of my ex-husband, taken by me on a trip to San Francisco. The photo was of him in his cowboy hat, face forward, with the ocean behind him. (It was on a beach in southern Oregon.) There was a pair of turquoise pants, neatly folded, under a couple of rolled up blankets.
It was interesting that the art supplies were "unearthed," you might say, because I am thinking of taking a pastel class at our community college this fall. There is a box of almost pristine pastels with those art supplies. I also found that I could be sardonically amused by the photo of my ex-husband. No more pain or regret about him. The turquoise pants -- well, maybe I need a pair of that color now, right?