Un-plugged

I just deactivated my facebook account and breathed a sincere sigh of relief. I'm sick of insincere affections, blurred connections, pictures upon pictures, smiles and inside jokes. I'm trying to unplug, detach, scissor, split, writhe, pull away from all that is untrue. "Real recognize real" so it's pen to paper, cheek to cheek. India on Friday!

The Burning Lampshade

During a certain family brunch (see: bagels and lox, pinky rings, and mimosas), our beloved lamp caught fire. We were sitting contentedly around the rickety dining room table when Dad rose up feverishly. "FIRE! FIRE!" he cried. I turned and the lampshade was up in flames, tassels swinging, singed in the New Year's air. Dad sprang into action, dragging the lamp towards the front door, never unplugging it from the wall. The fire was blossoming and blooming, spreading up towards an oil painting, before the flaming lampshade was finally tossed into a nearby snow pile just outside of the front door. Why do I mention this? To cast some ash on my family name? To make a mockery of family traditions? Maybe. The burning lampshade signified fiery portents for 2011. Apparently, this isn't year of the frog, leopard, or mule. Instead, it's year of the singed silk. It's appropriate for me now: college is ending, the future looms, the typewriter needs a new ribbon, the coffee must be refilled. The air is static, electric, buzzing in wait of future thrills. Billie Holiday, in her classic track "Embraceable You" yearns for a "thrill I can press my cheek to." And while it wouldn't be wise to put my smooth cheek to the lampshade's burning skin, I'm also looking for a little heat, some raucous adventures. Sorry, grandma, but I may just take up pyrotechnics to appease my appetites.