My Five Year Old Daughter, the Bed-Banging Anarchist Rock Star, Thor!

Dar, pretending to be a performer named Thor (who, notably and disturbingly, puked after every show, saying, "I'm gonna puke, I'm gonna puke" and "I'm goin' to sleep. Nap time for me. Definitely!" and then woke up to another performance, announcing to herself cheerily, "This is the big audition today!"), screamed this song (that she made up) extraordinarily loudly on the bed for a good twenty minutes this afternoon. I could not stop laughing, for at least the first four bodacious rounds.

The improvised lines that really stand out to me, one of Thor's mothers: the one about going around naked and the call to "just hit our heads." If this tune predicts anything about the teenage years, it sounds like we'll have our hands full...of heroically wild empowerment. I will, however, invest in helmets, first thing in the morning! Don't think I didn't expect the gods to give me a taste of my own youthful elixir; I've been told by a wise-ass/embler of truth that I "would be more than a handful for a parent" and I know handfuls always come back to haunt with handfuls. Luckily, the best parenting trick I have up my wisely wild sleeve is my sense of humor, appreciation, understanding, and power of persuasion. Communication is the answer to all questions, especially ones that don't have answers. Something tells me that Dar soon will give my persuasive power a run for its money. I should note, too, that she had been listening to Fiona Apple's new album yesterday. Under the influence, aren't we all...

I'm the Boss of Myself
by Dar Thor

"Don't lay on the bed?"
HEY, who made you the boss?
I'm the boss of myself. I go around naked.
Come on let's go free.
"Don't?" Who said you're the boss,
I'm the boss of myself. I'm gonna do it my way.
Now, everybody, let's go crazy.
Hey, who made you the boss? I'm the boss of myself.
Now let's go free, I'm gonna do it my way.
My brain is the boss of me. I don't have to listen to anybody
because I am the boss of myself.
They say don't do this, don't do that,
I say who made you the boss me --
I'm the boss of myself, you can't boss me around.
I can do whatever I want to do.
Jump on the bed, do everything I want.
They say don't do this, don't do that;
I say, I'm the boss of myself,
 I can do whatever I want, come on let's have a party.
Come on let's just hit our heads.
Who made you the boss, I'm the boss of me.
I'll jump, and jump, and roll all day.
And then get some candy at Walgreens all by myself.
I don't have to sleep, I say no way.
Whoooo's the boss of me? ME! I'm the boss of myself,
you can't boss me around,
I'm the boss of myself, let's jump around.
They say don't do that, I say, who made you the boss;
I'm the boss of me, let's be free. I'm the boss of myself,
you knowwww that, now let's go free.
Rock and roll everything, I'm the boss of myself.
I say no way, I'm the boss of myself,
now let's go free and play.
You can't tell me to do that, I'm gonna go free.
No one can control me,
I'll kick em around if they try cause I am the boss of me.
I'm the boss of myself, I'm the boss of me.
Now let's go free and play,
come and play, come on
let's go free-ee and play.
Free to jump around and free to do anyanyanything.
Come on, come on, who made you the boss of me?
I'm the boss of myself, now let's go free and play.
Everything is free today. I'm gonna go my way.
I'm the boss of myself, so let's go away.
I. AM. THE. BOSS. OF. MY. SE-ELF.

Get Your Poet On!

I'd like to start a line of perfumes inspired by and named after dead poets. Possible company names (no, not Dead Poet Scentciety or Poet-No-Mort): Poet Aroma, Verse Verdant, or Poessence, perhaps. For travel-size versions, Poet Balm (Frost will be a best-seller every December!). But think of it - what poet would you want (to try) on your skin? How would you WANT or imagine Teasdale to smell (on you)? The poems are the inspiration for the Scent of the Poet. And the motto: "The scent that'll make you wish you were dead!" 100% All-Supernatural Ingredients GUARANTEED! And no discontinuations EVER. You won't want to leave the house without (getting) Your Poet on! Who wouldn't want to give her sweetheart a little Millay on Valentine's Day? Who wouldn't want to douse herself in Dickinson?

If you had this idea before me: NO YOU DIDN'T. I have only one person to thank (or blame) for this and it is Nana (and Nana's Basement Perfumehouse of Avon). Do not let this cat out of the hag. I need to call Oprah first to schedule personal interviews with the dead poets I am representing. Oprah can try out all the poets first because she O-wns the Poet Perfume Network - the dead poets in perfume bottles all want to have tea with Oprah THE MOMENT they come (back) to life. All Rights Reserved for this Aromatic Rumi. You know you wanna put that favorite poet on your favorite someone. You know you wanna Sleep with Shelley.

We are All Mad

Anyone Can Whistle (Laurents and Sondheim)
"Simple"

HAPGOOD:
Grass is green,
Sky is blue,
False is false and
True is true.
Who is who?
You are you,
I'm me!
Simple? Simple? Simple?
Simple as ABC.
Simple as one-two-three!

SCHUB:
But who on that line is what?

HAPGOOD:
One is one,
Two is two,
Who is what and
Which is who?
No one's always what they seem to be.

CORA:
That's certainly true.

HAPGOOD:
For example - you sir, with the manly good looks. Would you come forward please, Mr. Hapgood?

SCHUB:
I thought you were Hapgood.

HAPGOOD:
Calling the patient by my name, he identifies with me immediately, we have an instant transference and thereby save five years of psychoanalysis.

CORA:
Now that is brilliant! Now what happens if I call you Hoover Hooper?

HAPGOOD:
Shall we dance? No, we have. Now then, Mr. Hapgood -

GEORGE (THE YOUNG MAN):
Call me Happy, sir. Or George.

HAPGOOD:
All right, Georgie.

GEORGE:
Thank you, George.

HAPGOOD:
Thank you. Now when we were a child, that is, when you were a child, a boy - you were a boy?

GEORGE:
I was a manly little fellow, sir.

HAPGOOD:
Then I'm sure there was a saying you learned that you have used ever since to govern your life. A motto, a watchcry...

GEORGE:
A watchcry... yes, sir.
"I am the master of my fate
And the captain of my soul."

HAPGOOD:
Good, Hapgood! Now then: married?

GEORGE:
Yes, sir.

HAPGOOD:
Two children?

GEORGE:
Yes, sir.

HAPGOOD:
Two TV sets?

GEORGE:
Yes, sir.

HAPGOOD:
Two martinis?

GEORGE:
Yes, sir.

HAPGOOD:
Bank on Friday?

GEORGE:
Yes, sir.

HAPGOOD:
Golf on Saturday?

GEORGE:
Yes, sir.

HAPGOOD:
Church on Sunday?

GEORGE:
Yes, sir.

HAPGOOD:
Do you vote?

GEORGE:
Yes, sir.
Only for the man who wins.
Only for the man who wins.
Only for the man who -

HAPGOOD:
All right. Headaches?

GEORGE:
No, sir.

HAPGOOD:
Backaches?

GEORGE:
No, sir.

HAPGOOD:
Heartaches?

GEORGE:
No, sir.

HAPGOOD:
Thank, you, Hapgood. Group A. Over there, please.

SCHUB:
What's Group A?

CORA:
Obviously mad as a hatter.

SCHUB:
Magruder! Place the Cookie under arrest.

HAPGOOD:
Just a moment here. George - do you ever wonder whether you're real?

GEORGE:
Oh, no, sir. I know I'm not.

HAPGOOD:
Group One. Over there, please.

Grass is green,
Sky is blue,
Safe is sane and
Tired is true.
You be you and me to some degree.
Simple? Simple? Simple?
Simple as ABC.

CORA:
Well, is he safe or sane, Doctor?

SCHUB:
Safe is sane.

HAPGOOD:
Not always.
The opposite of safe is out.
The opposite of out is in.
So anyone who's safe is "in".

GEORGE:
That I've always been!

CORA, SCHUB, COOLEY AND MAGRUDER:
The opposite of safe is out.
The opposite of out is in.
So anyone who's safe is "in".

HAPGOOD:
That's how groups begin!

CORA, ET AL:
When you're in, you win!

HAPGOOD:
Simple? Simple? Simple?
Simple as ABC.

CORA, ET AL:
Simple? Simple? Simple?

HAPGOOD:
Simple as do you do like me?

CORA:
Well, I do indeed like you. The question is -

SCHUB:
The question is - jus a moment there.

GEORGE:
"I am the master of my fate
And the captain of my soul."
But my name isn't George, Doctor.

HAPGOOD:
What is it?

GEORGE:
Hapgood.

HAPGOOD:
Very good. Group A. Right here, please.

SCHUB:
What is it?

CORA:
I don't know, but it's brilliant.

SCHUB:
But which - which - just which group is what?

HAPGOOD:
It's very simple.
Grass is green,
Sky is blue,
A is one group,
One is too,
One is One or One is A, you see...

CORA:
Grass is green,
Sky is blue,
One is one and
A is too.
...
SCHUB:
No. A is One and
One is, too.
...
(The following is sung SIMULTANEOUSLY)
CORA:
No. One and One
Is always two
To me!
...
I don't agree!
A is you and
Me!

COOLEY:
...
No. One is green.
A is blue.
One can be
In A, you see.
A is crazy!
Maybe.

MAGRUDER:
...
...
No. A is green,
One is blue!
A is "out" and
One is "in"!
I agree.

SCHUB:
...
...
...
No. One is One.
A is one group.
Too.
See?

(They are interrupted by a WOMAN who sings in a strong cntralto and comes forward at HAPGOOD'S beckoning)

WOMAN:
(Very loud)
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-
Woman's place is in the home,

MAN:
A woman's place is in the house.

WOMAN:
And home is where you hang your hat,

MAN:
And that is where you hang your spouse.

WOMAN:
A woman's place is in the home...

HAPGOOD:
Dear Mr. And Mrs. Hapgood.

JUNE (THE WOMAN):
Oh, we're not married, Doctor. He's June and I'm John. I mean she's John and he's June.

JOHN (THE MAN):
June and John are engaged.

JUNE:
John's my secretary.

JOHN:
June used to be my secretary but his corporation went bust.

JUNE:
And her syndicate took over.

HAPGOOD:
Well, it would all be in the family if you got married.

JOHN:
Oh, but John can't support June.

JUNE:
Every cent John makes goes to pay for June's dinners.

HAPGOOD:
Why doesn't June gives John a raise?

JUNE:
He's not worth it.

HAPGOOD:
I see. And neither of you wants John to stay home and do the housekeeping because -

JOHN AND JUNE:
Because...

JOHN, JUNE AND HAPGOOD:
A woman's place is in the home,
A woman's place is on the shelf.
And home is where he hangs her hat,
And that is where she hangs himself.

CORA AND SCHUB:
Group-

HAPGOOD (TO JUNE):
A.

SCHUB:
Magruder!

HAPGOOD (TO JOHN):
One.

ALL (SIMULTANEOUSLY):
"A woman's place is in the home,
a woman's place is in the house."
"I'm the master of my fate
and the captain of my soul."
"If at first you don't succeed, try, try again."
"Beauty is only skin deep."
You can't make a silk purse out on a sow's ear."
"Fly now, pay later."
Never look a gift horse in the mouth."
"Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies."
"Handsome is as handsome does."
"You always hurt the one you love."
"Seeing is believing."

SCHUB:
Stop the music! A man crossed over.

HAPGOOD:
That was a woman.

SCHUB:
Oh.

CORA:
Group One. Ha ha ha ha ha!

SCHUB:
Now wait. Are they all Cookies? If you could produce someone who is sane, present company excluded, of course-

HAPGOOD:
Ah- good lad, Hapgood.
Watchcry?

MARTIN:
You can't judge a book by its cover.
No, you can't judge a book by its cover.
You can't judge a book
By how literate it look,
No, You can't judge a book by its cubber.

HAPGOOD:
Occupation?

MARTIN:
Going to schools, riding in buses, eating in restaurants.

HAPGOOD:
Isn't that line of work getting rather easy?

MARTIN:
Not for me. I'm Jewish ... Group A, would you say?

HAPGOOD:
Group one's more fun.

MARTIN:
Crazy.

CORA:
Group A?

SCHUB:
Group one?

CORA:
It's maddening.

SCHUB:
What's the difference between them?

HAPGOOD:
It's obvious:
The opposite of dark is bright,
The opposite of bright is dumb.
So anything that's dark is dumb-

MARTIN:
But they sure can hum.
The opposite of dark is bright,
The opposite of bright is dumb.

HAPGOOD AND CHORUS:
So anything that's dark is dumb.
That's the rule of thumb.

MARTIN:
Depends where you're from.

HAPGOOD:
Simple? Simple? Simple?

CHORUS:
Simple as A-B-C.

HAPGOOD:
Simple? Simple? Simple?
Simple as NAACP!

MAN:
I get the point, Comptroller Hapgood.

SCHUB:
Oh, shut up and get in Group A.

CORA:
Who's that?

SCHUB:
It's my brother-in-law.

CORA:
But he's not a Pilgrim... And he's not a Cookie... Hapgood, what was he doing on the line?

HAPGOOD:
Who is what?
Which is who?
That is that and
How are you?
I feel fine, what else is new?

SCHUB:
Oh... Every fool wants a miracle.
Hapgood-

CORA:
Who is on the line...?

SCHUB:
Doctor, you are not doing what we want you to do!

CORA:
You are right! Now look here,
Hapgood... Darling-

Grass is green,
Sky is blue,
I'd join any group with you.
Schub's a boob and you belong to me!

CHORUS:
Simple? Simple?

CORA:
Simple as one-two-three.
One-two-three...

CROWD (VARIOUSLY):
Doctor, what group am I in? Where do I belong?
Where am I? Tell me where am I! Where am I?

SCHUB:
Doctor - Group A: Cookies? Or group one: Cookies?
The truth now - which - is - what?

HAPGOOD:
Watchcry!

GROUP A (SIMULTANEOUSLY):
"I am the master of my fate and-"
"A woman's place is in the-"
"If at first you don't succeed-"

HAPGOOD:
Rub your stomachs! Goo-ood... Goo-ood...
Watchcry!

GROUP ONE (SIMULTANEOUSLY):
"I am the master of my fate and-"
"A woman's place is in the-"
"Beauty is only skin-"

HAPGOOD:
Put your heads, Hello! Hello! Goo-ood... Hello! Hello!
Reverse! Goo-ood...Hello! Hello! That's goo-ood...
Goo-ood... Goo-ood... Comptroller.

SCHUB:
Dammit!

CORA:
I adore games!

HAPGOOD:
Watchcry!

CORA:
Hello!

SCHUB:
He's boring from within.

HAPGOOD:
Watchcry!

SCHUB:
Communist!

HAPGOOD:
You would say that,
The opposite of left is right.
The opposite of right is wrong.
So anyone who's left is wrong, right?

CROWD:
Goo...ood... Goo...ood...

HAPGOOD:
Hello!

CROWD:
Hello!

HAPGOOD:
Simple? Simple? Simple?
Simple as ABC.
Simple as one-two-three-

CHORUS:
-Cheers for the red, white and blue...

HAPGOOD:
Watchcry!

MAGRUDER:
Look here I'm the chief of-

HAPGOOD:
Watchcry!

MAGRUDER:
"Ours not to reason why,
Ours but to do or die."
Sergeant Magruder reporting, sir!

HAPGOOD:
Occupation?

MAGRUDER:
Fighting the enemy.

HAPGOOD:
What enemy?

MAGRUDER:
What year?

HAPGOOD:
Yesterday.

MAGRUDER:
The Germans: Heil!

HAPGOOD:
The day before.

MAGRUDER:
The Germans: Heil!

HAPGOOD:
Today.

MAGRUDER:
The Germans: Hail!

HAPGOOD:
Tomorrow.

MAGRUDER:
Hail! Heil! Hail?... Heil?... Hail?

HAPGOOD:
Group A.

MAGRUDER:
Heil?

HAPGOOD:
Group One.

COOLEY:
You're just making him seem crazy, but he's twisted.
I mean - he's been twisted.

HAPGOOD:
Grass is blue,
Sky is green,
Change of time is change of scene.
What you meant is what you mean.
Watchcry!

COOLEY:
Hallelujah!
No, I mean - now, Brother -

HAPGOOD:
Occupation:

COOLEY:
Preacher - er, I mean, Treasurer.

HAPGOOD:
Ah, you were a preacher, Hapgood.

COOLEY:
No, I'm a treasurer, Cooley-

HAPGOOD:
They threw you out of your pulpit-

COOLEY:
Yea... Brother!

HAPGOOD:
Because you were crazy.

COOLEY:
No, because I believed!

HAPGOOD:
In being treasurer?

COOLEY:
In God, and they only believed in religion.

HAPGOOD:
And that made you crazy, Hapgood.

COOLEY:
I am not crazy, Cooley!

HAPGOOD:
No, you're crazy. Hapgood.

COOLEY:
I am not Cooley, I mean - No, I am not crazy, I'm Hapgood!

HAPGOOD:
Are you sure?

COOLEY:
I am absolutely Schub!

SCHUB:
He's crazy.

HAPGOOD:
Thank you. Group A. Watchcry!
Watchcry!

GROUP ONE AND GROUP A (SIMULTANEOUSLY):
"I am the master of my fate and-"
"A woman's place is in the-"
"Beauty is only skin deep..."
"Never look a gift horse in the -"
"Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no -"
"An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of -"
"Seeing is believing. Seeing is believing!"
"You can fool some of the people-"
"An apple a day, an apple a day, an apple a day keeps the doctor-"
"Ours not to reason why, ours but to do or die..."

SCHUB:
I don't have one, Cooley!

HAPGOOD:
Aha...

SCHUB:
Hapgood, we are going to end this right now. My dear Treasurer, I mean, my dear Doctor - dammit! Now. Right now: which group is-

HAPGOOD:
Two questions.

SCHUB:
One answer.

HAPGOOD:
Just two little questions, Schub, and you'll know which group is what.
Where does most of your money go?

SCHUB:
I hardly think-

HAPGOOD:
Where does most of your money go, Hapgood?

SCHUB:
In taxes.

HAPGOOD:
Goo..ood... What do you think of someone who makes a product and doesn't use it?

SCHUB:
He's crazy.

HAPGOOD:
Hello! Hello!

CROWD:
Hello! Hello!

HAPGOOD:
Most of your money goes to the government in taxes.
What does the government do with most of the money?
Makes bombs. Reverse!
Goo..ood... Hello! Hello!

CHORUS:
Hello! Hello!

HAPGOOD:
But you say to make a product and not use it is crazy.
Isn't that what you said, Comptroller Cooley?
And that doesn't make you crazy for letting them waste your money, Treasurer Schub?
Reverse! But perhaps the government is making bombs because it means to use the product.
Which means everyone will be killed, Hapgood. Including you, Schub.
Both together now! Which means you are paying most of your money to have yourself killed.
Which means, my dear Doctor Comptroller Mayor Schub, you are the maddest of all!

HAPGOOD:
Watchcry!

SCHUB:
Help!

HAPGOOD:
Watchcry!

CORA:
Brilliant!

HAPGOOD:
Watchcry!

BOTH GROUPS (SIMULTANEOUSLY):
Grass is green.
Sky is blue.
The opposite of left is right.
The opposite of right is wrong.
So anyone who's left is wrong.
Simple? Simple? Simple?
Simple as A-B-three.
Simple as one-two-C.
As grass is green
As sky is blue,
As simple as the opposite of left is right
Is wrong is right is A is One
Is A is One hello! Hello! Goo-od! Goo-od!
A is One! One is A!
Grass is who is opposite of what is green is safe is
Opposite of dark is opposite of simple which is
Watchcry! Watchcry! Watchcry! Watchcry!
One is One! Two is too!
Who is what and which is who?
Who is what? Which is who?
Which is who is who?
Who is who?!?

HAPGOOD:
You are all mad.

Still I Rise (Maya Angelou)

Still I Rise


You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

It Dropped So Low -- in my Regard (Emily Dickinson)

It dropped so low -- in my Regard --
I heard it hit the Ground --
And go to pieces on the Stones
At bottom of my Mind --

Yet blamed the Fate that flung it -- less
Than I denounced Myself,
For entertaining Plated Wares
Upon my Silver Shelf --

Dar's 2012 Christmas Poem

A Christmas Poem Doesn't Have to Rhyme


The trees are blowin'
and the wind is spinnin'
the snow covers everything

it is white, white, white.

It's a white, white world
decoratin' all
the colorful lights at night

and we'll wake up early in the morning.

The wind will bring joy
it will bring joy through the air
the little girl will sleep after Christmas

in her mother's bedroom.

We'll eat very well
pancakes and pies
our teeth is gonna have to go

to the dentist.

Our tummies are gonna go to the couch
to take a little nappy.

My Brain Loves Jane Austen

I'm am so full of ideas today, I could make an fMRI scanner go wild and scream for more! To anyone who says sites like Twitter and Facebook are mind-numbing, I won't beg to differ but I will say this: "Like, no way!"

The invigorating and educational nature of the Twitter/Facebook/Pinterest/andTheLike experience all depends on the Twitterer/Tweeter/Facebooker/Pinterestian/andTheLiker. These budding outlets/inlets are opening up a whole new kind of intellectual world for brains like me. A whole new art world, too. Egads. It's the multi-media mainstreaming of Western culture. The flood, it cometh. Why resist?

That's the thing about The Unknown; even though you may feel flooded by it, chances are you can only come to know it a little bit, inch-by-inch, piece-by-piece, at a time. Who knew that I would open up my "Twitter Feed" (kind of like corn feed for cows, only newsfeed for newsies) and see my brain suspended in dark matter (or against a black background) next to an image of Jane Austen with her mustache of an upper lip and her scrunchy bonnet (to be technical). Just when ya start to think life ain't worth living, there's the smug and defiant toddler face of Twitter, Tweeting you a revelation:

"Your brain loves Jane Austen"

I knew it, I knew it. How did Laura Miller know it, too?

How did she know that I drew hearts all over my copy of Sense and Sensibility in high school? Who's she been talking to (and how can get in on that conversation)? Oh, wait, I know, she must have called my h.s. b.f.f. (big flaming firecracker), Heather, who couldn't have cared less that my brain was loving Jane Austen in the backseat of her parents' red Saturn because her brain, along with the brains of her parents, was, and were, too busy loving J.K. Rowling via the audiobook of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. I don't know how we ever made it to Cedar Point with all the brain-love in that car!

Yes, it's true, my brain loves Jane Austen. And if you write (Tweet, FBook, Pine/ter) something provocative, or even something mundane that I can use for my own strange and creative purposes: my brain will love you, too. It's incredible - what happens with one's brain. What love can do. Actually, what Jane Austen can do. She can make love to your brain, that's what. I don't know that she will, but she can. I do know that she can because she did. She did me.

I said it: Jane Austen was my brain's first love and lay.

She was no crap-shag; she was Shagianity itself. Jane Austen, yo-literally, brought love into my brain. She brought love into my brain for the first time, at the right time and when I was ready. She was so kind, my brain will never forget her and will love her infinitely and will write to death of this love. Brain be damned, and all else, too. Jane is a tender brain-lay.

I never knew anything about love (i.e., sense and senseless pleasure) until Jane Austen read Sense and Sensibility to me. She read it to me, not on audio cassette or on CD but, to and through my brain. Jane Austen changed my brain. And, guess what: after reading Laura Miller's interview of Michigan State University assistant professor of English, Natalie Phillips, my brain is feelin' the love, once again. Not only that, but the light bulb in my teacher-brain (that arbitrary but ubiquitous segment of the brain) is shining brightly. The alarms are sounding. The Price is (no doubt) Right! Jane Austen must love my brain, too, 'cause she keeps coming back for more.

Reading this article, on the effects of pleasure versus close reading on the brain, has altered my brain intensely (for today, at least). Which is nice, because I was about to go to a snack machine in search of some Rold Golds and Cherry Twist Twizzlers but now I am saving money and feeding my loving little brain instead (I'll deal with the empty stomach later: My stomach loves Enriched Flour, which doesn't bode well for a long-lasting romance).

Natalie Phillips told Miller, "Really the biggest surprise to date is just how much the brain is shifting in moving between close reading and pleasure reading...With pleasure reading...we did see some unique regions activated. That suggests that pleasure reading is not just some more lax or dormant state. And we're seeing the whole brain activating for the close reading state."

Now I'm no neuroscientist (this should be a song), but I know someone who is and I know she will be skeptical about there being only one subject who has, to date, been fully evaluated. I mean, so what if Miller's jumping the gun and reporting on a study that is not yet significant enough to be unleashed on the masses. So what if the Love in your Brain for JA is only based on Natalie Phillips' preliminary work. Even with my Brain of Janelove, even in my perception clouded with pleasure fog; Phillips' casual report that "with pleasure reading, at least in the one subject for whom we have been able to fully evaluate it so far, we did see unique regions activated" had me, fortheloveofAusten, ...wondering.

Fortunately, my brain loves Jane so much that it shut down that rational wonder immediately and replaced it with memories of sleepless summer nights with Jane. That's what happens: your brain loves Jane Austen and it's over. Rationality, that is. Even the safeguard of intelligence dissipates. But I feel good 'cause my brain has a love! Brainlove is irrational. I don't need to know the experimental factors: I'm an Instant Believer (like instant coffee, not the best out there but convenient, easy and available). I don't even need to know any more, at this point, to be convinced. That's what blind belief's all about. And if Jane Austen loves my brain, I'm not gonna let my brain be held back by the trivialities of scientific skepticism. No, my brain would be a fool and my brain won't have that any more. My brain is through with loveless skepticism, my brain wants the wonder of belief.

Watch out World, 'cause my brain is gonna go to town and do what it has always wanted to do: engage in mutual love relations with Jane Austen.

(!)

Hey, hey, hey now. My brain isn't here to convince anyone else's brain of anything. Doubters be doubters. To brains everywhere, I say, "Live and let live."

According to Miller, "neuroscientists who have studied such things in the past have rarely distinguished between types of reading or observed subjects engaged in the protracted reading of complex texts." Yeah, I'm with Miller. Who cares what those neuroscientists have studied. Who cares what "such things" might be. Whatever. Our brains don't care. Our brains are in love. With Jane. I don't even care whether or not Miller has done "adequate" research on this subject before interviewing Phillips. For what hand can research lend the brain of love!

"I don't know much, but I know I love you-ou-ou. That may be all I need to know..."

...

Sing it, Lionel, but sing it to my brain. As for Jane, I'm afraid she's a no-brainer.

Calling all ye disbelieving neuroscientists. See, here. See, here:

A lot of good can come from love. In the name of (brain) love. Your skeptical brain can love (Jane Austen), too. Consider the wonders my brain has done for me (wow-wee...).

You want proof. Well, fine, then. It isn't any cell off my brain. I'll appease you.

1. This article inspired me. I am now going to "spread the love," like Nutella on a rock hard brownie, on Thursday and read it aloud to my Composition class.

2. This article inspired me. News Alert. News Alert. Bureaucratically Incorrect Warning: "Teacher Plans to Pleasure Students(' brains) with...Texts." From now on, I will incorporate pleasurable and pleasuring reading activities at the beginning of class in order to activate parts of the brain that I know nothing about (like the somatosensory cortex and the motor cortex). I will do this with the blind, unscientific, romantic belief that it will somehow productively affect their critical/close readings and engagement with information throughout the entire brain-pleasuring (in idealistic new-teacherly delusion, I hope) class experience.

Do I dare mention my new Pedagogy of Brain-Jacking-Off in the Classroom? No?! Oh, don't worry, ye of little faith and with your panties in a bunch: We'll call it "Janing-Off in the Classroom." Surely, that way, the Brains Without Love (i.e., Bureaucrat Brains) will never notice. Since when do the BWLs ever turn their attention to womanly pleasure, anyway? Our brain-pleasuring experiments in the classroom will just slip under the radar and work their pioneering magic spells via the underground, grassroots way of all of the great radical teachers of the past! The sinister goal (my unscientific theory): that pleasure, somewhere/anywhere in the brain, will increase students' (and teachers' - they matter, too-oo!) receptiveness to and ability to think analytically.

3. This article inspired me. I plan to revisit and finish Roland Barthes' "The Pleasure of the Text" during my "break" in December so that I might be able to use it as the base (or brain) of my Composition court(ship)/course for semesters to come... Ever so slowly or ever so abruptly, I plan to use the Pleasure Principle in teaching composition courses from now on. Anyone who tries to stop me clearly has no love in his brain.

If your pleasure-deprived brain is interested, do it a favor, immediately, and check out the article:

http://www.salon.com/2012/09/19/your_brain_loves_jane_austen/

"Who does your brain love, who does your brain need...when your brain comes undone?"