Thanksgiving Greeting

Wordplay wishes you a Happy Thanksgiving. We’d like to blog about something profound, but our thoughts are too full of turkey and dressing, as yours are, too, no doubt. I will say that while I was driving across town around five o’clock this afternoon, the autumn light was beautiful. There’s really nothing else to say about that, though.

Taking Martin Scorsese Up on It

I thought previously about devoting a post to director Martin Scorsese’s comments on the Marvel Cinematic Universe, but I hadn’t had time to read the original interview in which the comments were made. I gathered that Mr. Scorsese felt his comments had been misconstrued in some quarters and wanted to understand for myself what he was saying. This morning I read both the Empire magazine article in which he responded to a question about Marvel superhero movies and a follow-up New York Times opinion piece in which he clarified and expanded on his earlier comments.

If I’m understanding Mr. Scorsese correctly, his objection to the films is two-fold: he perceives that they are 1.) designed, packaged, and marketed by studio executives with a cynical eye toward the bottom line and a wish to spoonfeed what’s essentially pablum to the public and 2.) they are also essentially “dead” artistically (though not without fine production values in many cases). The first objection is easily understood, but I’ve been sitting here thinking about the second one for at least an hour. It concerns me as someone who studies myth because the Marvel universe is full of superheroes who are, if not directly out of some ancient pantheon or other—like Thor and Loki—then more recently created mythic characters with attributes and histories of their own.

What Mr. Scorsese said separates cinema from this mass-distributed audiovisual entertainment is the lack of risk undertaken by the latter, the impossibility of anything unexpected or revelatory taking place within a Marvel-type movie. I believe he views Marvel movies as formulaic, paint-by-numbers products aimed at the lowest common denominator. I think I’m characterizing what he meant correctly in saying that he views a cinematic experience as a ritual in the true sense of the word: film actually has the power to effect change in the person watching, to transform his or her thinking, emotional range, moral sense, or view of the world, and I completely agree with him that cinema can do all these things (as can other art forms).

Mr. Scorsese seems to perceive superhero movies, on the other hand, as falling into the category of spectacle: showy, frequently impressive on the visual level, and capable of stimulating some primal place in the brain that responds to grandiose gestures, noise, color, and gross physical action. In this representation, superhero movies are more circus performance than film, capable of manipulating the viewer with heart-stopping visuals that are nonetheless scripted and predictable. They may entertain you, but they will not change you.

Of course, I’m referring here to the categories of ritual and spectacle outlined by anthropologist John J. MacAloon, which can be used to make sense of various types of public events and performances. I’ve found Mr. MacAloon’s categories helpful in thinking about performances as diverse as the Olympic Games, bullfights, and State of the Union addresses, and they certainly seem applicable in this case. So if I were to characterize what I think Mr. Scorsese is saying in terms of Mr. MacAloon’s thinking, true cinema is transformative, like Greek tragedy, and superhero movies are mere spectacle, like the Colosseum extravaganzas of Ancient Rome.

Like Mr. Scorsese, I am a strong proponent of the individual artistic voice, and I do agree that projects produced “by committee” (no matter what type of project we’re talking about) are in danger of being homogenized or smoothed down by “groupthink.” I don’t want anyone else telling me how to write, and here I may be an exception, because plenty of people are proponents of writer’s workshops and craft classes. I have tried both and am not opposed to them but came away with the feeling that you learn to write by reading, writing, and living. Certain things are hard to transmit to someone else, as I learned during my stint as a writing teacher.

You can explain punctuation and mechanics to people and show them examples of good writing, but . . . Style? Voice? That instinctual je ne sais quoi that helps you find your way to just the right way of saying something so that people will remember it and be moved by it? You absorb other people’s writing through your pores without thinking about it too much, but when you go to do it yourself, you have to shut everyone else out and go with what’s in your head and heart.

To that extent, I agree with Mr. Scorsese that individual voices and points of view are vital. I guess I part ways with him on the notion of superhero movies having no “soul,” if you want to put it that way. I would probably place movies like his and the Marvel films on the same sliding scale, according to whether they are more or less subtle in the way they embody archetypes and present mythic themes. The superhero movies may paint with broad brushstrokes and rely more on action and special effects than a film like Mr. Scorcese’s The Age of Innocence (just to pick an example); in them, archetypes are writ large so that they are instantly recognizable, and the heroic themes are plainly evident. I would argue, though, that these films are just as ritualistic as anything a more nuanced filmmaker might create.

Don’t think someone can’t be inspired by or feel the power of a heroic character in a movie just because it’s an “audiovisual spectacle.” I’m remembering the fan who commented online that in his severe health struggles (with diabetes and some other issues, as I recall), he asked himself what Tyrion, his favorite character in Game of Thrones, would do in his shoes, and that is what helped him get through the experience. This may be a controversial idea in some quarters, but I don’t think it’s any different than someone finding strength by calling on the gods of his religious beliefs, whatever they may be. To paraphrase Carl Jung, as I did recently, I believe the gods have become our movie heroes (and our athletes and our rock stars). They have in no way disappeared, even if you’re not religious. There’s a certain responsibility that comes with the territory of celebrity that not everyone wishes to take on (or even believes in), but nevertheless it’s there.

In films that rely more on dialogue, plot, and understated themes, you may have to think about the characters and events to understand the archetypal content behind them, but I’m arguing that even in original screenplays with no reference to any preexisting story, the same basic categories of human experience are the building blocks, whether or not you call them archetypes or myths. People combine them in new ways, and new myths can always be created. I haven’t seen Mr. Scorsese’s latest, The Irishman, but I’m willing to bet that if I went to see it, I’d be able to find just as many mythic characters as there are in The Avengers—they may initially look just as ordinary as you or me, but that’s the point. When we react to a mythic character or image, we’re projecting something that’s actually inside of us; most of us look rather ordinary on the outside, but what about what’s inside?

By the way, and I say this respectfully, Mr. Scorsese’s movies, in my experience of them and from what I know of the ones I haven’t seen, are pretty heavy themselves on the spectacle end of things. I realized today, while looking at a catalog of his films, that the half dozen or so I have seen are the ones that are somewhat untypical of the vast body of his work. Violence and crime are themes he explores extensively (and graphically, if the descriptions I hear are accurate). I have seen none of those for the plain reason that I find visual depictions of extreme violence to be disturbing. I’ve missed a number of highly acclaimed films for that reason. The one film of Mr. Scorsese’s I most regret not seeing is Raging Bull, and I plan to rectify that omission now that I have a temporary subscription to Amazon Prime. Whether it will leave me sleepless or have me feeling bruised for days, like other films by other directors have in the past, I can’t say at this point. At least it doesn’t seem to involve weapons.

I suppose the final point I’m making is that I don’t see the division between ritual and spectacle that I think Mr. Scorsese is using as the criterion for differentiating between true cinema as opposed to mass entertainment. His own films are full of spectacle, as are those of many other distinguished directors. Many of the superhero movies are full of transformative characters, themes, and episodes. Is it possible to make a movie that truly is devoid of any transformative content? Maybe, but I would place all of them on the same sliding scale I was talking about. Part of the power of any movie depends on how skillfully the story is told, and even a respectable production with famous names and a big budget may miss the mark if no one gets it.

The Deer and the Serpent

(A Short Story)

It had been a long illness, and by the time she came back to herself, many seasons had passed; truth be told, it had been many years. Much had slipped away that would never come back, and that was the most difficult thing to face, the relentlessness of time. She wasn’t young when the sickness came over her, and once it ebbed away, she felt herself to be old. Old and unable to reconcile herself with her misfortune, though, curiously, with as strong a will to live as ever.

In the autumn of the year of her recovery, she wakened from a dream in which someone had been speaking to her, and it had seemed important, but she was unable to recall what had been said. Elaine had noticed a new sensitivity to light, sound, and touch, which she was unsure whether to attribute to a lingering side effect of the sickness or the result of having been confined to a darkened room for so long. She clearly remembered herself as she had been in the last days before she fell ill, never suspecting the sudden change that was about to take place. She felt like the same person she had been, only somehow—stretched? Or was it diminished? Even her own face in the mirror did not reveal the answer. Was she stronger for having overcome what everyone had said would be terminal, or would she forever be less than she could have been? She had had many hopes before disappearing into the netherworld of illness.

As the weeks went by, Elaine grew impatient to feel at home again in her own life, but the quality of reality itself seemed to have changed. People smiled at her and were kind, even people she didn’t know well. Everyone, even strangers, somehow seemed to understand that she’d been through something monstrous. It was curiously unsettling to be sitting in a restaurant or walking down the sidewalk and have a stranger give her what appeared to be a knowing look. What she at first attributed to the speed with which news of a calamity traveled she later began to think was simply odd. The city she lived in was not that small, so there seemed to be no explanation for the way in which the number of people who knew about her could have grown so large.

She was unsure sometimes whether people were speaking to her or to someone else; she found herself pondering pieces of overhead conversation that seemed inexplicably to have some meaning for her. I’m losing my mind, she thought to herself . . . But trying to ignore the sensation was only partially successful. Going home and lying down in the dark, away from people, was the very thing she didn’t want to do, and yet merely going to the grocery store was sometimes enough to exhaust her and drive her into seclusion for the remainder of the day.

Not long before her illness, she had been stalked by an acquaintance, and the strangeness of that experience remained with her, so that she was unable to tell if the feeling she had lately developed of having someone always watching her was an echo of that experience, or a new development. Something seemed constantly to be hovering just outside the corner of her eye, a vague presence, but when she looked straight at it, there was never anything there. Once, at the library, she had the impression of someone disappearing around a corner just as she was turning in that direction. Another time she caught sight of curtains twitching closed above her, just as she looked up, preparing to enter a friend’s apartment building. In both cases, she knew someone had been there, but she could not have given a single identifying detail. She did not feel threatened, exactly, but unsettled rather, and uncertain.

Once she found a purple calla lily on her windshield and could not determine how it had gotten there. Another time she was sure she heard a man’s voice call her name as she driving down a seemingly empty street, the second syllable trailing off mournfully as her forward momentum carried her away. Then there was the time she went to the Y, certain she had two bathing suits in her gym bag but only able to find one of them, no matter how thoroughly she searched pockets and compartments. Later that night, when she began to rearrange the contents of her bag, she found the missing suit and was unable to account for how she could have missed it earlier. It seemed to have been removed and then replaced, as strange as that explanation seemed.

She began to wake up in the mornings from dreams of having had someone with her throughout the night, some of which were mere impressions of a soft voice and an embrace, and some of which were electrically erotic, though the sheets and bedclothes were always exactly as they had been when she went to bed. She had no impression of anything in the room having been disturbed, but something in herself seemed to be stirring, like a slowly uncoiling snake. Once, on an unusually warm Indian summer night, she stayed out on the sleeping porch, awakening with an impression of stars being tangled in her hair and a crescent moon hanging from her ear. When she sat up and looked toward the backyard, orange and yellow leaves were eddying down from gently swaying branches, and there was a susurration in the air, a long-drawn out sigh, though the night was cloudy, and there was no moon. The night is alive, Elaine thought, wondering why that was true. And then she thought, why do I feel so strange?

Finally, she decided to tell her friend Moxie, one day over lunch, what had been happening. “You know, Moxie, if I didn’t know better, I’d say I have a ghostly lover. I don’t know how else to describe it,” she said, as they were lingering over coffee one damp November day. After she described the things that had taken place, Moxie, who was a physicist at the university and nobody’s fool, looked her right in the eye. “Well, you’ve already been through menopause, so we can eliminate hot flashes from the list of suspects.”

“Yes, I thought about that. It’s more like being an adolescent again, without the acne. Well, not quite that. It’s a little more mysterious.”

“An incubus?”

“Well, I hope not. I don’t know quite what that is, but it doesn’t sound like something sustainable.”

“I was going to ask you if you’d been reading “Kubla Khan” again.

Elaine laughed then. “Oh, ‘Beware, Beware, his flashing eyes, his floating hair.’ Something like that, I suppose. But that could also describe a falling angel.”

“What does he look like?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I can’t see him clearly,” said Elaine, who was not about to admit that she had glimpsed his face in her dreams and that he was spectacularly handsome. “I don’t know what I’ve got on my hands here, an overly active imagination, lingering effects of disease, or someone real who’s actually hanging on the margins of my life somehow. I don’t suppose either an angel or a demon can open the trunk of a car.”

“Well, that’s the part that makes it difficult for me to dismiss,” said Moxie, putting down her coffee cup. “I remember you putting that extra suit in the gym bag that day we were going to the beach because you didn’t know which one looked better. And how big can a gym bag be? It’s not bottomless, surely.”

“I don’t know, Moxie. Half the time it seems like this magical thing, something I hadn’t looked for at all, and half the time it reminds me of all that trouble I had with Josie following me around. Too ephemeral to put your finger on. Why would someone hover like that?”

“Everybody knows about your illness and all that business before. Maybe someone’s just a little hesitant.”

“Thanks for not dismissing it. I just wish I could figure out what’s happening and why.”

“I think we don’t have enough evidence to decide one way or the other,” Moxie said judiciously. “So we’ll just have to wait for further developments.” She was always practical. As indeed, Elaine had always considered herself to be.

Later that night, while driving home on the expressway, Elaine glanced at the freeway sign hanging over her lane. She was unable to say later whether it actually said, “You’re in my dreams, too” or “Two miles to Deane Street” because she was distracted by the sight of a falling star in her left field of vision. (She and Moxie had been discussing the Leonids meteor shower just a few hours previously, so this was not a totally unexpected event, just an astonishing one.) Ten miles farther on, she was passed by a fast-moving car in the next lane over. She had a chance to read “ILU VYU” on the license plate before the car sped away, disappearing into the night under a blue-black sky brimming with stars.

When she got out of the car in her driveway a few minutes later, a large shape detached itself from the shadows under the oak tree on the lawn and moved slowly away: a deer, crowned with antlers.

Election Day Blues

Election Day was not a holiday for me, and I find myself here at the end of it a little tired and without a topic. Some people in the store today were talking politics, and while I at first gave my opinion freely, I later decided to stay out of it. I respect people having different opinions from mine and was actually rather envious of people who came into the store with “I Voted” stickers. It’s been a while since I felt sure enough of anything politically to be convinced I knew what I was doing when I went to the polls. The more I read and thought about things deeply, the more confused I got. Once I realized that figuring out people’s positions on the issues really wasn’t enough, and that people whose ideas were much like mine weren’t necessarily the best people to vote for for other reasons, I was both sadder and wiser but more clueless than ever.

I think I would have a difficult time teaching information literacy these days when it comes to politics. Perhaps it’s asking too much to expect people to read the politicians’s souls and see into their minds, and simply making a choice and voting for someone is the best you can do, but I feel I was a little too blithely unaware in the past when I developed enthusiasms for people, and “Once bitten, twice shy.” I felt that way about Bernie Sanders during the last election—I really liked a lot of his ideas and the things he stood for, but something would not let me be wholeheartedly enthusiastic. I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop, and this was despite the fact that I saw he was being treated unfairly by the media, especially early on. Any time Bernie Sanders is made out to be clueless on race relations, something he has been passionate about all his life, you know there’s a tremendous amount of spin going on. But I kept thinking, “What don’t I know about him? And not just about him, but all of them?”

One of these days, I’ll get back into full participation mode in our democracy, and I look forward to that happening. It’s not out of apathy that I have been hanging back, but rather out of literal fear that endorsing the wrong person would bring about tragic, irreversible consequences, and this is despite the fact that I know there are good people in both parties. It’s been a long time since I was that teenage girl whose dad drove her to the polls to vote in her first primary, so elated later on that fall to have voted for the winning candidate.

Seemingly Abandoned Places in the Mind

I’ve searched high and low for something else to blog about this week and couldn’t find anything other than what’s really arrested my attention, a video (now almost a year old) that came across my radar only recently. I’m speaking of Hozier’s “Movement” video, starring Ukrainian ballet dancer Sergei Polunin, directed by Christopher Barrett and Luke Taylor. Occasionally, I get interested in something to the point that I end up studying it closely; this week, I’ve almost felt I was in film school, so many times have I pored over this short film, scene by scene.

I first heard the song, an ardent expression of sexual love, at Starbucks, and liked the music and Hozier’s passionate performance without really hearing all of the lyrics. When I found the video online, my initial reaction was, “This is an unforgettable performance, and some of the scenes really resonate with me in a strange way, though I don’t know why.” (The film itself is sensual but not explicit.) Mr. Polunin is the only actor in the film, appearing as three (no, make that four) different characters. 

The ballet sequences are extraordinary for their sheer physicality and expressiveness, and Mr. Polunin also has a remarkable ability to convey emotion even when he isn’t dancing. I’ve never seen a more mesmerizing performance by a male dancer. If you think of male ballet dance performance as sissified, this video will knock that idea entirely out of your head forever. While I recognize some classical technique in the video, there seems to be a mix of styles in the performance. (Bouncing off the walls, literally, isn’t something I’ve often seen in ballet.)

At the beginning, Mr. Polunin’s character, dressed in street clothes, appears to be having an internal debate of some kind and seems both troubled and weary. He gets out of the van he’s sitting in and walks up the steps to an abandoned industrial building. As he pauses on the threshold, another Mr. Polunin (seemingly out of nowhere) emerges from the van behind him, from the opposite door. The second character, in torn clothes and showing signs of some barely suppressed but strong emotion, follows the first character into the building. What follows is a series of solos, duets, and group performances as the characters dance their way through the building from the ground floor to the roof.

The first character appears most interested in dancing solo and at times seems unaware of the presence of any other characters. I related to the first character as someone absorbed in creating or expressing himself without reference to what anyone else is doing. His relationship to the second character is difficult to gauge; at times they dance in tandem, but the overall impression one gets is that the first character is continually moving away from the second one, while at the same time dealing with some strong, unresolved emotion concerning his presence. The second character is almost hungrily appreciative of the first character while also seeming angry; the first character continually runs away while seeming at times to be waiting for the second character to appear.

But then who is the strange, almost ethereal figure in white who appears in the second half of the video, seemingly anticipating the arrival of Character 1 while erecting a barrier between them? Why are there two Character 1s in the same scene, one dancing, and one sitting almost unnoticed against a pillar in the foreground? Why is Character 2 continually stumbling, recovering, and hitting the wall? Why does Character 1 suddenly seem fearful while fleeing to the roof in the final sequence, with Character 2 in hot pursuit? And if he is fearful, why does he, at the last, stand with his back to the other character, seemingly unconcerned as the latter approaches him at high speed with his hand outstretched?

You know enough by now to realize that I cannot answer these questions definitively and that there is likely a lot of layering going on. I think I saw myself in all of the characters at one time or another and possibly you would, too. My general feeling is that Character 2 feels a passion for Character 1 that is being both encouraged and rebuffed, which explains 2’s somewhat haggard appearance. He appears at one point in a doorway, not quite patient but certainly in command of himself and expectant, only to have Character 1 slip by him once more. 

The dreamlike quality of this video doesn’t lend itself to a clear, linear explanation. From a depth perspective, I can see all of the characters as different aspects of a single person, the ego, the id (the hungrily pursuing Character 2 who obviously thinks it’s time to come out to play), and the superego, the third figure. Perhaps what appears to be a duplicate of Character 1 is actually the Self, the fourth factor that completes the personality, although he does not appear to be altogether down with everything transpiring behind him.

I encourage you to watch the video and see for yourself. As a piece of visual, musical, dramatic, and dance art, it’s spectacular; as a type of shadow play depicting the workings of the unconscious, it’s eerily on point (or en pointe, maybe); and as a story of passion and sexual tension, it’s spellbinding. Character 2’s appearance in the doorway with all his tattoos on display as he watches and waits is the central image of the film around which all else is built. Character 1 seems to be leaving him behind after that, and yet the final scene on the roof tells a different story. While seemingly in a reverie, Character 1 has allowed Character 2 to erase almost all the distance between them. What will happen when Character 2 touches him with his outstretched hand?

Jimmy Stewart’s Come Hither Look

I tried to resist it—I really did. Yesterday, I saw another sexy planet, this time on CNN’s website, a beautiful purple Neptune-like exoplanet. I don’t even know where in the universe it is, but, wow, what a stunner. However, in my attempts to live a balanced life and not fall under the sway of just any importuning god or goddess that beckons, I resolutely closed that CNN window and looked for something else to post. This morning, though, I was still thinking about that beautiful planet and just knew somehow that I’d find enough purple desserts to make anyone weak in the knees if I spent a few minutes looking. Sure enough, purple is an unforgettably gorgeous and dramatic dessert color. It turns out that there are plenty of purple cakes, purple pies, purple macarons, and purple ice creams . . .  And all of them are lookers. My goodness me—who knew?

I’m not sure I can analyze the reasons purple is so devastating in this regard, and I don’t really want to. It should be used more often in cooking, in my opinion, but maybe it wouldn’t have as much impact if it wasn’t so unexpected. Purple is very close to blue on the color spectrum, and both are surprisingly mouth-watering when used in certain ways with food. My mini-photo essay on the sexy Neptune-like planet and a train of accompanying desserts can be found on Wordplay’s Facebook page. There were many other photos I could have included, but you’ll see that for yourself if you go out looking for them.

Eros is really getting to be a problem here on Wordplay, but I haven’t paid Aphrodite her due in a while, and everyone who knows anything about mythology knows how mad that makes her and the lengths she’ll go to when she feels neglected. She’s getting her revenge on me now. Once you open yourself up to it, you start to notice just how beautiful the world is every day, in many ways, despite the ugliness we all have to deal with. Eros is always thrumming along in and behind things, but if you ignore it, it stops paying court to you. I came across a photo of actor Jimmy Stewart on the Internet a few weeks ago, and while I always liked him, I never thought of him as sexy. But suddenly, after a couple of weeks of these erotic planets and Aphrodite-induced dessert binges, I started realizing just how handsome he is in that picture, and it’s just a subtle thing, really, something in his eyes and his smile.

I’m including the picture here, and you’re welcome to agree with me or to disagree about Mr. Stewart’s charms, but if you can withstand the sight of a bunch of artfully scattered pink and purple macarons with flower petals against a dark background, you’re a better person than I am.

Jimmy Stewart. Photo courtesy of Sotheby’s International Realty/Getty Images

Deconstructing Banana Pudding

For a topic this week, it would probably be difficult to beat Wordplay’s National Dessert Day tutorial on apples, banana pudding, chocolates, and other topics, posted today on the Wordplay Facebook page, complete with photos. Therefore, I won’t try. I thought I’d said all I needed to on desserts, Aphrodite, etc. last week, but when I found out what day it was today, I just had to seize the opportunity. (And really, can you ever get tired of looking at pictures of desserts? Probably not.)

I guess I was also trying to make a point about the impossibility of putting life experiences into separate silos and the lack of neat boundaries between categories of knowledge, experience, etc. If you’re reading this page for the first time, that may sound pretty far removed from National Dessert Day, but if you think in terms of mythology, depth psychology, and layers of meaning, it’s really not. I’m a librarian, too, and while I semi-enjoyed the cataloging class I took in school—which taught us how to organize and classify areas of knowledge—I saw even then that some subjects just don’t fit into a single slot. Some librarians might argue that they actually do if you’re doing cataloging the right way, but I don’t agree. There’s too much overlap between subjects.

I have a fairly strong teacherly instinct, which I’m sure annoys a lot of people (at least, it seemed to in the past), but I have realized that I take a lot of pains to explain things because I have spent so much of my life feeling misunderstood. I don’t mean to make that sound tragic; it’s just a fact that I often felt my experiences were not like those of other people, and that people really didn’t understand my jokes, my references, or even my real feelings about things. I was not always the forthcoming person I am on this blog, and I really was one of those young people I was talking about a few weeks ago who lacked communication skills. Through much of my life, I had a hard time speaking up for myself in person (though never in writing). Actually, what someone said to me once turned out to be true, and that is that you gain greater confidence in yourself by doing. I’m much better at talking now than I used to be.

So I tend to favor clearness in communication, but it’s also true that no matter how clear you try to be, some people will never understand you because they are seeing you through the filter of their own experiences. I don’t like misunderstandings, but they are unavoidable at times, so sometimes you just have to say your piece and move on. I might say something like, “It’s supposed to rain tomorrow,” and really mean that just as a literal statement of fact based on the weather report. And yet I often feel that people try to read much more into my words than I intended. On the other hand, I often have to caution people not to be “too literal” when it comes to interpreting stories and mythology. Sometimes there is no “literal truth,” but rather a psychological or artistic truth. I’m really not speaking a secret code that other people are supposed to decipher (I would find that extremely tiresome myself) just because I talk about poetry, myths, art, and other things that have layers of meaning. It’s not true that a person named Daphne literally turned into a tree because someone named Apollo chased her, but it is true that it’s sometimes necessary to put your foot down and make a stand.

Others things I learned from National Dessert Day:

1. There are an awful lot of blogs out there on cooking that almost look like someone just made them up and slapped them on the Internet a week ago. It’s not that they are lacking in quality, it’s just that they don’t quite seem real.
2. Banana pudding is one of the most appealing desserts there is to look at; you hardly ever see a photo of banana pudding that isn’t mouth-watering.
3. It takes a little courage to write about food and Aphrodite, as one feels that one is almost bound to be judged, or misjudged, for the attempt, even though you may only be saying what other people are thinking.
4. Fruits are more “erotic” than vegetables, and it’s probably because of the sugar.
5. Some fruits are more “erotic” than other fruits. Never really thought it through in those terms before, but it’s true.
6. Chocolate truffles, according to one source, were named for the truffles that grow in the ground because of the “earthy” appearance of their centers. That never would have occurred to me, though both kinds of truffles are expensive gourmet items.

That’s about it for this week. Thanks for reading, but remember this: if you take an idea from this page and run with it, only to find yourself at the business end of an international crisis, don’t blame me. Learn to be a little more thoughtful about what you read; take a couple of classes or something.