Should Joan Crawford’s face not say enough, why yes, I haven’t quite been myself lately.
See, for quite some time, I’ve been thinking about how–save for the infrequent post here or there–I’ve really been a terrible mother to this blog. Simply terrible. Like Annette Bening in Running With ‘Command X’, or Faye Dunaway in Tina-Bring-Me-The-Axe.Tumblr.Com. Oh, the guilt! Oh, the shame. It’s crippling stuff, darling.
More importantly, though, I recently came to a most important decision that a few small (or very big, depending upon the view) life changes just had to be made. Needless to say, I’ve found myself with a bit more time on my hands.
Sure, I’m no sissy when it comes to idle hands (I’m just a sissy all around), but I knew I needed something to do. Knitting isn’t apropos during a heat advisory, and I’ve seen Candy Crush Saga ruin people’s lives. (Seriously, that game is like a less gauche meth addiction. Now please excuse me while I clear all the jelly.)
Anyways, as I see it, there only ever was one choice: get back to this blog, and get back to it for good. Because writing it has always brought me happiness like white diamonds luck to Elizabeth Taylor. And because even if I don’t personally know you, you’ve found your way here by some shared interest, and that’s something that matters. I love this blog, and I love y’all, too.
(As for those here by Google search gone horribly, horribly wrong? I’m sorry. This is not the dick GIFs blog you’re looking for.)
Now, about Susan Sontag’s “Notes on Camp”:
I don’t know your particular predilections, but for me, Susan Sontag’s “Notes on ‘Camp'” is a real gem. It’s brilliant criticism without the off-putting esotericism, a density of ideas without the accompanying inscrutability. It’s a kiki at an intellectual salon, an academic dissertation during a drag ball. Sure, the library was already long open, but Sontag gave it a frame. Now it’s warm and cozy, and we can all read in it.
Now, given my bottomless adoration, I’ve decided I should make it a goal to try and really learn “Notes on ‘Camp'” as best I can. (Again, idle hands and blah blah blah.)I’ll reread and reread it, backwards and forwards, through and through, the way a Born Again would The Bible or a midwestern hausfrau would the sexy bits of Fifty Shades of Grey. (Just kidding, there are no sexy bits in Fifty Shades of Grey.) I figure “Notes on ‘Camp'” can be a pair of rose-tinted glasses through which to see the world. Or, at the very least, a deep well from which to fetch a few a bon mots when party conversation goes dry.
But I digress.
So here we are. (I know. AGAIN!) What’s next? I’ll honestly admit I’m not entirely sure, but the idle hands can figure that one out. Old hats of the internet and new dresses of Versace (natch). Day by day. Post by post. I hope you’ll indulge me and share this queer little journey ahead. Really, I do. After all…
People who share this sensibility are not laughing at the thing they label as ‘a camp’, they’re enjoying it. Camp is a tender feeling.
–Susan Sontag, “Notes on ‘Camp'”, #56