DON'T TOUCH OUR FANCY BOX!

The internet works in ridiculous ways. Somewhere a spambot trolling for sites to seed found an old post of mine, and forwarded the link to all of its little electronic kinfolk. In consequence of which devices all over electro-golus know that my computer has a kippah.

They are presently as enchanted with that datum as they were years before with a post I had written about the Chofetz Chaim.

Unfortunately, their comments about how delightfully unambiguous my post was, and the unexpected preservesnessocity that reminded them of their old college room mate and how he was always looking into things of this nature are as transparent now as then, and easily recognized as attempts to ascertain whether coming back later to leave links to penis-enhancing chemicals or hacking popular computer games will be worthwhile.

Computers may have mastered chess. But they are not yet human.

Their little fuzzy brains don't work quite right.

Sadly, neither does mine.


OH, THE INNOCENCE!

A real reader, almost certainly flesh and blood, neither a computerized search-bot nor a lizard, forwarded a link to an essay on Mark's Smoke Blog in hopes that I might find it exciting. Probably because I have in the past indicated that I like the idea of women with pipes and cigars.

Yes, I like the idea. But not quite that way. It's the boldness and independent-mindedness of a woman choosing a pipe or a cigar that appeals to me. The image of stubbornness and spirit.
Not the actual smoking.

That's why despite there being a subset of erotic pictures on the internet devoted to women clenching a briar or posing with a lit cheroot (while possibly doing other things), those photos do not do much for me.
Especially not when there is an attempt at sultriness.

I am a clean-minded man.

Instead:

"The light outside was already fading by the time she finished writing. She went into the kitchen to fix herself a cup of strong tea, and wondered where she had left her favourite pipe. Oh, there it was, next to the pot. When the tea was ready she returned to the living room with the steaming cup and the briar, curled up in the easy chair, and grabbed her well-thumbed copy of The Crucified God in the Carolingian Era: Theology and the Art of Christ’s Passion (Cambridge University Press, 2001), and started reading where she had left off the previous night.
Almost without thinking, her small deft fingers stuffed a wad of Rattray's Hal O'The Wynd into the Comoy. As fragrant smoke drifted towards the ceiling, and twilight outside faded to darkness, the conceptions of fraught iconography in the middle ages took hold of her imagination. Oh, how she wished she had had the chance to major in mediaeval art history, rather than something so mundanely practical as biochemistry!"

You can just picture it, can't you? She's an elfin woman, probably dressed comfortably albeit at-home sloppy. The apartment is quiet, and there is no one else around, nor does she expect anyone to come home and disturb her. Her feet are probably bare, slippers kicked off so she can pull her feet underneath her in the barcalounger.

To continue:

"Crisp page after crisp page, her thoughts encompassed the magic of the tome: "the interpretations that Christian, Hrabbanus, and the anonymous exegete propose of the Barrabas episode, which express in some ways similar ideas while highlighting different portions of the story ... "
'Hrabanus' commentary, probably written in 821-822 and consisting chiefly of blocks of excerpts from Patristic sources, stresses Old Testament prophecies of the passion and its divine ordination.'
Fascinating stuff! Her brow furrowed, and the fragrance of the aged Virginia in her pipe seemed almost to recall the frowst of the feverish unwashed mobs demanding of Pilate that HE be crucified; herbal, yeasty, tangy as if with ancient sweat; manifestly the ancient world reeked."

Okay, that may be a little too detailed. But what I wish to stress is that the young lady I describe is thoroughly involved, mentally active. All senses are ringing, all burners are on. Tea, tobacco, and a book, all enjoyed in an environment where, though sexual activity might be a part of her life, there is not even a hint of that. Even food (and let us imagine that there is enough delicious charsiu noodle soup for two later in the evening) is not mentioned, despite her needing to eat at some point.

Lord knows, food excites me.

The enjoyment of good tobacco is incidental; it's just something you do.

She's probably wearing a plaid skirt that reaches slightly below the knees, which makes her seem more girlish than any PhD candidate is really supposed to be. A man's shirt, two or three sizes to large, and not tucked in, complete the ensemble; she has spectacles which accentuate her bright eyes though that is not their purpose, and her hair is slightly mussy; she scratched her head pensively several times since early morning.

Further details: The table next to her seat is one of those rickety-seeming rattan constructions, with two or three more books upon it, one of which is almost certainly a dictionary of a dead tongue. The ashtray (necessary!) is a big porcelain object with a cigar brand blazon prominently displayed (consider the irony AND common sense of a pipesmoker using that!), and the kitchen beyond the living room is rather functional and constricted, like many apartment house kitchens are. Woodwork painted white, slightly yellowed from age and fumes.

Possibly this is the second floor of a building on a San Francisco hill, overlooking an unkempt garden. Or on the street-side of the building, with trees outside.

Ficus microcarpa, purple leaf plum, gingko, red bottlebrush, chestnut, carrot wood, arbutus, quito palm....

There may or may not be a Persian carpet somewhere in the dwelling, and the hallway has a clutter of coats and shoes (sensible flats, loafers, and deck shoes).

We shall not speculate about what is or may be in her bedroom.
That must remain entirely private, and none of our business.


Like Eve, there is an apple core on her bedside table.


I might be able to suggest other books for her.


Some innocent. Some a little less so.




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