“STOP!  THIS FRIVOLOUS!  NONSENSE!”

This is how it began, my mild obsession with those two words, hearing them shouted in a strained voice by Mrs. Blue.  Actually, she did not shout.  Ever.  It was more of a slight and painful elevation of her perpetually monotone speaking voice.  Those of you who remember her, who were also students in her English class, or who knew her as my ex-boyfriend’s mother, know exactly what I’m talking about.  (You also know that she has a different last name, but I’m trying to be somewhat coy here, people.)

The poor woman.  She was probably trying to inspire us with Shakespeare or Camus or Emerson or Thoreau, forgoodnesssake.  What kind of numbskulls could remain uninspired by such genius?  A bunch of stupid teenagers, that’s who.  I was passing a note, someone was making pretend obscene noises, and someone else was farting for real, and she snapped.  God!  I would have, too!  Except my f-word would not have been “frivolous.”  Hers was. 

“Stop this frivolous nonsense!” she cried said.  Oh, the poor dear.  It really pains me now to think about it.  I feel guilty, of course.  But mostly, I feel, as I felt then, pity.  I remember the silence that fell over the room.  I remember thinking, I hope I am never ever as miserable as that woman.  I also remember thinking, what the heck does “frivolous” mean?

 friv-o-lous [friv-uh-l uh s] : –adjective 1.  characterized by lack of seriousness or sense: frivolous conduct.  2. self-indulgently carefree; unconcerned about or lacking any serious purpose.  3. (of a person) given to trifling or undue levity: a frivolous, empty-headed person. 4. of little or no weight, worth, or importance; not worthy of serious notice: a frivolous suggestion.

So I looked it up, and decided that frivolous actually was important.  I decided that if I did not include plenty of frivolity in my life, I’d end up as miserable as Mrs. Blue (who, by the way, made the most delicious rhubarb pie, was the first person to really encourage my writing, and was a genuinely beautiful person beneath all that monotone).

I fight with that conclusion, with my love affair with all things frivolous.  I talk to myself when it comes up (which is often).  Why are you crocheting a doily?   Because it is fun.  But you have more serious things to do.  True Art is serious and important and has a capital A.  But, look!  It’s turquoise!  It is still a fucking doily.  What if we call it a mandala?  Because it goes in circles?  Loser.  Stop this frivolous nonsense.

And, so, aha!  There you have it.  There is this young bratty kid inside me that comes to poke around when big important philosophical intellectual spiritual Artiste is around.  And she’s like, wheee!  Let’s do something pointless.  And so sometimes, I do.  I don’t know if it is the wrong thing to do, an evil distraction from some grand vision.  But I simply cannot take myself so seriously when there is this inner wild child bouncing around, begging for frivolous nonsense.

And so I honor that inner brat by making this frivolous print my first etsy listing.  Also, it is yours if you contributed to this frivolity.

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!