Itchy eyes and itchy sheets. Doing the laundry and meanwhile wearing a towel as a non electricity sucking cooling device.
No matter how inevitable it may be, it's always sort of startling to discover at 1 in the morning that there are still moments where it seems, despite all the evidence to the contrary, that time isn't moving quickly enough.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
What You Can Learn From Sitting Very Still.
Having someone visit feels vaguely like being given a pop quiz. Over the course of a weekend, I will be tested on how good of a hostess I am, my ability to think on my feet and suggest fun things to do, and whether or not my knowledge of the city has improved since I've moved here.
You are sitting on the futon and I am sitting beside you and neither of us are talking. I'm facing the TV so I can't see you, I can't tell if you're watching me or the TV or neither, perhaps you're eyes are closed. I'm morbidly aware that this kind of behavior is frivolous, soon you'll be on a plane again or bus or train and it'll only be after you're gone that I'll really start to plan what I wanted to say and how I wanted to act.
It's on the way home from the station that I'll be faced with the hardest part of the quiz: attempting to solve the riddle of what is time well spent. Is it visiting enough landmarks and going to the right restaurants, or is it something more obscure and minute, sideways glances and the pressure of your hand pressing into mine and all that can be said during a long silence?
You are sitting on the futon and I am sitting beside you and neither of us are talking. I'm facing the TV so I can't see you, I can't tell if you're watching me or the TV or neither, perhaps you're eyes are closed. I'm morbidly aware that this kind of behavior is frivolous, soon you'll be on a plane again or bus or train and it'll only be after you're gone that I'll really start to plan what I wanted to say and how I wanted to act.
It's on the way home from the station that I'll be faced with the hardest part of the quiz: attempting to solve the riddle of what is time well spent. Is it visiting enough landmarks and going to the right restaurants, or is it something more obscure and minute, sideways glances and the pressure of your hand pressing into mine and all that can be said during a long silence?
Monday, July 18, 2005
A Loss For Words
Spent today reading a collection of articles about Charlotte Corday and daydreaming about camping out in abandoned castles.
Is it like this with you, too?
Whenever I feel fine it's as if my brain slows down a bit, runs out of the right words. I'm not sure if my vocabulary for discomfort or sadness or frustration is so much stronger and more varied because of something to do with me personally, or if it's just simply that the feeling of contentment doesn't necessarily demand the kind of articulation that another state of mind might, you know?
Is it like this with you, too?
Whenever I feel fine it's as if my brain slows down a bit, runs out of the right words. I'm not sure if my vocabulary for discomfort or sadness or frustration is so much stronger and more varied because of something to do with me personally, or if it's just simply that the feeling of contentment doesn't necessarily demand the kind of articulation that another state of mind might, you know?
Sunday, July 17, 2005
What To Do When There's Nothing To Do
Oh, you know you're in trouble when you catch yourself listening to "All the Umbrellas in London" on repeat.
It's both relieving and unnerving that some part of my brain has actually become convinced that if I don't write something down, in some way it's like it never happened, isn't happening.
Once early in grade school before manners and emotions had become domesticated, I walked right up to a boy who I'd been told liked me and asked if the rumor was actually true.
When was the last time I was ever quite so straightforward about matters of the heart?
It's both relieving and unnerving that some part of my brain has actually become convinced that if I don't write something down, in some way it's like it never happened, isn't happening.
Once early in grade school before manners and emotions had become domesticated, I walked right up to a boy who I'd been told liked me and asked if the rumor was actually true.
When was the last time I was ever quite so straightforward about matters of the heart?
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