Thursday, April 29, 2010

The Barmaid at the Folies-Bergères

I've never been bored.
not ever.

At least, I've never been this bored.

I've not ever been this bored before.

What I mean to say, of course, is that I love my job.
As a child, I prided myself in the fact that I could play alone for, well, ever, with almost no stimuli but...myself. I had enough fuel (
actually, fuel brings up something of a sore spot right now, as I ran out of gas on a dark rainy highway last night and the man at the gas station [that I had to walk to in the cold, rainy darkness] was so unaccommodating. bother.) in my over-active imagination to last me until bedtime. Or at least until my sister got home so I could terrorize her.
But now, between snotty comments of "I want your job!", "You get paid to surf the web all day!?"
[excuse me, I am not surfing the web, thank you, I am reading the New York Times, you "I play arena football because I can't play real football" imbecile] and "working hard?" I literally have nothing to do for extended periods of time.
And... okay, I'll say it:
I'm afraid my imagination isn't what it used to be.

Eek! I said it! How can I be bored? I've made lists ["How to Improve this Desk," "10 ways to commit suicide using only office supplies," etc.]! I've played games (Granted, "guess what I'm thinking- extreme edition" isn't that fun alone). And yet I can read the symptoms. I'm classically, through-and-through, Jungle Book vultures, watch-Pete-and-Pete re-runs-all-day bored.
bored bored bored.
And so I have no choice but to eat all these blueberry, cinnamon, chocolate chip, pumpkin, and cranberry scones they keep not eating. OH, and the huckleberry cinnamon rolls.
And the cheese danishes.



Number one on my "How to Improve This Desk" list is, of course, Manet. So, I sometimes get funny looks at the lone picture I have taped up under here at eye level:
If anyone asks about her, I tell them it's a private joke. Which is kind of thrilling, feeling like Manet and I developed some sort of running jest over coffee while we developed the impressionist movement together.

We didn't. But still.
Look at her! Her bored, lonely, stare- trapped, stifled! in alienation- while her dreamy, skewed reflection attends to the swarthy customer in the stove pipe hat. She's just like me.
So we made a deal, her and I. We're going to tough out the shady men over the counter and our lowly days in the dregs of the working class. But these days we spend at our respective "bars" will turn us into...

That's the deal, anyway.
Unfortunately, it was something of a one-sided conversation. And she doesn't have texting, so...

Hurrah for the winding down of day four! Tomorrow I'm leaving on a jet plane with the girls (mama, grandmama, and aunt suzanemama) for ickle Mindy-cousin's wedding. Still trying to make something of myself. I suppose most things just work one day at a time, don't they?

Time for a scone.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

"That's it Flavia, you sly fox!"

I'm sure I would make a terrible reviewer of books. You've seen what I put on here! It's all ravenous gushing or an inconclusive "meh" with a shrug, and there's nothing in-between for me and there never has been (nor ever will be). I'm a lass given to violent passions and violently passionate books. 
In fact, in a book I just read (The Thirteenth Tale. It's phenomenal. It's majestic. Do yourself a favor and read it on a stormy night), the heroine, Margaret, suffers from a similar book worm that infests her nervous system and takes her ill in a classic case of romanticism. That is, she loses her appetite for food and desire for sleep and is prone to roving the moors during rainstorms and fevers and dramatic fainting spells (so Cathy Earnshaw, huh?). Margaret's doctor prescribes her a heavy dose of Sherlock Holmes, and she gets all better.
Anyway, I'm kind of like Margaret. 

Someone I'm not like is miss Flavia De Luce, though I wish I were. This book was so delicious (pun intended)! A solid mystery story peppered with as many British witticisms and catch phrases as you could hope for ("Oh scissors!," "jolly well," etc.), though the author is actually Canadian. But that's okay because I'm Canadian too (sort of). Anyway, Flavia is an eleven-year-old, pig tailed, aspiring mad chemist, and is totally my hero. Brilliant, resourceful, and a right force to be reckoned with on her trusty one-speed steed, Gladys (I really need to get myself a bicycle).
Books, books, books
I may be trapped in this old town at this old desk in this old building that reeks of old pastries and sports medicine, but I really can read as much as I want (as long as I stuff my book under my desk when I hear someone coming). And that is happy indeed.
Remember what dear old Flave said?  "I realized heaven must be a place where the library is open twenty four hours a day, seven days a week.
No, eight days a week." 

So eight hours a day, five days a week isn't that far off.
[Yours Truly in a delicious, musty underground (literally) bookstore in West Jerusalem]               Love, clouds, and admitted nerdhood,            

Monday, April 26, 2010

Oh hey, it's me!

So I think it would be really cool to have a study. You know, like fathers always have in British novels.
That way, when unwanted visitors come to call the kids can say,

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry, but mother is rather occupied in her study!"

Alright, I realize that was a poorly disguised way of sneaking around the fact that this little blog has been in something of a state of dilapidation. I get it. But I just don't want to get all whiney again about how I've been so bored and depressed and confused and lonely and, really, ungrateful this semester.
I've been such a baby!

But that's all behind me now. I realized one dreary February mid-morning (at the end of a long string of similarly dreary mid-mornings) as I lay on the floor next to a large plate of spaghetti, mourning my existence, that something really needed to change
And that something was (and is) me.
So, here I am, ready to start anew. I'm home in Spokane Valley, Washington at this familiar old faux granite desk with eight hours of not much to do and a lot of homesickness and heartsickness for people and places (at the moment a little place like Jerusalem comes to mind, followed closely behind by Hawaii. Dancing around them are dearly beloved [still living] who I just can't seem to keep my hands on long enough) swimming around my psyche.
But here's the good news: I'm going to make something of myself. I mean it. These last few months of wallowing in Utah have been quite enough, and I'm ready to be curious, engaging, passionate, adventurous Banana once more. It's nice to remember who you are.
I think it was our dear friend, Emily Dick, who gave the encouraging nudge a couple days ago:

Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn-
Indicative that suns go down;
The notice to the startled grass-
That darkness is about to pass.

Thank you all for pardoning the Banana, but she is back! And ready for the sunshine. 

p.s. I may or may not have attempted to adapt that Emily Dickenson poem into lyrics for a song I'm trying to write on the guitar. Heh. Umm... oh yeah! Maybe I should learn to play the guitar? One more for the list! I can do it now though because I'm through with sendentarily wallowing and am once more going to cultivate my talents. Right?


I want to carry you
and for you to carry me
the way voices are said to carry over water.

Just this morning on the shore,
I could hear two people talking quietly
in a rowboat on the far side of the lake.

They were talking about fishing,
then one changed the subject,
and, I swear, they began talking about you.

Billy Collins

that's all, folks


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