» Thursday, February 24, 2005

Scott is clever one. He collected some quirky spam names (by the by, the favorite from my own haul this week: Treachery B. Paroling), and posted them on his LiveJournal, asking us readers to chose some and write them small biographies. I chose two and here they are:

Numbers Cowan was a productive member of the colony. He counted faster and more accurately than anyone in the office, save perhaps his father, Numbers Corban. Sometimes, though, he couldn't stop himself from gazing across the alley, through the window at the endless stacks of paper in the next office. He was transfixed by the hand of Leaflet Grinberch, which would appear at the edge of Numbers' sightline at regular intervals to remove a sheet of clean white paper and reappear seconds later to place a printed sheet on the next stack. Often, he imagined he was born to the wrong family, but Numbers Cowan never lost count.
.........
Edgardo Butts is on his way to court. He has waited for this day for many years. He has long been ashamed of his name, known that it diminished his standing in social situations like a weak chin. "It's a family name!" His father would shout, too forcefully, as if a lash from the belt would make it true: "You should be proud of your family!"

But father has passed, and Edgardo Butts makes his way downtown, certain that today is the first day of his new, wonderful life. His new name will pave golden roads of success. He says it aloud for the first time, savoring it. "Harold. Harry. Harry Butts."

» Saturday, February 12, 2005

I think my iPod has become sentient. I begin to fear it. Not that I'm going to stop using it or anything. It's more like the way we're told to fear God. Or Apple. Whatever.

Forgive my pathetic i-fallacy, but somehow, it always knows the appropriate music to suit my activity. Yesterday, I took a walk to the art supply store on my lunch break. My gray wool detective hat was pulled low over my eyes, and my collar was pushed up against the cold. I was walking into a driving wind, and the iPod chose "Sour Times" (Portishead) and "A View to a Kill." I formed my hand into a gun within the cloak of pocket and kept my back close to the walls. I didn't speak to anyone on the way, but rest assured there'd have been a Russian accent, poorly executed.

On the way back, through brighter streets with the wind at my back, I was armed with glitter glue, silver paint pens and a sunny disposition. IPod delivered The Apples in Stereo, XTC, and Komeda.

Surely a coincidence.

But lo, the iPod continued its winning streak today at the gym. It shuffled through the main library without aid: Outkast, Deee-Lite, some uptempo Squeeze and that infernally cheerful "Steal My Sunshine" song.

Do my moods develop based on the random choices of the i-Pod, or does the AI-Pod pre-determine my needs? What came first, the music or the fantasy*?

* Of course, I paraphrase Nick Hornby. Thank you, nice Mr. Hornby. Pleaase write another book soon.

» Tuesday, February 08, 2005

Here's a selection from ten years ago today. When did I get so old?

I hate ****. I love her but I don't want to be owned. Her smoking, drinking, pink fat face makes me sick, but I miss our moments of brilliance. **** doesn't mean well, but she isn't well, so it's okay.

Tonight, I even miss her pink fat face. I've been having petit mal fits of nostalgia all evening. I should not be allowed to dig into memorabilia.

» Monday, February 07, 2005

I'm having one of those days. The dog woke me at irregular intervals through the night, pretending to need a trip outside. I can't think of anything worse than needing to pee and not being allowed, except maybe Celine Dion, so I kept getting up. It was always a lie. She'd stand at the top of the stairs and look at me stupidly, as if saying, "Hahahaha, I know, right?"

When I woke up for real, I walked into the bathroom and immediately broke a hand mirror. How does the math work on seven years of bad luck if you're only halfway through your last sentence?

» Friday, February 04, 2005

I was driving the streets of Boston behind my eyelids again last night. Past the Broadway Bridge and around the rotary, I pick up Alewife Brook and sing it to the tune of "Alouette" — "Ah-leh-weefay, gentille Ah-leh-weefay" — as per usual. I take Route 2 on auto-pilot and don't think about the turns to Waltham, but somehow I'm there, breathing in stale cruller and the fumes from midnight slackers' cars as I pull into the driveway. Inside, there is the barest breath of my own environment, the smell of my world, before it becomes too familiar and I can't separate myself from it. I painted these walls myself.

I don't want to go back, not now. It's too painful even to visit. I think I was in love with the city, actually in love, and I have to stop yearning before I can see it casually, as friends. Boston and I, we're not at the point where we can sit in a café together and share a chai and some memories. And honestly? If Boston's seeing someone else now, I'm just not ready to know. I wish it well, but part of me hopes it will never really get over me. I know it's not fair. I mean, I've been seeing New York City for over a year now, and I think it's getting serious. But the heart feels how it feels.

In front of my eyelids, things are much more clear. I'm having a really lovely week. I had two waves of houseguests. Bud and Lauren came first; We donned knit hats with characteristically wild abandon, and tossed coins of increasing value from a balcony into a fountain. Wishes made with dimes are guaranteed to come true. I know this, because Jon came just as my other friends were leaving. I spent a couple days trying halfheartedly to convince him that Baltimore doesn't bite kittens, but I failed. I can only assume my unnaturally good looks and vim overwhelmed the suck-factor of Charmless City. I hope.

I feel pleasant and serene, and I'd really like everyone to come visit as soon as possible, that they may take advantage of my pleasant serenity. Just, um, don't tell Boston you're coming.