That purse still hangs by a ribbon on my bed post. Its broken zipper rendered it useless.
Its zipper broken that morning. I stuffed my things, left on the floor from the night before, into that purse.
You were lovely. Offering to make me coffee and eggs.
I was rushed, confused, and trying not to be hopeful. I didn't tell you. In my haste, the zipper broke. You walked me out, kissed me farewell, as I clutched the purse close. I wanted to/didn't want to leave.
You were lovely. I didn't tell you.
That purse hangs on my bed post.
Showing posts with label MeRamblings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label MeRamblings. Show all posts
7.11.08
city folk.
Bicyclists in the city remind me of lone horseman of days past. Leaning forward and rising from their seats when about to drop down from the curb or ride over a pothole.
Semi-trucks remind me of elephants. Awkward and clumsy.
Semi-trucks remind me of elephants. Awkward and clumsy.
12.9.08
What my dreams are made of.
I had a dream that I was in a white pill capsule-shaped elevator.
My room (not sure if it was my apartment or a hotel?) was on the 60th floor of a 90-story building.
This skyscraping building was covered in white -- inside and out.
The elevator had a gray interior with a few floor to ceiling length windows -- maybe a foot-wide each. It moved on the outside of the building, much like the temporary elevators at construction sites. It moved over a white sandy beach with the ocean stretched out just beyond it.
Every time the elevator was requested to a higher floor, it'd start at the highest of the requested floors; I think, in an attempt to maximize energy use. And for some srange reason, my hand was magnetized to the 90th floor and each time, I'd reach out and press the button for floor 90. Then, bump back down to the 60th floor.
I couldn't get off the elevator. I couldn't stop pressing the 90th floor button. The elevator moved so fast I felt I was floating like a poorer version of what astronauts experience on the moon. I hardly kept my feet on the ground.
When the elevator reached the top, it flipped over; a complete 180. And still I couldn't get off.
My room (not sure if it was my apartment or a hotel?) was on the 60th floor of a 90-story building.
This skyscraping building was covered in white -- inside and out.
The elevator had a gray interior with a few floor to ceiling length windows -- maybe a foot-wide each. It moved on the outside of the building, much like the temporary elevators at construction sites. It moved over a white sandy beach with the ocean stretched out just beyond it.
Every time the elevator was requested to a higher floor, it'd start at the highest of the requested floors; I think, in an attempt to maximize energy use. And for some srange reason, my hand was magnetized to the 90th floor and each time, I'd reach out and press the button for floor 90. Then, bump back down to the 60th floor.
I couldn't get off the elevator. I couldn't stop pressing the 90th floor button. The elevator moved so fast I felt I was floating like a poorer version of what astronauts experience on the moon. I hardly kept my feet on the ground.
When the elevator reached the top, it flipped over; a complete 180. And still I couldn't get off.
6.8.08
Cottage cheese, cereal, and PB&Js
Freshman year of college I lived in suite; three roommates total, two on each side. Across the hall, lived four girls. Carly, who's family dined with and befriended Jeffrey Dahmer and his family. Nicole, who ran the top N'Sync fan website and thus, monopolized much of the campus' internet bandwidth. Ann, who had a full-ride scholarship to the business school and wore a belt fashioned from a seatbelt. And Katie, who worked harder than most and dated (eventually married) her high school sweetheart.
As for me, I was the adopted roommate, in lieu of Carly.
As is always true with roommates, we all started to know each others' habits. Nicole had a penchant for hitting the snooze button and slipping through parking lot guards. Katie, studied much, partied just as much, and went to every class. Ann, napped at every spare moment for hours at a time and would only eat PB&J, cottage cheese and cereal.
On Monday, from Katie, I learned that Ann passed away. Her latest facebook update tells that she was off to China to volunteer for the Olympics. It seems that in Beijing, she suffered a severe head injury and died as a result.
I didn't believe it at first. As one person said, I thought it was a joke. But no punch line ever came.
Ann was the infallible one. The girl who had three majors in undergrad, already earned her masters and was on her way to law school a month from now. Flip cup was her sport and sarcasm was her language. She was the intelligent one who was going to stop world poverty and hunger with a sweep of her arm. And after a five-hour nap, she'd go on to spread reason to all the dictators of the war-torn countries. Thus spreading peace throughout the world.
In Switzerland, I fractured my leg while we were canyoning and Ann walked away eager to jump right back in. We theorized that had we lived in Switzerland, we would be neighbors and paraglide to work every day. Two steps, parachute would be inflated and off we'd be.
When most of started work, Ann went to intern/volunteer at the UN in Strasbourg, France. Before that, it was at Capitol Hill. Then it was the AmeriCorps and a job at Habitat for Humanity. That's not to say she was superhuman.
It's to say, she lived.
: : : :
Somewhere around the 72 hour mark ago, I gave a two-minute toast to celebrate the wedding of two good friends. Marking a momentous beginning.
24 hours ago, I learned that Ann passed away. Marking a momentous finality.
: : : :
To Ann, the baller who's aim was to never grow up. August 4, 2008
Beijing, China
As for me, I was the adopted roommate, in lieu of Carly.
As is always true with roommates, we all started to know each others' habits. Nicole had a penchant for hitting the snooze button and slipping through parking lot guards. Katie, studied much, partied just as much, and went to every class. Ann, napped at every spare moment for hours at a time and would only eat PB&J, cottage cheese and cereal.
On Monday, from Katie, I learned that Ann passed away. Her latest facebook update tells that she was off to China to volunteer for the Olympics. It seems that in Beijing, she suffered a severe head injury and died as a result.
I didn't believe it at first. As one person said, I thought it was a joke. But no punch line ever came.
Ann was the infallible one. The girl who had three majors in undergrad, already earned her masters and was on her way to law school a month from now. Flip cup was her sport and sarcasm was her language. She was the intelligent one who was going to stop world poverty and hunger with a sweep of her arm. And after a five-hour nap, she'd go on to spread reason to all the dictators of the war-torn countries. Thus spreading peace throughout the world.
In Switzerland, I fractured my leg while we were canyoning and Ann walked away eager to jump right back in. We theorized that had we lived in Switzerland, we would be neighbors and paraglide to work every day. Two steps, parachute would be inflated and off we'd be.
When most of started work, Ann went to intern/volunteer at the UN in Strasbourg, France. Before that, it was at Capitol Hill. Then it was the AmeriCorps and a job at Habitat for Humanity. That's not to say she was superhuman.
It's to say, she lived.
: : : :
Somewhere around the 72 hour mark ago, I gave a two-minute toast to celebrate the wedding of two good friends. Marking a momentous beginning.
24 hours ago, I learned that Ann passed away. Marking a momentous finality.
: : : :
To Ann, the baller who's aim was to never grow up. August 4, 2008
Beijing, China
23.2.08
bubble people.
If we could be bubble people, you and me, I think we might make it. We could give this, give us, a real shot. We'd be safe in our bubble world.
We'd bring in the props and people. The people, yes they'd be grand. They'd wander around in striped stockings, boys in suspenders and girls in sun dresses, each person meant to be there. We'd grow a garden out back, the striped stockings drying on the porch as we plant and sow with bare feet. I'd take up button-making and you'd compose your novel.
Weekends would come and we'd drag our plaid couches and creaky, wooden rocking chairs outside. Basking in the sunlight while reading Miranda July, Michael Chabon and Charles Dickens and sharing stories of superheroes and heartbreaks. In the afternoons, someone would bring a fiddle and a harmonica. And so we'd play and twirl.
Yes, there'd be good days and bad days ones. But I think we could make it, me and you.
From time to time, we'll open the bubble door to glance at what life could be and was before. We'd slam it shut and stumble safely , happily back inside. Just you and me.
And I think I could be happy.
But maybe I'm wrong and maybe you're right. Like Lenin and Marx, you say. Good in theory, bad in reality.
Eventually, you'll forget about me and my crazy habits; my tongue clicking and whistling to fill a nervous silence, my shivering in bed, and funny sense of humor. And your oddities, too, will become whispers of my past.
And I am happy without our bubble world.
We'd bring in the props and people. The people, yes they'd be grand. They'd wander around in striped stockings, boys in suspenders and girls in sun dresses, each person meant to be there. We'd grow a garden out back, the striped stockings drying on the porch as we plant and sow with bare feet. I'd take up button-making and you'd compose your novel.
Weekends would come and we'd drag our plaid couches and creaky, wooden rocking chairs outside. Basking in the sunlight while reading Miranda July, Michael Chabon and Charles Dickens and sharing stories of superheroes and heartbreaks. In the afternoons, someone would bring a fiddle and a harmonica. And so we'd play and twirl.
Yes, there'd be good days and bad days ones. But I think we could make it, me and you.
From time to time, we'll open the bubble door to glance at what life could be and was before. We'd slam it shut and stumble safely , happily back inside. Just you and me.
And I think I could be happy.
But maybe I'm wrong and maybe you're right. Like Lenin and Marx, you say. Good in theory, bad in reality.
Eventually, you'll forget about me and my crazy habits; my tongue clicking and whistling to fill a nervous silence, my shivering in bed, and funny sense of humor. And your oddities, too, will become whispers of my past.
And I am happy without our bubble world.
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