something for the weekend?
Call me old fashioned, but everytime Google introduces a new gizmo to the blogger interface I mourn. My inner Luddite just can't handle all the bells and whistles we bloggers now get treated to, but I digress.
Today has been difficult, I've been wanting to post: to craft, to write, to shape experience into something tangible. To post with thought and feeling in a way that I haven't for a while. And because of this desire every action, every observation took on a depth and significance it might not otherwise have had. We went for coffee. The milk curled and bloomed under the oily, slick surface and I had to pause, my heart skipped a beat at the beauty of it and even as I was focused I knew that I'd never find the words to express how transcendent the moment was - transfixed and aware at the same time that I was ridiculous and unequal to the task. It didn't help that The Guardian's magazine had the most brilliant - in the sense that a diamond is brilliant cut: sharp, sparkling - short stories. Jonathan Safran Foer writes magnificently, his story felt like a magnificat to me. Gifted.
The whole day has been like this - every second has felt momentous, in focus to an uncomfortable degree.
Next up was a discussion with TA, we were walking back to the flat after stopping off to buy CDs at Fopp. We went into Magma and looked at the design books and magazines one was called 'My Parents Don't Know I'm Adopted', which made me smile. The conversation was wide ranging, touching on diverse topics, from my desire to be bought an apron for Christmas - more on this in a moment - to my irrational dislike of compilation albums, but most important to this post, perhaps, I related to TA how I once was honoured enough to see Thor Ewing perform. Anglo-Saxon poetry came alive - even though I only understood one word in ten, it truly was a mythical experience, one I count myself blessed to have seen it. So, the apron. I would like an apron for Christmas. You think I'm wierd or being funny don't you? Well I guess I'm odd, because I'm not joking. Perhaps if I told you that I first started thinking about the apron when I was working at the deli and perhaps if I mentioned that I want one that is heavy; with a bib to cover my chest; with ribbons that I can wrap several times around my waist; that in my mind this apron brings with it the perfume of lavender and a French country kitchen...then would you understand my desire for an apron? Oftentimes TA and I fail to communicate and it is usually times like this when we forget that things are not simply things, but weighted immeasurably with associations and unfulfilled desires. So it was with the apron, it seems I was ripe for teasing - as I often am, so full to the brim with strange leaps of logic, or illogic, and so ready to give physical form to abstract obsessions - TA told me that, yes, he did remember my request and that he'd spotted the perfect apron for me - something about six-packs and naked breasts. I told him he was taking delight at weeing from at great height on my - admittedly pretentious - dreams and that is why I was upset. Gone was the French lavender and slow-cooked, delicious repast. The apron and the conversation are emblematic.
So we came home, but still this heightened awareness didn't fade. I checked my email to find out when James's talk was and discovered I'd already missed it. I tidied our bedroom, but couldn't stop my feelings of dissatifaction from bubbling up as housemate C played on the playstation and TA watched. This isn't the kind of life I want to be living. The French lavender was back - it's perfume haunting me, saying I'm just around the corner, change your life just a little and you will find me. I vacuumed and, taking a glass of wine with me onto the roof, read the review section of the newspaper. Where I found this article and worried that I am pathalogical. There's more, much more and if I had time I'd write all the minutae, but on balance I think I've written enough - today has been difficult.