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loose connections
Oct. 15th, 2006 08:49 pmThis is London's warmest October on record; people here are taking it as incontrovertible evidence of global warming. I'm still cold most of the time, except when I'm on one of my walks; it's rare that my feet carry me less than four miles in a day, and I often cover many more.
The walls of my bedroom are blue, and the three lamps are white and round, as are the flowers of baby's breath in the vase by my blue-covered bed; there's something fairytale about it, as though I'm living on the moon, or in an illustration of the moon princess's house. I love my room. It is my favorite place in London. I've begun to leave out silver coins and bits of tinfoil.
For breakfast, I have taken to eating a piece of fruit, chocolate, two croissants, and lapsang souchong (the coffee of teas) in the red and white lotus flower mug REL brought back from China. Predictably, breakfast is therefore my favorite part of the day, and I let myself be unhurried about it. I take particular pleasure in the way my back teeth feel as they chomp through layers of soft pastry; I am hard pressed to think of a similar tactile sensation.
I continue to find coins on the ground; it's a rare day I don't make three pence. So far, my best day came to six pence total, although my most valuable day I found three and a half - a ha'penny from 1967 (the last year they were made), worth more than a pound. I collected coins as a child; I will always love them more than bills, and perhaps more than jewelry, although I have little desire these days to amass any object I won't ever use.
It's going to be a long time before I see "S&M" and think "sausage and mash."
When I lived in Surrey as a child, my room had a small attic - a triangular space under the eaves. It always reminded me of The Magician's Nephew - my favorite Narnia book, aside from Prince Caspian. This attic, which I treated as a toy closet and playroom, latched from the outside; if one closed the door whilst inside, one was trapped. I locked myself in constantly, as an engineering challenge. I was also fond of hiding in the attic with the door closed and latched; I had the idea that nobody would think to look there because, after all, I was a smart person who certainly wouldn't be so foolish as to lock myself in.
If I was not in the attic, I was typically hiding in the rhododendron hedge, spying on the neighbors. I also spent time laying in the back of the flower bed, where the daisies were tall enough to cover me; for further camouflage, I wore a daisy-patterned dress. I had other hiding places at school; I was ever a secretive child.
I continue to have trouble communicating with the English, who for the most part retain an imperialist paternalism that I despise. As a result, I am constantly butting heads with all and sundry, usually to insist that, no, I don't think the English way of doing such-and-such is better, or even good, and no, I was not joking when I said no. Alternately: no, I was in America when such-and-such happened and so no, I couldn't have just called the council or taken the underground or any of the other odd systems particular to London that - yes genuinely - are not world standards, nor are English attitudes toward marriage, religion, emotional expression, etc.. I swear, it's like dealing with Parisians.
The root of the problem may be the idea of English common law - that if enough people do something the same way, it becomes not just customary but legally mandated.
Interestingly, writers seem to be devoid of this trait - perhaps due to a greater measure of reflection and self-examination, and perhaps because they are used to considering characters with different experiences and motivations from their own. It is also, obviously, not a problem shared by people who are not English - Scots, for instance, or most international students. New Yorkers are a problem.
Pasta has become my staple cooking-for-one-person food, after many years of defaulting to stir fry or omelets. Partly, this is practical: I can make a large amount very quickly, and satisfy not only dinner but next day's lunch - cold pasta often as good as warm. Partly, this is an inheritance from Ciro, like slang picked up from a friend, or a band found through a roommate. It makes me happy to think of the ways I have been affected by other people, some of whom I will likely never see again.
The walls of my bedroom are blue, and the three lamps are white and round, as are the flowers of baby's breath in the vase by my blue-covered bed; there's something fairytale about it, as though I'm living on the moon, or in an illustration of the moon princess's house. I love my room. It is my favorite place in London. I've begun to leave out silver coins and bits of tinfoil.
For breakfast, I have taken to eating a piece of fruit, chocolate, two croissants, and lapsang souchong (the coffee of teas) in the red and white lotus flower mug REL brought back from China. Predictably, breakfast is therefore my favorite part of the day, and I let myself be unhurried about it. I take particular pleasure in the way my back teeth feel as they chomp through layers of soft pastry; I am hard pressed to think of a similar tactile sensation.
I continue to find coins on the ground; it's a rare day I don't make three pence. So far, my best day came to six pence total, although my most valuable day I found three and a half - a ha'penny from 1967 (the last year they were made), worth more than a pound. I collected coins as a child; I will always love them more than bills, and perhaps more than jewelry, although I have little desire these days to amass any object I won't ever use.
It's going to be a long time before I see "S&M" and think "sausage and mash."
When I lived in Surrey as a child, my room had a small attic - a triangular space under the eaves. It always reminded me of The Magician's Nephew - my favorite Narnia book, aside from Prince Caspian. This attic, which I treated as a toy closet and playroom, latched from the outside; if one closed the door whilst inside, one was trapped. I locked myself in constantly, as an engineering challenge. I was also fond of hiding in the attic with the door closed and latched; I had the idea that nobody would think to look there because, after all, I was a smart person who certainly wouldn't be so foolish as to lock myself in.
If I was not in the attic, I was typically hiding in the rhododendron hedge, spying on the neighbors. I also spent time laying in the back of the flower bed, where the daisies were tall enough to cover me; for further camouflage, I wore a daisy-patterned dress. I had other hiding places at school; I was ever a secretive child.
I continue to have trouble communicating with the English, who for the most part retain an imperialist paternalism that I despise. As a result, I am constantly butting heads with all and sundry, usually to insist that, no, I don't think the English way of doing such-and-such is better, or even good, and no, I was not joking when I said no. Alternately: no, I was in America when such-and-such happened and so no, I couldn't have just called the council or taken the underground or any of the other odd systems particular to London that - yes genuinely - are not world standards, nor are English attitudes toward marriage, religion, emotional expression, etc.. I swear, it's like dealing with Parisians.
The root of the problem may be the idea of English common law - that if enough people do something the same way, it becomes not just customary but legally mandated.
Interestingly, writers seem to be devoid of this trait - perhaps due to a greater measure of reflection and self-examination, and perhaps because they are used to considering characters with different experiences and motivations from their own. It is also, obviously, not a problem shared by people who are not English - Scots, for instance, or most international students. New Yorkers are a problem.
Pasta has become my staple cooking-for-one-person food, after many years of defaulting to stir fry or omelets. Partly, this is practical: I can make a large amount very quickly, and satisfy not only dinner but next day's lunch - cold pasta often as good as warm. Partly, this is an inheritance from Ciro, like slang picked up from a friend, or a band found through a roommate. It makes me happy to think of the ways I have been affected by other people, some of whom I will likely never see again.
