Mrs. Dalloway's Coffee Break

A house was not a home. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t sad. Mimou looked out the window, thinking about Peri. And Mrs. R. Mimou was home sick. The piano was creating music into the room, adding even more thickness into its already thick air, with great ease, the song unraveling pleasurably, little by little. Mimou had just had her hair cut, she felt self-conscious about her bare neck and ears on display, and so wasn’t capable of satisfyingly telling the woman playing how much those notes were touching her. But it was alright, though. She couldn’t talk worth a damn anyway. Mimou wanted nothing more than to dress herself up in the music playing. Mimou felt she had a very specific place in mind where Peri could shove her various opinions, but, reluctantly yet without any hints, she kept her mouth shut. Peri knew how to sing, Mimou didn’t. There was nothing Mimou was able to do as well as Peri; how could she, being two years her junior, which might as well could have been light y

The Beatles, Everybody’s Got Something To Hide Except Me And My Monkey Your inside is out and your outside is in Rihanna featuring SZA, Consideration When I look outside my window I can’t get no peace of mind Rihanna featuring Drake, Work You took my heart off my sleeve for decoration Alicia Keys, The Beginning I’m the mystery of what’s inside the speaker cables, I’m Nina Simone in the park Beyoncé, Formation I did not come to play with you hoes, I came to slay, bitch The Breeders, Cannonball I know your’re a cannonball, I’ll be whatever you want Beck, Everybody’s Gotta Learn Sometimes Change your heart, it will astound you Siouxsie & The Banshees, Hong Kong Garden Harmful elements in the air, cymbals clashing everywhere Pavement, Shady Lane It’s everybody’s God Pavement, Stereo Tired nation so depraved, from the cheap seats we see us wave to the camera Pavement, Gold Soundz Because I never want to make you feel that you’re social, never ign

For those just tuning in, I should tell you right now, I have a serious substance abuse problem. “Everything you see, I owe to pasta”, is a line attributed to I believe it was Sophia Loren. Frank Sinatra would munch on huge helpings of pasta with meatballs back in his New Jersey days, and as long as he was alive for as far as I know. Whenever I have just finished a litre of pasta with tomato and basil and I’m rolling around in the apartment, trying to look normal and not at all overstuffed – and I do eat tons of it, my man can testify to that - I always think of Jim Carrey imitating Jack Nicholson at some function in honor of Meryl Streep many years ago, where he pats his stomach with both hands, takes the Nicholson smirk on his face, and says: “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing!” Whenever I watch Amélie, I immediately want a crème brûlée the very moment we see her break the hard, caramelized surface of the dessert with a spoon. I am not such a big fan of those in real lif

Mrs. Dalloway’s journal sits on the nightstand, hidden under some novels with bookmarks sticking out, next to the sleeping pills and a glass of water, hidden but not unused, and there is Mrs. Dalloway herself, Looking for answers in unsavory places (Don’t Ask Me Why), like if she could browse those pages enough, go backwards long enough, the same exact words would be found there, maybe in a different order, but nonetheless the same words. Clarissa took her glass of water and walked out. The burner was hot now, and she was making scrambled eggs, a breakfast heavier than her usual soygurt with fruit, but she felt particularly frail today, the faintest hint of head ache behind her violet eyes gathering force in the manner of an imminent storm, making ready to take her into its grip for the remains of the day. She spilled a little, pouring coffee into one her mugs, her Thursday mug, because it was Thursday, wasn’t it, or was it Friday already? Her neck was tight, she had slept the lit

I love dancing. If I could, I would dance all day long, wearing nothing but oversized sweaters and dancing micro pants and legwarmers that go up to the thigh, and maybe t-shirts with cut sleeves, if I really got into it. Oh no, don’t get me wrong, I am nothing like the lovely welder/dancer girl Alex from Flashdance when I dance. Even farther is Madonna’s chair routine from Open Your Heart video. Beyoncé? Forget it! If you have seen St. Elmo’s Fire, pay close attention to Kirby’s huge party scene. I’m Andrew McCarthy, dancing crazy to Man in Motion. That’s exactly how I dance. That, and Molly Ringwald going at it in the library dancing montage in The Breakfast Club. That, and the opening sequence of Footloose, with all the different kinds of feet in different kinds of shoes, dancing and jumping and pumping and skipping. That, my friends, is I, dancing. With all my love for it, I have never been to dance classes. I am naturally bendy, and I guess I’m in the ballpark of able-to-c

I am writing you for the very first time, and while I hesitate to say I am your number one fan, I believe it was the great Stephen King who single-handedly erased that line from the repertoire of appropriate openers forever, I would like to think I am at least in the top ten percent of your most devoted fans, somewhere in the middle of chasing you around the block with a camera, and giving some well thought of thumbs up after seeing a movie with you in it. I am writing you in the very midst of the La La Land frenzy, the Globes are already handed out, and bets are being placed on this dazzling film to sweep the Oscars as well, and yes, they will be swept, and it is all good and fabulous, and yes, you are all kinds of fabulous in it as well as otherwise. While the world is busy loving you – and the equally lovable Emma Stone, with whom you do have magical onscreen chemistry, I was talking about it with a friend after seeing La La Land, and Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan were mentioned,