Mrs. Dalloway's Coffee Break

Did you ever have one of those mornings, when you were sure you had not only sliced the breakfast apple on a pretty saucer, you know, the Sunday saucer with the Klimt-esque black and golden abstract drawings on it, because why the hell not, we deserve a little luxury, but imagine also having eaten the apple with your first sleepy and delicious cup of coffee, but after going to the kitchen for a refill, there the saucer sits, on the counter, and the entire experience, or memory, of having just eaten the fruit is actually from yesterday, or any other day before this morning, since you are like Hercule Poirot and must have the same thing every day, or your stomach will be terribly upset? Well I am having one of those mornings, and not only the uneaten apple that has turned brown, I am also wearing my sporty briefs that don’t really fit me, but make me feel like the white man in the Michelin tire ads. I was just making a point to my man the other day on the importance of buying new st

One She has been in our lives for almost forty years now, that is my whole lifetime. Gorgeous, large, red and green, lately more grey than green. But she has developed a smell. She is old, and sick, but how sick exactly, no one can really tell. We had her biopsied once, and the wood was all dry. But the smell persists. The cooing of the doves is clearly audible all throughout the summer, when I have my old bedroom window open. I never actually see the birds, and can neither confirm nor deny their existence, for anything other than the sound. But lately, for the past ten years, they are always there. We think they live in the thick hawthorn hedge, somewhere. In winter time, the radiators in almost every room are either off or on full blast, it is either or, because they are all broken, except the one in my parents’ room, and there are constant arguments over when we should turn on the heat from the boiler room switch. Will it suffice to have the heat on only in the morning,

(Laughter.) “It’s ‘Top of the morning’, Josie.” Alexandra paused the program, listening. There it was again, that sound. Outside, on the roof. Like – like someone walking. Walking, and stumbling, because the tin roof was steep, and slippery. She looked out the window, into the blazing spring sun, the birches on their places; next to them, the blood red tulips, rising from the grass like innocent, arrogant little hearts. Did she think arrogant? No, she meant eager, not arrogant. Alexandra was in a bad way. Her usual preemptive systems had failed. Her usual comfort systems had failed. Her left breast hurt still, and she was having trouble sleeping on her left side. She wasn’t getting her much needed fix from her favorite TV show, today. She didn’t feel safer, or better. If anything, the fear had grown. She was alone, and didn’t expect anybody for days. She thought about the story her mother had told her the last time her parents had been to see her. She had gone for one

I’m feeling kind of basic today – a line from High Fidelity, yes, but also my feeling, friends. After another sleepless night, I got to thinking about the myriad of self-help books, YouTube mindfulness coaches and happiness gurus, uplifting and cute peppy advice, that are basically pouring out of our phones and laptops and t-shirts and whatever. Everyone thinks they have got the keys to a better life, and if you will just follow closely these ten points, your life will be that much better, more enjoyable, and happy. I don’t know. Maybe it’s the insomnia talking, but it all reminds me of a morning with a boyfriend about ten years ago, who – and I am sure he wouldn’t mind me sharing this, it is something we laughed about a lot, over the years – after reading an article on how to eat your way to a healthy life, picked up his keys and ran to our near-by grocery store, and bought a bag of linseeds. He opened the bag, poured some over his plate of cereal, ate his breakfast, and neve

”I’m just standing in underwire heaven and babbling like a crazy person.” This is, surely, Lorelai Gilmore’s one-liner from season four’s The Reigning Lorelai (s 4 ep 16), and it popped into my head the other day, while I was riding the bus to town, on my way to work. I was thinking about writing something about one of my favorite things in this wonderful world, expensive couture bras, and was in the middle of collecting ideas in my head library, some favorite bra-memories, interesting or funny facts or stories on bras, and thinking about some bra-related lines from my favorite shows or movies, when I of course immediately thought of Lorelai. What is more interesting, though, is the following, totally unrelated matter, that popped into my head right after I had mentally ear-marked the line and resolved to find out which episode, in what season, in what circumstance. A short while ago, I was sitting in the audience at a literary event, and one of the writers present, sittin

Young, wild American Looking to be something Out of school go-go’n For a hundred or two Some asshole broke me in Wrecked all my innocence I’ll just keep go-go’n And this dance is on you She has a library of things said to her, and in a bad moment, she takes them out, a string of black pearls, holds them against sunlight, beholds the darkness of them, and wears them to bed. A rosary of accumulated wrongs, razors not to cut her, exactly, but intended to make her crack, or disappear, or shrink into nothingness, and hence, to make her the woman she became. She believes the other girls don’t have black pearl necklaces this long and shiny. Sometimes she takes them out, just to see the black light of them reflected on her diamond heart, knowing, that she can crush the entire thing in a heartbeat, if the mood hits her. But it has taken her a long time to perfect her collection, and while she knows it isn’t healthy, and that she will, eventually, need to let them go, she