Mrs. Dalloway's Coffee Break

A few days ago, I had words with Swinton while on shift, about the Coen Brothers. It all started, when I was checking IMDb about Woody Allen’s new film, Wonder Wheel, worried because his new flick had been presented in Cannes as far back as I could remember, and this year, it wasn’t. “Could it be that he is just getting old, and doesn’t work with the same speed as before?” I mused, when Swinton saw the stills on the screen. “Ohmygod is that Justin Timberlake?” she exclaimed, horrified. “Why, yes, yes it is”, I answered. “I kind of liked his performance in Inside Llewyn Davis, and, of course, the beard.” “Yes, of course, the beard, not to mention the curly hair: James Franco, Woody Allen himself, Mark Ruffalo, the young Steven Spielberg, the young Sam Raimi –“ “Really? Yes. It’s true, I really am that predictable. Anyway, apart from the performances, I didn’t much care for the movie itself. I mean, the whole concept of me going to the movies to see a Coen Brothers film is a

James came inside, carrying the paper. He was wagging his tail, thumping it loudly against the kitchen cabinet door. Nanouk thanked him, and James let go of the paper, exchanging it to a tasty sausage. He was so good at bringing the paper inside all the way from across the street, the news was never punctured by teeth marks. Sure, there was the occasional line of drool, but that was alright, usually it went across the economy and politics sections, and who really cared for those anyway? James sat by the door, his floppy ears in a vigilant posture, the big black dog ever watchful, checking out what was going on next. It was always good to know these things. For instance, right now there were no clean plates in the kitchen, and neither of the sisters was feeling like doing the washing up, so Mimou selected a flat pantyhose package from the garbage and placed her sandwich on top of it. The sounds of kids playing in the near-by playground lingered through the wide-open balcony doo

It is a widely known fact about Henry Miller, that his favorite means of transportation was riding a bicycle, and during the most passionate phase of his ten-year affair with Anaïs Nin, in Paris in the early Thirties, he would bike over to have their clandestine rendezvous while Nin’s husband was on his work-related travels, the lovers’ meetings sometimes lasting for days on end, meetings he preferred calling, somewhat boorishly, fuck-fests, but let’s forgive him; with Henry, boorishness is half the charm. I agree with Miller on the biking. I can’t think of a more fun or healthy way to get from A to B. The wind in my face. The steep hill, the heart pounding, the Hi-yo, Silver, away! -ride down on the other side, only a tad concerned over the brakes because it’s been four years since the last official spring check-up, but they seem to be working fine, so off we go! These have been some gorgeous summer days here in Finland, and everybody, who weren’t unlucky enough to have to be

”Okay, I’m gonna go in with the ultrasound now. It sounds a little bit violent to the ear, and maybe a little annoying inside your mouth, but really it is just real mellow. Just tell me if it hurts. But it shouldn’t hurt. Wait a moment, I’m entangled. Damn these cords back here! Okay, there. Okay, you’re doing fine, a little more, a little more - why won’t you come off! A little bit more – Hey! Hallelujah, we’ve got actual gaps between teeth here! Okay, let’s take a break. You okay?” “Fine. Actually, I was thinking that any man who uses the word ‘mellow’ about a dentist’s tool, cannot be evil to the core.” “Well said!” (Laughter.) Yep, I finally had the dreaded dental hygienist’s appointment to have my teeth cleaned. I couldn’t eat a damn thing before going in, all I could do was think again and again about how the X-ray had shown multiple fragmenting in the enamel, also known as early signs of cavities, times I don’t even know how many. That had been April. This was June.

Here’s what I remember. Do nothing till you hear from me. Pay no attention to what’s said. Why people tear the seam of anyone’s dream is over my head. You needed to wash your glasses, but I couldn’t look at you without glasses, so I had to leave the room. Brown lashes, eyes blue and green, like in the song, and little wrinkles in the far corners, and freckles, just teeny-tiny ones, on the lower lids, and how perfectly almond-shaped your eyes are. Little golden spots in the irises, making your blue and green eyes appear like a magician’s eyes. But the beauty of the eyes aside, it was the undiluted emotion in those eyes, I could not handle just then. No one looked at me the way you do. It is a feeling I sometimes cannot quite grasp. That look collapses me, and I have a moment of utter terror, thinking of all the things I have said to you, and how you, if you thought about it, have no reason at all to be looking at me like that, with that blinding, all-consuming love.

I had a work thing in a different city this week, and because of the gruesomely early start of the palaver in the morning, we were granted permission to stay the night at a hotel. Now, while perhaps some of you may frown upon my use of the word “gruesome” about a nine-a.m. start, I have to tell you, that yes, in my line it really is sort of gruesome, especially considering we were working the previous night, myself and Roberts, and would have needed to leave in the six-thirty train full of angry early-morning commuters, not to mention the cross-town bus before that, taking up to forty minutes, so my morning would have started at four. I mean oh my lord what an ungodly hour to do anything, let alone start one’s damn day. So, there we were, staying at a hotel, Roberts and me, my closest work colleague going back ten years. We share a similar disposition of neatness and tidiness, and some fuddy-duddiness, and are both prone to highly sensitive reactions to our surroundings, so pairin