Mrs. Dalloway's Coffee Break

Behold, darlings; dear old, wrinkly threads of The Abyss! Hello, glistening leather cases and immaculately polished shoes as well as worn out trainers, Rachel's apartment pants, wool socks, underpants and tee-shirts! Your mistress has returned from The Towns, and look at all the treasures she brings along in her many bags! Here come the new girls on the block: One. Yes, you can buy a Cerruti 1881 dress for ten euros. She is waiting patiently, downstairs, where one finds the ones that were left over from the hot picks, and no more telling me you’ve had it and it’s all over and it’s too hot to shop anyway. Because it isn’t. At first you think it is horrible, too large for one, and shaped like a potato sack. But there is the smooth seduction of the fabric, the powdery color so very flatter ing next to Scandinavic pale skin, the luxurious strass knot between the breasts. Adding, of course, the fact that this is Cerruti 1881, and for that price, you’ll never forgive yourself if y

I have been reading A Philosophy of Walking by Frédéric Gros this past week, and there was a chapter where he wrote about walking being the final means for the modern man to seek the unseekable, to try and find his inner peace, lose himself into the free movement of the feet, and perhaps get in touch with the lost truths about nature, time, and himself. With what has been going on in the world in the past few days, everyone has had to make another new deal with themselves over what these heinous acts of violence will mean to us. In Finland, the person who ran amok in Turku, stabbing people, was reported to having targeted women, and the injured men were the ones who were trying to help them or prevent the violence. It was also reported that the people on the street started chasing after the suspect, who, obviously, tried to escape on foot after the stabbings. Spain. Finland. Siberia. Violence that breeds more violence. I keep walking now because I can't stop. I

Sun I put on my fancy black skirt, the ankle-length billowing thing with golden stripes all over my large chessboard pattern ear studs and a simple white collared shirt I didn’t iron because I hate ironing and I don’t mind some wrinkles but it’s not that bad. At the café the sun yellows the whole space pouring through the windows the morning sun, final days of summer in Finland the marble tabletop cluttered with debris from our grand breakfast consisting of fresh pineapple chunks pumpkin seeds and strawberry jam cucumbers sliced thick and oval as if they were going someplace in a hurry watermelon and honeydew and different cheeses and of course cake and bread baked with raisins but you don’t like raisins in a bread I take some, though, to celebrate. We are drinking our third cup of coffee I think about the small humorous note on display at my workplace with Darth Vader and the words “Come to the Dark Side, We Have Coffee” I have my j

Dear Diary . Just kidding. Let’s rephrase: dear friend. The time is quickly approaching, that magical time of the year, when I dive into that fabled rabbit hole and hopefully come back out, yet once more, a changed woman. This will be my fourth trip to Paris in as many years. Only now, the biggest difference to all those previous wonderful excursions into the heartland of my damn writer’s soul, if you’ll excuse the cliché, or, Clichy, as we say in French haha, is that this time the fact that I won’t be able to bring along my huge ancient dinosaur of a laptop is possibly going to create a huge problem. Taking into consideration, that this piece of writing will mark my seventy-second entry on the site in a little over eight months, I really should have no problem at all leaving my computer behind for two weeks and just enjoy the time, the atmosphere, the excruciating heat, the greengrocers’ stands, and walking those gorgeous old streets with my man. The only thing is, I haven’t

It is all over the news this summer, that the southern parts of the country are experiencing the rainiest and coldest summer in twenty years. Therefore Mrs. Dalloway cannot help herself, but takes an extra helping of raspberries on top of her usual soygurt breakfast, musing absent-mindedly, that she is feeling a sense of almost overpowering extravagance, of unnecessary inappropriateness, about her meal. She sips her mineral water, waiting for the fresh coffee to drip, and touches the left side of her head, where the grays have appeared, just above the left temple. That is where she is hurting now, almost constantly, since her episode five days ago. In her dream, she is at a house by the woods, her house, apparently, and as she is approaching the sauna building and the work shed, walking a narrow pathway between the strangely silent and ominously dark firs and pine trees, she is overcome by a certainty that she is not alone, and she starts running the path, a first careful but

I have been having some technical difficulties. WARNING CONTAINS SPOILERS!! By technical difficulties I mean A) that I have slept historically badly; B) for some days I wasn’t able to open up the word processor program, and C) had I not been deep into reading It one more time, this will mark I think my fifth time all in all, before the first new film adaptation hits the cinemas in September, I think I probably would have had some kind of a nervous collapse. See, I am not a computer wiz. In fact, as my friends can testify, no description could be further from the truth. Well, perhaps “avid carpet tamper”, or “hates reading”. In fact, before I started writing this blog, I could have sworn on The Bible I would not know how to start a blog if my life depended on it. In fact, I was, and still am, so clumsy and ignorant computer-wise, that when my year-long subscription for the license to use the processor program ran out, I had to pack my huge ancient laptop and call my computer-in