Mrs. Dalloway's Coffee Break

Many years ago, a friend of mine ordered an enormous Lego Millenium Falcon from some online Lego Star Wars store. It was extremely expensive and, as an added bonus, came with the entire crew; Chewie and Han and Luke and Leia, so, knowing he would never hear the end of it from his wife, he placed the order behind her back and had it delivered to our work place. Don’t tell anyone. Instead of smuggling it home, he began constructing the spacecraft during lulls and breaks, and managed to finish somewhat quickly. It was gigantic, about a meter in diameter, and surprisingly heavy. The Lego Millenium Falcon, with the heroes of the saga in the cockpit – sorry if I get the lingo wrong, I don’t know that much about spaceships, even the Millenium Falcon, although out of all the spaceships it is also my favorite – stood in the middle of the projection room, on the fifth floor, on a secure table, for years. The crew were all separate and movable, so many a time the poor creatures became the bu...

Being part the accumulated identity of a borderline cinephile pop culture and otherwise consumer and connoisseur, at least if you ask her, with a heart made of letters and a mind of music. In alphabetical order. A for apples , a favorite, but also: Abbey Road . Somewhere in her smile she knows that I don’t need another lover. Alela Diane , the voice of alternative Americana. Adele , the voice . Also, antidote , as in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom: “Where’s the antidote?!” There is always an antidote for the murderous mood, the somber, the depressed. Also, America . In both good as well as bad. Also, Nanouk , the sister. Included in A’s for her real name. B for Bill , as in Murray, and Evans. Big Chill, the . Every person should have her own Kevin Kline standing next to her in times of trouble, to whisper this to her ear: “It’s us. You don’t have to handle yourself at all with us.” Also, Barbery, Muriel , and her book The Elegance of the Hedgehog. C for coffee ....

I am sorry for the profanity right upfront Just as I am sorry for having for a brain Tori’s famous comic book tattoo No, I am not sorry sitting up in bed at all hours watching the night go by the last of the handful of nights I spend in this house yes And Tori’s famous tear is in my hand now, walking my usual walk, picturing life without these trees and puddles picturing this path without me in it Madwoman I need not sleep but to witness every last detail of the old folks’ home the elementary school the beach where I died when someone proposed to me That was a long time ago I never married I put on music in my brain and do not cry I fondle books by my bedside and do not cry I put on pajamas and do not cry I wander out to the terrace and do not cry I touch the rough skin of the outside wall and do not cry I see the crushed spiders hanging on the door frame Died when they were trying to crawl inside to warmth And do not cry. I concur with prev...

The way the autumn sun casts its rays and shadows of the houseplants on the wall above the writing desk, where the pictures of family and friends are sitting in vintage frames or pinned to the wallpaper with ancient pins from father’s old stack that has survived all the way to the seventeenth apartment of this adulthood, from this childhood, and even from father’s days as a young, beardless man, standing in front of his first car, a Trabant. He is standing next to his girl, a beautiful redheaded vision in white cotton shirt and shorts. That picture is not here, but at home, in a photo album, and it is black-and-white, but knowing she is a redhead is secret family knowledge. For a long time now, mother likes to dye her hair blond, but when the picture was taken, she still had her natural golden, strawberry blond hair. Hanging laundry to dry, underpants, the dozens and dozens of them, because this is the time of plenty. Hanging them neatly in rows, while being philosophical about th...

About twenty-five years ago, I gave my father the widely popular book, 14000 Reasons to Be Happy About, by Barbara Ann Kipfer, as a Christmas present. It lay on the kitchen table for a long time, and I used to open it and read a couple of things at random whenever I was at the table. I don’t know if father ever read the whole thing, I don’t think it is that kind of book anyway, but I saw him reading it several times back then. We still have it in the bookshelf at home. I know my love for lists precedes the time I saw the book and decided it was just the thing for dad, but I think it did further my devotion for order and clarity. While I don’t agree with Monica’s famous exclamation about how rules help control the fun, I do like to have my books and records and DVDs in autobiographical order, exactly like Rob Gordon suggested in High Fidelity, and also like to punctuate and assemble my writing in segments of threes or sevens or nines. I love categories and subcategories. I even lov...

I was walking through a snow-ridden Helsinki. It had started snowing while I was on my way, on train, the first snow of the season, and I didn’t have a hat. I was on my way to meet this guy. I was in love with him. He was my first real love. I was young. I thought because he had given me a mix tape including There Is a Light That Never Goes Out meant we were meant to be together forever and that his love was undying and solid. I was cold, and the way was long, so I popped into a clothing store. It was this hip, indie store, an expensive place the guy had shown me. It was dark already, it was late afternoon or early evening. There was a bargain bin, and an old-fashioned brown tweed cap in the bin. It was a little bit large for my head, it was a man’s size, but I liked it, it made me look like one of those newspaper boys from the Thirties. So I bought it. I had no idea. Love by nature is transient and fickle, and everyone who tells you they will love you always are either l...