Mrs. Dalloway's Coffee Break

In the violent burn, the almost unbearable heat and scorch of our post-apocalypse weather, I eased my way towards the meeting place, taking care not to touch any of the charred remnants still gathering gray specks of dust on the streets, until one of the forecast gales would finally blow them into bits. We had been informed to dress in light clothing, white if we had any, to avoid being seen. Even if we were meeting in the middle of the day, and in a place that was known to be somewhat safe, no one wanted to take any chances. As the heatwave just went on and on, stretching herself into her third week, I met Roxanne near her house. We agreed to meet up in the park, in broad daylight, to try and minimize the danger, although it was by now common knowledge that the monsters did not only attack by night. She was dressed in all-white clothes per instructions. I, not owning a white skirt, had chosen a pastel peach-colored billowing house dress, long enough to camouflage my legs, bu...

Eating the juicy, dripping fresh white flesh from the peaches bought from our neighborhood green grocer is such a sensation it almost feels a bit obscene to be doing it in public. Like the plums of yore, French fruits and vegetables make me want to start banging the table in Harry and Sally’s late Eighties New York diner, yelling Yes! Yes! from the top of my lungs. Because of the August heat, it is a good idea to pack not only pastries for our daily walkathons, and, indeed, in addition to the croissants and the pains-au-chocolat and the baguettes, we are always sure to have some fruits in our bags as well. In the beginning, we used to be all obsessed with bringing enough water from our apartment along when we left for the day, but the fresh water fountains found all throughout the city really make for light traveling, and the trick is to just learn to spot them and put them into good use. In the scorching weather, we are constantly refilling our water bottles because dehydrat...

This is one of the cleverest, most surprising, and hilarious insults I have ever witnessed. It is received by Langly in the X-Files from a competing group of government conspiracy theorists in season 6’s marvelous Three of a Kind, if memory serves me well. Of course, Langly having the long, wheaty hair rather unbecoming for a grown man, one could argue that he kind of deserves the burn, but the expression has grown on me to use in any given circumstance whatsoever, whether there is hair involved or not. If my significant other, for instance, a fellow with the sensible short haircut of a twenty-first century man, hovers around me in the kitchen in the annoying way he sometimes does as I am trying to prepare my breakfast in peace. Also, I use it as a comeback line in a variety of situations, all relationship-related, because what’s the point really to waste such a fabulous insult on someone who won’t get the reference? My man knows where it is from and the circumstances of its delivery...

This is how I mark my dance exercises, post-practice, in my calendar. It’s a song title, by an amazing Israeli electro singer/songwriter, Noga Erez, whose politically charged music I have been working out to on and off for I think about a year now. If she is still a stranger to you, check out her stuff. Its jaw-droppingly gorgeous, avant-garde wall of sound and her distinct, alto singing voice makes you want to burst into movement immediately when you do. On that note, I have been called away for the last coupla months, so the writing has been a bit more intermittent than before. When I started this blog, I made a promise to myself that it would be for the writing and the stories, first and foremost, and I would never apologize for or lament if longer intervals happened between entries. So, not apologizing, exactly, but just acknowledging here that I get it, you say it’s my fault, yeah ok I get it, you ain’t pick up your calls, I’m like Forget it, to paraphrase Kanye West here....