Someone has to finish the prosecco that has been sitting open in the refrigerator since the grand opening party, or else it will go to waste and that would be an awful shame. I despise seeing things go to waste.
I'm sitting on my bedroom floor in the widening check of the lamplight from outside beside a glass of very old artificially orange flavored Austrian sparkling wine. This is what cough syrup tastes like.
I'm getting used to my ground level room with expansive frosted windows that face the street. When the sun comes up at 4am, the street light outside shuts off. Due to this, I purchased a few days ago a black and pink flower patterned eye cover which I adore because it is not only pretty, but also practical.
In Vienna, the streets are wider and cleaner than I'd remembered them. It's the contrast between here and Marseille that makes the largeness and spotlessness of everything more evident. But I miss the chaos of Marseille, the tight streets ascending and descending sloaps that look out onto the savage sea, the garbage dancing in the Mistral wind and a gold light that is almost violent in tone that encompasses the cathedrals and squares at sundown. And I miss my rebel sweet heart who would probably be arguing with me at this moment for the intrigue of the conversation if I were with him.Cheers to you darling and to anyone anywhere whoever exchanged the new for the old, the clean for the dirty, twenty-eight for thirty... but I guess that's just living, isn't it.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Laundromat
The laundromat at 133 Avenue de Toulon must have been the most broken down place on earth today. It's small and clean and white, just four washers and two driers, and a row of deep blue plastic seats against the empty wall. I brought a few articles of clothing there to dry this afternoon and it wasn't the place that was depressing but the people in it. Three of them, sitting along the wall, empty seats between them. They apparently didn't know each other but had coincidentally all been hit by a tragedy of equal weight. There was a small Asian boy of about 15 years, an older woman with stark white hair and unremarkable dress, and a slightly younger butch woman in jeans and plaid shirt. They all sat staring at the washing machines, but not looking at the washing machines. Their thoughts were elsewhere. At first I thought it was me. I have a washer at home and I just came for the driers. It seemed as though they were willing their machines to finish washing first so they could leap upon a drier before one of the other two does... And then I just strolled in with my already washed clothes and toss them nonchalantly in the drier. An unforeseen complication. I pretended not to notice as I put my money in and pressed start and I did not look at them on the way out. Their expressions caused me pain. When I came back several minutes later to get my things, they were still there, their expressions intensified... And I don't think it was me they were upset about.
Monday, March 15, 2010
the house in winter
The wind knocks restlessly on the roof and through the courtyard the sound of the evening traffic reaches the house, the woosh of an occasional car and the put-put-put of a skooter sweeping off somewhere into the falling night. Today was mild and warm. The first day of spring perhaps, but each time we take that long, satisfying sigh of relief, another cold front leaps upon us. Winter was aggressive only because this house is poorly insulated and the electricity shorts out with the usage of very few appliances at once. We put on hats and gloves and wrapped our necks in scarves each night when we gathered around the dinner table and sat shivering as we ate. We created a system in which we kept the heaters in the big room turned up as high as the circuits would allow and tried to remember always to turn them off before using the vacuum cleaner, toaster-oven or coffee machine. We are fortunate enough to have both a toaster-oven and a coffee machine. They just cannot be used at the same time.
We were thankful that our electricity usage was so carefully regulated, keeping the electricity bills down and wearing less on our delicate environment. We also learned lessons in water conservation this winter. It began first with a clogged pipe, somewhere between the shower and the kitchen sink. We began to notice strange things surfacing in the shower. At first it was just chunks and flakes of unexpected colors. Over the following days, the unidentified blobs took form and it was clear that what went down the kitchen drain was coming up in the shower. While rinsing shampoo from my hair, I would look down to see capellini or rice vermicelli slithering slyly between my toes. In order to maximize our benefits, we discussed recycling what the shower provided. Adding some fresh onions, chili, tomato sauce, a nice parmesan, salt and pepper, always succeeds at refreshing leftovers. However, we decided against it for obvious reasons.
After about a week of this and several bottles of De-stop down the drain to no avail, we took a plunger to the shower aggressively for about a half an hour. What at first seemed a success turned into an equal, but different disaster. Somewhere in the elusive networking of pipes, there was a rupture. This we found out after exiting triumphant from the first shower free of breakfast, lunch and dinner, to find that all of the water that had seemed to so productively disappear down the drain had actually leaked out into the house forming little ponds in unexpected places, trickling away from the bathroom, beneath the tiled kitchen floor and into the office/bedroom sizzling pleasingly as it seeped into the computer placed on the floor beside the desk. How we might profit from this difficulty was less evident than the original problem but not impossible. During an especially harsh cold wave when we could see our breaths curling white against the air of the living-room, we discussed ice skating, but the ponds never froze over.
Perhaps we were all secretly having fun, or perhaps there were some of us that really believed the problem would fix itself, but for whatever reason, it took a good two weeks before a plumber was called in. Or the original construction company was called to send a plumber. I had already stopped looking for explanations when they sent instead an electrician. The electrician looked around, scratched his head and said what we’d expect him to say, “You’ll have to get a plumber for this one.” A week and a half later, a builder came who broke down the walls that hid the pipes, and two days after that, the plumber, to fix the pipes.
Today, as spring wakes slowly, our plumbing is in perfect working order and beside the toilet is a breathtaking view of the plumbing through a wall which was never repaired.
I don’t mind the wall as long as everything’s working.
I find I feel more at home than I’ve felt in years maybe. I bought a small Himalayan salt lamp for the bedroom that glows in soft amber. I'm not alone in the house anymore and in the next room JB is playing a soft melody in a major key on guitar that washes away the sound of the traffic and the wind has gone away. In wafts the sent of Marine’s cooking from the kitchen signaling that it’s time for us all to sit down and eat.
We were thankful that our electricity usage was so carefully regulated, keeping the electricity bills down and wearing less on our delicate environment. We also learned lessons in water conservation this winter. It began first with a clogged pipe, somewhere between the shower and the kitchen sink. We began to notice strange things surfacing in the shower. At first it was just chunks and flakes of unexpected colors. Over the following days, the unidentified blobs took form and it was clear that what went down the kitchen drain was coming up in the shower. While rinsing shampoo from my hair, I would look down to see capellini or rice vermicelli slithering slyly between my toes. In order to maximize our benefits, we discussed recycling what the shower provided. Adding some fresh onions, chili, tomato sauce, a nice parmesan, salt and pepper, always succeeds at refreshing leftovers. However, we decided against it for obvious reasons.
After about a week of this and several bottles of De-stop down the drain to no avail, we took a plunger to the shower aggressively for about a half an hour. What at first seemed a success turned into an equal, but different disaster. Somewhere in the elusive networking of pipes, there was a rupture. This we found out after exiting triumphant from the first shower free of breakfast, lunch and dinner, to find that all of the water that had seemed to so productively disappear down the drain had actually leaked out into the house forming little ponds in unexpected places, trickling away from the bathroom, beneath the tiled kitchen floor and into the office/bedroom sizzling pleasingly as it seeped into the computer placed on the floor beside the desk. How we might profit from this difficulty was less evident than the original problem but not impossible. During an especially harsh cold wave when we could see our breaths curling white against the air of the living-room, we discussed ice skating, but the ponds never froze over.
Perhaps we were all secretly having fun, or perhaps there were some of us that really believed the problem would fix itself, but for whatever reason, it took a good two weeks before a plumber was called in. Or the original construction company was called to send a plumber. I had already stopped looking for explanations when they sent instead an electrician. The electrician looked around, scratched his head and said what we’d expect him to say, “You’ll have to get a plumber for this one.” A week and a half later, a builder came who broke down the walls that hid the pipes, and two days after that, the plumber, to fix the pipes.
Today, as spring wakes slowly, our plumbing is in perfect working order and beside the toilet is a breathtaking view of the plumbing through a wall which was never repaired.
I don’t mind the wall as long as everything’s working.
I find I feel more at home than I’ve felt in years maybe. I bought a small Himalayan salt lamp for the bedroom that glows in soft amber. I'm not alone in the house anymore and in the next room JB is playing a soft melody in a major key on guitar that washes away the sound of the traffic and the wind has gone away. In wafts the sent of Marine’s cooking from the kitchen signaling that it’s time for us all to sit down and eat.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
We're alright
I went out last night to join some friends I rarely see for a round of drinks, which of course always becomes several rounds until eventually I announce I have to head home (because I'm the type that turns in early) and I'm reminded, "But it's only eleven o'clock!" And I have a few second conversation in my head, yes, eleven o'clock is early, but not so early as ten o'clock and if I wait untill twelve o'clock it will certainly be late... And then I insist on going home.
What often happens when we go out in groups is that we get to know certain members of the group very well while for some reason or another other members of the group become familiar faces we say hello to if we should pass them on the street, while they remain a satisfactory mystery. Last night, moving in a group of about eight, we drifted into a simple bar next to La Plaine. The bar is full of smoke (there's a pay-off to the authorities, I hear, to allow for the smoking of cigarettes indoors) tinting the low lights a little yellowish, and on the far-side wall is a copy of Divinci's "Last Supper" in which people of the quartier are depicted in the place of Jesus and his disciples. By accident, I found myself sitting next to Emilie, a member of the group I have seen at gatherings like this but have practically never talked to. Somewhere in the trail of meandering conversations, I caught that Emilie, like me, used to be a ballet dancer. Immediately, we perfectly understood each other on a certain level. Over a few glasses of red wine I discover Emilie quit dancing four years ago. Me too... And for the same reasons, at the core.
Why is it that for a moment we liked to get lost in our past pain? For me it was certainly because elements of it are laughably rediculous, and even more humourous because we both experienced the same irrational ideas, and finally because we both suddenly feel alright.
The grocery store to me, for many years was a museum. Where I would go alone to ooh and ah at the endless shelves of beautiful sauces and snacks and ideas of ingredients I could mix together to create something I should never eat. When I wasn't lost in the fantasy of these stunning works of art, my head was full of numbers, 70 calories in an egg but only 17 if I just eat the white, 70 calories in an apple and 80 calories in an orange. Eat the apple obviously... Then there was the question, am I hungry? I think I'm hungry because my stomach is making these sort of loud rumbling noises and because I feel a bit dizzy and shakey, but I ought not to be hungry because I ate an orange an hour ago. At night sometimes I could not sleep with the knowledge that there was leftover birthday cake in the kitchen. I will not, I will not, I will not... Useless... 1am, 2am, 3am I'm up again... 3:30 am the cake is mostly gone (except for the small part I left in hopes that the rest of the household won't notice there is less cake in the morning than when they went to bed), my hands are sticky and I weigh an extra .25 lbs on the bathroom scale.
Why is this funny? It's funny and sad that I spent years wondering how people around me appeared to be eating and enjoying it, or not thinking about it. Eating because they were hungry or forgetting to eat because they were busy.
So last night in conversation with Emilie, we shared how we never imagined we could eat like normal people... But now we are... Foie gras and pumpkin soup and champagne... And I enjoyed it too. It's not that now I think I am perfect, it's just that now it doesn't matter so much. I can be happy for a variety of reasons not involving having dropped a few decimals on a scale, and I can be horribly sad, but I can now clearly see why I'm sad instead of getting those heavey feelings all tangled up in self-hatred because I see myself as fat.
So last night, I drank two glasses of red wine and had dinner too.
What often happens when we go out in groups is that we get to know certain members of the group very well while for some reason or another other members of the group become familiar faces we say hello to if we should pass them on the street, while they remain a satisfactory mystery. Last night, moving in a group of about eight, we drifted into a simple bar next to La Plaine. The bar is full of smoke (there's a pay-off to the authorities, I hear, to allow for the smoking of cigarettes indoors) tinting the low lights a little yellowish, and on the far-side wall is a copy of Divinci's "Last Supper" in which people of the quartier are depicted in the place of Jesus and his disciples. By accident, I found myself sitting next to Emilie, a member of the group I have seen at gatherings like this but have practically never talked to. Somewhere in the trail of meandering conversations, I caught that Emilie, like me, used to be a ballet dancer. Immediately, we perfectly understood each other on a certain level. Over a few glasses of red wine I discover Emilie quit dancing four years ago. Me too... And for the same reasons, at the core.
Why is it that for a moment we liked to get lost in our past pain? For me it was certainly because elements of it are laughably rediculous, and even more humourous because we both experienced the same irrational ideas, and finally because we both suddenly feel alright.
The grocery store to me, for many years was a museum. Where I would go alone to ooh and ah at the endless shelves of beautiful sauces and snacks and ideas of ingredients I could mix together to create something I should never eat. When I wasn't lost in the fantasy of these stunning works of art, my head was full of numbers, 70 calories in an egg but only 17 if I just eat the white, 70 calories in an apple and 80 calories in an orange. Eat the apple obviously... Then there was the question, am I hungry? I think I'm hungry because my stomach is making these sort of loud rumbling noises and because I feel a bit dizzy and shakey, but I ought not to be hungry because I ate an orange an hour ago. At night sometimes I could not sleep with the knowledge that there was leftover birthday cake in the kitchen. I will not, I will not, I will not... Useless... 1am, 2am, 3am I'm up again... 3:30 am the cake is mostly gone (except for the small part I left in hopes that the rest of the household won't notice there is less cake in the morning than when they went to bed), my hands are sticky and I weigh an extra .25 lbs on the bathroom scale.
Why is this funny? It's funny and sad that I spent years wondering how people around me appeared to be eating and enjoying it, or not thinking about it. Eating because they were hungry or forgetting to eat because they were busy.
So last night in conversation with Emilie, we shared how we never imagined we could eat like normal people... But now we are... Foie gras and pumpkin soup and champagne... And I enjoyed it too. It's not that now I think I am perfect, it's just that now it doesn't matter so much. I can be happy for a variety of reasons not involving having dropped a few decimals on a scale, and I can be horribly sad, but I can now clearly see why I'm sad instead of getting those heavey feelings all tangled up in self-hatred because I see myself as fat.
So last night, I drank two glasses of red wine and had dinner too.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)