I took out my credit card to buy a plane and event ticket just before realizing that there are better than even odds that I’m doing a series of tricky installs that week, twice as far away and in the other direction.
Days later, I’ve yet to find a trombone sad enough, but there are few endeavors I would more whole-heartedly support.
There is a fancy Dyson vacuum cleaner in the next office with a big orange ball that you can just see out of the corner of your eye when you are making coffee in this office.
Every time I do, I mistake the ball for a pumpkin and the part of me that will probably always be (on an almost completely controlled and actively ignored level) …a kleptomaniac freetarian*, salivates about how delicious it would be to steal it and turn it into a soup.
It really stresses me out whenever I notice myself doing that.
Pavlov would have a field day with me.
*Yeah, no foolin’: that was a phase. That’s still in me, somewhere. The funnest of fun times.
_Documentation of a Treasury of Very Short MP3 Files_ (Part A of Aª)
Length: 13 seconds Audio: [A Wake-up Call from Mr. Stephen Fry] Propriety: It may be masked by the accent, but still subtly not for everyone. Use: I believe maybe in the early 2000’s, (I was surely still a grad student,) instead of buying the proper clock this was from, I snagged the audio and dumped it into some software as the alarm.
The ambient noise in my memory palace at some point became primarily podcasts, but—every once in a while—I’ll hear something that sounds like it could have been part of a quick swell of horns and have a half-formed thought* that is located in a very specific and a very cluttered corner, and then I can literally feel myself being swept up by a tiny tempest of obsession.
It usually passes eventually.
It’s probably for the best. I pretty much never sweep.
*While they are kind of distinguishable, I feel that at this point I don’t know enough to accurately identify the 16.
You know I always wanted to pretend I was an architect.
George:So I started to walk into the water. I won't lie to you, boys, I was terrified! But I pressed on - and as I made my way past the breakers, a strange calm came over me. I don't know if it was divine intervention or the kinship of all living things, but I tell you, Jerry, at that moment - I was a Marine Biologist! ...The sea was angry that day, my friends, like an old man trying to send back soup in a deli! I got about fifty feet out and suddenly, the great beast appeared before me. I tell ya, he was ten stories high if he was a foot. As if sensing my presence, he let out a great bellow. I said, "Easy, big fella!" And then, as I watched him struggling, I realized that something was obstructing its breathing. From where I was standing I could see directly into the eye of the great fish!
“There was undeniably a feline quality to my mother–never in the sly or stealthy sense of the word, but in the word’s other catlike qualities: a clean, sleek, self-possessed, strokable quality. In quite a different way from Owen Meany, my mother looked touchable; I was always aware of how much people wanted, or needed, to touch her. I’m not talking only about men, although–even at my age–I was aware of how restlessly men moved their hands in her company. I mean that everyone liked to touch her–and depending on her attitude toward her toucher, my mother’s responses to being touched were feline, too. She could be so chillingly indifferent that the touching would instantly stop; she was well-coordinated and surprisingly quick and, like a cat, she could retreat from being touched–she could duck under or dart away from someone’s hand as instinctively as the rest of us can shiver. And she could respond in that other way that cats can respond, too; she could luxuriate in being touched–she could contort her body quite shamelessly, putting more and more pressure against the toucher’s hand, until (I used to imagine) anyone near enough to her could hear her purr.”—
A few years ago, there was a pipe chase I would go hide in almost every Thursday a little after noon and every Friday at around 1000 in order to to dart away from someone who did not respond to indifference. He was a St. Patrick’s Day pincher too. blech.
(Note to CMC: 5 bathtubs later, still haven’t finished APfOM.)
This SoBe turn-of-the century ad campaign audio dump train stops here. Just because I only had these. I’m sure you’re very excited. Who knows what adventures tomorrow will bring? Always another obsession, another train: it’s a blessing and a curse.
And there’s always a place for the angry young man With his fist in the air and his head in the sand And he’s never been able to learn from mistakes So he can’t understand why his heart always breaks And is honor is pure, and his courage as well And he’s fair and he’s true, and he’s boring as hell And he’ll go to his grave as an angry old man.
I ran into a former gentleman caller type earlier in the week and was tempted to suggest a friendly and perhaps instructive theme song for him, but no one seems to like WMJ as much as I do, though even I will admit that the laser-keyboard interlude in AYM is maybe a little over the top.
FGCT looks like he could have used a little less being an angry guy and a little more drinking angry guys in the duration between when we last saw each other and now, but the little part of me—the vindictive (and maybe a skosh mean) corner of my lower intestines, where I occasionally keep stinky passing thoughts, kinda felt pretty solid about our present fortunes, given likely improving sorts of trajectories on all sides. I mean, I hope there’s at least a sort of pedagogy to discomforts. Anyhow.
The impulse to ask weird and awkward questions mid-cuddle is probably better than the impulse to bypass hugs via ill-timed, too-close handshakes, right? I wouldn’t know, I am the worst with the handshake impulse. I recently literally said “good game” midshake, as opposed to ANYTHING remotely resemblant of what someone who might have had any scant reproductive notions would have said. Or anyone with an even barely functional grasp of social mores. “Pull it together”, I thought. “This is how the Idiocracy flourishes.” But no. This is the way the world ends; this is the way the world ends; this is the way the world ends—2 out of 10; would not bang.
…Do you ever feel you’ve become the worst version of yourself? That a Pandora’s box of all the secret, hateful parts - your arrogance, your spite, your condescension - has sprung open? Someone upsets you and instead of smiling and moving on, you zing them. “Hello, it’s Mr* Nasty.” I’m sure you have no idea what I’m talking about.
(*2014SC1D2; Dr. Nasty, if you’re Janet. No kitten in this conference bag either. *frowny face*.)
2014 Science Conference 1, Day 1: Numerous close calls for coltish* lady scientists walking around wearing heels clearly not worn since their last professional outing.
*I am clearly the wobbliest of all those evincing foalishness. Not because my legs aren’t strong, but I don’t have a history of the best ankles either. Anyhow, there are enough postural benefits to persevere. And I will work a 3 inch psychological advantage over normal me like some manner of alfalfa-loving warrior scientist princess.