The Road Revisted

I'm afraid of dying this way. Alone in a big house, with the lights on, with complete blackness outside. I'm consistently afraid of being the last person alive in a suburban nightmare. It's strange, I feel much safer in a city downtown than in the tree-filled outer layers. When I was young my bedroom window looked out on a 6 lane highway, so that was probably an influence. There's just something that terrifies me about my neighborhood, even though I can easily see into the house next doors' window. It's just not close enough.

EAS

From the Baltimore City Emergency Alert System:

The suspect may be wearing unknown clothing

Interesting Only To Me

Which is ok since no one else is reading this.

My top 3 most frequent dreams:

1. My parents get divorced. After I wake up from this dream, I end up calling my mother and confirm that this is not actually happening.

2. The apocalypse. It's always some kind of infectious disease. This usually means I run away from people throwing up on their stoops and on the subway.

3. I'm in school, and the bathroom is a bunch of open air toilets. No stalls, just rows of toilets. There is no end to my shame and embarrassment as I am forced to use a toilet openly in front of many other kids.

Less Depressing

Really depressing

from annie dillard: "how we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives."

I think about this all the time

old haiku

Saying hi

to those lobsters

great idea

Late Night Musings

The cicadas sound outside

Inside

The fan doesn’t penetrate

Its wind bounces off hollow metal skin.

Oh to be a caterpillar,

A fated destination – the cocoon will determine me

All I do is curl up and the rest, well we’ll see.

Crack open this shell, I beg,

Like a kinder egg, it will be a surprise

But kinder eggs are always disappointing, their parts get lost

And the cheap plastic allows its paint to chip off

And the egg itself, well that chocolate is no good

And too penetrable.

Caterpillars would not do inside a kinder egg, for who they are to become

Is too easily compromised.

How good it feels when it’s late and our minds are full

But really

Like a bunker, we hide inside

Waiting

Soon this war of sorts will end,

And all to do is open a door

Where a snowy field awaits.

FireEyeButter

Sometimes I try to heal myself by pretending I’m on fire. If I have a cut or a headache or pain in the many places it chooses to settle in the body, I imagine a controlled fire burning away the pain molecules and the virus bits and bacterial scraps. It sears away the bad things, leaving only good intact and able to rise.

Memories

If someone asked you to share your best memory and your worst memory, how easy would the answer be for you? I spent a semester in college at a theater intensive in CT, and in one of the classes we had to share these with each other. For me, the worst memory was easy to recall, if not easy to relay. But the best memory? I had no idea. Not that I haven't had wonderful moments in my life, but the best? Just about nothing comes to mind. How pathetic is the best memory compared to the worst? Profound moments, aha moments, intense interesting unforgettable moments. But the truly happiest moment of my life - I had no idea.

Sometimes it feels like life is just about dealing with things that go wrong.

milk in the bag

Listening to NPR the other day, they were talking about the 20th anniversary of the first opening of McDonalds in Moscow. People waited in line for an hour, and were taken aback by how friendly the staff was (they had been trained to smile nonstop - Soviets definitely not used to that). Many people said they didn't like the food; it wasn't Russian enough.

It reminded me of my own McDonald's memory. Many, in fact. I remember waiting in that long line, and seeing people in their Sunday best going out for a meal there after church. The people eating hamburgers layer by layer - the bun, the lettuce, the meat. They'd never had a hamburger before.

What I really remember, though, was going to the McDonald's factory on a fieldtrip and seeing the milk bagged. Seeing the milk put in bags.

In Russia, at this point, fresh milk wasn't something to be relied on. When Stockmann's, the Finnish grocery store, had it, we would buy several bottles and freeze all but one (as previously mentioned - obviously had a big impact on me and my memories). The other option, in the early post-Soviet years, was McDonald's milk. I don't remember where we bought it, but it was from a store, not from the restaurant. It would come in this white plastic bag with "McDonalds" written diagonally in a pale orange. At home, we would cut open a sliver in the top, and place the whole bag in a pitcher, to be put in the fridge.

Just thinking about that fridge brings so much to mind.

We had a tv on top of it. Sitting at the kitchen table watching the news when Princess Diana died.

Our cat Spike would lie on the ground in front of it because it gave off so much heat.

I thought "Fridgerator" was what it was called, and my American teacher thought that maybe I was British and this is what we called them.