The gift that keeps on giving!
Am sipping a freshly-brewed cup of the lime as I type — subtle, refreshing, would probably make an excellent iced too. Will likely have to order a real-sized tin v. soon.
In other news, I’ve begun to foster an intense hatred for this new bathroom scale. Just what everyone needs, a new daily source of despair.
(But this is Catherine Jamieson’s brainchild, so this should be no surprise at all)
a) People who pooh-pooh the idea of spam & kimchi fried rice have absolutely no idea what they’re missing.
b) Rainier cherries are the best thing ever.
c) It’s impossible to walk out of a Harry & David store without buying anything, even if — and this is why we’re here, folks — you’re otherwise being really good about dieting.
d) Eastlake: still the most boring neighborhood.
Note to self: flashlight + eyeball = ouch!
f) I have absolutely nothing of interest to write about today.
There is a name for what I am.
They dance around it, they whisper it in the dark, these voices. They are free to say, they yell, taunting me, and my own mouth is bound, sealed with cotton, thunder, shame.
Here is emptiness, here is weakness, here is fear.
And I know! I am not so tiny. These are things by day which I can ignore, and I do, though they burrow and dig and wait. They sit inside me until night comes, because here I am small, and they have many mouths.
My voice would be feared, should be — but they know I am still powerless to use it. It would unmake me as soon as it would them.
(I am getting stronger)
There is a name for what I am, but I cannot speak it.
More fun with Laura:
I dreamt of tall grass and flames; standing on the ridge with a hole in my arm and my heart, all I could do was watch and cry. But we can wait, and hope.
Am slowly reliving old television miniseries of my childhood — already wrote about 1982’s The Scarlet Pimpernel with Jane Seymour and Anthony Andrews, and last night started re-watching the 1983 BBC Jane Eyre with Timothy Dalton and Zelah Clarke, just released on disc, which I remember with untold amounts of affection (though perhaps I should cut out the “re-,” since at 311 minutes and uncut, it’s quite a bit longer than the one I saw on videocassette back in middle school).
Jane Eyre is one of my all-time favorite books, so I was happy to see that not only is this as good as I remember from my wide-eyed & romantic childhood, it’s actually better! Though Jane is not so plain, Blanche not so beautiful, and Rochester far too dashing*, it still all works; and really, the casting couldn’t be better, because after one gets over the physical incongruities, everything else — acting, dialogue, sets, chemistry — I swear, it was like I was a teenager again!
Hope to finish up tonight, or later this weekend, and maybe some sort of Austen marathon for dessert? Bonnets and bustles and waistcoats: oh! I’ll be intolerable and happy, to be sure.
Dug this one out of the archives, where that expanse of white shirt-back kept getting in the way of any appreciation I could muster. I’m still not sure it works, but there’s just something — in her glance, or the dance reflected in hazy shadow on the spatter shield…
This was taken at Pommes Frites in Manhattan, the best place ever.
I said this in comments, but I watched the rest of the BBC Jane Eyre last night. Still so good, but St. John Rivers? Total freak!
Piling up for an Austen marathon: should I rent the BBC Northanger Abbey? Anyone seen it?
Currently in the pile:
- Pride & Prejudice (1995, BBC)
- Persuasion (1995, BBC)
- Sense & Sensibility (1995, Sony)
- Emma (1996, BBC/ITV)
- Mansfield Park (1999, Miramax)
- Bridget Jones’ Diary
- Bride & Prejudice
Finally, I just discovered AustenBlog today and have spent far too much time reading it — and through it found the trailer for Focus Features’ new Pride & Prejudice. Matthew McFadyen? Keira Knightley? Sign me up, please!
Spent twenty painful minutes today digging a subcutaneous splinter out of my index finger — ow ow ow. I’ve a hole in my hand to match the one in my arm, now.
Still hurts to do anything, including type* or draw, which is bad, because this is the third night in a row I’ll be at work past two in the morning. In a way, getting that splinter out is like my entire life right now, which means I haven’t had any spare time to spend writing here or posting photos — nothing in the way of creative thinking at all — but I think that things have finally turned a corner for the better.
I mean, I did manage to dig it out, in the end.
I’m just waiting to heal.
No, I will not be in some huge line at midnight like everyone else, nor will I be raw-eyed and happily reading into the wee hours of the morning. Being a completist and an authenticist* (read: snob), I pre-ordered the Canadian edition of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince from Chapters — and since I only got the shipping notice today, probably won’t see it for another week. Oh, the anticipation!
I’m almost used to it now, since this is the third time I’ve gone this route. I remember actually attending a lineup for The Goblet of Fire at Barnes & Noble (they even had drink service!), but really, that was only to keep my other Potter-mad friends company. The woman at checkout looked at me as if I’d grown three heads when I said I wasn’t there to buy.
Anyways. One week! Assuming there’s no hang-up at customs.
If you think I’m avoiding you in the next few days, please don’t be offended: it’s probably only because I’m afraid of spoilers!
And here we are, a week since last post. Has it been only one? It feels so much longer, a month, a year, like someone else and another lifetime ago. No, I haven’t been reading, though my last entry would make it easy to assume so — instead, I’ve been lying in the dark: stretched out, spread thin. Suddenly, I’m everyone’s excuse, everyone’s target, and there isn’t enough of me left to give.
There’s another me, somewhere, who would thrive in situations like this. I’m not her. I’ve never been there.
If I’ve slighted you, or ignored you, I apologize, truly. I just need a little time to pick up the pieces.