The expanse of marble floor spreads before you as you enter the bathroom. An arched window at one end lets in the golden mid-afternoon sun. A bubble bath has already been drawn for you in the claw foot tub. This Adagio is playing for you as you slip into the bath and, in that moment, you feel as if there’s only beauty in the world. Only good. The delicious swells of music make your back arch with pleasure. It would be quite alright with you, you suppose, if this was how you died. Death by Mozart, by indulgence, by gorging on all that your senses had to offer.
If you ever doubted how sentimental I am, you can put that to rest today. This will be the first of several posts about the things I am saddest about not having any more.
The summer I spent at Oxford, I lived in the dorms at Pembroke College. We were served breakfast and dinner at the dining hall. Though it was buffet style, there were people lined up on the other side of the food trays, filling our plates as we pointed and nodded. One of the workers was a girl who was probably about my age and just fairy-tale beautiful. Her hair was pure gold and her eyes were some improbable shade of bright blue-green. We became friends. Really! I even have a photo of the two of us together in the quad. She was a raver and I was a raver, so at the end of the summer she gave me a raver bracelet. Every bead was a different day-bright color. I cherished it.
Then I lost it. I don’t think it even made it back to the US with me. I still have her name and contact information somewhere. I’m sure she wouldn’t even remember me, much less the silly bracelet. But this is still one of my saddest lost things. When I die, I’ll know I’m in heaven if I’m reunited with them all. A little box marked “dolly’s lost things” will be waiting for me.
Greetings from the frozen wasteland of the library.
I was reminded of a different frozen wasteland. The fabulous monster you see above is known heartlessly as “Jotunheim Creature”. To me, he would be “Fluffy”. He would be my best friend, and my primary form of transportation. Talk about traveling in style! Forget traffic, Fluffy crashes through it in impossibly majestic leaps. Best of all, he, like Hannibal Lecter, hates it when people are rude, so he also feasts on the free range rude.
He may look terrifying, but is actually a big sweetheart and is always ready to comfort with an affectionate nuzzle. He’s just a little territorial. I’d have to have a sign on my property “Warning: Jotunheim Creature prone to spells of irascible overprotectiveness.”
No, not the shark movie. I just watched it, and it was devastating. If you let yourself get into the movie, you can imagine Hester’s thoughts as she slowly walks home or stares out the window. Ever had the feeling of wanting so desperately to fight for something and simultaneously knowing it was already gone? Or, what about glorying in a memory, polishing it over and over again until it shined brighter than any reality?
This movie helped me almost understand the feeling of futility that leads some to suicide. That being said, you probably won’t like it. Well, maybe if you’re a masochist…
Another wonderful birthday present:
That’s what it looks like unfilled. I can’t wait to fill it with something gorgeous like Iroshizuku Murasaki Shikibu (try to guess what color that is before clicking on the link). Up to now, I’ve had the most experience with Lamy extra fine pens. While those are good, reliable writers, none of my Lamys write nearly as smoothly as the TWSBI. This pen glides like a dream. It has the added bonus of being easy to refill without taking anything apart. Sure, for $56 you could probably buy 560 Bic pens. But then you’d have to write with Bic pens. *shudder*
Highly recommended, especially if you die for demonstrators like me.
One of the best birthday presents I got this year:
But this isn’t only about gloating. I’ve also got a bubble recipe for you, from the Exploratorium:
- 2/3 cup Dawn dishwashing soap
- 1 gallon water
- 2 to 3 tablespoons of glycerine
That’s it! Now just imagine having a whole gallon screwed in to the bottom of that bubble gun. More like a bubble bazooka. You tell me why such a simple device can evoke such delight.
When I was about 10, my mother and I found a musical turtle that I loved. It was soft and had a sweet face. But my mother insisted that we gift him to my younger cousin. We did. That was a pity, since I think she preferred remote control dinosaurs anyway. I never saw my turtle again, but once in a while I still search for him online.
This isn’t my turtle, but his name is “Bearington Tiggles” — and could be the brother of my lost turtle. I might have to start a blog dedicated to the best things in the world that are for sale. How can anyone not love a soft turtle in a bow tie who plays the Brahms Lullaby?
It’s too early in the morning, and the neighbors are outside rattling glass bottles and jumping on cans like the hoarders they are. This has forced me ever deeper into the fantasy that one day I can live down a very long private drive and not have to hear the intimate recycling-sorting banality of my neighbors. I won’t have neighbors. Then, anyone who wakes me in the morning, I can just fire, divorce, or send to boarding school.
To most, having a house like Doris Duke’s Shangri-La would primarily be a status symbol. To me, it would be a reprieve from the auditory assault of living too close to other people. I almost always wake up to noises like barking, weed-whacking, people arguing, or construction. You know what they say about children? I think it should apply to people in general:
All people should be seen and not heard.
Especially before noon.