Snotty tissues anyone? Yum yum yum.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Jan 31st, 2010 Slothlady's first entry
Sunday, sitting around with a cold in a towel with wet hair surrounded by used dishes and tissues and manuscript paper. Enjoying several fantasies about applying to TOR for an unpaid internship. I imagine that your fantasies are a little more far reaching than mine, but what can I say, modesty is the best policy.. or was that honesty? Anyway, I imagine going in for an impromptu interview and impressing someone. Well, I suppose at least my fantasies are honest, except the ones where I fight monsters, or make friends with a dejected satyr in ancient Greece. I'm still kind of mulling over that one. Maybe I should write some of it and see how it goes:
She sat alone in the subway in a nearly empty subway car. She was reading Frankenstein, which up until now she had been enjoying. Exasperated, she thought:
If Mary Shelley puts one more story inside this story and has someone tell me about it in first person I am just going to.. I dunno, resurrect something and then kill it.
She put the book down and looked at her fellow travelers. Across from her sat a man. She tried to imagine what he did for a living and it wasn't very hard. Heavy boots, durable clothes, half asleep. It added up. Construction probably. She looked at his hands. Rough. She looked at her own hands. Soft.. she thought. Actually a little dry. I should put on some moisturizer when I get home. She sighed.
It must feel.. I don't know, powerful and good to know how to build something. To have some say when it comes to things and places. At home sometimes she felt nervous because everything around her was made by someone else. She would try to imagine all the people and processes that went into making all of her things until it made her feel dizzy and nauseous. She could feel and hear all the people: the designers, the miners, the scientists, the factory workers, the shop people, the advertisers, pushing in on her, yelling their things at her, and she would have to close her eyes and listen to her own heartbeat. And she would think, looking at the blood vessels under her eye lids, well at least this place is mine.
She looked at the cover of the book. It was a painting by Caspar David Friedrich of tall naked trees in a winter wood. The word for it, she had learned in Introduction to Art History, was sublime. Sublime nature. The only sublime things about New York City were the buildings. They made her feel small. Back in montreal she used to pretend that she could, when she was sad, fall into the warm brown brick of the little two story buildings, like a father's old sweater. She could curl up into the winding outdoor stair cases and have a good cry. But the buildings here stood tall, shining and aloof, like the eyes of people that she didn't meet on the street.
She closed her eyes now. She couldn't hear her heartbeat over the sound of the subway as the train went under the water between New York City and Brooklyn. She started to nod off and she woke up later. Much later. She was drooling a little. The car was freezing cold, very dark, and empty. Well, it was almost empty. There was a faux-fur coat, pressed in plastic and newly dry cleaned, left hanging on a ceiling rail. The train had stopped moving, and the doors opened.
'Last stop.' said a cheery yet indifferent male voice.'Everyone must get off the train.'
She grabbed the coat and stepped off the train.
Maybe there's a lost and found, she thought. The air was very clear and sweet.
I must be pretty far out, she thought. She climbed up the stairs.
'Now I'll have to pay for a ticket back," she said aloud.
Wind swayed through the pine trees and she looked out on a bright winter's day. The sky was robin's egg blue and pale around the edges, and everything rang and chimed with sunlight. She was on top of a mountain and could see for miles around. The cellophane around the faux-fur coat ripped off and fluttered joyfully away in the wind and sun.
"Holy fuck." She whispered. She put the coat on. There was not a single building in sight. Not a single person in sight. Nothing and No-one was there but her.
"Fuckety-fuck-fuck-fuck." She turned around. She saw the way she had come out of the subway was still there. She also saw another entrance going back the other way. Only it wasn't across the street. It was on another mountain peak. Across a valley. Maybe ten minutes away if she could fly. Maybe ten hours on foot. Maybe.
She went back into the subway and sat down on a bench. The train was gone. There were ads up for the latest movies, and graffiti carved into the wall: Mitch and Cornea 4eva. Cornea? really? she thought. There was old gum on the floor, and newspaper under the bench. She flicked open her cellphone. There was no signal. She also noticed a little battery sign trying to inconspicuously empty itself on the upper right corner of her screen. She had maybe half an hour of juice left.
"Fuck." she said.
She climbed back outside. Still no signal.
"Fuck Verizon!" She said, now suddenly blessed with a direction to throw her frustration at. She heard the screech of a eagle overhead. She looked up. Apparently, they do that to make their prey so afraid that they run panicked, and become more visible, she thought, lecturing herself. It was flying down towards her, and she realized, as soon as it got closer and once her depth perception stopped denying it, that the bird was the size of a bus. So she ran, like a silly woman in a horror movie, away from the safety of the subway and down the mountain.
Well, that's the most I feel like writing just now, but stay tuned for more and maybe some music and some art too if I feel like it. But remember, I am the slothlady and am slow, sleepy, and lazy. Don't worry though, the satyr is coming, I think, and things are going to get a whole lot more exciting for our heroine. Maybe she might even have a name next time. Who knows?
She sat alone in the subway in a nearly empty subway car. She was reading Frankenstein, which up until now she had been enjoying. Exasperated, she thought:
If Mary Shelley puts one more story inside this story and has someone tell me about it in first person I am just going to.. I dunno, resurrect something and then kill it.
She put the book down and looked at her fellow travelers. Across from her sat a man. She tried to imagine what he did for a living and it wasn't very hard. Heavy boots, durable clothes, half asleep. It added up. Construction probably. She looked at his hands. Rough. She looked at her own hands. Soft.. she thought. Actually a little dry. I should put on some moisturizer when I get home. She sighed.
It must feel.. I don't know, powerful and good to know how to build something. To have some say when it comes to things and places. At home sometimes she felt nervous because everything around her was made by someone else. She would try to imagine all the people and processes that went into making all of her things until it made her feel dizzy and nauseous. She could feel and hear all the people: the designers, the miners, the scientists, the factory workers, the shop people, the advertisers, pushing in on her, yelling their things at her, and she would have to close her eyes and listen to her own heartbeat. And she would think, looking at the blood vessels under her eye lids, well at least this place is mine.
She looked at the cover of the book. It was a painting by Caspar David Friedrich of tall naked trees in a winter wood. The word for it, she had learned in Introduction to Art History, was sublime. Sublime nature. The only sublime things about New York City were the buildings. They made her feel small. Back in montreal she used to pretend that she could, when she was sad, fall into the warm brown brick of the little two story buildings, like a father's old sweater. She could curl up into the winding outdoor stair cases and have a good cry. But the buildings here stood tall, shining and aloof, like the eyes of people that she didn't meet on the street.
She closed her eyes now. She couldn't hear her heartbeat over the sound of the subway as the train went under the water between New York City and Brooklyn. She started to nod off and she woke up later. Much later. She was drooling a little. The car was freezing cold, very dark, and empty. Well, it was almost empty. There was a faux-fur coat, pressed in plastic and newly dry cleaned, left hanging on a ceiling rail. The train had stopped moving, and the doors opened.
'Last stop.' said a cheery yet indifferent male voice.'Everyone must get off the train.'
She grabbed the coat and stepped off the train.
Maybe there's a lost and found, she thought. The air was very clear and sweet.
I must be pretty far out, she thought. She climbed up the stairs.
'Now I'll have to pay for a ticket back," she said aloud.
Wind swayed through the pine trees and she looked out on a bright winter's day. The sky was robin's egg blue and pale around the edges, and everything rang and chimed with sunlight. She was on top of a mountain and could see for miles around. The cellophane around the faux-fur coat ripped off and fluttered joyfully away in the wind and sun.
"Holy fuck." She whispered. She put the coat on. There was not a single building in sight. Not a single person in sight. Nothing and No-one was there but her.
"Fuckety-fuck-fuck-fuck." She turned around. She saw the way she had come out of the subway was still there. She also saw another entrance going back the other way. Only it wasn't across the street. It was on another mountain peak. Across a valley. Maybe ten minutes away if she could fly. Maybe ten hours on foot. Maybe.
She went back into the subway and sat down on a bench. The train was gone. There were ads up for the latest movies, and graffiti carved into the wall: Mitch and Cornea 4eva. Cornea? really? she thought. There was old gum on the floor, and newspaper under the bench. She flicked open her cellphone. There was no signal. She also noticed a little battery sign trying to inconspicuously empty itself on the upper right corner of her screen. She had maybe half an hour of juice left.
"Fuck." she said.
She climbed back outside. Still no signal.
"Fuck Verizon!" She said, now suddenly blessed with a direction to throw her frustration at. She heard the screech of a eagle overhead. She looked up. Apparently, they do that to make their prey so afraid that they run panicked, and become more visible, she thought, lecturing herself. It was flying down towards her, and she realized, as soon as it got closer and once her depth perception stopped denying it, that the bird was the size of a bus. So she ran, like a silly woman in a horror movie, away from the safety of the subway and down the mountain.
Well, that's the most I feel like writing just now, but stay tuned for more and maybe some music and some art too if I feel like it. But remember, I am the slothlady and am slow, sleepy, and lazy. Don't worry though, the satyr is coming, I think, and things are going to get a whole lot more exciting for our heroine. Maybe she might even have a name next time. Who knows?
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