That’s my boy.
On Facebook, one of my most interesting friends asked a simple question I couldn’t answer: What are you passionate about? I am still mulling it over. How about you? What are you passionate about?
If I could wear this it would be the shiniest gown of my career in shiny.
At 7:45 this morning, I broke into an office in the library by hitting the up button in the freight elevator and stepping out when it stopped. I propped a specially labeled, brand new, still flat box with the new cardboard smell against the desk and taped a note on pink phone message paper to the flat thing. The note asked the receptionist to call me about this box. Three hours later, I went back up to the office, this time up a flight of stairs and through the front door, where I found the receptionist who had not called me and the box that had not been set up, moved to the other side of the cubicle.
Tata: I see you got the box I left you.
Henny: We wondered who left it!
Tata: Did you get my note?
Henny: What note?
I reached past her, turned the flat thing around and saw the note taped to what was now the back. She looked so surprised.
Henny: Your note!
Tata: Yep, there it is. I wanted to tell you about assembling the box.
Henny: I didn’t.
Tata: I see that! Do you have packing tape?
Tata: You don’t have packing tape?
Henny: We do. We have that!
Tata: Well, thank you! And here you go, the box for our project. I’ll be back later, okay?
Henny: Thank you!
I’m a frequent user of words like homicidal and raised by wolves, but this conversation seemed special. It’s hard to tell, though, because I’m in a mood. This morning, my cousin’s puppy ran off and everyone’s upset about it, but not like this, which is so upsetting you want to jab hot metal spikes through the ears of defenseless-pet-murdering scumbags, and by you, I mean me. So instead of baring my teeth at my co-worker, I did the backstroke across the floor to the elevator and here’s a peaceful picture Pete took of our pantry I wish I’d seen just then.
Siobhan started yapping before I said hello.
Siobhan: PEARS IN PORT WINE SAUCE ARE SOOOOO DELICIOUS!
Tata: Hey, what?
Siobhan: I soaked them and my housemate Trixie said, “I don’t know…what’s that?” I came back four hours later and oooooooh they look like vaginas, but I’m straight and pears in port wine sauce are SOOOOO DELICIOUS!
Tata: Your inner conflicts have such happy endings!
Siobhan: I sent you a picture!
Tata: Holy cats! And they were delicious, you say?
Siobhan: Completely delicious! I can’t say enough about how delicious they were!
Tata: This can only help your already shocking popularity.
I used to wonder why biographies of great thinkers and artists almost always start with an adult period of inspired productivity followed by one of wandering in the wilderness and another of mature work that isn’t flashy and feels dull compared with all that fiery, youthful noise, but I understand it now. I think about the same things, but I think a whole lot less about myself. Yesterday, I sashayed out of the house without makeup and even moisturizer because I forgot about me, which is fine because as art critics go I am a stone bitch and embarrassed to be seen with me.The town we live in is so small that one’s presence or absence may be easily observed. Last spring, I marched over to the senior/youth center to volunteer at the food pantry. Sometimes lots of people turned out; sometimes there were three adults and three toddlers to do the shelving. When the weather cooled off recently I had some trouble being on my feet and missed a Wednesday night, which did not go unnoticed. Ah well. If I were stable, you and I would never have met in that bar in Singapore.
I’ve been knitting cat blankets since April. These are just about ready to send out, hopefully early next week. I’m knitting Pete a little wool scarf with the exciting footnote that I am allergic to wool. Part of the hunger project is giving families assigned to our departments winter warmth. I am thinking about making a rather dull but reasonably warm baby blanket, though thinking about it makes me want to hork.