the stretching sensation of raising and lowering my soft palate--sharp, then slackening muscles down my throat.
highway construction, headlights, and blindness.
I couldn't hack it in Iceland. I place the possibility of finding a job that employs me for 6 sunny months of the year and gives me the 6 months of darkness free so I can read, hibernate, build fires and play the xylophone somewhere between unlikely and impossible and apparently I am of no real substantive value during the dark daytime hours (though I'd love to think otherwise). Two weeks ago Chris and I went to Sigur Ros concert at the Hollywood Bowl and were mesmerized by the opening act. Five Icelandic girls stood around a table tooling on various instruments. It looked like they were baking a pie, or at a quilting bee. is this what people in Iceland do, we wondered? Do they make multi-layered orchestral pieces in the gloom, the silence and the night? And there is something about a bell tone, after all, that illuminates the world around it with an aural glow as the pitch reverberates off of the surfaces surrounding it. And when I get down to it I realize that music is, really, a bit like baking.
"How bad does it burn? On a scale of one to ten." My Swiss facialist dabbed acid on my face and it gradually heated to an intense burn, like a blush.
"Five?" She raised her eyebrows and shook her head with disbelief. "Eight?" Better. She tells me the only thing preventing the acid from penetrating through the bone is the buffer. I wonder what it would be like to be warm down to my bones. It's supposed to kill everything on its way down, but instead brings up nasty pustules and inflammation lurking in the dermis. I'm breaking out for weeks.
He was supposed to be temporary. Last Christmas--before I started working here--our regular FedEx guy was decorating the exterior of his house for the holidays and fell off of a ladder. The fall crushed his hands. He thought he could come back to work soon, but his hands have needed to be broken and reset three times this year. I never met this guy, but I think about him often. I imagine him at home, with all the doors kept open. I imagine his sixteen year old daughter driving him around town, carrying his shopping basket for him while he walks around with bandaged monster-movie hands. His young son anticipates Halloween; his father's costume outdoes all the other grownups'. It will be the one day when people on the street won't clutch their own hands when they see him and his son won't have to feel guilty about wanting a light-up Santa on their roof for Christmas.
I love Musso & frank's because the bartenders know what they're doing and because Faulkner was at that bar; not because the waiters are old, balding, and career. Once at the Pantry downtown our waiter was the spitting image of Humphrey Bogart if he was still alive and had suffered a stroke that left his left side droopy. It broke my heart to have him wait on us.