Sep 10, 2003

Foster Child

Cosette went home to her daddy on Friday. I miss her. Ever so. She stayed with me for nearly two weeks, during which we spent entire days together and went for countless walks and napped and snuggled. I scratched her belly for untold hours. And I delighted in her every movement.

I do miss her. And I curse my fragile, sentimental self for being so vulnerable to tender feelings and overabundant outpourings of emotion. Just looking at these pictures of her, with her proper little frontpaws, and her rear paws in that strange perpendicular posture. Or her shamelessly comfortable body all curled up on my supposedly off-limits 800 thread count pillowcase and raw silk duvet. I miss the clicking of her nails on my floors. But I despise feeling sad about it. Even in that bittersweet way that nostalgia works.

Sometimes I would just prefer to be Vulcan.





Labels: ,

posted by Mary Forrest at 12:01 AM | Back to Monoblog


Comments:
Post a Comment

     Aug 26, 2003

Wherever you don't happen to look

I sometimes forget that you can get surprise glimpses into other people's lives when you go out and walk around at night. With their windows open to the summer night air and the drapes pulled back, you can see your neighbors busying themselves with their evenings, and it feels secret and wonderful and you like them more than you normally would. Like when you look at a child while he sleeps. No matter what a terror he is in the waking hours, you can't help but coo over him when he sleeps.

So, tonight, I was taking my temporary doggy for a walk, and I saw one of my neighbors playing the cello next to a grand piano in the portrait window of a very grand house that I don't think I'd ever noticed before. He had art on the richly-colored walls and a handsome fireplace and soft, warm lighting. One of the upstairs rooms was painted a deep green. The lights were on. I wondered what happens in that room. It looked like a nice place to read.

For a moment, I thought about what I would say if I bumped into him during the day. I might say that I play the violin and noticed him playing his cello, but then what? It's a peculiar triumph you feel when you realize you have something in common with someone. It's like a bit of armor. Something to protect against the sharp edges of awkwardness and estrangement. It's why my mom makes friends with people just because they are Chinese. They've got that in common. Who they voted for isn't important. Besides which, my mother doesn't vote. Shame on her.

So, I live on the same street as this fellow. And we both play stringed instruments. And we both walk upright and many other things. But the chance that we will ever be friends? Slim, I suppose. I only saw him in profile. I don't know that I would even recognize him on the streets. Unless he was carrying his cello. And wasn't also Yo-Yo Ma.

Labels: ,

posted by Mary Forrest at 11:42 PM | Back to Monoblog


Comments:
Post a Comment

New menu. No new choices.

My brain has gotten all muddy. Cramped with concern. Swelling with urgency. Dull with pragmatism. Percolating with ambition and the split rays of unfocused desire. I even forget sometimes to look forward to the things I never fail to enjoy. I forget to grasp onto the enduring hope that tonight is the night I get to see a good friend and a favorite performer, thinking instead of all the plates I'm failing to keep spinning and also dreading the Baked Honey Chicken. It's sickeningly easy to sour the milk of optimism. And not in any sort of delicious cheese or sour cream sort of way.

I cut my finger badly yesterday. Not on one of my new knives. Rather on one of my old knives that had to be put away to make room for the new knives and their gargantuan housing. As knife blocks go, this one is a mansion. These knives live in splendor. But the other displaced knives, banished to live out the remainder of their rust-attracting existences in the jangly bottom of a drawer that jerks when you try to open it, had their revenge on me last night. I was having trouble getting the drawer open, and I realized that my very fancy cheese grating device had lodged itself in such a way as to block the drawer from opening but a fraction of the way. I thrust my hand in to shove the other gadgets and utensils aside, pressing with great force against the exposed blade of a knife I once wielded. And it was sharp enough to cause me great harm and to make me wonder if the knives I now have are really so superior. (Trust me: they are. I had to slice tomatoes later in the evening and my faith was restored -- it was like magic!) I hurried to the bathroom to plaster an Anakin Skywalker as Pod Racer bandage (they were on sale a long time ago) on my bird finger, dripping blood all over the sink and delaying the completion of my Indian dinner preparation. I'm fine now. But my finger is sore. And Lenny Bruce is dead.

I'm looking after a friend's dog this week. She's lovely and affectionate and awfully nice to have around. She's dozing in the living room with Ghost World on the television. She's a canny one, that Cosette. Also, I heard Ghost World being promoted on a pay channel today. They were giving the evening line-up and announced it as a "dark comedy," and I found myself in disagreement. But before I began investing time and effort fashioning a cogent refutation, I remembered that labels are crap and seldom informative and summing anything up as the actual category into which you can best chuck it is lazy and dismissable. And maybe I'm more keyed up on the topic because of recent arguments stemming from the use of words like "conservative" and "liberal" and "right-wing" and "hot," but I'm entitled to prickle at the sound of our language as much as the next guy. I also do not read the TV Guide.

Labels: ,

posted by Mary Forrest at 12:35 AM | Back to Monoblog


Comments:
Post a Comment