His fingertips were so sensitive that it felt as though his nerve endings had crawled right up to the surface and were touching his skin from the inside. Knock, knock! They were at the door, ready bust out like large, angrily looming and pulsating cartoon characters. At times it felt as if the nerve ending fairy from the Ren and Stimpy show was gnawing at his fingertips. The sensation was an amplification process akin to having your ear pressed up against a mega speaker at stadium sized concert. It was intense and painful.
It wasn’t just his fingertips; the rest of his body was similarly sensitive, but it was particularly noticeable in his fingertips, and as he played with his new notebook computer, which had a faintly prickled touchpad for a mouse, it almost hurt him to move his fingers over it. He wondered if others experienced similar discomfort when using the touchpad or if he was just too sensitive to the feel of the faintly raised dots on the pad. Curious, he could not help but ponder why someone had designed such an unusual touchpad.
His entire being was always too sensitive. Physically, he felt everything more intensely than others, and emotionally he was so closely attuned to even the slightest hints of affective changes within those around him that he could immediately sense when someone’s mood shifted, no matter how subtle. At times, he felt it was a gift to be so intimately in sync with those around him, and at times he resented it because he spent such large amounts of his emotional energy worrying about those around him. Most of those people were not as sensitive as he was and did not spend nearly the same level of energy concentrating on their own emotional states the way he was focused on their emotional well being.
As for his physical being, the last time he had made love to a woman, his entire body shook, almost violently, whenever she had run her fingers gently and playfully down the sides of his abdomen. He couldn’t control it. It just happened. She had seemed to enjoy the strong response her touch elicited in him, but for him it was a fine line between intense pleasure and physical discomfort.
Because he experienced everything with such intensity, he often found the average day exhausting, both physically and emotionally. As a result, he would withdraw into low stimulation environments where his senses would not be constantly bombarded and feel overwhelmed. This meant that he spent a great deal of time alone, or alternatively with one or a couple of select friends. But, because he spent most of his time alone, that’s what most people thought of him; that he was a loner who didn’t care much for people. This simply was not true. If anything, he cared more about people than they actually cared about themselves. He took all their feelings and sensations and internalized them as his own. However, since this was imperceptible to those with far less evolved senses than his, he was perceived as cold and uncaring.
He did not mind. He enjoyed his time alone. But, despite finding comfort in his aloneness, he craved human companionship and intimacy. It was something he struggled with constantly. In a society that idealized the pairing of mates, he often felt like an outcast. Because he sensed pleasure so intensely that it was bordering on pain, his entire being was intertwined with the polarity of deeply desiring emotional companionship and physical intimacy yet craving independence from any and all human interaction. He accepted that it was a battle he would never win, but that he would continue to be tormented by this internal struggle for the rest of his life.
At times, he would make a concerted effort to seek out a mate, but he would invariably find himself enmeshed in a relationship that he ultimately felt suffocated him. Emotionally, he would feel overwhelmed, and physically it was simply too much for him to endure. Sooner or later, his craving to be alone would win out and he would end the relationship, only to find himself feeling an island once again.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Untitled
"I don’t like people," was the first thing he said as she sat down in his tattoo chair. She was immediately intrigued. She glanced at him and tried to gauge how old he was. But, he was one of those guys who could be anywhere from age 22 to 39 and there was no way to tell. She wanted to ask his age, but thought that might be rude. Before she could even complete her thought, he asked her how old she was. Caught off guard by his question, she said "I’m old". "That’s not an answer", he replied. He had a way of seeing right through her that made her feel as if she had to tell him. Reluctantly, she gave up her age. She felt as though he had stolen a deep, dark secret from her. It wasn’t that her age was a secret. It was just that she had wanted to hold onto that piece of information for a while longer, but he had pried it from her in an instant and without any effort. Meanwhile, she still felt it would be too forward for her to ask his age. She was irritated with herself.
She sat in silence for a while, then said: "I don’t like people either." He looked at her in disbelief. It was as if he thought that she had said that just to please him or win him over, which obviously wasn’t a tactic that would work on him. But, she had meant it. She really did not care much for people either. Although, in her case, this had been a fairly recent realization. She had always thought that she liked people, but what she had seen of them lately wasn’t pretty. She had come across a quote by Charles Haddon Spurgeon that captured her sentiments exactly: "You cannot slander human nature; it is worse than words can paint it."
She felt a kinship with the man who was now busy preparing to start her tattoo. It was her first tattoo and curiously she observed his every move. He made a casual comment to the other tattoo artist in the shop. They were the only ones working that night, and it was otherwise quiet in the shop, aside from the background music playing. They were talking about music. She listened in on their conversation and felt like a fly on the wall. While she was physically present in front of them, it was as if she weren’t there. She rather enjoyed that for a while. Being part of something, yet not being expected to participate. That’s how she liked it. Just being. Sitting quietly and observing. She took it all in, the whole experience.
She liked their sense of humor; it was of the snappy, sarcastic kind. Then they grew quiet. They both went on with their work; he busily filling up the little plastic ink cups with the various of concentrations of black. She enjoyed watching him and emboldened she finally asked: "How old are you?" Even though he had made her give up her information, he was not as easy of a target. "Guess!" he said.
"Oh shit", she thought. "I suck at guessing ages. If I go low, he’ll be insulted, and if I overshoot, he’ll be offended. There’s no way to win this." So, she responded with the same sarcasm she’d overheard and enjoyed during their conversation: "Five?" His tattoo artist friend laughed, and for the first time since she walked in, he smiled. "You’re pretty funny. A smartass. I like you." Suddenly, both men’s interests turned to her and they began including her in the conversation, frequently asking her thoughts and opinions. While she liked being part of their conversation, she missed being able to just sit there and gratuitously listen in on theirs.
She sat in silence for a while, then said: "I don’t like people either." He looked at her in disbelief. It was as if he thought that she had said that just to please him or win him over, which obviously wasn’t a tactic that would work on him. But, she had meant it. She really did not care much for people either. Although, in her case, this had been a fairly recent realization. She had always thought that she liked people, but what she had seen of them lately wasn’t pretty. She had come across a quote by Charles Haddon Spurgeon that captured her sentiments exactly: "You cannot slander human nature; it is worse than words can paint it."
She felt a kinship with the man who was now busy preparing to start her tattoo. It was her first tattoo and curiously she observed his every move. He made a casual comment to the other tattoo artist in the shop. They were the only ones working that night, and it was otherwise quiet in the shop, aside from the background music playing. They were talking about music. She listened in on their conversation and felt like a fly on the wall. While she was physically present in front of them, it was as if she weren’t there. She rather enjoyed that for a while. Being part of something, yet not being expected to participate. That’s how she liked it. Just being. Sitting quietly and observing. She took it all in, the whole experience.
She liked their sense of humor; it was of the snappy, sarcastic kind. Then they grew quiet. They both went on with their work; he busily filling up the little plastic ink cups with the various of concentrations of black. She enjoyed watching him and emboldened she finally asked: "How old are you?" Even though he had made her give up her information, he was not as easy of a target. "Guess!" he said.
"Oh shit", she thought. "I suck at guessing ages. If I go low, he’ll be insulted, and if I overshoot, he’ll be offended. There’s no way to win this." So, she responded with the same sarcasm she’d overheard and enjoyed during their conversation: "Five?" His tattoo artist friend laughed, and for the first time since she walked in, he smiled. "You’re pretty funny. A smartass. I like you." Suddenly, both men’s interests turned to her and they began including her in the conversation, frequently asking her thoughts and opinions. While she liked being part of their conversation, she missed being able to just sit there and gratuitously listen in on theirs.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
The Nerve
He motioned for her to remove her headphones as she approached her bike. Slightly annoyed at the interruption, she removed her ear pieces and looked up at him. He was the driver of one of the horse drawn carriages downtown. She had just finished running her errands in the beautiful sunshine, and was ready to head home. She wondered what he wanted; clearly he was not looking for directions. Now curious, she waited for him to speak. He asked if the bike she was about to unlock was hers. With maternal pride, she replied in the affirmative. Her bike was a pretty sad looking piece of equipment, but it ran well and meant the world to her. It gave her the freedom and independence she craved, and her bike was the one constant in her life. It had been with her through the good, the bad, and the ugly. It was her faithful companion. Sure, it looked like it had been through a recent battle, all rusty and beat up, yet it remained sturdy and strong.
When he spoke, the carriage driver asked her if that sad piece of crap belonged to her. Shocked at the insult he had just hurled at her bike so unexpectedly, she did not respond. She just looked at him in disbelief. He was a young guy, probably in his early 20s. Unabashedly, he continued to insult her bike, asking if she was really going to ride that thing, warning her that she should not because it would probably fall apart at any moment and leave her stranded. He told her that she should buy a new bike then he asked her if she had a good job that would allow her to pay for a new bike. He subsequently looked at the shopping bag slung over her shoulder and said: “Well, judging from that bag you’re carrying, I can assume you have a credit card, so why don’t you use it to buy a new bike?” She was stunned. She could not fathom that this total stranger, whom she had not bothered in the slightest, had the nerve to speak to her in such a rude manner.
She knew that her bike had seen better days and that it had never been of high grade quality in the first place, even as it was new from the factory. But, in a way that was what made her love it so much. She felt it embodied the beauty of urban decay, and she would fondly refer to it as her ‘ghetto bike’, but to have someone else disparage it in such a condescending way was unacceptable. Yet, still caught up in the element of surprise, she responded “Yeah, I know it looks like a ghetto bike, but it’s my bike, and it’s great. I love it.” Undeterred, he continued his tirade: “That’s not even the quality of a ghetto bike. If that were a ghetto bike, the rims would be shiny and not all rusty and dirty like yours”. Unbelievable! Not only was he insulting her bike, but he was clearly just judgmental and disrespectful all around.
Demonstratively, she turned her back toward him and proceeded to unlock her bike, at which point he asked where she lived. Automatically, she gave him the name of her neighborhood, but quickly regretted it when he made yet another disparaging remark “Ha, that means you’re going to have to ride up that hill. There is no way your bike will make it up that hill. I hope you don’t ride around in your neighborhood, because the bicyclists in your neighborhood will laugh at you. By the way, what’s your name? My name’s Ben.”
Seriously? Did he just ask her name? She could not believe this was his feeble and pathetic attempt to pick her up. She wanted to tell him that insulting someone’s most prized possession and faithful companion was not likely to be a very successful pick-up strategy, but she refrained from saying anything. Instead, she just hopped on her bike and rode home, her favorite tunes drowning out all of his insults. Soon, she found herself at one with the road again.
When he spoke, the carriage driver asked her if that sad piece of crap belonged to her. Shocked at the insult he had just hurled at her bike so unexpectedly, she did not respond. She just looked at him in disbelief. He was a young guy, probably in his early 20s. Unabashedly, he continued to insult her bike, asking if she was really going to ride that thing, warning her that she should not because it would probably fall apart at any moment and leave her stranded. He told her that she should buy a new bike then he asked her if she had a good job that would allow her to pay for a new bike. He subsequently looked at the shopping bag slung over her shoulder and said: “Well, judging from that bag you’re carrying, I can assume you have a credit card, so why don’t you use it to buy a new bike?” She was stunned. She could not fathom that this total stranger, whom she had not bothered in the slightest, had the nerve to speak to her in such a rude manner.
She knew that her bike had seen better days and that it had never been of high grade quality in the first place, even as it was new from the factory. But, in a way that was what made her love it so much. She felt it embodied the beauty of urban decay, and she would fondly refer to it as her ‘ghetto bike’, but to have someone else disparage it in such a condescending way was unacceptable. Yet, still caught up in the element of surprise, she responded “Yeah, I know it looks like a ghetto bike, but it’s my bike, and it’s great. I love it.” Undeterred, he continued his tirade: “That’s not even the quality of a ghetto bike. If that were a ghetto bike, the rims would be shiny and not all rusty and dirty like yours”. Unbelievable! Not only was he insulting her bike, but he was clearly just judgmental and disrespectful all around.
Demonstratively, she turned her back toward him and proceeded to unlock her bike, at which point he asked where she lived. Automatically, she gave him the name of her neighborhood, but quickly regretted it when he made yet another disparaging remark “Ha, that means you’re going to have to ride up that hill. There is no way your bike will make it up that hill. I hope you don’t ride around in your neighborhood, because the bicyclists in your neighborhood will laugh at you. By the way, what’s your name? My name’s Ben.”
Seriously? Did he just ask her name? She could not believe this was his feeble and pathetic attempt to pick her up. She wanted to tell him that insulting someone’s most prized possession and faithful companion was not likely to be a very successful pick-up strategy, but she refrained from saying anything. Instead, she just hopped on her bike and rode home, her favorite tunes drowning out all of his insults. Soon, she found herself at one with the road again.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Common But Not Boring
"It may be common, but you are not boring", he said, referring to her name and her. She had always been somewhat self-conscious about her name, felt that its commonness made her plain and ordinary. That her name somehow defined her character and confined her personality to the dull category. In an instant, he had undone all of that. She liked him, but she did not say anything. Instead, she just looked at him in the dark against the glow of the computer screen, and smiled on the inside.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
All Alone
When he came to us, he had been living in a nursing home for 27 years. He was 55 years old with schizoaffective disorder and a dementia he had likely developed from his longstanding illness.
He arrived at the hospital with cancer that had spread to his bone and lungs. He had altered mental status and his speech was so garbled, it was mostly incoherent. The first time I met him, he was confused and irritable, refused to answer any questions and yelled at me to get out of his room. The first few days with him were not very pleasant, but we soon learned that he really liked orange juice. Thus, we began to trade orange juice for information. In exchange for some orange juice, he would reluctantly answer our questions about how he was feeling, if he had pain anywhere, etc. He was still confused, unable to state the date or where he was.
As some of his metabolic abnormalities from the cancer were corrected, he became more lucid, and a very gentle man appeared. He was soft spoken and polite. His speech became more coherent. He revealed that he did not have any siblings and that his parents were dead. He also did not have any friends. But, as I was getting to know him, he shared that, years ago, he would go joyriding in his car with his friends. In fact, he had enjoyed it so much that it had been his favorite pastime before he ended up in the nursing home. A big smile came to his face when he thought of the time when he and his friends had gone joyriding. Now, he was living in a nursing home with no family and no friends. At the hospital, he had no visitors, no one who called or came to see him.
One morning as I was making my rounds, I asked him how he was feeling and he began crying. He cried silently, tears streaming down his face, and he clumsily licked the tears off as they reached his lips. With his toothless mouth, he responded quietly "I'm alright", all the while the tears kept streaming down his gaunt cheeks. That was too much to bear. I grasped his hand, held it, and struggled to hold it together. It took everything I had not to start crying along with him.
Soon, his mental status deteriorated again, and he became incoherent and irritable once more. Randomly, he would have a day here and there when he would be more alert and communicative. One one such day when I sat with him, he again reminisced about how much he had enjoyed driving around with his friends in his car, and how he could no longer do that. A crazy idea struck me and I thought about sneaking him out of the hospital to take him for one last ride in my car, windows open, the warm summer air hitting his face. But, I realized that I would probably lose my job if I did that. Then, I noticed that he was crying again, silently, large tears were streaming down his face. I held his hand and cried with him.
He arrived at the hospital with cancer that had spread to his bone and lungs. He had altered mental status and his speech was so garbled, it was mostly incoherent. The first time I met him, he was confused and irritable, refused to answer any questions and yelled at me to get out of his room. The first few days with him were not very pleasant, but we soon learned that he really liked orange juice. Thus, we began to trade orange juice for information. In exchange for some orange juice, he would reluctantly answer our questions about how he was feeling, if he had pain anywhere, etc. He was still confused, unable to state the date or where he was.
As some of his metabolic abnormalities from the cancer were corrected, he became more lucid, and a very gentle man appeared. He was soft spoken and polite. His speech became more coherent. He revealed that he did not have any siblings and that his parents were dead. He also did not have any friends. But, as I was getting to know him, he shared that, years ago, he would go joyriding in his car with his friends. In fact, he had enjoyed it so much that it had been his favorite pastime before he ended up in the nursing home. A big smile came to his face when he thought of the time when he and his friends had gone joyriding. Now, he was living in a nursing home with no family and no friends. At the hospital, he had no visitors, no one who called or came to see him.
One morning as I was making my rounds, I asked him how he was feeling and he began crying. He cried silently, tears streaming down his face, and he clumsily licked the tears off as they reached his lips. With his toothless mouth, he responded quietly "I'm alright", all the while the tears kept streaming down his gaunt cheeks. That was too much to bear. I grasped his hand, held it, and struggled to hold it together. It took everything I had not to start crying along with him.
Soon, his mental status deteriorated again, and he became incoherent and irritable once more. Randomly, he would have a day here and there when he would be more alert and communicative. One one such day when I sat with him, he again reminisced about how much he had enjoyed driving around with his friends in his car, and how he could no longer do that. A crazy idea struck me and I thought about sneaking him out of the hospital to take him for one last ride in my car, windows open, the warm summer air hitting his face. But, I realized that I would probably lose my job if I did that. Then, I noticed that he was crying again, silently, large tears were streaming down his face. I held his hand and cried with him.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
The Box
Her fingers frantically dug through the earth. Desperate, she dug faster. "Where is it?", she thought in a panic. This was the third hole she had dug in a two yard perimeter, and she still couldn't find it. According to her recollection, she had buried the box exactly 10 heel-to-toe steps away from the tree. It should still be there. It had to be. Nobody knew to come looking for it, and the ground appeared untouched. Granted, she had buried the box there about twelve years ago. But, the tree certainly had not moved in that time, and the location was well deserted, and likely had not seen much, if any, traffic over the past twelve years.
She stopped digging for a moment. Caught her breath. She came to her senses and thought about the situation rationally. "Clearly, the box is still here, somewhere. The ground may have shifted somewhat, putting the box at a slightly deeper level, and perhaps I'm a little bit off as to the direction. It's been a long time. But, if I just relax, I will find it." That made her feel better.
Reassured by her rationale, she started reminiscing. She remembered the day when she had brought the box here. She had sat under the tree for hours that afternoon as the sun was setting in the distance in a fiery red and purple haze. She had clutched the box in her lap. At times overtaken with emotion, she had cried, then regained her composure, only to cry again some moments later. It had been an emotional afternoon, one that she would never forget as long as she lived. Inside the box were the remnants of a time, now long past. Yet, due to recent developments it had become crucial once again in her life. She had to find the box. It was her only salvation.
She stopped digging for a moment. Caught her breath. She came to her senses and thought about the situation rationally. "Clearly, the box is still here, somewhere. The ground may have shifted somewhat, putting the box at a slightly deeper level, and perhaps I'm a little bit off as to the direction. It's been a long time. But, if I just relax, I will find it." That made her feel better.
Reassured by her rationale, she started reminiscing. She remembered the day when she had brought the box here. She had sat under the tree for hours that afternoon as the sun was setting in the distance in a fiery red and purple haze. She had clutched the box in her lap. At times overtaken with emotion, she had cried, then regained her composure, only to cry again some moments later. It had been an emotional afternoon, one that she would never forget as long as she lived. Inside the box were the remnants of a time, now long past. Yet, due to recent developments it had become crucial once again in her life. She had to find the box. It was her only salvation.
Monday, August 10, 2009
The Phone Call
He could hear the phone ringing inside his apartment and he ran up the last few stairs. He fumbled with the keys, and by the time he had managed to unlock the door, the caller had hung up. He quickly glanced at the phone to see whose call he had just missed.
It was her. Anxious, he waited to see if she had left a voice mail. He felt the seconds go by without any evidence of a new message. Relieved, yet disappointed, he sank to the floor where he remained and waited in the dark. After it became obvious that she had not left a message, he let out deep sigh of relief. He was exhausted. Since she had not left a voicemail, he could pretend as if the call had never registered on his phone. “Phew, that was close.”, he thought.
He stayed on the floor in the dark for a while and thought about things. He rather enjoyed reflecting quietly while surrounded by impenetrable darkness. It made him feel calm and at ease. He had just regained his composure, and was about to get up, turn on the lights, and get busy when the phone in his hand signaled a new voicemail. “Oh, crap”, he thought.
It was her. Anxious, he waited to see if she had left a voice mail. He felt the seconds go by without any evidence of a new message. Relieved, yet disappointed, he sank to the floor where he remained and waited in the dark. After it became obvious that she had not left a message, he let out deep sigh of relief. He was exhausted. Since she had not left a voicemail, he could pretend as if the call had never registered on his phone. “Phew, that was close.”, he thought.
He stayed on the floor in the dark for a while and thought about things. He rather enjoyed reflecting quietly while surrounded by impenetrable darkness. It made him feel calm and at ease. He had just regained his composure, and was about to get up, turn on the lights, and get busy when the phone in his hand signaled a new voicemail. “Oh, crap”, he thought.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
A Return To The Scene
At this point in the intern year, I find myself, well, hmm...exhausted. Frustrated. Cranky. Irritable. I whine. I complain. I bitch. And I moan. I even try to cover it all up with an annoyingly happy attitude to pretend that all is well. But, for those who really know me, it's all a charade, and on the inside I'm about as spent as I can be. A vacuous shell of my usual self. Empty and tired. Ready to pass out in a heap of exhaustion.
Thankfully, that is when an entire weekend off at the Door County lakehouse re-presents itself.
An oasis of relaxed tranquility. Again, we found ourselves here, back at the lake house. A little bit warmer this time. Good friends. A couple of dogs. One firepit lakeside, and a fireplace inside. A hot tub, and a porch with chaise lounges. It is just what the doctor ordered and what this doctor needed. A place to recharge my batteries. Ponder deep thoughts in solitude. Discuss profound topics over a glass of wine by the fire. A place to rediscover life and appreciate the joy and wonder of good friends, beauty of nature, and to be thankful for the too brief freedom from work.
Thankfully, that is when an entire weekend off at the Door County lakehouse re-presents itself.
An oasis of relaxed tranquility. Again, we found ourselves here, back at the lake house. A little bit warmer this time. Good friends. A couple of dogs. One firepit lakeside, and a fireplace inside. A hot tub, and a porch with chaise lounges. It is just what the doctor ordered and what this doctor needed. A place to recharge my batteries. Ponder deep thoughts in solitude. Discuss profound topics over a glass of wine by the fire. A place to rediscover life and appreciate the joy and wonder of good friends, beauty of nature, and to be thankful for the too brief freedom from work.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Find Your Own Road
'Find your own road'. That was a 1995-96 Saab advertisement slogan featuring a series of different cartoon ads appealing to your secret desire to break out of the mold and proudly display your unique individuality (preferably by purchasing a Saab).
While I admit to being more of a Volvo girl myself (I have a certain affinity for the old 'they're-boxy-but-they're-good' station wagons as they hold some very dear childhood memories of being sandwiched in a wagon full of kids being driven to the beach in the summer time), there's something very catchy about the Saab cartoons with their fluid movement and that jazzy background music urging you to dare to be yourself, and...to dare to buy a Saab.
While I admit to being more of a Volvo girl myself (I have a certain affinity for the old 'they're-boxy-but-they're-good' station wagons as they hold some very dear childhood memories of being sandwiched in a wagon full of kids being driven to the beach in the summer time), there's something very catchy about the Saab cartoons with their fluid movement and that jazzy background music urging you to dare to be yourself, and...to dare to buy a Saab.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
'Tis So Good...In Memoriam
It is like a large bag filled with my favorite Saturday candy. So delicious. I know, I'm a slow reader, but it's not like I have a lot of time on my hands. However, since I got into this book, it's kept me well entertained and intrigued. The book? 'The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo' by Stieg Larsson.
I find it somewhat ironic that I'm reading the translated into English version of a Swedish book. I love reading books in original Swedish. But, in this case, I made an exception as I was so excited that a contemporary Swedish author is sufficiently appreciated to be sold as an international best seller and found in pretty much any American bookstore.
Anyhow, the novel sucked me in right away and I was hooked! The story spins off into two separate tales...one about the girl with the dragon tattoo, whose character I find fascinating and deeply alluring...and one about an investigative journalist hired to research an old mysterious disappearance and simultaneously write a biography about a famous financier family. Each tale is sufficiently intriguing on its own, but I was so curious to figure out how the two would eventually connect...
...And, the pieces just fell into place! It is so exciting. I think I will pause here and go for a run to savior the moment.
In Memoriam: Stieg Larsson, 1954-2004. Thank you for sharing your gift. Your writing is amazing.
I find it somewhat ironic that I'm reading the translated into English version of a Swedish book. I love reading books in original Swedish. But, in this case, I made an exception as I was so excited that a contemporary Swedish author is sufficiently appreciated to be sold as an international best seller and found in pretty much any American bookstore.
Anyhow, the novel sucked me in right away and I was hooked! The story spins off into two separate tales...one about the girl with the dragon tattoo, whose character I find fascinating and deeply alluring...and one about an investigative journalist hired to research an old mysterious disappearance and simultaneously write a biography about a famous financier family. Each tale is sufficiently intriguing on its own, but I was so curious to figure out how the two would eventually connect...
...And, the pieces just fell into place! It is so exciting. I think I will pause here and go for a run to savior the moment.
In Memoriam: Stieg Larsson, 1954-2004. Thank you for sharing your gift. Your writing is amazing.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Monday, February 23, 2009
Pixie Dust and Galapagos
Sometimes, when you least expect it, you stumble across the most magical of times.
Such was the case on Friday, when I briefly felt as if the universe was my stage upon which I danced to the rhythm of my heart. However, the moment was elusive and the dance over long before midnight. But while I danced in an enchanted forest of curious exploration, pixie dust fell from the sky. Sparks flew.
Then reality rushed in, and with its harsh and bony fingers, it pried the magic away. But, in the frenzy of the dance, some of the pixie dust was caught in my hair and left on my skin. From its remnants I can sense a glimmer of hope for the future...Galapagos!
Such was the case on Friday, when I briefly felt as if the universe was my stage upon which I danced to the rhythm of my heart. However, the moment was elusive and the dance over long before midnight. But while I danced in an enchanted forest of curious exploration, pixie dust fell from the sky. Sparks flew.
Then reality rushed in, and with its harsh and bony fingers, it pried the magic away. But, in the frenzy of the dance, some of the pixie dust was caught in my hair and left on my skin. From its remnants I can sense a glimmer of hope for the future...Galapagos!
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Oh, The Juxtaposition
It is interesting the items that end up getting mixed together when you move. In one arm you're carrying a box of shoes and in the other, a case of beer. Your plants and a bag of toiletries. A box of books and a bag of towels. Your purse collection loaded in your arms with bags of pasta and cereal dangling below. As I was carrying yet more stuff from my old place to the new place this evening, I could not help but reflect on the interesting juxtaposition of items when you move. How did my glasses, cups, and coffee mugs end up getting carried into the new place along with my socks and underwear?
For a relatively organized person, you'd think I'd have some kind of rhyme, reason, or strategy to this whole moving thing. Alas, no. The object has just been to carry as much as I've been able to at a time; saving the items I use daily for last. But, the thing I find most interesting of all is how much stuff I have accummulated. The place I currently live in is pretty darn small. In fact, it is not much larger than some people's walk in closets. Hence, the small size effectively puts a limit on how much stuff I have been able to keep on hand. It is thus a complete mystery to me how I've accummulated so much stuff or where it has all been hiding.
For a relatively organized person, you'd think I'd have some kind of rhyme, reason, or strategy to this whole moving thing. Alas, no. The object has just been to carry as much as I've been able to at a time; saving the items I use daily for last. But, the thing I find most interesting of all is how much stuff I have accummulated. The place I currently live in is pretty darn small. In fact, it is not much larger than some people's walk in closets. Hence, the small size effectively puts a limit on how much stuff I have been able to keep on hand. It is thus a complete mystery to me how I've accummulated so much stuff or where it has all been hiding.
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