It’s a funny thing, this solitary lifestyle.
(I say this recognizing that what I refer to as a “solitary lifestyle” has been in effect for maybe ten hours. Last night the GabZi-r fanclub membership doubled when Karen and Rachel joined the New York posse to connect to the Monday-nite musical hotspot that is Paris, France. We squatted the forum and shouted between offices and danced in the hallway and curled over laughing till we couldn’t speak. I believe at one point Rachel ran out singing “I want to sex you up” and found herself face-to-face with the former head of the department. So, no, I really don’t live what one could call, in all seriousness, and with a straight face, a solitary lifestyle. Today, however, what with the sky thick and white with mourning, and all sounds muted by the rain drip-drip-dripping all day, I have the impression that I may be the only person left in the world.)
Up just after seven, stumbled to the living room and put on the morning soundtrack—a little Joan Sutherland, a spot of Death Cab for Cutie, a touch of Astrud and João Gilberto, a whisper of Rachael Yamagata. Breakfast over the Times, then I installed myself on the sofa with Le Rouge et le Noir for the day. I have been surprisingly good about reading for class so far this semester, and I suspect it is because—while the accompaniments of coffee and coffee and a biscuit and strawberries and tea don’t hurt—Stendhal is such a master storyteller. Somewhere around page 590, the only possible reaction was to exclaim “Holy crap!” which I’m sure is what they were saying, too, back in the nineteenth century.
All in all, it’s not a bad thing, this solitary lifestyle. Until it’s time to put on Boney M and get ready for my dinner date, I will be a little hermit crab: hear me be very, very quiet!
(I say this recognizing that what I refer to as a “solitary lifestyle” has been in effect for maybe ten hours. Last night the GabZi-r fanclub membership doubled when Karen and Rachel joined the New York posse to connect to the Monday-nite musical hotspot that is Paris, France. We squatted the forum and shouted between offices and danced in the hallway and curled over laughing till we couldn’t speak. I believe at one point Rachel ran out singing “I want to sex you up” and found herself face-to-face with the former head of the department. So, no, I really don’t live what one could call, in all seriousness, and with a straight face, a solitary lifestyle. Today, however, what with the sky thick and white with mourning, and all sounds muted by the rain drip-drip-dripping all day, I have the impression that I may be the only person left in the world.)
Up just after seven, stumbled to the living room and put on the morning soundtrack—a little Joan Sutherland, a spot of Death Cab for Cutie, a touch of Astrud and João Gilberto, a whisper of Rachael Yamagata. Breakfast over the Times, then I installed myself on the sofa with Le Rouge et le Noir for the day. I have been surprisingly good about reading for class so far this semester, and I suspect it is because—while the accompaniments of coffee and coffee and a biscuit and strawberries and tea don’t hurt—Stendhal is such a master storyteller. Somewhere around page 590, the only possible reaction was to exclaim “Holy crap!” which I’m sure is what they were saying, too, back in the nineteenth century.
All in all, it’s not a bad thing, this solitary lifestyle. Until it’s time to put on Boney M and get ready for my dinner date, I will be a little hermit crab: hear me be very, very quiet!
posted by stellou at 11:17 PM
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