Big Day

 

 

This is my big brother. He's the only brother I've ever had, so maybe I'm a little bit biased, but he is the best big brother that anyone could imagine having. And today he starts his firefighter training at the academy. He's pretty much amazing.

She's pretty cool too. ------------->

Linda maravilhoso!

I must learn Portuguese. Now.

Better Version of You

His hands are always clean, his hair always neatly trimmed.
He doesn't slouch over the table when he reads the morning paper,
And he brings me my coffee before I've gotten out of bed.

He's a doctor in the city, caring for children with no homes.
He runs five miles in the morning and then again at night.
And after a shower, he makes me dinner, and sings songs by Buddy Holly.

When he sleeps he doesn't make a sound, instead just holds me tight.
He doesn't fear death or the uncertainties of tomorrow.
And I've never seen him frown or put a single person down.

I've never found fault with him, and we never ever fight.
His parents call me once a week,
And I know he'll always be there for me.

But he's boring as hell.

He doesn't understand my jokes, and he agrees with everything I say.
He won't let me fix him dinner or lift a single finger,
And his parents call me once a week.

But I thought he looked just like you
And even walked the same.
So when he asked,
of course,
I told him my name.

Impatient

I am writing, which means I sometimes stare off, thinking, procrastinating, and just now I caught myself scanning one of my bookshelves. There are nineteen books on this shelf with bookmarks sticking out of the tops of them. And out of those nineteen, twelve of the bookmarks are within the first quarter of the book. Just sayin.

Audio/Visual Pleasures

At first I was a little wary of the new Bon Iver album. The single was a little off-putting, what with the airy, '80s Christian rock-inspired keyboard part. But For Emma was SO good, so I had faith in Justin Vernon and overlooked the misstep. Well, I was right to believe. Bon Iver will get under your skin, just feel free to skip the last track. My favorite--right now--is "Michicant" with all its absurd lyrics and that ding of a bike bell at the beginning. But because there is no decent video for that song and National Geographic just released this video for "Holocene," a video that makes me want to move to Iceland and be a fisherman's wife, this is what you get. I think it's a fair trade.



I'm also enjoying my fill of the new Beirut album, thanks to NPR's First Listen. There isn't a weak track to be found here, but there is definitely something about this one, the title track, that gets to me. Imagine a fish hook embedded in your chest, tugging incessantly, and you might get a sense of how this song makes me feel. Or something.

Eggs-istentialism

The whole apartment was still, save for the sound of cars in the parking garage behind our building and the birds flapping around the kitchen window. I was starting the day as I did most days, stirring a pan of eggs over a little blue flame, one hand on my hip, a flipper in the other hand. The coffee had already brewed and was just waiting to be poured. The bread was toasting and would pop up at approximately the same time that my eggs were reaching the perfect fluffy consistency. After so many mornings of choreographed egg making, I had gotten to be just that good at timing my toast.  

I was an early riser. Mornings were my thing. I liked being alone in the cool, dewy air, trying to walk from my bedroom to the kitchen without making too much noise on the creaky floorboards. I felt like the only person alive sometimes, at least until the morning rush began and everyone showed up en masse for 8 AM classes.

So there I was, watching the runny puddles of egg congeal. I probably sighed with contentment. (Mornings induce a lot of sighing with me.) Suddenly, I heard a rabble of commotion on the other side of the wall. I was no longer alone. In a matter of minutes one of the bedroom doors rattled open, creaking on its antique hinges, and I heard Sara's footsteps and the jangling of her keys. I expected to see just a flash of her on her way out--she sounded like she was late for something--but she appeared in the kitchen doorway just as calm as always. She was never one to get riled up about being late for something.

She had a huge grin on her face as she watched me baby-sitting my eggs. She was always amused at anything I was doing, probably because it was always so foreign to her. She liked to tease me about my dinners ("What is it tonight? Chicken or fish?"), but I never said anything to her when she ate an entire can of refried beans or a tub of Cool Whip for dinner.

"Oh, Becca. Scramblin' eggs."

"Morning."

"You know, they say how you take your eggs is like your philosophy of life."

"Oh yeah? So what do scrambled eggs mean?"

"Uhhhh, I think it means you're an existentialist."

"Hmm. Yeah. OK. So, Sara, how do you like your eggs?"

"Unfertilized."

We never had much in common, but that morning we both got a laugh out of that one.