And I quote from a job posting for a sales stylist assistant...
"Knowledge of fashion, good taste, and convincing manor are required."
Now really, is it fair to request that someone have a "convincing manor" in order to apply for a job? If someone IS applying for a job like this (one that, may we note, entails egregious grammatical errors), they probably don't have the money to afford a stately home. If I had enough money to live in the Hamptons (a place where I have no intention of residing), I wouldn't apply for a job like this. I'd probably try to be Paris Hilton and socialite-around on my money and reputation.
As I continue to search for a job, a hopeful ranger trudging through a forest of ashes, I am considering joining the circus. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Back to a Land Made for You and Me
A few weeks and an near-inexplicably large amount of miles later, I'm still around. Currently, you may find me in Pittsburgh, PA, visiting my brother and his family. Tonight, I fine tuned my back rubbing skills, lulling nephew and niece into the dreamy pulls of slumber with the all-powerful magic of my soporific hand. Fortunately, the keys on my computer don't succumb to the drowsy capitulation brought about by my fingers.
Since my return to America two and a half weeks ago, I've been doing things Beach Boy style, getting a' round round round (yeah I get around). It all started in NYC, then it rolled up to Boston and finally flew over to Pittsburgh. Changing faces, changing places, the only constant factor a fearless trudge through the pixel-powered pages of the job search world. It's, as we all know, a great time to join the ranks of the unemployed. Stellar opportunities, low levels of competition, ha, ha and ha ha ha. Some days one feels more discouraged than others, but in all, I have faith, buoyed by small replies of encouragement, that although love may not be in the air, possibility is. It's only a matter of time before my swashbuckling skills and dashing good looks win someone over.
For now though, we're going cold turkey on the job talk and talking Turkey.
I had planned on my travel of the last hurrah being one of those glorious solo ventures into the unknown, the kind where you get chased by the wild dogs of chance. That would have worked out if only my family doesn't have friends or relations on every square inch of the earthly sphere. As it turns out, Yasemin who once, 17 foggy years ago, stayed with my family as an exchange student lives in Istanbul. So I revamped the cadre of my impending travel in my mind, and let the trailblazing plans melt into a more easy-going mentality. I could not have asked for more gracious hosts than Yasemin and her brother in Istanbul and her father and her mother in Bursa.
The country struck me as much more Westernized than I imagined. I suppose I had some Delacroix harem-esque vision of the country inked across my mind. Albeit the stray cats and dogs, the street vendors selling anything and everything wherever roadside space was available, and the inebriating semi-chaos of the old streets, the country as a whole has a Westernized facade. When one speaks with a real Turk (as opposed to a fake one), one gathers the ability to walk behind this Western facade and see that it is nothing more than a building with a false front. Behind this relative modernity is an emptiness filled with governmental corruption, abounding bribes and meaningless work contracts. The economy is dragging along on the dregs of scraping by (what's new?), and the average monthly salary is roughly the same as the average monthly rent.
From the visit to the hammam that sent my fingers and toes tingling like electrostatic fields as they soaked in the deliciously hot water in Bursa to the freezing afternoons spent wandering by rundown clapboard buildings of Istanbul, I tried to get a varied taste of Turkey. I stuffed the days with breadcrumbs of glittering blue Iznik tiles in mosques and the gravy of the Bosphorus river, which despite the inclement weather, remained a stubbornly beautiful shade of teal.
Despite the the, at times, wary advice I recieved from outsiders regarding traveling alone in Turkey as a single female, I found people to be as hospitable as the chai tea they served vistors. A few situations push the envelope of normal contact, but I made sure to stamp the damper of a wax seal on any action that was even scented with the tinge of indecency. Did I want to go see the upstairs office of ye sketchy shop keeper in the Great Bazaar? No. Did I acknowledge the questions tossed at me by the occassional haranguer in a tourist area? No. I carried my big stick and knew when to tap it resoundingly on the floor.
That said, whenever you visited a shop, there was always a ready cup of tea, steaming out of the dainty bulge of a glass cup. While visiting the island of Buykada, I stumbled upon the hotel where Attaturk, the father of modern-day Turkey, stayed. The grounds keeper (or so I believe he was) invited me in to take a look. He spoke no English, and I a bare dusting of Turkish, so we communicated through a series of charades and drawings worthy of an international Cranium competition. The visit ended, two newfound mimes sipping glasses of a terrible vinagrette of Turkish wine in the living room of the apartment where Attaturk has stayed. There I was, drinking wine with an old Turkish man in Attaturk's apartment. In any case, I made sure to keep my guard up like an invisible burka.
-----------
"So am I glad to be back?" everyone is asking. Yes. I'll close this entry out with a bit I wrote on the bus a few days post my arrival in the States. The sandman is starting to explore the convexes of my eyelids, so I feel it time to withdraw to the warm concave of a dent in a comfortable mattress. So with a simple copy and paste, I close out for the evening. Scissors and glue ready please.....
Since my return to America two and a half weeks ago, I've been doing things Beach Boy style, getting a' round round round (yeah I get around). It all started in NYC, then it rolled up to Boston and finally flew over to Pittsburgh. Changing faces, changing places, the only constant factor a fearless trudge through the pixel-powered pages of the job search world. It's, as we all know, a great time to join the ranks of the unemployed. Stellar opportunities, low levels of competition, ha, ha and ha ha ha. Some days one feels more discouraged than others, but in all, I have faith, buoyed by small replies of encouragement, that although love may not be in the air, possibility is. It's only a matter of time before my swashbuckling skills and dashing good looks win someone over.
For now though, we're going cold turkey on the job talk and talking Turkey.
I had planned on my travel of the last hurrah being one of those glorious solo ventures into the unknown, the kind where you get chased by the wild dogs of chance. That would have worked out if only my family doesn't have friends or relations on every square inch of the earthly sphere. As it turns out, Yasemin who once, 17 foggy years ago, stayed with my family as an exchange student lives in Istanbul. So I revamped the cadre of my impending travel in my mind, and let the trailblazing plans melt into a more easy-going mentality. I could not have asked for more gracious hosts than Yasemin and her brother in Istanbul and her father and her mother in Bursa.
The country struck me as much more Westernized than I imagined. I suppose I had some Delacroix harem-esque vision of the country inked across my mind. Albeit the stray cats and dogs, the street vendors selling anything and everything wherever roadside space was available, and the inebriating semi-chaos of the old streets, the country as a whole has a Westernized facade. When one speaks with a real Turk (as opposed to a fake one), one gathers the ability to walk behind this Western facade and see that it is nothing more than a building with a false front. Behind this relative modernity is an emptiness filled with governmental corruption, abounding bribes and meaningless work contracts. The economy is dragging along on the dregs of scraping by (what's new?), and the average monthly salary is roughly the same as the average monthly rent.
From the visit to the hammam that sent my fingers and toes tingling like electrostatic fields as they soaked in the deliciously hot water in Bursa to the freezing afternoons spent wandering by rundown clapboard buildings of Istanbul, I tried to get a varied taste of Turkey. I stuffed the days with breadcrumbs of glittering blue Iznik tiles in mosques and the gravy of the Bosphorus river, which despite the inclement weather, remained a stubbornly beautiful shade of teal.
Despite the the, at times, wary advice I recieved from outsiders regarding traveling alone in Turkey as a single female, I found people to be as hospitable as the chai tea they served vistors. A few situations push the envelope of normal contact, but I made sure to stamp the damper of a wax seal on any action that was even scented with the tinge of indecency. Did I want to go see the upstairs office of ye sketchy shop keeper in the Great Bazaar? No. Did I acknowledge the questions tossed at me by the occassional haranguer in a tourist area? No. I carried my big stick and knew when to tap it resoundingly on the floor.
That said, whenever you visited a shop, there was always a ready cup of tea, steaming out of the dainty bulge of a glass cup. While visiting the island of Buykada, I stumbled upon the hotel where Attaturk, the father of modern-day Turkey, stayed. The grounds keeper (or so I believe he was) invited me in to take a look. He spoke no English, and I a bare dusting of Turkish, so we communicated through a series of charades and drawings worthy of an international Cranium competition. The visit ended, two newfound mimes sipping glasses of a terrible vinagrette of Turkish wine in the living room of the apartment where Attaturk has stayed. There I was, drinking wine with an old Turkish man in Attaturk's apartment. In any case, I made sure to keep my guard up like an invisible burka.
-----------
"So am I glad to be back?" everyone is asking. Yes. I'll close this entry out with a bit I wrote on the bus a few days post my arrival in the States. The sandman is starting to explore the convexes of my eyelids, so I feel it time to withdraw to the warm concave of a dent in a comfortable mattress. So with a simple copy and paste, I close out for the evening. Scissors and glue ready please.....
Six months and four countries later, your fearless adventurer Hannah Americana has finally rolled back into the homeland. Scraping thee dust off her travel-weary chaps, she straightens up, stretches her arms high above her head and lets out a contented howl. Home, home at last.
Curled up into a bony bundle on the cushioned seat of a bus, I’m rolling down the endless stretch of highway that serves as a conduit between the electric forces of New York City and Boston. Out the window, vast expanses of parking lot filled with the baubles of sun-baked cars stand next to somber shopping plazas as typically monstrous as America as has become accustomed to. This view, upon returning from my first European year would have left me scrunched up in fetal position, yowling curses of dislike and longing wanly for the year I’d just left in France. This time around, after 6 months in Britain, I stare out at this site, the twitch of a smile upon my lips. I feel ready to be here. Accepting. Content.
Unlike most teenagers, I never had a rebellious stage with my parents. To make up for lost angst, I had a period of avowed denial of my country. I think I've, at last, grown out of this phase. I think I'm ready to wrap my arms full of sundry states and paint myself in soils as diverse as the crystalized patterns of snowflakes.
As I turned on the tap in the Brooklyn apartment of my friend Nora this morning, I smiled as hot and cold water rushed out of the same spigot. No longer would I have to mix water in the palm of my cupped hands freezing and burning my skin as I attempted to draw water of a palatable temperature from the old separate faucets of an English sink. No longer would I have to stand in the Tube, putting on an implacably unfeeling face as I heard the announcement, " the Y line is delayed because of a man under the train at X station." No longer would I have to have a constant dank cling to my bones like unhappy sinews.
It wasn't all grim and gore. The experience was a good one, I'm glad I went, glad I can tuck the whole into the theoretical pack of my travels. There are many fond memories I'll store away as sweet biscuits in the tin of my mind, but for now, I stand on the edge of the unnamed next chapter, happy to see the cowboy boots (yes take that as a literary symbol) on my feet.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Where in the World is Hannah Rothstein-deigo?
Carmen is now passé. Looking around for her red fedora is old hat. Waldo? He's gone too. Stripped straight of his striped status and become as uninteresting as mud. The new question everyone is asking is: Where in the world is Hannah Rothstein-diego?
Before I tell you where in the world this covert character, this elusive Elmiran is, you have a task. Go to http://www.islandreefjob.com/#/most-popular/watch/CDRj3yB6Ckk and help send Hannah to Australia by voting her cheesy as cheddar application to the best job in the world a whopping 5 stars.
Good. Now that you've completed your task, I'll give you the information I know about Hannah and her whereabouts.
Hannah was last seen treading the London concrete caught under a newly-purchased, colorful umbrella that would make an op-art lover guffaw with glee. She's not long for London though. I hear she's making tracks and making them fast. Rumor on the double-decker bus is that she's going somewhere reconstructed by a guy named Haussman and then jetting off to a place once known as Constantinople.
Ah! Found me! Case solved. So I'm still in London, but not for long. Sunday, I'm strapping on my traveling boots and breaking out in a rousing rendition of "On the Road Again." First it's off to Paris. We all know of my endless love affair with that city. I'll be making the usual rounds, circling around town in bipedal fashion and skittering off to eat scrumptious meals with family and friends of the French and faux-French phyla. While living this soon-to-be-had present, I'll be reliving a bit of my dad's past. In a surprise move that sends the ordinary whirling into an eddy of convivial color, my English cousin Romy Cassel will take to the Eurostar tracks with me to join in on my Parisian adventures. In a long ago and far away time, her father and mine traveled together across the UK. Now we'll set off where their footsteps left off.
I saw the Cassels this past weekend during a jaunt into the countryside. My sole British friend Emily invited me to her home in Norfolk, a bit of England known for its pancake-flat landscape. As it conveniently turned out, my relatives the Cassels also live in Norfolk, so I saw them for the first time in 10 years. And if push didn't come to shove, at least parlance came to spontaneity. Romy, upon hearing of my planned travels to France and visits to the family there, decided to hop on the bandwagon of a train and push off to Paris with me one week before my departure. We're both giddy as little girls with a new Barbie doll at the opportunity to travel together.
The rest of the time in the boonies of England was a much needed bit of relaxation. From our perch in Emily's childhood home, a warmly redone old school house, Emily and I did the normal country things - sat by the fire, went to the shore, ate copious amounts of food, stretched our legs on the hard soil of the frozen fields and went hunting with our Irish setters. Emily caught a pheasant and I caught a camel. (I hope you caught on to that jest.)
So back to my boots. Paris. From Paris to Turkey. I'll be flying over to Turkey (appropriately funny if only turkeys could fly so far) for a week of whatever my wanderlust wants to explore. I'll base myself out of Istanbul and perhaps overnight to Bursa or the caves of Cappodocia. In Istanbul, I'll tour Topaki, smell the spice market, buy at the bazaar, hop to the Hagia Sophia and do all other sorts of alliteration-based delight. I'm hoping Turkey might be a bit different to the other sites my traveling boots have stomped upon.
And then, like a flash, it's one night in London and a journey home, estimated arrival 2:15 PM at JFK airport.
This whirlwind will leave me stranded and likely jobless in the US, scraping around in an attempt to find a purpose for my present. I've been applying to jobs like it's nobody's business. The problem is that it IS somebody's business and I want their business to me mine as well. I'll keep plugging away a la Little Engine that Could. Maybe I'll be lucky and land myself some employment before I return. We'll have to see what happens. As always, I will keep you in the know.
I now hand over the warrant for the arrest of Hannah Rothstein-diego for impersonating early 90's cartoon characters. Hannah has been caught and revealed like the emperor in his new clothes. She will soon be behind red and white bars underneath a field of stars in a navy sky.
Before I tell you where in the world this covert character, this elusive Elmiran is, you have a task. Go to http://www.islandreefjob.com/#/most-popular/watch/CDRj3yB6Ckk and help send Hannah to Australia by voting her cheesy as cheddar application to the best job in the world a whopping 5 stars.
Good. Now that you've completed your task, I'll give you the information I know about Hannah and her whereabouts.
Hannah was last seen treading the London concrete caught under a newly-purchased, colorful umbrella that would make an op-art lover guffaw with glee. She's not long for London though. I hear she's making tracks and making them fast. Rumor on the double-decker bus is that she's going somewhere reconstructed by a guy named Haussman and then jetting off to a place once known as Constantinople.
Ah! Found me! Case solved. So I'm still in London, but not for long. Sunday, I'm strapping on my traveling boots and breaking out in a rousing rendition of "On the Road Again." First it's off to Paris. We all know of my endless love affair with that city. I'll be making the usual rounds, circling around town in bipedal fashion and skittering off to eat scrumptious meals with family and friends of the French and faux-French phyla. While living this soon-to-be-had present, I'll be reliving a bit of my dad's past. In a surprise move that sends the ordinary whirling into an eddy of convivial color, my English cousin Romy Cassel will take to the Eurostar tracks with me to join in on my Parisian adventures. In a long ago and far away time, her father and mine traveled together across the UK. Now we'll set off where their footsteps left off.
I saw the Cassels this past weekend during a jaunt into the countryside. My sole British friend Emily invited me to her home in Norfolk, a bit of England known for its pancake-flat landscape. As it conveniently turned out, my relatives the Cassels also live in Norfolk, so I saw them for the first time in 10 years. And if push didn't come to shove, at least parlance came to spontaneity. Romy, upon hearing of my planned travels to France and visits to the family there, decided to hop on the bandwagon of a train and push off to Paris with me one week before my departure. We're both giddy as little girls with a new Barbie doll at the opportunity to travel together.
The rest of the time in the boonies of England was a much needed bit of relaxation. From our perch in Emily's childhood home, a warmly redone old school house, Emily and I did the normal country things - sat by the fire, went to the shore, ate copious amounts of food, stretched our legs on the hard soil of the frozen fields and went hunting with our Irish setters. Emily caught a pheasant and I caught a camel. (I hope you caught on to that jest.)
So back to my boots. Paris. From Paris to Turkey. I'll be flying over to Turkey (appropriately funny if only turkeys could fly so far) for a week of whatever my wanderlust wants to explore. I'll base myself out of Istanbul and perhaps overnight to Bursa or the caves of Cappodocia. In Istanbul, I'll tour Topaki, smell the spice market, buy at the bazaar, hop to the Hagia Sophia and do all other sorts of alliteration-based delight. I'm hoping Turkey might be a bit different to the other sites my traveling boots have stomped upon.
And then, like a flash, it's one night in London and a journey home, estimated arrival 2:15 PM at JFK airport.
This whirlwind will leave me stranded and likely jobless in the US, scraping around in an attempt to find a purpose for my present. I've been applying to jobs like it's nobody's business. The problem is that it IS somebody's business and I want their business to me mine as well. I'll keep plugging away a la Little Engine that Could. Maybe I'll be lucky and land myself some employment before I return. We'll have to see what happens. As always, I will keep you in the know.
I now hand over the warrant for the arrest of Hannah Rothstein-diego for impersonating early 90's cartoon characters. Hannah has been caught and revealed like the emperor in his new clothes. She will soon be behind red and white bars underneath a field of stars in a navy sky.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
A few words on the Future
There is an end in sight, a light at the end of the tunnel. I'm not talking about death here, I'm talking about leaving the murky, gray cityscape of London for another place. About leaving this stony-colored sky for a place that hopefully sees a bit more of the sun.
With the onset on January came the question "WHAT NEXT?" which set sail on the seas of my life in a frighteningly large ship. This question flew its skull and crossbones high and threw the small boat of 'here and now' into pillaged disarray. I've been spending time attemping to straighten out the confusion, throwing my creativity into endless streams of cover letters, in hopes that I might catch someone's eye in this above par golf game of the economy. And after all these years of art, fashion, costume, French, business and the like, I've decided I want to become a plumber. Do you believe me? I'm going to keep you wondering for a few lines in a heavy-handed form of suspense.
As time flew by my keyboard who was busy clattering with the noisy music of job applications, the month of February stepped itself into line without my knowledge. My lease came to knock on my bedroom door. It informed me that for various contractual reason, I would need to vacate the room on February 15th. It seemed an appropriate time for this notification. The house has been deteriorating before my eyes. Gas cards breaking, poles to hold clothes in closets falling and mold sprouting up in dusty bushels of dull green. With the damp of this UK winter, mold has taken the liberty of making itself a regular guest in my house. It has taken up residence in the inside of kitchen cabinets and across the ceiling of the bathroom. It has decided to install itself on the wall next to our front door and even in the small grooves on the cap of my toothpaste. I think this is nature's way of telling me to move on.
So I will. I'll pack up and go, but not before a good few days of travel. I have a free Eurostar trip to Paris which I plan to utilize with the utmost joy. A few days among delectible food and delightful architecture and then a week in some undetermined country. I'll likely head to Turkey or Morocco, but things are still up in the air like an someone floating in zero-gravity. I'd be happy to take any of you as a travel partner should someone feel like a vacation.
And then it's back to America where the streets are paved with gold (or cheese if your name is Fifel). Don't tell a soul, but I'm actually looking forward to it. Part of me feels as though heading back without making an effort to stay this side of the continent is a sort of surrender, but I'm throwing up my white flag and seeing where it takes me. As we all know, white is composed of every color, so the possibilities are manifold. I want to be in a city and I want to edit or write in some creative fashion, or maybe just in fashion. (No, no plumbing included.) Whatever it be, I hope I can find a job that will allow my wit to run wild over my words. We can all dream, right?
Wish me luck as I continue to forge on along some bramble-covered path. Look back here soon-ish for some less philosophical (or do I flatter myself giving my musings such a lofty adjective?) news.
With the onset on January came the question "WHAT NEXT?" which set sail on the seas of my life in a frighteningly large ship. This question flew its skull and crossbones high and threw the small boat of 'here and now' into pillaged disarray. I've been spending time attemping to straighten out the confusion, throwing my creativity into endless streams of cover letters, in hopes that I might catch someone's eye in this above par golf game of the economy. And after all these years of art, fashion, costume, French, business and the like, I've decided I want to become a plumber. Do you believe me? I'm going to keep you wondering for a few lines in a heavy-handed form of suspense.
As time flew by my keyboard who was busy clattering with the noisy music of job applications, the month of February stepped itself into line without my knowledge. My lease came to knock on my bedroom door. It informed me that for various contractual reason, I would need to vacate the room on February 15th. It seemed an appropriate time for this notification. The house has been deteriorating before my eyes. Gas cards breaking, poles to hold clothes in closets falling and mold sprouting up in dusty bushels of dull green. With the damp of this UK winter, mold has taken the liberty of making itself a regular guest in my house. It has taken up residence in the inside of kitchen cabinets and across the ceiling of the bathroom. It has decided to install itself on the wall next to our front door and even in the small grooves on the cap of my toothpaste. I think this is nature's way of telling me to move on.
So I will. I'll pack up and go, but not before a good few days of travel. I have a free Eurostar trip to Paris which I plan to utilize with the utmost joy. A few days among delectible food and delightful architecture and then a week in some undetermined country. I'll likely head to Turkey or Morocco, but things are still up in the air like an someone floating in zero-gravity. I'd be happy to take any of you as a travel partner should someone feel like a vacation.
And then it's back to America where the streets are paved with gold (or cheese if your name is Fifel). Don't tell a soul, but I'm actually looking forward to it. Part of me feels as though heading back without making an effort to stay this side of the continent is a sort of surrender, but I'm throwing up my white flag and seeing where it takes me. As we all know, white is composed of every color, so the possibilities are manifold. I want to be in a city and I want to edit or write in some creative fashion, or maybe just in fashion. (No, no plumbing included.) Whatever it be, I hope I can find a job that will allow my wit to run wild over my words. We can all dream, right?
Wish me luck as I continue to forge on along some bramble-covered path. Look back here soon-ish for some less philosophical (or do I flatter myself giving my musings such a lofty adjective?) news.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
The plumbing escapades at Mawdley House continue. Please read ahead for another edition of "Bang! Kapow! Hannah's life in London"
So, since we last spoke, my faithful readers, great progress has been made at Flat 16. Water has returned gushing forth from the faucets like gold. It had been four days without running water. The water didn't run. It didn't even walk, the lazy bastard. It just stagnated. But finally that precious mix of hydrogen and oxygen came back, the planets aligned and peace on earth was obtained if only for a fleeting second.
More exciting news: Our toilet, it flushes! Yes, its true. Please hold your applause. Oh its a giddy experience. I push. Whoosh. Water springs forth from the tank like a lion from tall jungle grasses. I laugh in a distorted little chuckle that much resembles the chef in the Little Mermaid. Haw haw haw!
"Dear lord," you must be thinking, "London has really addled Hannah's brain more than scrambled eggs." Maybe so, but not in this case. Previous to Friday, flushing the toilet in my flat had been an athletic activity. I'd don my sweatbands, get in good Tai Chi pose and attack the handle fervently. Pump, pump, pump as I might the flush would not occur. One had to be the toilet whisperer (think a la Robert Redford with horses) to flush the damn thing. Anyone who has been to my flat can sympathize. It had only been getting worse and worse like a bad joke, until finally one dark and stormy night the landlord gave into our gripes and fixed the toilet. It now flushes like a charm (a Lucky Charm, perhaps the one that looks like a rainbow). So what was the problem? From the toilet, the landlord extracted the following: one pen and two razors. One pen, two razors, three milking maids, four bowling pins, five phonographs, six velocipedes, seven very disgruntled roosters, eight silver dubloons, nine brass monkeys and ten replicas of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. What in Sherlock Holmes' name that was all doing in there is beyond the realm of my infinite wisdom. All I know is that the toilet flushes.
Anyhow, I'm sure I could babble on about plumbing all night, but let's chat about other things, eh? New Years, for example.
To celebrate the new year, my sister, who was visiting, and I went up to Edinburgh. Everyone told me that the city was built on rock and roll by Starship. They said that, but they also said that Alexander Hamilton was a scientologist, so I don't know if I believe them. What I did gather from word of truthful mouth was that Edinburgh was the place to be for New Years.
Tess and I arrived before dawn stretched out her gleaming fingers over the city. The night bus we took deposited us on top of a mass of kilt-wearing lads, but we managed to fight our way out and into city center. We found the house where we were couchsurfing, deposited out surfboards and began our adventure.
What a lovely time. What a lovely city. What a lovely bunch of coconuts!
Over the next few days we explored the city in a leisurely fashion. I polished my monocole, crooning "Aha! what fabulous architecture!" and Tess smaked her walking stick on the ground, agreeing, "Superb. Absolutely devine." We ate a scone. It was more buttery goodness than a baker's fridge. We sought out Dolly the sheep and had a fatuous conversation with her concerning the delights of sharing a strawberry-rhubarb pie with your genetic likeness. We learned about Scottish history. We sang. We drank infinite amounts of tea. We ate delicious Indian curry that was graciously shared with us by our hosts.
Then, there were the New Years celebrations. They opened on the 29th with a torchlight procession. We bought a torch to share, passing it around like a hot potato. We processed around town, professing about the glory of the event. As our torch burned down to a warm glow that lit up the tips of our noses like steam off a hot cup of camomille, we reached the end of the walk and fireworks burst up into the sky like so many flecks of silver.
The night of the 30th, it was time to get your groove on. Performers hopped and swayed around stage like wheat in the wind. Bollywood, tango, Scottish country dancing. They had it all. The best of it was the traditional Scottish caleigh dancing in which the crowd took part. Did I dance? Is my name Hannah? No need for such obvious questions.
New Years itself was a rollicking mass of convivial fun. There was nothing more than people and music, but everyone was in spirits higher than Everest (many in such a jolly mood likely thanks to other spirits). This overwhelming sense of collective effervensence shot through the crowd like electrostatic waves. (I don't care if that's physically logical.) Midnight came. More fireworks streamed forth and the strains of auld lang syne rippled through the streets like water.
Now that I'm back in London, things are back in their swing. The swing, however, has been agitated from the smooth rock of its normalacy by the weight of "where to go next?" It's that time - time to start finding a real job. I have found a prospectus that is incredibly interesting (and by that I mean it's better sounding than notes gurgling forth from the lyre of Orpheus). I will not go into details now, but it's holding me in suspenseful semi-agony this weekend due to the logistics of possibly scheduling a face-to-face meet-up in NYC. No, I won't divulge more details. It's so deliciously cruel of me isn't it?
On that 'oh so clandestinely curious' note, I leave you be. Stay tuned for the next adventure.
So, since we last spoke, my faithful readers, great progress has been made at Flat 16. Water has returned gushing forth from the faucets like gold. It had been four days without running water. The water didn't run. It didn't even walk, the lazy bastard. It just stagnated. But finally that precious mix of hydrogen and oxygen came back, the planets aligned and peace on earth was obtained if only for a fleeting second.
More exciting news: Our toilet, it flushes! Yes, its true. Please hold your applause. Oh its a giddy experience. I push. Whoosh. Water springs forth from the tank like a lion from tall jungle grasses. I laugh in a distorted little chuckle that much resembles the chef in the Little Mermaid. Haw haw haw!
"Dear lord," you must be thinking, "London has really addled Hannah's brain more than scrambled eggs." Maybe so, but not in this case. Previous to Friday, flushing the toilet in my flat had been an athletic activity. I'd don my sweatbands, get in good Tai Chi pose and attack the handle fervently. Pump, pump, pump as I might the flush would not occur. One had to be the toilet whisperer (think a la Robert Redford with horses) to flush the damn thing. Anyone who has been to my flat can sympathize. It had only been getting worse and worse like a bad joke, until finally one dark and stormy night the landlord gave into our gripes and fixed the toilet. It now flushes like a charm (a Lucky Charm, perhaps the one that looks like a rainbow). So what was the problem? From the toilet, the landlord extracted the following: one pen and two razors. One pen, two razors, three milking maids, four bowling pins, five phonographs, six velocipedes, seven very disgruntled roosters, eight silver dubloons, nine brass monkeys and ten replicas of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. What in Sherlock Holmes' name that was all doing in there is beyond the realm of my infinite wisdom. All I know is that the toilet flushes.
Anyhow, I'm sure I could babble on about plumbing all night, but let's chat about other things, eh? New Years, for example.
To celebrate the new year, my sister, who was visiting, and I went up to Edinburgh. Everyone told me that the city was built on rock and roll by Starship. They said that, but they also said that Alexander Hamilton was a scientologist, so I don't know if I believe them. What I did gather from word of truthful mouth was that Edinburgh was the place to be for New Years.
Tess and I arrived before dawn stretched out her gleaming fingers over the city. The night bus we took deposited us on top of a mass of kilt-wearing lads, but we managed to fight our way out and into city center. We found the house where we were couchsurfing, deposited out surfboards and began our adventure.
What a lovely time. What a lovely city. What a lovely bunch of coconuts!
Over the next few days we explored the city in a leisurely fashion. I polished my monocole, crooning "Aha! what fabulous architecture!" and Tess smaked her walking stick on the ground, agreeing, "Superb. Absolutely devine." We ate a scone. It was more buttery goodness than a baker's fridge. We sought out Dolly the sheep and had a fatuous conversation with her concerning the delights of sharing a strawberry-rhubarb pie with your genetic likeness. We learned about Scottish history. We sang. We drank infinite amounts of tea. We ate delicious Indian curry that was graciously shared with us by our hosts.
Then, there were the New Years celebrations. They opened on the 29th with a torchlight procession. We bought a torch to share, passing it around like a hot potato. We processed around town, professing about the glory of the event. As our torch burned down to a warm glow that lit up the tips of our noses like steam off a hot cup of camomille, we reached the end of the walk and fireworks burst up into the sky like so many flecks of silver.
The night of the 30th, it was time to get your groove on. Performers hopped and swayed around stage like wheat in the wind. Bollywood, tango, Scottish country dancing. They had it all. The best of it was the traditional Scottish caleigh dancing in which the crowd took part. Did I dance? Is my name Hannah? No need for such obvious questions.
New Years itself was a rollicking mass of convivial fun. There was nothing more than people and music, but everyone was in spirits higher than Everest (many in such a jolly mood likely thanks to other spirits). This overwhelming sense of collective effervensence shot through the crowd like electrostatic waves. (I don't care if that's physically logical.) Midnight came. More fireworks streamed forth and the strains of auld lang syne rippled through the streets like water.
Now that I'm back in London, things are back in their swing. The swing, however, has been agitated from the smooth rock of its normalacy by the weight of "where to go next?" It's that time - time to start finding a real job. I have found a prospectus that is incredibly interesting (and by that I mean it's better sounding than notes gurgling forth from the lyre of Orpheus). I will not go into details now, but it's holding me in suspenseful semi-agony this weekend due to the logistics of possibly scheduling a face-to-face meet-up in NYC. No, I won't divulge more details. It's so deliciously cruel of me isn't it?
On that 'oh so clandestinely curious' note, I leave you be. Stay tuned for the next adventure.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Waterless at Waterloo
Since this past Friday night, i have been living in a quasi-third world country. A country on better days known as Mawdley House. Mawdley House, land of no water.
It all started with the hot water. That's what went first. Tap as dry as the Sahara desert. I took a shower out of a kitchen pot with boiled water. Then, it all went. I'd say it went down the drain, but it didn't go down the drain because there was nothing coming out of the taps to go down the drain. Today, Tuesday, we still have no water. At least they have someone working on it today unlike they did on Sunday. The workers said it will be fixed today, but the world is starting to sound like a broken record, because I could have sworn people said that to me on Saturday, Sunday and Monday. I'm becoming a familiar face the the internet cafe across the street where I go to brush my teeth in the mornings.
So, it's been a long period of silence. I have an excuse. I've been writing. A lot. Writing volumes and volumes of phrases, strung together like the twinkling Christmas lights strung like garland on every street. But if I haven't written here, what am I writing? I'll give you some excerpts. try and guess:
- Yarrr. I've rambled many a' time past this 'ere cathedral. It's in the area of my maiden vessel. At first sight, I was so agog that I had to remove me eye patch to get a better view. YAAARRR. I scratched me head with me hooked hand in wonder. Beautiful as the sea after a raging storm. Yarrr.
I never entered ye here treasure trove until recently. But one day, when my peg leg was feeling sturdy, I walked into the cathedral. And by Blackbeard's beard if this here church wasn't as lovely as pillaging a boat full of gleaming booty. YAR! YAR! 'Tis a mighty fine cathedral. Gothic she be, but of a warm light. Gothic cathedrals be usually cold and ominous, foreboding as a red sky in morning, but this here cathedral felt cozy as the little bunk I share with my parrot Polly.
Polly wanted to take the wall behind the altar for our vessel. It's all covered in beautiful statues like lichen covers an old ship. It's more than a sight for sore eyes. It's a sight to warm this broken seaman's heart.
Ye should take your shipmates thar. Maybe ye should claim it as booty for your captain. It be mighty fine place. You should go see it for yar self.
Orrrr....
- My roommate chose to go to Tiger Tiger to have a dance-y celebration of her birthday. Now, I must say, because here, writing reviews, I can say whatever I want to say, that I love baking cookies. I also may say that I was not so excited by the idea of going to Tiger Tiger. I'm not really a fan of the Soho/Piccadilly nightlife. As much as I love seeing really drunk girls stumbling around in skirts that must come from the movie "Honey I shrunk your Wardrobe," fending of sleazy men and rose sellers and dealing with long lines and high prices, this are is just not really my cup of tea
I was, therefore, surprised to find Tiger Tiger to be an alright kind of place, kind of like spaghetti bolognese. My first once-over of the digs left the following assessment: black walls, big booths, an upper floor that looks like it came out of some sexy 70's disco film. Hm. Ok. The crowd was well dressed, maybe not dressed to the nines, but not dressed to the ninnies or 'trying to be a nine but come out as a because I must have forgot the other of my clothes at home.'
------
Now if that second one didn't give it away, I'll tell you. I've been writing a guide to communicating with musquashes. To top it off, I get paid. Paid damn well, but I have a 35 per week review quota, so I have little time for other writing. But what a great job. I tell ya, getting paid to write - It's like having free reign of a Belgian chocolate store, delight in its purest form.
Other news:
We had our fine auction December 4th at the auction house. I got to phone bid. "I have a 500 pound bid against you. Would you like to bid? Or, would like just like to give me the money? Or, perhaps you should just go build the world's largest tree house." The top item was a pure gold pagoda-shaped headdress. Guess how much it went for? If I was buying it, it went for not only my arm and my leg, but also my bellybutton. If you were the person who bought it, it went for 12,000 pounds. Oh consumerism.
Sunday I went on a mission to find the prime meridian. I put on my safari suit, grabbed me machete and pith helmet and set out through the wild jungles of the London transportation system and streets. After a grueling trek, I stumbled to the top of the hill where I stood on zero latitude and stomped like a baboon on the international date line.
I've also had visitors in and out like trains in a station. Here, there, gone. It's been lovely seeing so many familiar faces around. Today, my family gets in. Tess and I will be headed up to Scotland for New Years to participate in the bacchanal of Hogmanay. We've managed to snag a place to stay with couchsurfing.
Well, it's nearly 1 pm which means its time to go eat my lunch out of a kitchen pot. Why? Because we have no more clean dishes and we've been through the tupperware, lids, containers and all. We've even eaten off each other's unshowered stomach's, the floor, and the back of our pet ostrich. Nothing is clean anymmore. Keep your fingers crossed that our faucets turn into Victoria Falls tonight.... Here's to hoping.
Hannah
It all started with the hot water. That's what went first. Tap as dry as the Sahara desert. I took a shower out of a kitchen pot with boiled water. Then, it all went. I'd say it went down the drain, but it didn't go down the drain because there was nothing coming out of the taps to go down the drain. Today, Tuesday, we still have no water. At least they have someone working on it today unlike they did on Sunday. The workers said it will be fixed today, but the world is starting to sound like a broken record, because I could have sworn people said that to me on Saturday, Sunday and Monday. I'm becoming a familiar face the the internet cafe across the street where I go to brush my teeth in the mornings.
So, it's been a long period of silence. I have an excuse. I've been writing. A lot. Writing volumes and volumes of phrases, strung together like the twinkling Christmas lights strung like garland on every street. But if I haven't written here, what am I writing? I'll give you some excerpts. try and guess:
- Yarrr. I've rambled many a' time past this 'ere cathedral. It's in the area of my maiden vessel. At first sight, I was so agog that I had to remove me eye patch to get a better view. YAAARRR. I scratched me head with me hooked hand in wonder. Beautiful as the sea after a raging storm. Yarrr.
I never entered ye here treasure trove until recently. But one day, when my peg leg was feeling sturdy, I walked into the cathedral. And by Blackbeard's beard if this here church wasn't as lovely as pillaging a boat full of gleaming booty. YAR! YAR! 'Tis a mighty fine cathedral. Gothic she be, but of a warm light. Gothic cathedrals be usually cold and ominous, foreboding as a red sky in morning, but this here cathedral felt cozy as the little bunk I share with my parrot Polly.
Polly wanted to take the wall behind the altar for our vessel. It's all covered in beautiful statues like lichen covers an old ship. It's more than a sight for sore eyes. It's a sight to warm this broken seaman's heart.
Ye should take your shipmates thar. Maybe ye should claim it as booty for your captain. It be mighty fine place. You should go see it for yar self.
Orrrr....
- My roommate chose to go to Tiger Tiger to have a dance-y celebration of her birthday. Now, I must say, because here, writing reviews, I can say whatever I want to say, that I love baking cookies. I also may say that I was not so excited by the idea of going to Tiger Tiger. I'm not really a fan of the Soho/Piccadilly nightlife. As much as I love seeing really drunk girls stumbling around in skirts that must come from the movie "Honey I shrunk your Wardrobe," fending of sleazy men and rose sellers and dealing with long lines and high prices, this are is just not really my cup of tea
I was, therefore, surprised to find Tiger Tiger to be an alright kind of place, kind of like spaghetti bolognese. My first once-over of the digs left the following assessment: black walls, big booths, an upper floor that looks like it came out of some sexy 70's disco film. Hm. Ok. The crowd was well dressed, maybe not dressed to the nines, but not dressed to the ninnies or 'trying to be a nine but come out as a because I must have forgot the other of my clothes at home.'
------
Now if that second one didn't give it away, I'll tell you. I've been writing a guide to communicating with musquashes. To top it off, I get paid. Paid damn well, but I have a 35 per week review quota, so I have little time for other writing. But what a great job. I tell ya, getting paid to write - It's like having free reign of a Belgian chocolate store, delight in its purest form.
Other news:
We had our fine auction December 4th at the auction house. I got to phone bid. "I have a 500 pound bid against you. Would you like to bid? Or, would like just like to give me the money? Or, perhaps you should just go build the world's largest tree house." The top item was a pure gold pagoda-shaped headdress. Guess how much it went for? If I was buying it, it went for not only my arm and my leg, but also my bellybutton. If you were the person who bought it, it went for 12,000 pounds. Oh consumerism.
Sunday I went on a mission to find the prime meridian. I put on my safari suit, grabbed me machete and pith helmet and set out through the wild jungles of the London transportation system and streets. After a grueling trek, I stumbled to the top of the hill where I stood on zero latitude and stomped like a baboon on the international date line.
I've also had visitors in and out like trains in a station. Here, there, gone. It's been lovely seeing so many familiar faces around. Today, my family gets in. Tess and I will be headed up to Scotland for New Years to participate in the bacchanal of Hogmanay. We've managed to snag a place to stay with couchsurfing.
Well, it's nearly 1 pm which means its time to go eat my lunch out of a kitchen pot. Why? Because we have no more clean dishes and we've been through the tupperware, lids, containers and all. We've even eaten off each other's unshowered stomach's, the floor, and the back of our pet ostrich. Nothing is clean anymmore. Keep your fingers crossed that our faucets turn into Victoria Falls tonight.... Here's to hoping.
Hannah
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Four weeks later...
This entry is coming from the depths of a blurry oblivion that stir-fries my thoughts together in a mash of word-filled tired. Forgive any garbled idioms or illogical statements.
Last night I went to a party in an apartment converted warehouse that looked like it transplanted itself to rainy London streets from the unique loins of the Berlin nightlife. Concrete floors, flashing lights, DJ, live band, rivers of juice and rum, an amalgam of people. As true to the London mode, those party-goers, rapscallions that they are, dressed to fit the theme of Glitter or Gutter. Skintight iridescent pink catsuits, garland-sashed ten gallon hat wearers, bubble wrapped bodies, a swirling mass of drunken, (and is some cases) likely substance-enhanced Londonites.
Londons love their 'fancy dress'. If you ever get invited to a fancy dress party in London, be aware that this does not involve bow ties and ball gowns. No. With my superior British language skills, I will translate for you: costume party. In London, there is no need to have a reason to dress up. People go out to bars dressed as Charlie Chaplin, pirates, clowns and narwhals. This effulgent spark of irreverence spills out of the ebony confines of the night and into the milky light of day. I once saw a fake beach set up in the middle of the street repelete with sand, fake-moustachioed band and staff member lounging in a beach chair and wearing a full gorilla suit. Brilliant. (See, I told you I speak excellent Brisith).
Roughly two weeks ago, I went to Narnia. And to Paris. OH the glory. It was an exciting trip over. I hoped in the wardrobe only to find that one of those damn Frenchies (it must of been someone French because who else would be so... so... French enough to do it) started a fire after dragging like a fiend on their cigarette and throwing the ashy butt in the trash. Genius. Really genius. Atleast throw it in the toilet, honestly. Anyhow the ensuing concatenation of events resulted in a 3AM arrival in Paris and a FREE ROUNDTRIP TICKET! Amazing! I love French people. It was a fabulous start to the trip - I mean it like honest Abe Lincoln who cut down a cherry tree and... erg... called himself George. But let's not get into American politics - that is yet to come, so stay tuned. My friend Stephanie graciously got up to let me into her apartent at 4 AM and didn't even try to hit me over the head with a frying pan because of my untimely arrival. Up in the morning, first order of business was a meeting with Nicolas Sarkosy to discuss the finer points of sporting suede pants. Then to the bakery for an almond croissant. The first bite was a rush of nostalgia more potent than a spicy curry. I won't bore you with many details about the trip - a triathalon of family, food and friends - but just know that Paris is, for me, the wind beneath my wings, but not in that tacky early 90's kind of way. Did you ever know that you my hero?
Ok... now American politics. Clearly I'm trying to chase you away, as we all know that if there's two things you don't talk about with a large group of people, it's politics and religion. So I will play chicken with the line of social decency. Jesus! Buddah! God! Muhhamed! Vishnu! Obama!
Today I went to coffee with my new and fab British friend. Scrawled like chalky white vines onto a blackboard was the phrase: "Americans now welcome." Let me wax briefly into the world of politically-relevant blogging. Following the inspiring success of Obama, Londoners everywhere revelled with a joy greater than Christmas pudding. On the BBC radio talk show I heard the following day, callers emotionally, ebbulently sung out songs of elation purer than first press olive oil from the most golden of Tuscan hills. Of course, there are the dampered, cautious comments, but as a whole, as one paper put it: "America is cool again." In fact, Barack and Michelle seem almost to be the new 'Victoria and Becks' (aka Posh spice and David Beckham) - the media-washed stars of the public eye. The Londonpaper even featured Michelle in their style section. I myself was overcome with tingling chills of incredulous happyness . I celebarted the victory the following night with Democrats Abroad at the Texas Embassy. (Those Texans - they really think their a separate country, don't they?) En route I lost my glove. Very sad. I really liked those gloves. My right hand is cold. I am now accepting applications for those who wish to keep it warm.
Exhaustion is dragging my thoughts into the shady underworld of confusion. It's hard to think straight, or rather think much at all as those sharp talons pull me further further further into murkyness. A how Byron-esque. Let's get some mundane daily-life information into here before I succumb completely.
The internship - continues well. Been doing TONS of photographing to get the next two auctions up in the online catalogue. While not all are visual masterpieces, view such photographic beauties as select photos in the following lots http://www.kerrytaylorauctions.com/sales/detail.php?lotid=8419 or http://www.kerrytaylorauctions.com/sales/detail.php?lotid=8421 or http://www.kerrytaylorauctions.com/sales/detail.php?lotid=8623. I still don't have plans for the end of these interning months, but that's all for figuring out later. Suggestions are welcome - fashion designer? Alchemist? Computer programer? CIA agent? Trapeze artist? Novelist? Nascar driver?
Apartment's still great. Social life is cresting on the positive curve of sine. I'm taking a temporary hiatus from weekend catering work. I have a new favorite market where you can get 3 pounds of carrots for a pound. My new favorite word is rapscallion.
I'm also taking suggestions for good non-fiction reads so that I can learn useless things - or things of some merit.
Melting off into a dreamy state of conscious. Time to get ready for bed.
Happy thoughts my friends because remember, you could always be a proboscis monkey, or stranger yet, a duckbilled platapus, so life must be good, right?
Ok. Going to go to bed now really because my brain already has.
Sweet dreams and flying machines whole and shining never having known life as pieces on the ground,
Hannah
Last night I went to a party in an apartment converted warehouse that looked like it transplanted itself to rainy London streets from the unique loins of the Berlin nightlife. Concrete floors, flashing lights, DJ, live band, rivers of juice and rum, an amalgam of people. As true to the London mode, those party-goers, rapscallions that they are, dressed to fit the theme of Glitter or Gutter. Skintight iridescent pink catsuits, garland-sashed ten gallon hat wearers, bubble wrapped bodies, a swirling mass of drunken, (and is some cases) likely substance-enhanced Londonites.
Londons love their 'fancy dress'. If you ever get invited to a fancy dress party in London, be aware that this does not involve bow ties and ball gowns. No. With my superior British language skills, I will translate for you: costume party. In London, there is no need to have a reason to dress up. People go out to bars dressed as Charlie Chaplin, pirates, clowns and narwhals. This effulgent spark of irreverence spills out of the ebony confines of the night and into the milky light of day. I once saw a fake beach set up in the middle of the street repelete with sand, fake-moustachioed band and staff member lounging in a beach chair and wearing a full gorilla suit. Brilliant. (See, I told you I speak excellent Brisith).
Roughly two weeks ago, I went to Narnia. And to Paris. OH the glory. It was an exciting trip over. I hoped in the wardrobe only to find that one of those damn Frenchies (it must of been someone French because who else would be so... so... French enough to do it) started a fire after dragging like a fiend on their cigarette and throwing the ashy butt in the trash. Genius. Really genius. Atleast throw it in the toilet, honestly. Anyhow the ensuing concatenation of events resulted in a 3AM arrival in Paris and a FREE ROUNDTRIP TICKET! Amazing! I love French people. It was a fabulous start to the trip - I mean it like honest Abe Lincoln who cut down a cherry tree and... erg... called himself George. But let's not get into American politics - that is yet to come, so stay tuned. My friend Stephanie graciously got up to let me into her apartent at 4 AM and didn't even try to hit me over the head with a frying pan because of my untimely arrival. Up in the morning, first order of business was a meeting with Nicolas Sarkosy to discuss the finer points of sporting suede pants. Then to the bakery for an almond croissant. The first bite was a rush of nostalgia more potent than a spicy curry. I won't bore you with many details about the trip - a triathalon of family, food and friends - but just know that Paris is, for me, the wind beneath my wings, but not in that tacky early 90's kind of way. Did you ever know that you my hero?
Ok... now American politics. Clearly I'm trying to chase you away, as we all know that if there's two things you don't talk about with a large group of people, it's politics and religion. So I will play chicken with the line of social decency. Jesus! Buddah! God! Muhhamed! Vishnu! Obama!
Today I went to coffee with my new and fab British friend. Scrawled like chalky white vines onto a blackboard was the phrase: "Americans now welcome." Let me wax briefly into the world of politically-relevant blogging. Following the inspiring success of Obama, Londoners everywhere revelled with a joy greater than Christmas pudding. On the BBC radio talk show I heard the following day, callers emotionally, ebbulently sung out songs of elation purer than first press olive oil from the most golden of Tuscan hills. Of course, there are the dampered, cautious comments, but as a whole, as one paper put it: "America is cool again." In fact, Barack and Michelle seem almost to be the new 'Victoria and Becks' (aka Posh spice and David Beckham) - the media-washed stars of the public eye. The Londonpaper even featured Michelle in their style section. I myself was overcome with tingling chills of incredulous happyness . I celebarted the victory the following night with Democrats Abroad at the Texas Embassy. (Those Texans - they really think their a separate country, don't they?) En route I lost my glove. Very sad. I really liked those gloves. My right hand is cold. I am now accepting applications for those who wish to keep it warm.
Exhaustion is dragging my thoughts into the shady underworld of confusion. It's hard to think straight, or rather think much at all as those sharp talons pull me further further further into murkyness. A how Byron-esque. Let's get some mundane daily-life information into here before I succumb completely.
The internship - continues well. Been doing TONS of photographing to get the next two auctions up in the online catalogue. While not all are visual masterpieces, view such photographic beauties as select photos in the following lots http://www.kerrytaylorauctions.com/sales/detail.php?lotid=8419 or http://www.kerrytaylorauctions.com/sales/detail.php?lotid=8421 or http://www.kerrytaylorauctions.com/sales/detail.php?lotid=8623. I still don't have plans for the end of these interning months, but that's all for figuring out later. Suggestions are welcome - fashion designer? Alchemist? Computer programer? CIA agent? Trapeze artist? Novelist? Nascar driver?
Apartment's still great. Social life is cresting on the positive curve of sine. I'm taking a temporary hiatus from weekend catering work. I have a new favorite market where you can get 3 pounds of carrots for a pound. My new favorite word is rapscallion.
I'm also taking suggestions for good non-fiction reads so that I can learn useless things - or things of some merit.
Melting off into a dreamy state of conscious. Time to get ready for bed.
Happy thoughts my friends because remember, you could always be a proboscis monkey, or stranger yet, a duckbilled platapus, so life must be good, right?
Ok. Going to go to bed now really because my brain already has.
Sweet dreams and flying machines whole and shining never having known life as pieces on the ground,
Hannah
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