On the way to the Writers’ Bloc meeting tonight, Gav pointed out this pair of boots stranded on Princes Street. I’d like to make up a story about how they came to be stranded on Princes Street, but I know the truth.
The person last seen wearing these boots was walking down Princes Street, minding her own business, humming a tuneless tune to herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone approach, and her heart immediately sank; she knew the types in brightly-coloured jackets who lunged cheerfully into one’s path and asked for donations to good causes. She walked faster but could not shake the figure who now loomed into her space. Before she could beg off the donation with mumbled appeasements, a piece of paper was thrust into her hands. She squinted after the hastily retreating figure and then back to what it had given her.
“If you want to fly, jump now,” the paper read. She turned the paper over in her hands, looking for any distinguishing marks, or caveats, or disclaimers. Fly? For how long? To where? And jump? A big jump or a little jump or straight up or to the side or …?
She stopped walking then. She folded the piece of paper once and put it into her pocket. And then she looked up, way up until her eyes unfocused, and she jumped. The boots couldn’t go where she was going, so they stayed behind.
When you encounter an opportunity that scares you, be ready.
There was a recent spate of graffiti near one of my work sites. I liked this one. The sentiment is good, of course, but if you’ve watched more than a half-hour of television here lately you have also seen this particular advertisement often. And it is as insipid as only a perfume advert can be. I like Charlize Theron’s acting but I’m not sad about this graffito at all.
Random moments, catching up on the past eleven days (whoops) of Holidailies:
And a teaser for next post, mostly to tease myself into actually writing it: I found treasure for only £7 in the Grassmarket on Saturday.
Once I overheard someone talking about eating great fruit, with the accent on “great”. I realized a few sentences in that he said “grapefruit” but it never tasted like grapes to me, so greatfruit it is.
Today’s surprise treat from a coworker is a greatfruit and prawn salad with peanuts, almonds, onions, dried baby shrimp, Vietnamese mint, and cassava chips on the side. It is sweet, tangy, spicy, and every bit as delicious as it sounds. I am once again indebted to this very good cook who knows so many gluten-free dishes.
I am bouncing back from the stomach bug, and bouncing indeed as I catch up with work that crouches in wait around every corner. Boing, boing, boing. I love being busy.
The rest of it is a disorganized crowd. People dissatisfied this soon with Obama as President should ask themselves how long it has taken them to acclimate to a new job. I wonder if Prop 8 will be overturned. I read that the 38-Geary spends more time stopped than it does in transit. We are almost done watching the third season of “Battlestar Galactica” and I have no idea where it is going. I won a goldfish at a fair once and named him Fred. I still haven’t finished that short story because I don’t know what happens next. Anything could happen.
Today the light in the library is subdued silver.
I like the word “microfiche” too much.
Lunch has ended.
This is that “25 random things about me” meme. I cannot imagine that after 11 years of an online journal there is more to know about me, but here goes.