Posts Tagged With: Things That Make You Happy

34×34 #2, Part 1: Strasbourg, France

Life is annoyingly all or nothing: this past November, after months of languishing and stressing about money, I finally got a job, but this coincided with some nice dating, a 20,000 word deadline, a study guide for a silly porny novel, organizing a Thanksgiving meal for eight, and preparing to go home to the US for the first time in a year for almost three weeks. Not the time to try to cram in some random travel goals.

Or is it exactly the time to cram in some random travel goals?

In my first year of living in England, I only managed to get to other parts of Europe twice – and once was a re-visit to Amsterdam, a lovely city, one of my favorites, but someplace I had already been. Thus my 34×34 goal to see five new European cities/countries. Of course the travel needs of my book plus constant fretting amount money made this seem like a bit of a dreamy stretch. But when my fellow expat/faux-Mancunian friend RE-expatriated herself to Strasbourg, France for a limited time of four weeks, and I found a Ryanair flight for GBP35 – less than a train ticket to visit her in Manchester – I once again reflected on life happening while you’re busy making other plans.

Obviously, I booked the flight.

Strasbourg cathedral

Strasbourg cathedral

Pretty canals

Pretty canals

Two days after Thanksgiving, fridge still groaning with leftovers, I headed to Stansted for the short flight to Strasbourg. What sold me on making the trip was the fact that it was the first weekend of Strasbourg’s Christmas Market. Some quick internet research informed me Strasbourg has one of the best and biggest holiday markets in the world. My Mancunian and I had meandered through the Manchester Christmas Market last year when I visited her for Thanksgiving, and I thoroughly enjoyed my sausage and mulled wine (though not mead. Never again, mead.) I had bought some Christmas presents and a nice fair trade scarf. If Strasbourg was better than Manchester I was in for a real treat.

I was fortunate enough to be there on the first Sunday of the month, so many of the city’s attractions were free – we were able to visit the Musee des Beaux Arts where I saw a Raphael and a El Greco and a Corregio that I liked very much. We were also able to wander around the Cathedral, which is famous for its enormous astronomical clock. Mostly I just noticed the creepy grim reaper figure within it. We climbed about 330 steps to the cathedral platform, where we had amazing views of the entire city, having lucked into some cold but fair weather.

View from the top of the catheral...

View from the top of the catheral…

Astronomical clock

Astronomical clock

Creepy...

Creepy…

The Christmas Market itself was disappointing. I was expecting local handicrafts with a French and German flavor (Strasbourg being in Alsace-Lorraine, an area of France handed back and forth between Germany and France multiple times in the twentieth century), but mostly what we found was junky trinkets made in China. I bought some silly springy Santa hats for my nieces and nephews, also surely made in China, but otherwise left empty-handed.

The Christmas Market

The Christmas Market

Even my goal of eating my way through the market was underwhelming. I was dying for a soft pretzel, a local specialty, but the one I ate was stale. Ditto the beignet chocolat, a sugary stuffed donut that was cold and filled with little more than pudding. We did get some spaetzle and sauerkraut and sausage that was salty and delicious, but overall, the food left my poor edible heart broken.

Before I ate the pretzel I was so excited.

Before I ate the pretzel I was so excited.

I wanted to love my beignet, I just didn't.

I wanted to love my beignet, I just didn’t.

Okay, yum.

Okay, yum.

However, besides just getting to see a dear friend and catching up, a worthwhile use of GBP35 if ever there was one, as well as drinking a ton of good local Alsatian Rieslings, the entire trip was worth it for the fondue.

Oh fondue, sweet nectar of the gods.

My friend and I went to a well recommended place called Cloche au Fromage, jam-packed with locals at lunchtime. We made a small error by ordering two types of fondue – thinking they would come in individual servings that we could share. Instead, we were faced with two VATS of melted bliss-inducing cheese. We got a basic and one with Munster and herbs and – okay, I’m not a food blogger so all I can say is that one tasted stronger and stinkier, but in the good cheese way. Trust me.

I want it in my face.

I want it in my face.

The fondue was pricey but “all you can eat” – I mistakenly thought I could live up to this challenge. Despite the bottomless pit that is my stomach combined with my inappropriate love of cheese, I couldn’t finish even one pot, let alone ask for more. I think these before and after photos can attest to the harrowing yet worthwhile emotional journey of my experience.

Oh the joy, the triumph...

Oh the joy, the triumph…

and pain of defeat.

and pain of defeat.

Anyway, Strasbourg is a beautiful little city, and I wish I could have explored it more, perhaps in summer when it wouldn’t have been so brutally cold. It was nice to try and recall all the French I learned over a decade ago in school. I was really surprised to find I wanted to speak to merchants and vendors, to see if I could communicate. Since the days of taking Latin I have long feared speaking foreign languages, and have shunned them at every opportunity. I think my experience on the Camino last year made me slightly braver, and more willing to try to speak and understand languages. So hurray for that.

One city down, four to go. I have a lot of travel plans this year, so let’s see what I can make happen.

Oh, and I love this girl by the way. Ever and always a good travel buddy.

Oh, and I love this girl by the way. Ever and always a good travel buddy.

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Categories: 34x34, Travel Musings | Tags: , , , , , , | 4 Comments

2013: Reframing a Failure

Since I began keeping track of what I was reading in 2010, the number of books I completed each year has steadily increased. My goal for 2012 was 50, and I handily surpassed it with 59. I didn’t think it would be too much of a challenge to pledge to read 75 in 2013.

For ten months of last year I was ahead of schedule according to Goodreads, who calculate my reading stats. At one point I was 8 books ahead, and I thought: I got this. No problem. In the terminology of your typical sports flick, “I couldn’t lose.”

Ah, the hubris. Pride go-eth before the fall, right?

At the beginning of December, I realized I had only read 66 books. I knew I couldn’t read 9 books in December – December! a month when I had 20,000 words due for my Masters, a weekend trip to France and a 2 ½ week trip home for Christmas and all the holiday madness therein – and I knew I was going to fail to achieve my goal. I finished the year with 69 books read.

My immediate react to this was, of course, searing disappointment. How had I squandered that enormous excess of books? It shows what kind of nerd I am that I was humiliated to have come so close and fallen short.

Yes friends, my life is replete with the first-iest of first world problems.

Still, I am just competitive enough (with myself, apparently) to be super annoyed that I failed. And that’s what it felt like: failure. Once again, I had set a goal, and I had failed to check it off my list.

After a dark night of the soul (look, my favorite activity is reading. I don’t have a lot of drama in my life as I sit around with sheafs of paper, so allow me some hyperbole for the sake of the narrative), I had to reframe my failure.

I failed because I was busy. My life started to turn around in October and November. I got a job. I started hanging out with some new friends and good friends more frequently. I started seeking out the strange and wonderful bits and bobs that London has to offer, going to more events, playing in more of the city. Going home to New Jersey for the first time in a year meant there were many people to see, catch up with, laugh with, enjoy. There wasn’t time to read as I soaked up my parents, trying to figure out how I can be more like them.

I was reading less because I was living more. See, now when you look at it that way, it’s not so bad, is it? (You probably didn’t think it was that bad to begin with.)

There is another vital life lesson tied in here. I fell short on this goal because I picked up three books in a row that I didn’t enjoy, but rather than giving up and moving on to something I would like, I hung around in my own version of purgatory, not reading these dull tomes, but not reading anything else either. I think this is important. I think learning to let go is something I’m still figuring out, and the metaphorical resonances in the bigger picture of my life abound. I have to get better at walking away from situations that are unhealthy or make me unhappy. My fear of quitting (which equates to failing in my mind) is definitely something to work on this year.

A friend of mine wrote an excellent blog on managing expectations recently. Her life and mine are different – I aspire to be where she is in my own writing career, and I admire her perseverance in pursuing writing in a way I still don’t, to my further embarrassment – but I understand the sentiment of expecting a great deal from yourself and feeling like you miss the mark even when you give your best. But looking back at 2013, I have to recognize that while nothing major was achieved, I took a lot of small, significant steps forward.

While I was home in NJ, I turned on my American cell phone and noticed the last text I had sent a friend before I left to return to London last December. I told her I had been crying all day, that London was a mistake, that I didn’t want to go back.

I can honestly say right now I don’t even remember feeling that. In the past 12 months I have come to love this city so hard that no matter what else might be making me bluesy, I have learned to maintain my perspective: I am so lucky to be here, and when all else fails, I am so happy to be here. I feel like I belong here, a feeling I have never had before (as frequent readers of this blog know, my search for a sense of home has long haunted me). I am lucky to have made some good friends this year. I’m lucky to have done some nice travelling this year. I am lucky to be pursuing writing, no matter how much work there is still to do on that front – I’m lucky to be writing the book I’m writing, on a topic that I truly love and find fascinating. I’m lucky that after 12 months of not seeing them, I can still go to my family and bask in their unconditional love and support. I’m lucky that I wanted to cry as I left them again, because how many people have that much love in their lives?

2014 makes me anxious for a lot of reasons: I have to finish this book, I have to figure out what my actual career is going to look like. I only have a year left on my visa and I don’t want to leave England. I still would like to feel a little more entrenched in London, less like an outsider. Every time I open my mouth I reveal my foreignness, my unintentionally loud, friendly, brash Americanness.

Still, I am so lucky that this is my set of problems. I am learning to reframe my anxiety as excitement. I want the world, and of course that’s bound to cause disappointment, because who can have the world? But I know I’d rather set a high goal and standard and dream big and fall short than sell myself short and accept too little and be discontent. As Beckett wrote, “Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”

Here’s to failing better in 2014. I have no expectations for this year, only hope.

Well, I have one expectation.

I’m going to read 75 books this year.

Happy reading and happy living. Here’s to a dream and love and laughter filled year for us all.

A small sampling of the books in my future. There are many, many more not pictured.

A small sampling of the books in my future. There are many, many more not pictured.

Categories: Fluff and Philosophical Nonsense, London | Tags: , , , , | 3 Comments

Writers Named David: Rakoff

People probably get tired of me going on about my obsession with writers named David. I have a tendency to be a broken record with things I love. Sedaris. Foster Wallace. Rakoff. I recently read books by a Farley and a Lipsky that were both also excellent (though to be fair, the Lipsky book was a transcript of a conversation with Foster Wallace…)

A year ago today, David Rakoff died, so I hope you don’t mind if I let my record skip a little longer…

I met David Rakoff once, in February 2011. Just for a minute, at the end of an event in Brooklyn. I hadn’t read his books yet, I’d only heard a few of his pieces on This American Life, and his rhyming couplets stuck in my mind – mainly because I hate rhyming couplets, and yet the two poems I’d heard him read on TAL were beautifully crafted and erudite. They were touchstones of how to live gracefully in this awkward and fragile human world. At this event, I was ogling Ira Glass (like you do), trying to get a picture, and I didn’t take the time with David that I should have, that I would have if I had already fully immersed myself in his canon the way I have since. But while Ira was running around, trying to get something done, David looked at me fully, he was present with me. I had the strangest feeling that he would have gladly been a friend and mentor to me, if only I had asked.

Little did I know at the time. Once I read his books and listened to more of his TAL work, I often thought of writing to him, of telling him how much I identified with his work, but I procrastinated. And now it’s too late. When I read that he died last year, I burst into tears, and then kept bursting sporadically throughout the day. I felt like I knew him, even though of course I didn’t.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately, about how nonfiction writers who insert themselves into their work shape who they want you to see – so that you can feel like you know them, like they understand you as no one else ever has or ever could, like you could really truly be friends. That’s a gift, though a somewhat disingenuous one. Who knows if these writers truly are what they say they are…well, I guess that could be said of anyone.

The thing about the Davids is this: Foster Wallace is just brilliant. He elevates me, challenges me, and yes, seems to worry about the same things I worry about as far as what it means to be human, or lonely, or connected. He had so much roiling inside him, no matter how much he struggled, it seems like it just couldn’t NOT get written. Sedaris was born into a family just begging to be written about, which is not to diminish his talent, because he uses his own special alchemy to embellish his familial lore into art.

But David Rakoff is me. He had to fight for his words. He wasn’t born into a goldmine of stories, though I suppose being gay – and a Canadian in America – gave him some inherent material. But this is the man who said, “Writing is like pulling teeth. From my dick.”

I so perfectly identify with that sentiment, relevant body part or not. It seems like David got a later start in his writing because he was afraid to try for many years. He had to go out and find stories, he put himself in weird situations, he did things he didn’t want to do. He forced himself to experience, and grow. Often the endgame was disappointment or indifference. But he tried.

I live in “afraid to try.” I’m still working on getting to “tried.” I admire the journey he took from one to the other. I get it so hard.

That’s what it seems like he did, anyway. That’s how he presented himself, or a facet of himself. And if he exaggerated that part…well, he made himself completely human. I wanted to know him better. I don’t know if that’s dark magic or not, but if only I could get that kind of emotional truth right.

People always tell me I’m too hard on myself. Someone suggested that I imagine a child, or a pet, or something that I would always treat gently, and try to treat myself like that.

I am on the fence about babies and I have never had a pet, so instead I imagine David Rakoff. I think he might have been a little hard on himself too. And he is certainly someone who deserved to be treated with generosity and kindness. In the minute I met him, he gave that to me.

Writing is like pulling teeth. But when I get frustrated and want to give up and find a nice 9-5 job and never, ever think about being creative again, I think of David, who can’t write anymore. I imagine taking up the torch for him. I can’t pretend to be a fraction as smart or witty as he was. But I can continue to make myself better, to strive to get where he was, and to honor him by emulating him, by writing the kind of stories he might have written.

Anyway, that’s just how I feel. Go read his new book, it’s all rhyming couplets, and I’ve heard it’s amazing. I’m putting it off, delaying the gratification, but you should buy it.

The world misses you, David.

David Rakoff

Categories: Fluff and Philosophical Nonsense | Tags: , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Back to Basics: Unveiling the 34×34

As some of you may remember, this blog began as part of my 30×30, a list of 30 goals to achieve before I turned 30 (trademark Mr. Rob Roan). I only finished maybe a third of that list, but had more fun doing it than I’d had concentrated in any year prior. Two years ago when I wrote up my 31×31 I got derailed by a little incident where I decided to go spend 6 months living on a boat with no access to land and land-based activities many days a week. Then I got home and started thinking about moving to London, so I didn’t even make a list last year.

But here I am, about to enter my Jesus year (33!) and thinking about all that man metaphorically accomplished in his creatively nonfictioned life. I have little interest in being crucified, and think there is little hope I will be resurrected thus ensuring the salvation of humanity, but I thought, hey! Why not try some cool stuff this year anyway? I’m always looking for my own salvation, so if trying belly dancing or hosting a dinner party can achieve that, I’m all in.

I am quite smitten with England and would like to stay here forever and ever, but at the moment there is an expiration date on my visa, so I figure I might as well make the most of being here while I can. Thus the list this year is full of British/European goals, mixed in with the usual things that scare the pants off me, things to focus on my career, and generally inane fun things that I just want to do but never have. My birthday isn’t until mid August, but I figured I’d give myself a running start on this one, just to make sure I get through it.

So please join me as I scare, humiliate, elevate, improve, sultrify, and sillify myself. If you happen to live or be in England, you are always more than welcome to accompany me for an adventure or two.

Please keep reading! Each activity will be parsed and analyzed and laughed over on this very page.

Here it is, in no particular order:

1. Take a photography class
2. Go to 5 European countries/cities I have never visited
3. Run the London Marathon
4. Go to Wimbledon
5. Dye a blue streak in my hair
6. Do a pin-up photo shoot
7. Go surfing in Cornwall
8. Write and submit two essays/articles a month
9. Go kayaking
10. Walk 100 miles of British paths
11. Try 10 British beers
12. Go to Edinburgh Fringe Festival
13. Take a belly dancing class
14. Skydive
15. Try all the British foods on this list: http://www.buzzfeed.com/ailbhemalone/18-weird-and-wonderful-british-foods-you-need-to-try
16. Visit all of London’s major parks
17. Take a cooking class
18. Learn the banjo
19. Meditate every day for a month
20. Go skeet shooting
21. Host a dinner party
22. Write one fictional short story a month
23. Take tennis lessons
24. Drive on the wrong side of the road (ie, drive in England)
25. See the Northern Lights
26. Do all the walking tours in my London walks books
27. Join/create a pub quiz team
28. Pitch a story for radio
29. Submit to “Just Back” until I am selected
30. Volunteer
31. Go to a literary festival
32. Write a haiku every day for 100 days
33. Learn to tap dance
34. Go to 5 nice, unfamiliar restaurants alone

Categories: 34x34, Fluff and Philosophical Nonsense, London | Tags: , , , , , | 2 Comments

A Little Story for Father’s Day…

A few years ago I ran a marathon, as I wrote about here. It was the Marine Corps Marathon, and my dad is a Marine, so it felt a little special, and I was so grateful that my parents drove four hours to Washington, DC to cheer me on, running around the city to wait for me and hold up homemade rally signs.

I found them somewhere around mile 18 or 19, and by that point I was in bad shape. I had taken a walking break which gave my body time to seize up and decide it didn’t want to do this marathon thing anymore, and every time I tried to run I had a shooting pain from my left hip to knee. I was feeling slow and mad at myself and embarrassed that my parents had come all this way to watch me hobble.

So I walk up to them instead of running and my dad is proudly snapping pictures of me the whole time even though I’m crying. I apologize to them for being such a disappointment and they just tell me over and over how impressed they are and how proud and how I am going to finish and it is all okay.

I stand with them for a little while, but know I have to get going again. I’m about to cross a bridge back into Virginia, and the crowds along the route are pretty light along that stretch. As I am about to leave, my dad asks me if I’m going to run or walk. In my whimpery messiness, I say I don’t know.

He says, “Well if you are going to walk, we will walk with you for a while.”

I hadn’t thought about this story in a long time and then I told it recently and immediately started to cry. That is my dad. He is always willing to walk with me, to do for me, to help me however he can. He would move mountains if there was something he could do to ensure my happiness. I am positive that I don’t tell him enough how grateful I am for that level of unconditional love and support. There is nothing I can do to repay it, and the crazy thing is, he doesn’t care.

So today I just want to thank my dad for always walking with me. I may not always act like I see him there beside me, but I do, and I feel so lucky to have him for my father.

IMG_7774

Categories: Fluff and Philosophical Nonsense | Tags: , , | 5 Comments

Dutch Dining

My last trip to Amsterdam, ten years ago, had been predicated on the whims of my travel buddy, Tom; it was his trip, I just invited myself to tag along. It was my first time in a non-English speaking country, and I was more than happy to let him take the lead.

But when I went again last October I tried to do a little more planning, have a more in-depth experience.

Well, sort of.

I mean, I guided my friend to the same exact restaurant Tom and I had stumbled upon near the Anne Frank House, the Pancake Bakery. But that’s because I remember that meal vividly a decade later. Though, it turns out I remember it wrong; I had this vision of a giant plate-sized stack of pancakes, slathered in ice cream and chocolate sauce (because I was twenty, and a grown up, so I could eat whatever I dang well pleased for dinner.) But actually, Dutch pancakes are flat, like a crepe, and the size of a small pizza. My possibly maturing taste buds led me to the savory Hungarian pancake, piled with chorizo, salami, tomato, cheese, paprika, onion.

IMG_7930IMG_7938

Then we went to a street fair in Dam square, gorged and waddling, and had tiny profitjes, bite-sized pancakes slathered in whip cream and chocolate sauce. The best of all worlds, pancakes for dinner, pancakes for dessert.

Okay, sure all you see is whipped cream. But there are delicious tiny puffy pancakes under there.

Okay, sure all you see is whipped cream. But there are delicious tiny puffy pancakes under there.

But seriously, I wanted to broaden our horizons and steer clear of endless meals of carb-laden comfort foods. I had bulked up a bit on Dutch history, and learned that the Netherlands had colonized Indonesia in the seventeenth century ergo (direct link, right? We can skip the four hundred years in between) there are a lot of Indonesian restaurants in Amsterdam.

We were up for trying this untested cuisine, so I asked our walking tour guide for suggestions about a good Indonesian restaurant. Terry was an Irishman, married to an Australian, whose kids spoke better Dutch than he did. But after eight years in country, I figured he would have some good local insider tips.

As he mulled my query, he mentioned that he could point us in the direction of the Hard Rock Café.

My friend and I were offended. Obviously our request meant we were trying to get off the beaten path, to eat like the Dutch. We weren’t your typical tourists.

Anyway, we’d eaten at the Hard Rock two nights before.

After that suggestion, we began to worry Terry wasn’t as familiar with life beyond the tourism industry as we had hoped. He couldn’t remember the name of the Indonesian restaurant he’d eaten at recently with his wife, but he knew it was just off the Leidseplein, in the direction of that shiny neon landmark, the Hard Rock, and it was up a set of stairs.

Later that evening, my friend and I wandered the cobbled pedestrian alleys around the Leidseplein, following my hastily scrawled directions from Terry. Our frustration mounted as we crisscrossed streets with nary a glimpse of anything Indonesian. A name would have been really helpful. Thanks, Terry.

We stood at an intersection, peeking to the left, which is what Terry had told us, and then to the right, because Terry clearly had no idea what he was talking about. Back to the left, a green neon sign suddenly stood out in relief against the mass of culinary advertising.

It simply read “Indonesian Restaurant.”

We approached it, and yes indeed, it was upstairs.

We found this pretty funny.

After all that, we decided not to eat there. Upon inspecting their menu, we realized Indonesian cuisine is far spicier than either of us cares for.

We meandered some more until we stumbled upon a restaurant offering traditional Dutch cuisine called De Blauwe Hollander. We each got a “hotchpotch,” a comforting meal of potatoes, veg, and meat, all smushed together and drowned in sauces. My friend ordered a bacon/endive/meatball/mashed concoction that you could well crawl into and hibernate for the winter. And then we had traditional Dutch apple pie for dessert. So much for avoiding carbs.

IMG_8115

I don't know if it's actually traditional. It seemed a little fancy to me.

I don’t know if it’s actually traditional. It seemed a little fancy to me.

Moral of the story: Terry knew exactly what he was talking about even when he didn’t know what he was talking about, and if you’re ever in Amsterdam, I highly recommend you book a walking tour with him. (And the Hard Rock has really good nachos, so lay off.)

Categories: Travel Musings | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

My Five Favorite Words Right This Minute

Today (well, most of the time) my metaphorical cupcakes are words. I do tend to love words in a way usually reserved for people. I’ve been reading so many inspiring words lately, too, which makes me giddy and obsessive about producing chewy, delicious sentences of my own: I finished Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides which just sprawls and unfurls in gorgeous, painful ways. I’ve read several short articles online that are exactly the type of taut wisdom I’d like to produce for the internet generation, like this, this, and this.

And I know many people out there are anti-Kindle, but besides using it for such practical and lovely things as traveling (many many books in one infinitely packable package) and for reading tomes that have a brick-like length and weight difficult for commuter reading, I love the dictionary feature. As I read, any word I come across that I don’t know I can click on and find out the definition. Instant gratification and I’m getting smarter? You cannot ask for more than that, people.

For now I’m going to tell you five words I love the most right now, the five that are bouncing around in my head making me want to, as they say, use them in a sentence.

Funny enough, they are sort of interrelated. Eugenides used luminescence in his novel, and I didn’t need to look it up; doesn’t it have such a lovely onomatopoeic quality? The word lights up just like the lighting bug it would describe. And he also used translucent several times, and I didn’t need to look this one up either because I remember so specifically learning it in fourth grade science class (transparent, translucent, opaque. I’m sure reflecting and refracting were part of that lesson too). It has such a gauzy quality, and it’s so specific. I like specificity. It is also pleasing to the tongue. Roll it around your mouth, you’ll see.

These reminded me of my favorite word ever, iridescent. I first stumbled upon that one in a deck of cards for a board game I cannot for the life of me remember the name of or how it was played. I just remember a little stack of white cards, each with four words printed on it. I liked to string them together as insults (they had nothing to do with each other, and it had a Mad-Libs absurdist quality to it to say them together.) But that’s when I first saw iridescent. It’s another shiny word that really sounds like what it means.

So those are three words related to light, and I think it all makes sense subconsciously: my brain is fighting the ubiquitous (Latin root! I want to make out with this word too) gray dreariness of London the only way it can: with words.

The other two words are connected as well. One is oblique. Say it out loud. It has a cheerful sound, despite its meaning, which I did have to look up while reading Eugenides’ book. And I keep looking it up because I can’t hold the definition in my head. I want it to mean something else. I keep having the thought, “London is oblique to me.” But that’s not really true: London isn’t deceptive or devious. What it is, is opaque. London is dense, and obscure to me. I cannot penetrate it, just like light can’t. But I’m working on it. Every now and then I have a translucent London moment. Maybe they will string together and the city will open up and become transparent to me.

In any case, how lovely, opaque brought me full circle, back to my fourth grade lesson on light.

The flattening squash of the “que” in both oblique and opaque is somehow comforting. Is that strange? It is further bizarre that these words with negative connotations are turning me on right now? Am I just perverse, or are there words that don’t have positive meanings that please you aurally, and therefore inspire you?

What are your favorite words this week?

 

Categories: Fluff and Philosophical Nonsense, London | Tags: , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

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