The universe wants you to give up now
This old college mate of mine sent me an invitation to one of her art shows, opening in a New York (well, Harlem) gallery today. She's very talented - at least, I think she is, though I don't know the first thing about art. I like most art galleries, and if I like a particular piece, it's usually because of the colours and patterns, not because I get the visual symbolism. So anyway, I really liked her stuff in college, so I looked at her web site (she has a web site, and it's a proper web site, not, say, like this blog) and looked at some stuff that she's been doing lately.
And I thought to myself, "I hope she becomes famous someday."
Then I edited myself, "I hope I become famous someday. A famous writer. And of course, I hope she becomes a famous artist too, and I hope A, and B, and C become famous too." I don't want to be famous in the everyone-knows-who-I-am way, but more along the lines of I-write-under-a-pseudonym-which-everyone-recognises-because-they- have-read-all-yes-ALL-my-books way.
And then I thought, well, I do have an alter-ego: by day, I'm a jaded newspaper hack, but by night, I'm a baker - a baker of breads. That's got to be something. This thought was quickly followed by, "Holy crap I left the dough to rise four hours ago!" and I called Ira, my roommate, and asked him to punch it in and knead it real quick, and cover it to let it rise again.
When I got home--
Let me explain Ira first. He's a really nice guy, very meticulous and neat, with a tendency to line things up so their edges are exactly parallel/perpendicular. He shares my passion for cooking, and likes his tea (and coffee) very dark, with a small hillock of sugar dissolved in it. In the space of two years, he has managed where my parents, siblings, previous roommates, and several intrepid friends and lovers have tried and failed: gotten me to clean up after myself, not by nagging, not by being passive-aggressive, but simply by being.
When I got home, I rushed into the kitchen to check on my dough and found it
neatly
tightly
wrapped up
in a damp hand-towel
...
through which it had risen and seeped out.
And I thought to myself, "I hope she becomes famous someday."
Then I edited myself, "I hope I become famous someday. A famous writer. And of course, I hope she becomes a famous artist too, and I hope A, and B, and C become famous too." I don't want to be famous in the everyone-knows-who-I-am way, but more along the lines of I-write-under-a-pseudonym-which-everyone-recognises-because-they- have-read-all-yes-ALL-my-books way.
And then I thought, well, I do have an alter-ego: by day, I'm a jaded newspaper hack, but by night, I'm a baker - a baker of breads. That's got to be something. This thought was quickly followed by, "Holy crap I left the dough to rise four hours ago!" and I called Ira, my roommate, and asked him to punch it in and knead it real quick, and cover it to let it rise again.
When I got home--
Let me explain Ira first. He's a really nice guy, very meticulous and neat, with a tendency to line things up so their edges are exactly parallel/perpendicular. He shares my passion for cooking, and likes his tea (and coffee) very dark, with a small hillock of sugar dissolved in it. In the space of two years, he has managed where my parents, siblings, previous roommates, and several intrepid friends and lovers have tried and failed: gotten me to clean up after myself, not by nagging, not by being passive-aggressive, but simply by being.
When I got home, I rushed into the kitchen to check on my dough and found it
neatly
tightly
wrapped up
in a damp hand-towel
...
through which it had risen and seeped out.
