June 3, 2005
Programmed to Squiggle
Drivers in Rome are sperm swimming toward the egg: you'll be surprised if one completes his mission. They're programmed to squiggle but not programmed to think. Witnessing them swerve around and directly toward each other makes the sustenance of life as boggling as the coincidence of it.
In the back of a taxi to the M&J Hostel, it seemed like the driver, who tailgated and sped as a matter of routine, was intent on impregnating each car ahead of his. In that sense, he was unsuccessful. We did arrive at the Hostel in minutes, and even quicker was my ascent up the staircase to complete my mission.
June 11, 2005
Somewhere between Rome, Italy and St. Paul's Bay, Malta something unpleasant got somewhere between my front and my back. It made me sore, nauseas, and weak. I had diarrhea, headaches, and when I got to my friend Angelica's house in Malta, I had vomiting. "I'm so happy to see you," I said. "And your toilet."
I took a plane from Palermo, Italy to London yesterday. After landing and before going to baggage claim, I had to wait in line at "Passport Control". While waiting, I noticed that someone ripped off the "P" sticker from one of the desks.
I filled out immigration card before approaching the desk, answering "Occupation:" with "Question-Asker". Where am I coming from? How long will I be in London? How much money do I have in the bank? The agent, a Question-Asker himself, wanted to know all this and more.
I was clearly taking longer to pass through immigration than other travelers. "I really pay for writing down 'Question-Asker' for 'Occupation', huh" I said. The agent reread my occupation and said "That's ridiculous...The proper answer is 'unemployed'". I defended myself and quickly understood why that one desk read "assport Control".
Somewhere between now and the future is the possibility that I'll make up another Occupation on an immigration card. But I'll never stop asking questions, no matter what gets between my front and my back.
June 18, 2005
The Blondes of Sleep
In dorms, snorers are the blondes of sleep. Their ignorant bliss turns them into an ignorant mess in the ears of proximal sleepers. Darkness can resemble tranquility, but it can also sound like a restless percolator coughing up coffee grains.
As a snorer with a cold, there's nothing suave about my uvula slapping my soft palate. But my impatience for snorers isn't muted by the design flaw in my mouth. My impatience is muted by the plugs in my ears. And my right to complain at all is forfeited, aside from its being a double standard, by my choosing to share rooms with six and nine other people at YHA Earl's Court.
The sun is always the first to come and the last to leave the day, but it dawdles longer in London than anywhere else I've been. The sky was illuminating gradually at four this morning as I was untying my shoes. Maybe the sun was coming out for a drink; I was getting ready to percolate.
June 27, 2005
This is 50
Hate it or love it, 50 Cent is in your hood. In every hood. I can't see Him but His voice is omnipresent. I don't believe in God, but I do believe in Curtis Jackson.
In Malta He said He would take me to a candy shop. While that was diplomatic, I was hanging out with Angelica and all the candy shops had closed. In Scotland, He said the don was on top, but when I looked up I only saw the sky. Maybe I just hear Him when He wants me to listen; His words fly right over my head.
His existence is obvious. And I think He's trying to sell tell me something, but I'm baffled every time. I'm waiting for further signs. Are you there 50? It's me, Margaret.