famous last words

I’ve had a sudden understanding with Orlando Bloom’s character at the beginning of Elizabethtown, and no, I’m not talking about the suicide bike. I’m talking about the face: terrified, and yet calm. Utterly, utterly calm. He talks about last looks, how someone looks at you when you know they think it’s for the last time. You know what he means. You’re probably looking at my blog this way right now.

I have no personal experience with such looks. I admit every time I’ve looked at someone for the last time, I didn’t know it would be (with one exception). And even then, unless they’re dead, who knows if it was really for the last time? I do know what it’s like to look at someone just in case it’s the last time. I do this often – half the time I see my family, and even more often when I’m signing out of my blog. Recently, because I’ve moved again for the third time in a year, I’ve been looking at people who I know I won’t see again for some time. Which is just a last-look-for-a-while. Those suck, too.

My mother is an artist, and I know she sees more than I do. I’ve suspected that I’m not particularly observant when it comes to noticing things. I can’t count the number of times someone has said, “Oh, man, he was so hot!” or, “No way, was that a goat with that man?” and I’m looking around in bewilderment. I’m not crazy about artwork. I can’t picture my friends’ faces with any sort of accuracy, though I obviously recognize them on sight. I use my eyes to navigate from one place to another and sometimes to read blogs.

I’m better at remembering last words. The one exception to the last looks thing was much more about last words, anyway. I remember what I said, but I don’t remember how he looked. After he died, as they were taking him away, someone asked me if I wanted to go back inside and see him. I told them no – I’d already said my goodbye. That seemed so much more important.

What I remember best are firsts. First impressions, first kisses, first hangovers. I guess because they have so much more immediate impact. Really, you never know it’s a last word until it really is the last word, and then you think back and maybe try to remember it, as though it will Mean Something. But life’s not a book. And isn’t your last impression based on a first something anyway?

So have the last word, the last laugh, or whatever. But don’t forget why the last look even mattered in the first place.

If you want a last word to leave you breathless, read fiction.

The Stand, Stephen King

The Book Thief, Markus Zusak

Mort, Terry Pratchett

through the forest, through the galaxy, through time

I’m living downtown in a big city again, and I am continuously astounded by the things I see around me. Perhaps it’s my suburban upbringing talking, but perhaps not. Perhaps it's delight or contempt or amusement for another reason.

You learn quickly in the city which streets to avoid at night (and sometimes also in the day). How one street can be fine at four in the morning, but the street just a block away should be avoided at all costs. I wonder how this is possible. Surely nothing is keeping whatever makes the one street not okay from crossing over onto your street, and yet somehow this is a rare occurrence. I wonder how the city teaches you so quickly how to walk alone at night.

The streets themselves are disgusting. There’s some Seinfeld episode in which Jerry tosses a pair of shoe laces that have touched the floor of the men’s room, and it’s a joke in the show. But I would hesitate to pick up even my credit card if it fell on the ground here.

My old city was perfect for night-dwellers, but it only seems that way to me because I had a more involved social life there. I suspect my current city even has a better nightlife. I don’t care a lot right now. It’s summer, and I find myself drawn to the patios and the sun, despite the urge to stay awake all night. (Do I find it ironic that my sleeping habits work better with winter? Am I forced to make the impossible choice between sleep and warmth? These questions might all be addressed in another blog post.) I don’t live too far from the water. I feel summer is the time to make the walk to the shore. I have not yet lived in this city during summer months.

Eminem keeps following me around town. Whenever a car is stopped at a light with its music blaring, it’s always Eminem. Why is this? I understand that Eminem is good car-blaring music, but really? Every single time?

Last fall, I was walking home from a job I hated one evening. I was walking reasonably quickly, eying the whole world with distaste like I always did when I finished a day at that job. As I passed a shop on the street, I heard ‘Love the Way You Lie’ by Eminem and Rihanna – at one of the rap parts. I kept walking and found that the next store was also playing this song out onto the street. This continued for a while. It seemed all the stores on that street were on the same radio station. Now, walking with headphones is different – you’re fully aware that it’s your music and you are having the reaction you anticipated. Hearing the music while on the dark, rain-slicked street was totally surreal, like my annoyed stride up the street somehow had a soundtrack. It made me feel like a tool for being angsty (even accidentally) to Eminem, and then like a crazy person because I started laughing at the ridiculousness of the whole thing. Luckily, this street is one where no one pays attention to someone laughing to herself.

I have avoided using some of the public transit because I’m weird enough to think that if I can’t walk there, it’s probably not worth going to. For big events and visits with relatives I’ll use the public transit system, sure, but a friend (lives nearby) recently asked if I’d be interested in going to a furniture store with her and a friend using the subway. I happily declined. I didn’t move into the heart of downtown to leave for bedframes I’m not going to buy.

My friend has this idea about getting lost in a city. I say ‘idea’ because I think it’s a lifestyle dream of hers – to wander and discover and be pulled wherever destiny decides. To get lost in the sounds and smells and sights, and either blend in or raise some hell. I can understand that. I am not without a sense of adventure. And yet. I feel that in the eight months I’ve lived here, I’ve lost interest in the city. What, when it comes right down to it, does it really have going for it? I think I’m bored, and I don’t think a change of scenery is going to cut it this time. I can’t move every eight months because I’m bored.

I’ve been making an effort to read more this year, and it’s holding up. I’m at sixteen books for the year, which doesn’t sound like a lot, but it’s a book a week. A decent effort. Reading never manages to be boring when it’s good, and at the risk of sounding trite, it’s an adventure in a sense. In fact, here are some books that promise adventure – books that will take you somewhere new – for anyone else reading this who wants to get lost somewhere.

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams

The Forest of Hands and Teeth, Carrie Ryan

The Time Traveler’s Wife, Audrey Niffenegger