22 August 2011

1 how books are made

years from now, when asked to reflect upon this time in my life, i expect i'll remember two things: the absurdity that has characterized everything i've done and arriving into towns across america insanely late at night. 

i got into boston early saturday, picked up the rental car, crammed down a bagel that was tangy with the flavors of the perfume that had spilled in my bag, drove to jen's house and, at 2:30 a.m., faceplanted into the first bed i could find.  

when, three hours later, the alarm went off, i awoke still wearing the dress from the night before. mr. sparkles was licking my hair. 

my departure for newport thirty minutes later looked like this: i ran down the steps from the house barefoot, two bags strapped across my chest, the yellow shoes of death in my right hand, the voice recorder and a cup of tea in my left. my hands were full and there was a cheese sandwich in my mouth. so there was nothing to be done when, halfway down the stairs, the cup of tea brushed against the play button of voice recorder. 

i just kept running, barefoot, towards the car, as- at 6 on a saturday morning- the dulcet voice of yusha auchincloss blasted at high volume down the quiet street.


1 comment:

Linda said...

a far more entertaining story than "how babies are made".