It has returned to me, smaller, withdrawn, and strangely noisy, but Cerebro's come home! I suppose I can't call my computer by the same name anymore -- the personalised touches are gone, as are 8 GB of hard drive space -- so a rechristening is in order; from now on, my companion and guide to the electronic world shall henceforth be known as Cerebro the White.
I've done so much family bonding this week I'm worried I'm breaking incest laws, and this is even after I scrubbed the last of the gluey residue I picked up from the library computers from my fingers. Lucky for me I like food, and doubly lucky that the very action of sitting down to food with an family double-counts as filial piety and a curious form of grace. Also funny how dreams provoked by restlessness manage to take up residence in the columbarium of my brain, Hannibal-style; I should be more careful with my metaphors. They could rupture on me -- har, har. *sigh*
Why is the act of listening to centuries-old music such a codified and revered past-time? I never know how to behave at the symphony -- do I disguise the fact that I'm on a babysitting mission with my teenage, cello-fanatic sister? make as though the poor man on the stage, who has no doubt spent his entire lifetime learning how to make nifty music with some horsehair and a bit of wood, managed to give me a epiphany on Dvorak when the rule of the gut feeling says otherwise? do I smile and nod? who would care? why did the usher choose to accuse me, of all people, of having a flash camera? (must be something to do with the delicate decor of the Orpheum) -- but I did come to the conclusion that being a middle-aged Chinese woman can't be all bad, if it means that you can get a pre-ordered balcony ticket from a fairly incompetent ticket holder without ID or money. And all this time we've been trying to perfect English; why did we never see the power of imperfect speech?
I am ashamed that the 24 hour McDonald's on Granville has not renovated to the Whistler chateau-esque interiors I have come to expect from that bastion of American culinary achievement. For shame! Symphony-goers expect to be able to consume their vanilla milkshakes in comparable elegance to the Starbucks across the street, you know.
Ok, here's gripe time: ai, we're growing up. The first dinner out I've ever had with my sister, and we talk about special relativity. Over coconut curry and tofu. On Robson. What happened to that kid that I used to trip on purpose and bought shirts with rhinestones on them? She even thinks I turned out OK at this point -- to the protestations to the contrary by my parents in the front seat. Grandparents are suddenly cool, uncles avuncular, and brothers -- well, brothers are the same.
Can we say twilight zone? Or just senility? I miss my edge.
