Little Things

Mornings I usually wake up as myself. But on some seemingly random and insignificant days I wake up as Mrs. Dalloway. I am suddenly thrust into a world where I am hyper aware of all things, all actions, all sights, all smells. The details of life dance in front of me telling me to watch them, to listen to them, to smell them. It’s not a sense that I am suddenly aware of the world but rather that I am aware of myself in the world. And I watch myself, both deeply involved and an impartial outsider, like I’m reading myself in a story.

“Here she pushes back the shower curtain as the metal hooks loudly scrap against the plastic rod, catching on the place where the rod pushes inside itself, as it does daily, proving the incompetence of so many household items designers.”

“The chair pushes against itself with a hyperbolic groan as she sits, creating an impression of a person much larger heavily thrusting themselves against its small wooden spindles. It groans again as she almost simultaneously arises in response to a pair of Christmas bells that have been hung around the back door as a warning for the dog needing to take a trip outside and against potential nighttime burglars.”

“You’ve Got Mail, specifically Meg Ryan always comes to mind as she sits listening to the unnecessarily loud clicking of the computer keyboard, perched atop one leg, dressed in a fluffy robe with her hair wrapped tightly in a towel, and head tilted slightly to the side to convey an air of adorable domesticity. There should be a vase of daisy sitting on the table next to her but instead she looks over to see a white mixing bowl with slightly mushy fruit, a coffee splattered sugar dish, and a rack of napkins that have been wadded into it. She will have to be sure to mention the proper way to fold and store napkins when she picks up her daughter from her Nana’s later.”

I don’t say this as an existential crisis, but what does it all mean? What do all of these little things do in my life? Why are they included, what are they doing to further the plot? As they simply intercessors, purporting some kind of theme of motherly and household based values to others? Are they here for myself and myself only, to bring pleasure in les petites choses like Amelie? I don’t question the meaning or life or my purpose or things like that because…frankly I don’t care…but why do all of these things stimulate my senses. Why do I think about them? You don’t write a book and have a character ruminate on trivial things without it telling something more about who that character is, so what are all of these things telling me, why can I hear them and see them, how are they defining me?

Just some thoughts for your Saturday morning. I should probably go now….my cat is killing a bird outside.

Actually a baby bunny. Cats can kind of be jerks.

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