Sunday, 22 December 2002 | Cassette

Today was domestic Sunday. In addition to scrubbing the bathroom floor and cooking dinner for myself (which involved my first shot at tofu), I baked cookies. Though I am no longer afraid of the kitchen, I expected something to go wrong, but nothing did, really. One cookie was impaled on the corner of the stove's burner, but there was no black oxidized matter to scrape off, no raw centers (as far as I can tell), no fires. They look pretty good, too, though I can't say first-hand. I ate way too much dough and can't imagine chasing it with a cookie.

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Tonight I pulled out the box of cassette tapes that came with me to New York. They are mostly mixed tapes, full of handwriting and time and tiny, folded notes. I've been studying a few of them, sitting on the floor among them, listening to them, with notes like accordions sitting to my left and right. It surprises me when I hear a particular song and my heart pretends to stop for a moment, as if it wants to be quiet enough to absorb every note that it recalls. Especially true with the tapes made by people who currently feel remote. Sometimes I hate that the past is presented to my brain in servings of small moments, strung together like some sort of cheesy music video. It's as close as I can get, though, and it's better than not visiting at all.

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Babes in Toyland might be the worst movie I've ever seen.