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mallorys_camera
Imane made this quantum leap forward in English skills between last week and this.
“Have you been speaking English with your friends?” I asked.
“No, no, you are my friend.”
She is working practically full-time at that Jamaican restaurant, though. So maybe that’s it. Or maybe it’s the book of fairytales I gave her to read: We’re deconstructing The Frog Prince sentence by sentence.
“Yes, you can sleep on my pillow and sup from my golden dish,” the princess told the frog crossly.
“Crossly?” asks Imane, frowning, sketching a giant X in the air.
“Many words have two jobs in English. Or sometimes three or sometimes ten!” I say brightly. “Cross means –“ I sketch an air-X. “But it also means ‘angry.’ I was cross because you were 15 minutes late.”
“I am sorry, my teacher!” Imane cries.
“Next time, text me,” I say.
The father of the redheaded kid in this pre-school photo of RTT just died.
B became obsessed with this last night – which I suppose is understandable given his own medical history. He kept talking and talking about it.
What’s to say? I thought. The guy was an asshole. And now he’s dead.
The redheaded kid, Gregory, was one of those blundering, pugnacious little kids whom nobody liked, not ever. If I screw up my eyes and puff out my mouth hard enough, I can kinda, sorta remember: the ne’er-do-well troubador father, the cold ambitious Swiss mother who had married an American, thinking, This is my ticket to those streets of gold. The parents lived apart, and Gregory had become the stand-in for his mother’s huge contempt for the father.
My conversation with B made me curious enough to track down current photos of Gregory on Facebookland: He’s metamorphosed into a pudgy young man with major tattoos and a nose ring.
Huh.
Really, he should have remained the kid in the photograph.
Monterey should have frozen the moment I left it. Like Brigadoon.
###
I have a cold. Or maybe it's the weather, which has taken a turn for the grey and edgey. I'm feeling achey and low energy.
Last night, a cricket somehow got into my bedroom. Didn't want to kill it; didn't want it to sleep on my pillow or sup from my bowl. So I decided to escort it outside, which involved going downstairs into the living room in my ratty bathrobe where Benito and a small hoard of his GenX crew were gathered. They stopped talking to watch as I released Mister Cricket back into the outside world. Who knows what they thought.
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Date: 2016-10-04 02:41 pm (UTC)RTT's in the red boots?
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Date: 2016-10-04 02:53 pm (UTC)Thank you.
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