Apr 19, 2000
Something peculiar has happened. My computer has become too
slow for me. Even the sound of it starting up makes me think of
the noise of old clocks being wound-up; it seems dinosaural.
Perhaps this is some kind of reaction to my ultimate and most
recent act of modern whoredom: the purchase of a cell phone. D.
and I went Sunday afternoon to the appropriately located
(pinnacle of the Flat Iron building—what a location for a cellular
phone store) Sprint PCS store. There we purchased matching
Motorolas with a 1000 shared minutes deal a month, plus 1000
minutes between our little black scarabs for a mere extra $4.95 a
month, but at that point they could have raped and pillaged me
and I would still have been smiling. Then we went outside and
called each other from three feet away, guess what? They
worked. Then I called M. and told him I'd be late for lunch. I
promised I was here to promote sentiment. Recently I've been
noticing the sounds outside my window at night. I'm only a block
from Delencey and a few from the Williamsburg bridge where all
that vehicular stuff gets inexorably sucked into the city, and yet it
sometimes sounds like the 88 bus. The 88 bus was the single
decker bus that very occasionally (and beyond anyone's
understanding when one tried to understand its comings and
goings through the immensely complex CIE timetable) met the
train from Dublin to Howth (12 miles north of Dublin, cross
between suburbia and a fishing village, which results in a
somewhat unsettling, but widely purported to be attractive area).
Anyway, this bus carried one up the two miles of hill that
separated the train from home. Home wasn't far to walk to,
though up a steep hill and with inclement attacks from foul Irish
squalls coming at you at an angle. It was the most fantastic thing
you could see at the end of a day. From my bedroom I could hear
the 88 bus all the way from the end of our road almost to where it
went over the hump at the summit. I could imagine all those
incredibly fortunate souls travelling up the hill on the 88. When I
go to bed in Manhattan I still hear the 88 bus straining up the Hill
of Howth, its gears working against the hill. I would have to say
that the sight of the 88 bus was something like a religious vision,
or the nearest I can approach one. There should be a prayer for
all Irish immigrants against the danger of becoming Frank
McCourt.
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Something peculiar has happened. My computer has become too slow for me. Even the sound of it starting up makes me think of the noise of old clocks being wound-up; it seems dinosaural. Perhaps this is some kind of reaction to my ultimate and most recent act of modern whoredom: the purchase of a cell phone. D. and I went Sunday afternoon to the appropriately located (pinnacle of the Flat Iron building—what a location for a cellular phone store) Sprint PCS store. There we purchased matching Motorolas with a 1000 shared minutes deal a month, plus 1000 minutes between our little black scarabs for a mere extra $4.95 a month, but at that point they could have raped and pillaged me and I would still have been smiling. Then we went outside and called each other from three feet away, guess what? They worked. Then I called M. and told him I'd be late for lunch. I promised I was here to promote sentiment. Recently I've been noticing the sounds outside my window at night. I'm only a block from Delencey and a few from the Williamsburg bridge where all that vehicular stuff gets inexorably sucked into the city, and yet it sometimes sounds like the 88 bus. The 88 bus was the single decker bus that very occasionally (and beyond anyone's understanding when one tried to understand its comings and goings through the immensely complex CIE timetable) met the train from Dublin to Howth (12 miles north of Dublin, cross between suburbia and a fishing village, which results in a somewhat unsettling, but widely purported to be attractive area). Anyway, this bus carried one up the two miles of hill that separated the train from home. Home wasn't far to walk to, though up a steep hill and with inclement attacks from foul Irish squalls coming at you at an angle. It was the most fantastic thing you could see at the end of a day. From my bedroom I could hear the 88 bus all the way from the end of our road almost to where it went over the hump at the summit. I could imagine all those incredibly fortunate souls travelling up the hill on the 88. When I go to bed in Manhattan I still hear the 88 bus straining up the Hill of Howth, its gears working against the hill. I would have to say that the sight of the 88 bus was something like a religious vision, or the nearest I can approach one. There should be a prayer for all Irish immigrants against the danger of becoming Frank McCourt.
- rachael 5-10-2000 4:45 pm