1. As J-F is attending a conference this week, I've been on daycare detail. The first day of drop-off, I joke with Helena as we approach the stop where we usually part company. "This is your stop, kid. You'll be OK from here, right? Because I'm running late for work. You can negotiate the rest of the way by yourself?" "Nnnnooooo! Mama!" "Well, you're a big girl. Why not?" She considers carefully, and I get an answer I wasn't expecting: "Because I'm too small; I can't reach the buttons." We hurry off on our way, together. At the door of the daycare, I pause to recall the numbers to punch into the security pad that will grant us access. Helena squeezes in and stretches her hand up the wall. "See?!"
2. Work. Can make me roll my eyes, want to tear my hair out, and laugh uncontrollably, sometimes simultaneously. Today, what I was not allowed to edit, fix, change in any way (because it's client-approved, and a transcription besides): "We are lulled into a false sense of complacency."
3. The homebound metro. I stand near the doors; a man seated just next to me is reading the newspaper intently. Out loud. The horoscopes. To no one in particular. I'm not sure anyone else can hear him; I can barely make out the words myself. But his is a deep voice; he produces a noise, a buzz, that makes me tingle with the presence of angels, like I'm riding the bus in the opening scenes of Wings of Desire, hearing the wisdom and banality of all humanity spill forth. Oh, but such a glorious noise! It occurs to me that this, this throbbing whisper, might in part explain my draw to Doctor Who (we are counting the days in this household to the start of season 3), the sound he rides in on — the sound of the universe.