Art, Cartoon

Google Throws A Party For Mrs. Dalloway

Google celebrates Virginia Woolf.


Notes From The Asphalt

Every now and then, my attention is snagged either by the sound of a shopping cart rattling over the asphalt or a door slamming. Somewhere, an engine is turning on. Elsewhere, a pounding base is fading away in the distance.

I’m at the ShopRite parking lot, waiting in the car, because I’m not well. M. is doing the grocery for a change. As I look up from my phone, I see the windshield splattered with fat droplets of a sudden burst of rain, as if a minion in the ministry of meteorology in the troposphere, poured down a bucket of water out of sheer mischief before scurrying onto more pressing tasks. For soon afterward, the Sun peeked out of a rent in the magnet-colored sky.

For a Monday morning, the store is terribly crowded with shoppers. Suddenly, looking out the window, I realize how weary I am of careless motorists. What if, I wonder, the driver of the car next to mine opens his or her door so rashly that it scrapes against mine?

I’d come to know, of course. After all, he or she would leave behind a mark of that uncivility on my chassis. So, to buffer it on either side against careless drivers who bounce out of their seats without looking, I do my best to park my car perfectly in the middle of the two yellow lines of the parking space.

My mind is wandering. I’ll have to make a pit stop for gas next. Holding the nozzle of a gas pump that countless others have held is one of my least favorite things to do. Like every public object, it’s a hotbed of germs. But I don’t have a choice. My car doesn’t run on Dunkin’ Donuts.