barefoot at the mall
Dubai, March 21, 2016
I decided on the name of the post before even writing it.
But let us write it.
Hello, I am NOT Jeremiah Dixon, I am NOT a Geordie boy. Why am I so obsessed with this song? "Memorise the words to Sailing to Philadelphia" seems to have made it on my immediate bucket list without my having any prior warning with regard to the matter. I have been muttering it religiously to myself for the past week, I think. It's a good obsession, though. Far better than other kinds of obsessions.
I had a lovely sort of morning, sitting on a warm patch of sand on a beach here in Dubai. The sand felt so good on my feet, between my toes. In the distance, a smoky kind of storm seemed to brew right above the blue horizon line. My sunglasses kept slipping off my nose as I wiped the sweat off my brow (not from hard work, obviously.) I fidgeted, trying to find the perfect position to read without being blinded by the sun's reflection onto the page and right into my eyes, which occasionally resulted in the annoying pulling of the earphones from out of my ears abruptly. Two cigarette butts emerged from their sandy shelter and I did my best to not have my toes toy with them by accident. Such exhaustive details that are essential for your survival, dear nonexistent readers. A calm start of the day, it was. Later, we had a hipster sort of lunch and a glorious pear and chocolate cake for dessert. One of the ladies at the cash register sounded Scottish (the one serving us sounded Australian) and I tried to eavesdrop on her conversation with the other customers just to get a nostalgic waft of Scottish air for half a second. Am I pathetic? Perhaps.
My search for the classic black vans is ongoing. Four stores and a thousand online searches later, I am still vans-less. I did find a pretty pair of blue vans that I purchased because they were so cheap. I wore them today and they gave me blisters. Not that I'm not used to my shoes backstabbing me with surprise blisters every now and then. But you know. We were at the mall, and I couldn't walk anymore so I took them off. And I walked barefoot at the mall. And some really judgemental ladies scanned me from head to toe (literally, toe) with raised eyebrows. Silly women. The feeling was wonderful though. The marbled floor shone. It was soft and clean and walking barefoot seemed like the best idea anyone could ever have. At the parking, the ground was granulous (does that word even exist? my autocorrecting option just changed it to "granules")-- yes, granulous, whatever, we can make it a thing, the ground was granulous. Granulous granulous granulous. All the red dotted lines appear in the draft of the document and I'll take them because I can take anything.
Earlier, during that same mall excursion, I was walking backwards and nearly bumped into a man wearing a suit, who made the very clever comment that "perhaps walking forward is better?" Which, I completely agree with. Except he was gratuitously mean and those people, ah, I cannot stand them. I did look like a teenager, in my lemon yellow shirt, short denim shorts and oversized denim shirt. And backpack. I was wearing a backpack. He must have thought I was eighteen, perhaps. I'm probably older than him in reality. No that's not true. I suppose we'll never know.
I have been having strange dreams. Just this morning, I dreamt that some African tour guide was welcoming us to Central Africa, and he drove us around, showing us what looked to me quite like Lebanon (without really being Lebanon, you know? In the dream you always know what a place/person/object is, despite it looking different in the dream to the way you know it to be in reality). I'm not sure whether mum was there, but her friend was. And some small –possibly slimy– things (think fish) were dropped on the floor and we had to pick them up one by one. How odd. I don't think it was fish. I wish I had written that dream down in the morning. Now the details elude me.
I am pleasantly surprised that I have managed to fill this post with randomness. Enough randomness to make my words a post.
I'm the best. (Maybe not the best, but somewhere close.)
No I am not.
The best? Rather, the mediocrest. That word does not exist, but I will make it a thing.
A thang.
Can I stop typing nonsense already?
I decided on the name of the post before even writing it.
But let us write it.
Hello, I am NOT Jeremiah Dixon, I am NOT a Geordie boy. Why am I so obsessed with this song? "Memorise the words to Sailing to Philadelphia" seems to have made it on my immediate bucket list without my having any prior warning with regard to the matter. I have been muttering it religiously to myself for the past week, I think. It's a good obsession, though. Far better than other kinds of obsessions.
I had a lovely sort of morning, sitting on a warm patch of sand on a beach here in Dubai. The sand felt so good on my feet, between my toes. In the distance, a smoky kind of storm seemed to brew right above the blue horizon line. My sunglasses kept slipping off my nose as I wiped the sweat off my brow (not from hard work, obviously.) I fidgeted, trying to find the perfect position to read without being blinded by the sun's reflection onto the page and right into my eyes, which occasionally resulted in the annoying pulling of the earphones from out of my ears abruptly. Two cigarette butts emerged from their sandy shelter and I did my best to not have my toes toy with them by accident. Such exhaustive details that are essential for your survival, dear nonexistent readers. A calm start of the day, it was. Later, we had a hipster sort of lunch and a glorious pear and chocolate cake for dessert. One of the ladies at the cash register sounded Scottish (the one serving us sounded Australian) and I tried to eavesdrop on her conversation with the other customers just to get a nostalgic waft of Scottish air for half a second. Am I pathetic? Perhaps.
My search for the classic black vans is ongoing. Four stores and a thousand online searches later, I am still vans-less. I did find a pretty pair of blue vans that I purchased because they were so cheap. I wore them today and they gave me blisters. Not that I'm not used to my shoes backstabbing me with surprise blisters every now and then. But you know. We were at the mall, and I couldn't walk anymore so I took them off. And I walked barefoot at the mall. And some really judgemental ladies scanned me from head to toe (literally, toe) with raised eyebrows. Silly women. The feeling was wonderful though. The marbled floor shone. It was soft and clean and walking barefoot seemed like the best idea anyone could ever have. At the parking, the ground was granulous (does that word even exist? my autocorrecting option just changed it to "granules")-- yes, granulous, whatever, we can make it a thing, the ground was granulous. Granulous granulous granulous. All the red dotted lines appear in the draft of the document and I'll take them because I can take anything.
Earlier, during that same mall excursion, I was walking backwards and nearly bumped into a man wearing a suit, who made the very clever comment that "perhaps walking forward is better?" Which, I completely agree with. Except he was gratuitously mean and those people, ah, I cannot stand them. I did look like a teenager, in my lemon yellow shirt, short denim shorts and oversized denim shirt. And backpack. I was wearing a backpack. He must have thought I was eighteen, perhaps. I'm probably older than him in reality. No that's not true. I suppose we'll never know.
I have been having strange dreams. Just this morning, I dreamt that some African tour guide was welcoming us to Central Africa, and he drove us around, showing us what looked to me quite like Lebanon (without really being Lebanon, you know? In the dream you always know what a place/person/object is, despite it looking different in the dream to the way you know it to be in reality). I'm not sure whether mum was there, but her friend was. And some small –possibly slimy– things (think fish) were dropped on the floor and we had to pick them up one by one. How odd. I don't think it was fish. I wish I had written that dream down in the morning. Now the details elude me.
I am pleasantly surprised that I have managed to fill this post with randomness. Enough randomness to make my words a post.
I'm the best. (Maybe not the best, but somewhere close.)
No I am not.
The best? Rather, the mediocrest. That word does not exist, but I will make it a thing.
A thang.
Can I stop typing nonsense already?
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