El sabor del poco

Not just a simple cortado. Something cosy, warm, relaxed, sweet and bitter, sticky and smooth. The Latin mentality of taking time out, of finishing things 'correctly'. Rounding off with finesse. Indulgent, but not excessive.

November 2005

I killed November. And conversely, it tried to kill me. At the beginning of this eventful month, I had no idea where I would be come February and I couldn't sleep for the knots of uncertainty in my stomach. A nostalgic trip to Madrid, a visit from dear old dad, and a busy thanksgiving with an old friend later, I'm still not sure what will happen when 2006 rolls around but at least an incipient cold keeps knocking me out for 11 hours a night. A few questions have been answered though I still keep my cards close - superstition and secrets go hand in hand. All shall be revealed in good time (cue Wayne and Garth's dream segue).

The Andean and myself celebrated Thanksgiving as iconoclasts, opting for the exotic culinary delights of London. Contemporary Indian near Piccadilly Circus to be precise. A more traditional thanksgiving was postponed to Saturday when Michelle, Andre's American flatmate, would be cooking a 19-pound brid with all of the trimmings. This weekend was the epitome of London life - the belated celebration of an American holiday with Ozzies, follwed by a thoroughly Brasilian party, replete with feijoada and caipirinhas, topped off by Sunday yum chow with the Chinese connection.

Exhausted and peeky after dropping off Andean at the station, I still managed to meet up with R at his office in Soho, where he showed me all of his work tools and his latest project. I was tempted to push all the buttons, scratch the stylus pad, hit the lights, and run away but I behaved myself. Sort of. I become a schizo on crack whenever I see a console of buttons, lights, track balls, and silver sliders. But really, who doesn't?

redefining egoism

Last night, we get onto my favourite topic of conversation - women and children. I'm amazed when someone without a uterus purports to know all about it.

Cus: Don't you want to get married?
Me: Not really.
Cus: Well, don't you want to have kids?
Me: Uh, no. I can see myself getting married but not having kids.
Cus: But isn't that a bit egoistic?
Me: What?
Cus: Not wanting to have kids. That's so egoistic.
Me: What do you mean? Isn't it the height of egoism to desire something simply to have an extension of yourself, to leave a living legacy of Y-O-U?
Cus: Ohhhh, okay, we're not going there.
Me: (Wuss.)

Was it just two weeks ago when I was told that having children is a biological urge shared by all women? That's like saying it is impossible for men to be monogamous because they are biologically predisposed to injecting their seed into anything with breasts. Is it possible that people still think so little? What happened to the art of contemplation?

relationships. another non sequitur.

So I'm nowhere near as irritable as I was a few posts ago. The stress has vanished so I should take advantage of the temporary release from the psychological hell that it frequently unleashes. It seems I am only at ease around Janice and Wonderwoman these days, the two people who have somehow managed to adapt to my antisocial idiosyncrasies. No one else in London knows quite what to say (or rather, not say) or how to behave without arousing my disdain or total boredom. Though my grand-uncle, freakishly similar to my father, is getting close...

Of late, men are buzzing around like flies on a carcass. Yes, the imagery is intended to be so distasteful. Is it simply a question of timing? Or do I just really not want a relationship? Or is it one of those strange laws, whereby the more attention I'm given, the less I desire it? Or is it London, a city not so conducive to monogamy? They say, get a boyfriend or enjoy yourself, a euphemism for fucking around. These are the socially acceptable options, each one's appeal dependent on the time of the month. Whatever. Last weekend, I woke up, resting my hand on the other pillow. I smiled, grateful of my own unfettered space. Am I weird? And if so, by whose standards?

These days, I regret not appreciating enough my male friends from the uni days, when it was still possible to be friends with someone of the opposite sex because there were other factors - study, extracurriculars, single campus - that pushed you together. To that end, I hope all is well in Austin, Pittsburgh, Cameroon, Marseille, and Bombay.

In the Waiting Line

It feels like Pink Floyd's 'The Wall' for the postmodern prozac generation...

Wait in line
'Till your time
Ticking clock
Everyone stop
Everyone's saying different things to me
Different things to me

Do you believe
In what you see
There doesn't seem to be anybody else who agrees with me

Do you believe
In what you see
Motionless wheel
Nothing is real
Wasting my time
In the waiting line
Do you believe
In what you see

Nine to five
Living lies
Everyday
Stealing time
Everyone's taking everything they can
Everything they can

Do you believe
In what you feel
It doesn't seem to be anybody else who agrees with me

Do you believe
In what you see
Motionless wheel
Nothing is real
Wasting my time
In the waiting line
Do you believe
In what you see

And I'll shout and I'll scream
But I'd rather not be seen
And I'll hide away for another.

urban zenana

Up the earliest in ages, I hear singing drifting through the paper walls. Odd reverberations, the aural sensation of the visual image of sound waves undulating through water. It's like the Islamic equivalent of the Gregorian chant. Though I prefer this to that. Gives me the illusion that I'm somewhere else.