Last night, I had an incredible meal at Travertine, a dark, sleek place on Kenmare Street. The two of us were work-weary and ready to chow-down. First came the house arrancini pomodoro which were a little too fried. We washed them away with a very nice, almost buttery, 2007 Blue Eyed Boy shiraz. The conversation about men started with the appetizers. Pig's head terrine with pickled vegetables, tangy frisee, peppery toast points, and watermelon mustardo and an incredibly tender fish over a zesty, spicey slaw. We moved on to talk about Taipei, Singapore and other far away lands. The next plate was fresh pasta, brussel sprouts, shitakes and a light cream sauce. We sopped up the last bites of savory warmth while reminiscing about hot springs on a mountain top in winter. For our main plates we discussed the future, changing cities, changing jobs, change as possibility and inevitability.
My friend's dish was an incredible duck breast from Long Island that was so tender and flavorful we both thought we'd died and gone to heaven. My lamb was nice too but her duck - buonissimo! Finally, we had a little dessert. She had a fantastic poached pear, flourless cake-type with the most sensual goat's milk gelato flavored with vanilla and ginger (?), served with picholine that were more like rice crispie treats. Our waitress with a pungent smell of her own told us it could be found in Philadelphia. We looked at each other as though the food fairy had given us a mission. My yogurt pannecotta, caramel and fig dessert was quite good but her gelato was almost life-changing.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
My dream of a desert
I told a friend yesterday that I have always had a desire to write. More than to be married, to have children, to be powerful or important, is the desire to create on the page and to be read. And yet, I have been so afraid of being ridiculous or even worse, a mediocre, redundant writer that I kept it secret, much like my earliest, furtive attempts to masturbate as a little girl. The act of writing is that close, that intimate and that primal to me. One writes without assurance of an audience. It is solipsism, it is vanity, it is self-indulgence to write. It is also a desire to create.
All weekend my goal was to put in the hours and work. I vegetated in front of the television instead. When I would think about getting up to write, Harry Potter would do something irresistible and I would lie back down. For me, it takes a stretch of at least four hours to get my mind in the state to let the words come, rather than, force them, like I do in these blog entries. A bit of pressure never hurt anyone but ideally, I need an afternoon or quiet evening. I need to find a way in.
Tim Burton was interviewed by Charlie Rose the other night and he said that his ideas come when he's just spacing out and doing nothing. He also doesn't use computers or cell phones or lead a life filled with normal obligations. He has the luxury of time to free his mind. My dream is of a desert where I have luxurious time to space out, (masturbate) and tack, tack, tack away at the keyboard.
All weekend my goal was to put in the hours and work. I vegetated in front of the television instead. When I would think about getting up to write, Harry Potter would do something irresistible and I would lie back down. For me, it takes a stretch of at least four hours to get my mind in the state to let the words come, rather than, force them, like I do in these blog entries. A bit of pressure never hurt anyone but ideally, I need an afternoon or quiet evening. I need to find a way in.
Tim Burton was interviewed by Charlie Rose the other night and he said that his ideas come when he's just spacing out and doing nothing. He also doesn't use computers or cell phones or lead a life filled with normal obligations. He has the luxury of time to free his mind. My dream is of a desert where I have luxurious time to space out, (masturbate) and tack, tack, tack away at the keyboard.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Wait, and then act
I have moved on from Not That Kind of Girl to Luce Irigaray's To Be Two. And, I think, I am at peace with moving on from my break-up with Princess. I keep thinking about something that Simone de Beauvoir said about women as immanent creatures and men are transcendent. Simply put, women wait and men act. I have been questioning whether or not I have been hiding behind this heart break of mine. I have been questioning why I clung to something that was never going to be. I have been growing tired of these questions, too.
Last week's entry was just a writing exercise born out of a conversation I had with a friend the night before. We spent most of the evening in a pretty intense conversation that I am happy to say ended well. I told her that I was going to meet with Princess. She has been hurting from her own break-up and she was quick to challenge my reasons and to foretell that the meeting would end badly. This hurt and I went to my corner. She went to her corner. Waiting. Over the next hour, we talked about how we are different, how the other can make us feel, how we are vulnerable to each other. I was very honored to have such a difficult conversation with my friend that took so much courage on both our parts. Transcendent.
The next night, I waited in a pub for Princess to arrive. We'd chosen to meet around 6:30 p.m. I was on time. He was late. I still cannot remember all the tiny details but I remember the most important things. I was tongue-tied. Just being across the table from him, I wanted to bargain, negotiate my way back in. He went first and said, "No." He was not changing his mind. He will not be my boyfriend. And he came to tell me in person so that we could stop with this conversation. He asked me if we could begin hanging out because he does consider me a friend but he doesn't want to have this conversation ever again.
And, what did I say? I did tell him that I was sorry that I did not listen to him from the beginning. I did tell him that I have been mad at him for saying he would not act on his feelings and then acting as if he did hold me above all others. I told him that I understood he had reasons to protect himself but I was hurt that those things mattered more to him than I do. We did laugh a little. At the end, he left me with half a beer. When he passed by I reached for his hand and he bent down to press his scruffy cheek next to mine.
My friend was right, the evening was painful but I am glad that I went through it. I still see his eyes. He was in pain because this was exactly what he'd hoped to avoid by taking this oath of bachelorhood. He was in pain because seeing me made him remember some good things too. That night, he did not deny that he may be making a big mistake walking away from a relationship with me, but it is his to make. Transcendent.
Last week's entry was just a writing exercise born out of a conversation I had with a friend the night before. We spent most of the evening in a pretty intense conversation that I am happy to say ended well. I told her that I was going to meet with Princess. She has been hurting from her own break-up and she was quick to challenge my reasons and to foretell that the meeting would end badly. This hurt and I went to my corner. She went to her corner. Waiting. Over the next hour, we talked about how we are different, how the other can make us feel, how we are vulnerable to each other. I was very honored to have such a difficult conversation with my friend that took so much courage on both our parts. Transcendent.
The next night, I waited in a pub for Princess to arrive. We'd chosen to meet around 6:30 p.m. I was on time. He was late. I still cannot remember all the tiny details but I remember the most important things. I was tongue-tied. Just being across the table from him, I wanted to bargain, negotiate my way back in. He went first and said, "No." He was not changing his mind. He will not be my boyfriend. And he came to tell me in person so that we could stop with this conversation. He asked me if we could begin hanging out because he does consider me a friend but he doesn't want to have this conversation ever again.
And, what did I say? I did tell him that I was sorry that I did not listen to him from the beginning. I did tell him that I have been mad at him for saying he would not act on his feelings and then acting as if he did hold me above all others. I told him that I understood he had reasons to protect himself but I was hurt that those things mattered more to him than I do. We did laugh a little. At the end, he left me with half a beer. When he passed by I reached for his hand and he bent down to press his scruffy cheek next to mine.
My friend was right, the evening was painful but I am glad that I went through it. I still see his eyes. He was in pain because this was exactly what he'd hoped to avoid by taking this oath of bachelorhood. He was in pain because seeing me made him remember some good things too. That night, he did not deny that he may be making a big mistake walking away from a relationship with me, but it is his to make. Transcendent.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
gypsies, a pocket knife, insomnia, grapes, and a lie
Simon saw smoke rising over the next hill and his heartbeat quickened. He had been walking through a nightmare looking for his family since he'd woken with blood crusted on the left side of his head. The last thing Simon remembered was his mother stroking his face with her finger to her lips, whispering, "Shhh!" He hoped someone he knew was around that campfire.
Simon and his father had often walked barefoot in the tall grass to the Une River to fish on never-ending Sundays. Though he had walked along this dirt path through these fields and over these rolling hills, nothing was recognizable. As he came over the rise he saw a band of gypsies in rags huddled around the fire. His approach was noticed and one of them jumped to his feet and shouted, "You there! Stay where you are!" Simon froze.
The same man hurried toward him. As he approached, Simon noticed he was holding purple grapes in his right hand and his stomach turned. He dared not move but he was overcome with exhaustion, hunger, and fear and despite himself, tears leaked from his eyes. The man was upon him and inspecting him, darting in and out of his jacket pockets and running thumbs over the material, the gypsy finally took out a pocket knife and ran it across Simon's sleeve. His surprise made him jerk and the grapes in the gypsy's clenched teeth shook as he grunted, "Stand still!" Simon obeyed and the man continued his inspection.
A tiny, dark woman appeared next to the man with purple grapes. Her eyes were like smudges of coal and she spoke very slowly, "Are you all by yourself?" she asked, reaching out to touch his face but stopping short of some invisible glass.
"Go back!" the man barked and he shoved her gently. "You're imagining him. Go back!"
Ignoring his command, she said looking at Simon without recognition, "I've not slept for days and days. I have no mother, no father and only these gypsies to keep me. I am a princess! I lived with kings and queens. You are my prince!"
This time the man pushed her hard and the insomniac tumbled to the ground.
"Enough, Mera! Go back to the others, I say!"
Simon looked out over the field and could not see an escape past this rail thin man and his ragtag band. He hoped they would not kill him and eat him.
"Please," Simon whispered and then louder, "Please. I'm looking for my family. Have you met anyone from Innes?"
The man held a fat grape to his dry, cracked lips and made sure that Simon was watching him place the grape in his mouth and bite into its flesh. Simon only cared that the man answer him. He could find something to eat along the way to Une.
Finally, he said, "You are from Innes?"
Simon nodded.
"Then you are the first person I have met these past two terrible days we've camped here from Innes. I have not met any fathers or mothers. You look like you have seen war. We have been hiding under rocks and now we've come out to find food. Nothing survived but we and you!"
"Lie!" shouted Mera. "Sal you lie!"
Sal grabbed Mera and threw her to the ground. She screeched and cackled, wildly and terrifyingly. Simon began to walk backward, he would find no help here and began to run, back to town, away from the fire, the grapes, and the woman with eyes as dark as coal.
I'll explain this later.
Simon and his father had often walked barefoot in the tall grass to the Une River to fish on never-ending Sundays. Though he had walked along this dirt path through these fields and over these rolling hills, nothing was recognizable. As he came over the rise he saw a band of gypsies in rags huddled around the fire. His approach was noticed and one of them jumped to his feet and shouted, "You there! Stay where you are!" Simon froze.
The same man hurried toward him. As he approached, Simon noticed he was holding purple grapes in his right hand and his stomach turned. He dared not move but he was overcome with exhaustion, hunger, and fear and despite himself, tears leaked from his eyes. The man was upon him and inspecting him, darting in and out of his jacket pockets and running thumbs over the material, the gypsy finally took out a pocket knife and ran it across Simon's sleeve. His surprise made him jerk and the grapes in the gypsy's clenched teeth shook as he grunted, "Stand still!" Simon obeyed and the man continued his inspection.
A tiny, dark woman appeared next to the man with purple grapes. Her eyes were like smudges of coal and she spoke very slowly, "Are you all by yourself?" she asked, reaching out to touch his face but stopping short of some invisible glass.
"Go back!" the man barked and he shoved her gently. "You're imagining him. Go back!"
Ignoring his command, she said looking at Simon without recognition, "I've not slept for days and days. I have no mother, no father and only these gypsies to keep me. I am a princess! I lived with kings and queens. You are my prince!"
This time the man pushed her hard and the insomniac tumbled to the ground.
"Enough, Mera! Go back to the others, I say!"
Simon looked out over the field and could not see an escape past this rail thin man and his ragtag band. He hoped they would not kill him and eat him.
"Please," Simon whispered and then louder, "Please. I'm looking for my family. Have you met anyone from Innes?"
The man held a fat grape to his dry, cracked lips and made sure that Simon was watching him place the grape in his mouth and bite into its flesh. Simon only cared that the man answer him. He could find something to eat along the way to Une.
Finally, he said, "You are from Innes?"
Simon nodded.
"Then you are the first person I have met these past two terrible days we've camped here from Innes. I have not met any fathers or mothers. You look like you have seen war. We have been hiding under rocks and now we've come out to find food. Nothing survived but we and you!"
"Lie!" shouted Mera. "Sal you lie!"
Sal grabbed Mera and threw her to the ground. She screeched and cackled, wildly and terrifyingly. Simon began to walk backward, he would find no help here and began to run, back to town, away from the fire, the grapes, and the woman with eyes as dark as coal.
I'll explain this later.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
As if
My hands look different. My veins are more pronounced, my skin appears thinner, and cross-hatching is visible. I have also noticed fine lines developing under my eyes and that my face shape seems to be changing, rounding a bit, though I've lost some weight in the last few months. I am going to die one day.
When I was in late elementary and early middle school, I was so certain of my purpose, I was going to be a fantastic story-teller. I had had some success as a spinner of tales. Our first house growing up was about seven miles outside of town and the bus service had to cover children that lived as far outside of town as fifteen miles. Depending on the year, we were picked-up toward the beginning of the route or toward the end. The wholesome children on our route were exposed to the trailer park kids - hoodlums who had been to roadside taverns, ate tv dinners on weeknights, and had witnessed violence. They weren't even the scariest kids on the bus. The toughest, meanest kids on the bus were two brothers and a sister who lived above a bar off Highway 51 called Rose's Cantina, a favorite bar of the motorcyclists, possibly Hell's Angels, who rode through town every year. It was legendary in our town because someone had been murdered at the bar.
The oldest brother had bloodshot eyes and we'd call him Satan's spawn behind his back. The middle son had big blue eyes and a mean right hook. Their little sister was ruddy colored and foul-mouthed. They were all foul-mouthed and I was terrified of them. Everyone was terrified of them because Satan's spawn was rumored to keep a knife inside his jacket and the middle son - messenger boy - hit someone almost every day. Messenger boy and I struck up a deal of sorts. The bus was full and the only free spot was next to him, my older brother was fortunately riding the bus (the only time all year) and demanded that Messenger boy move over and let me in.
"You gonna make me?" Messenger boy looked like a lightweight ready to strike.
"I will, if I have to," my brother replied, standing fully 6'2", his hands in fists. The back of the bus was silent, breathless.
Messenger boy wasn't going to mess with a star jock and he moved aside and let me sit on the edge. It was a glorious day on the bus for me. My big brother had saved the day! The next day, I found a seat but it wasn't too far from Messenger boy. I kept my head down but he saw me. He asked me to come sit with him. I did. And over the rest of the school year, we would talk and I would tell him stories that went on for weeks. It was coolest to sit in the very back of the bus, furthest away from the driver. Satan's spawn sat in one of those seats, but when we stopped at Rose's Cantina, Messenger boy made it clear to everyone that if I wanted to sit there, it was my seat. Later that year, there was a fire that burned Rose's Cantina to the ground and I never saw those kids again. I tried the same tactic with two other older boys who lived in Eggleston's Woods, a neighborhood where everyone had an in-ground pool, but they weren't going to get me the back seat, they could only offer me their seats.
I am experiencing a growing urgency to live my life as if I have a clear purpose, which I do not. There are only immediate objectives: go to work for pay; take care of your dog; be good to those around you. When there are visible reminders that life is short, you respond. My life has not changed, I still have to struggle to get to the gym and dread work most days, but there is a stir within.
When I was in late elementary and early middle school, I was so certain of my purpose, I was going to be a fantastic story-teller. I had had some success as a spinner of tales. Our first house growing up was about seven miles outside of town and the bus service had to cover children that lived as far outside of town as fifteen miles. Depending on the year, we were picked-up toward the beginning of the route or toward the end. The wholesome children on our route were exposed to the trailer park kids - hoodlums who had been to roadside taverns, ate tv dinners on weeknights, and had witnessed violence. They weren't even the scariest kids on the bus. The toughest, meanest kids on the bus were two brothers and a sister who lived above a bar off Highway 51 called Rose's Cantina, a favorite bar of the motorcyclists, possibly Hell's Angels, who rode through town every year. It was legendary in our town because someone had been murdered at the bar.
The oldest brother had bloodshot eyes and we'd call him Satan's spawn behind his back. The middle son had big blue eyes and a mean right hook. Their little sister was ruddy colored and foul-mouthed. They were all foul-mouthed and I was terrified of them. Everyone was terrified of them because Satan's spawn was rumored to keep a knife inside his jacket and the middle son - messenger boy - hit someone almost every day. Messenger boy and I struck up a deal of sorts. The bus was full and the only free spot was next to him, my older brother was fortunately riding the bus (the only time all year) and demanded that Messenger boy move over and let me in.
"You gonna make me?" Messenger boy looked like a lightweight ready to strike.
"I will, if I have to," my brother replied, standing fully 6'2", his hands in fists. The back of the bus was silent, breathless.
Messenger boy wasn't going to mess with a star jock and he moved aside and let me sit on the edge. It was a glorious day on the bus for me. My big brother had saved the day! The next day, I found a seat but it wasn't too far from Messenger boy. I kept my head down but he saw me. He asked me to come sit with him. I did. And over the rest of the school year, we would talk and I would tell him stories that went on for weeks. It was coolest to sit in the very back of the bus, furthest away from the driver. Satan's spawn sat in one of those seats, but when we stopped at Rose's Cantina, Messenger boy made it clear to everyone that if I wanted to sit there, it was my seat. Later that year, there was a fire that burned Rose's Cantina to the ground and I never saw those kids again. I tried the same tactic with two other older boys who lived in Eggleston's Woods, a neighborhood where everyone had an in-ground pool, but they weren't going to get me the back seat, they could only offer me their seats.
I am experiencing a growing urgency to live my life as if I have a clear purpose, which I do not. There are only immediate objectives: go to work for pay; take care of your dog; be good to those around you. When there are visible reminders that life is short, you respond. My life has not changed, I still have to struggle to get to the gym and dread work most days, but there is a stir within.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)