Anthony Patch

"So to Anthony life was a struggle against death, that waited at every corner. It was as a concession to his hypochondriacal imagination that he formed the habit of reading in bed-- it soothed him. He read until he was tired and often fell asleep with the lights still on."
--F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and the Damned

I deserve plastic flowers

Our lovely flower garden is now just pots of potpourri. God bless their souls. I guess there's no denying it now-- I am a black thumb! They spoke the truth, after all.

For my cinematography class back in third year college, I shot a commercial for a make-believe cooking show. I was channeling Nigella Lawson's fabulous show then, so I paid extra attention to my set. I bought dinnerware from Gourdo's, had my model wear a flowing white dress (I wanted her to look really romantic a la the domestic goddess), took out all the nice china, and kidnapped about seven of my grandmother's beloved plants.

I can still vividly remember Mama's protests as I hauled the pots off her garden to the car, leaving a trail of soil on the road. Even as I assured her that I'll be borrowing them for just a couple of hours, she was hesitant. She looked like she didn't trust me one bit. I saw it in her eyes, in the way she was unable to hold my gaze. I remember feeling offended then, but in hindsight, I think she was just being intuitive. She was absolutely right to mistrust me. You see, thirty minutes later, her plants died-- all because they were in my custody.

I have always dreamed about having a flower garden, but that incident kept holding me back. About a month ago, I finally mustered enough courage to let go of the past and pay the gardening store a visit. Oh how pretty my plants looked! Their flowers were varying shades of pink, just adorable. I pictured myself drinking tea from my floral teacup, surrounded by them. For the first time, the dirty kitchen I so abhorred looked wonderful. Oh, I can still remember.

Now they're dead, and so soon! The once pretty flowers hang from their dehydrated stems, all withered. They look like potpourri. Despite the fertilizer and their daily showers, they look like potpourri. Maybe I should just make them potpourri.

Goodbye, Heidegger! Goodbye, Nietzsche! Goodbye, Kant! Goodbye, Plato!

Forgetting is long

"...[L]ights were glimmering in faint perhapses."
-- Sylvia Plath

I find that I cannot trick my mind into forgetting things, because later, when I sleep, I will dream. Hope- stubborn and resilient hope- has become my fiend.