In Booksale

A man of about fifty rummages through stacks of National Geographic back issues with utmost determination. He is oblivious to other people in the store, not budging an inch when a teenage girl attempts to squeeze in next to him to reach for a copy of Seventeen, and not even when she later exhaled in frustration. He exudes an air of superciliousness, unknowingly perhaps, like he is doing something of extreme importance. He inspects each magazine very carefully, flipping it over, feeling the edges, holding it up to the light, squinting an eye to examine the spine for bruises. He eyes the yellowed, dogeared books like they are diamonds, raw and uncut, and he, a master jeweler. Some magazines date back to the 1950s, and these he lovingly sorts into a neat pile next to him. Perhaps, they are diamonds.

Dancer

For my father, who forgets that he is loved

Watercolor

Le grande cuisine

"[Gourmandisme] shows implicit obedience to the commands of the Creator." -- AJ Liebling

I am reading The New Yorker’s Secret Ingredients, and two essays especially piqued my interest.

Some years ago in France, a group of twelve sat down to a 30-course lunch. The feast lasted for about 11 hours, and, when it was finally done, it was already past midnight. The mark of a true gourmand, according to one proud participant, is the ability to eat even when impossibly full. The meal’s cost was equivalent to a brand new Volkswagen. When the abstemious public frowned upon this gluttonous event, the aforementioned participant said something to this effect in their defense, “We had no need for a car so we didn’t buy a car. We were hungry, so we bought lunch.”

In still another essay, a writer illuminates the reader on how to kill a turtle, and properly. Allow me to divulge this much: It involves an extremely sharp hook, the turtle on its back, and green soup. A jolly, innocuous Pong Pagong suddenly crossed my mind, and I couldn’t help but cringe in utter despair. Poor dear.

Here’s my quandary with regard to le grande cuisine: While the succulent pastries and asperges bathed in butter could make me salivate till my mouth runs impossibly dry, the meat courses have this uncanny ability to make me suddenly want to either (1) convert to vegetarianism, or (2) go the extra mile and champion an animal rights group.

Thank you, Farellys!

There's Something About Mary was on Star Movies today, and I watched it for the first time ever. It was already halfway through when I caught it but I liked it still. It's too cute for words. Ice was right beside me and he could not believe that I haven't seen the movie- which he described as groundbreaking- before. Where have I been hiding? When I got to the scene where Matt Dillon mouth-to-mouth resuscitated and burned Cameron Diaz's dog back to life, I, myself, could not believe that I took so long to watch it. Why, this movie is genius!

Truth be told, There's Something About Mary is just one among a fairly big congeries of 90s movies that I have yet to see. You see- and I say this without a tinge of exaggeration- I did not have a proper adolescence. I did not have my fair share of pop music, teen flicks and TV shows. I did not know Freddie Prinze Jr. and I thought the Hansons were a rap group. I went straight from Home Alone to Lifestyle Network and Audrey Hepburn. When I finally did watch teen flicks, they were from the 80s. Breakfast Club, Sixteen candles, Pretty in Pink, and, my favorite teen flick in all the world, Say Anything ("She gave me a pen. I gave her my heart. She gave me a pen!"). Usually, I try to defend this cultural penury by stating, a tad too belligerently at times, that my taste is just too cultivated for my generation. However, looking back, I am beginning to think that it's highly possible that this argument is but an obstinate refusal to succumb to self pity. It could be that I was never an adolescent not because of my sophisticated, discriminating taste, but because I was too scared. You see, back then, my brothers always gave me a hard time whenever I tried to fit in with other girls my age. The moment I started doing something remotely "in," they would pick on me relentlessly. The torture, I tell you! It was akin to the Spanish Inquisition. This is not to hold a grudge against my brothers, though. They were, themselves, just being adolescents-- boys who did not know how to deal with girls if their lives depended on it.

My coping mechanism, no matter how seemingly pretentious now, worked well to my defense. I do not remember a time when I regretted not having a normal adolescence. I did not mind being absolutely clueless during reunions with my high school friends and the conversation suddenly turned to Clueless and Backstreet Boys and Spice Girls and the recent American Pie. I liked my 1950s/Martha Stewart/FTV adolescence just fine. After watching There's Something About Mary, though, I could not help but pay heed to this little thought in my head that maybe, just maybe, I missed out on a very important stage in my life. And so, here's what I intend to do: I think I'll have my adolescence now-- film-wise, at least. :)

From a dream

Watercolor


I painted this house from a dream I had, something which I thought I had long forgotten, and I only recognized it when it was finished and Ice pointed it out to me.

*

Last Saturday, we went to an antique shop somewhere in Quezon City that we have come to love. The shop had a massive collection of odds and ends (they sold everything from old Le Divorce and Cary Grant VHS tapes to floor-to-ceiling glass windows, tiles, and hot tubs), and almost everything was dirt cheap. We went there in search for a nice coffee table that could pass for French, and a purple chandelier for my friend, but to no avail. Instead, we found ourselves carrying a green glass candle holder home. The candle holder was quite romantic, I bought a pale turquoise candle that smelled of white lilies just for it and I thought they looked lovely together. When I started writing this, I was going to describe the candle holder as "crystal," but I suddenly realized that I did not quite know what that word meant. Apparently, this is crystal:

n.

1.
1. A homogenous solid formed by a repeating, three-dimensional pattern of atoms, ions, or molecules and having fixed distances between constituent parts.
2. The unit cell of such a pattern.
2. A mineral, especially a transparent form of quartz, having a crystalline structure, often characterized by external planar faces.
3.
1. A natural or synthetic crystalline material having piezoelectric or semiconducting properties.
2. An electronic device, such as an oscillator or detector, using such a material.
4.
1. A high-quality, clear, colorless glass.
2. An object, especially a vessel or ornament, made of such glass.
3. Such objects considered as a group.
5. A clear glass or plastic protective cover for the face of a watch or clock.
6. Slang. A stimulant drug, usually methamphetamine, in its powdered form.

I'm still not sure if my new candle holder is crystal, but I'm sure that I like it very much because it's green.

Monday and indisposed

At home getting a hold of myself. I find that a great way to rejuvenate one's self is to read good books and scribble random ideas on paper. :)

Habit #1

She has the habit of tracing objects with her eyes, feeling their outline delicately with an imaginary finger. She would run the finger over their corners, slowly and gently, memorizing the roundness of their curves, almost with affection. But her eyes, they would be filled with intensity and belligerence. She would, for hours, study these objects not with wonder, not through the eyes of a dilettante, but of an expert. She would stare at them so intently, as if she's wheedling out of them a dangerous secret-- a secret she is certain the objects conceal.

Mr. fancy fish's seaweed friends

Watercolor




I finally have two New Yorker anthologies-- Secret Ingredients, a collection of fiction and non-fiction works on food and drink, and Wonderful Town, a collection of short stories about New York. Both are so lovely, they're all I can think about all day. For good reason, I am expecting the first book to make an epicure of me. For reasons less cogent, I am hoping that the second will inspire me to try my unsophisticated hand at the short story. :)