moleskine #4

A story, not in the moleskine but about it.

I was in Berlin in January with a few hours on my hand before a tryst with a German lad who speaks english with an inadvertant Irish accent (this alone would make him delicious but he is, otherwise, a being to make me almost believe in a god), when I wandered past a sign for the Private Picasso exhibit at the Neue Nationalgalerie. Never been that intrigued by his works but felt this exhibit, consisting of pieces the artist kept for himself and were given away only on his death (for taxes, they said), would be a good introduction. It was an illuminating and inspiring exhibit — albeit to someone unschooled in art. What struck me most was the obvious playing, working out of ideas on paper: the eponymous abstracts from a very linear thought; a mistake, almost, and intentioned differently than the effect of the subsequent works — at least as I have understood it all these years. The exhibit was, in a way, a call to arms of all who have thought, maybe dreamt, but not done.

but. the story.

So I am wandering about the exhibit, consciously aware I am (oddly) a foot shorter than the gorgeous, very tall women around me and decidedly more curvaceous but thankfully distracted from my shortcomings by the fascinating bits on the guide disc. Prompted, I was, to take the odd note. Then I begin to notice three people in their early 20s, at most, from the throng of others walking around the white rooms or sprawled on few benches: two girls and a boy, obviously art students. And I noticed them because the lad among them (it would feel odd to call him a man, though attractive he was in his yet-to-broaden way) was slyly trying to get my attention. Why he was doing this was confusing given the gorgeous women around me; wondered if I had something noxious on my shoe.

And it suddenly dawned on me that he was trying to position himself so I could see HIS moleskine book. And when our eyes met he gave me a coy, dark-eyed glance and a smile, as recognition of our genius and other-ness. And possibly an invitation to behind the posters in the shop, in that dark corner under the stairs, away from prying ears/eyes who were not worthy, to discuss the weighty thoughts and sketches we'd done in our books and maybe to explore each other?

The Moleskine is the new iPod.

you heard it here first.

moleskine #3

A card shoved in between pages:



When it suddenly strikes you, only a few days into wooing, he is aching to say that certain phrase but is too afraid and is dancing about it, finding room for pregnant pauses and excuses to write cards and hoping you'll guess and say it first ...



Never happens.

Their discomfort is far too charming. Winning.

moleskine #2

Notes written surreptiously under the table at The Newport in Bermuda. Impressive. The most enjoyable meal I've ever had. From the greeting to the jovial service to the best bellini ever. Where the phrase "crazy like foie gras créme brulée"© was spontaneously coined.

moleskine

Today I got to get myself a new moleskine book.
What, you ask, is such a thing? crafted from the hides of rodents? A book detailing the social interactions of toads and moles and badgers? litany of super secret spy activity?

nope.

A moleskine book is an obnoxious way of declaring your artiste-ness; the books used by "intellectuals and artists" for over two centuries, claims the bit of info. tucked into the back pocket (nifty feature of each book). Van Gogh, Matisse, Picasso — as I discovered in Berlin — and Hemingway used them. apparently.

Not that such twee-ness would have stopped me from buying it, but I bought my first moleskine because the book rocks. Got my first one a few years ago when I was seeking a book that could be tucked into the back pocket of a pair of jeans for a then-friend. He needed something slimmer than the moleskine. But I fell in love. (not with him. the book. He revealed his nature to be something less than appealling. That he couldn't kiss was also a big tip-off, despite his vehement wooing and declarations of mad and eternal love and attempts to force me into loving him — this even as I told him I was grieving over the loss of a grand love. Somehow, I was never quite convinced ... )

These moleskines appear to be bound in leather with what is in fact a treated cardboard. They come with lined, squared or blank pages. An elastic to hold it and everything you stuff into it closed. A back pocket for those bits of paper or stamps or random detritus. A book into which you can write anything pithy or amusing or necessary — like the name of that fabulous restaurant or the revelation you had over brandy in that dive bar in Prague (I wouldn't know, never been there) — and which you are sure to always have with you because it is such a convenient, fabulous size.

And now, this initial, original moleskine of mine is scant few pages from being filled.

So, as wake, I have decided to reveal bits of its contents over the next few days.

.. and apparently to reveal how self-involved I am. *coquette grin*

Reading: my moleskine. *smirk*

repulsion + bed = nifty?

A floating bed. How cool. BUT I foresee several problems (like the $2M price tag):
i) the lengthy ties holding the bed to the earth. Not only do they take up a lot of room (which kinda diminishes the low-profile/streamlined appeal of a floating bed) but what happens if one breaks? either an unceremonious dump to the ground or potentially being flung up through the ceiling?
Makes the drama of sleeping on the top bunk seem trivial.
ii) Given the Swedes and WHO have admitted electromagnetic fields do wonky things to humans and tend to impact on health (yup, that includes wireless) sleeping on a big magnet might not be a swift idea.

It is still bloody cool.

Reading: Stalled on Dalloway. Currently trying to ensure I read my eyelids (i.e. exhausted, am I).

salad days

I am not a big fan of salad dressing (which, in my mind, does not include a good homemade mayonnaise. That is definitely enjoyable. Lightly toasted pumpernickel bread. Fresh fragrant tomatoes. cracked black peppercorns. homemade mayo .... *growl*).
Dressing is plain yucky — tends to be overly-vinegary, too heavily applied and intended to mask the nummy goodness of greens and vegetables and fruit and nuts and other delicious things which, in a good salad, come together without the aid of dressing to tantalize and invigorate — sometimes subtly, sometimes in crashing explosions. Two salads stick in my memory as fabulous: a lunchtime snack in Kingston at Le Chien Noir (the only dressing I've ever reallllly liked) and the Manx's consistently inexpensive, fresh (albeit often overly-dressed) sides.

So on the side, for me, to maybe dip the fork tines into.

But today, a discovery; a travesty that far surpasses the ignominy of people preferring the taste of "thousand islands" to fresh produce.

It appears many restaurants serve salads with such a thick, slimey coating of revolting goop because the very ingredients of the salad are noxious!

egad. how does one ruin lettuce??

I am stumped. Bemused. Befuddled. Aghast, even.

Shock.

and Awe.


... ok. nix the awe.

Reading: Franny & Zooey (yes. still.) and about to begin Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway.

Wank, anyone?

England's turn. And an attempt to outdo San Francisco's effort (see post of May 10, 2006).
Now, what would make me watch a televised program of such activity (over, say, choice porn - if I were into such things *ahem*) would be a sketch involving a Ministry of Silly Wanks ... though I guess masturbation is inherently silly.
Still, sad Cleese is past his wanking years.

At someone's request, I will be adding a new feature to my posts — when they occur — on a trial basis: what I am reading. et voilà.
Reading: Franny & Zooey, J.D. Salinger. Enjoying it. That I am yet to finish the teeny thing should give a sense of how bloody tired and incoherent I am.

think

A letter from Chomsky and others on the recent events in the Middle East (July 19, 2006):
The latest chapter of the conflict between Israel and Palestine began when Israeli forces abducted two civilians, a doctor and his brother, from Gaza. An incident scarcely reported anywhere, except in the Turkish press. The following day the Palestinians took an Israeli soldier prisoner - and proposed a negotiated exchange against prisoners taken by the Israelis - there are approximately 10,000 in Israeli jails.
That this "kidnapping" was considered an outrage, whereas the illegal military occupation of the West Bank and the systematic appropriation of its natural resources - most particularly that of water - by the Israeli Defence (!) Forces is considered a regrettable but realistic fact of life, is typical of the double standards repeatedly employed by the West in face of what has befallen the Palestinians, on the land alloted to them by international agreements, during the last seventy years.
Today outrage follows outrage; makeshift missiles cross sophisticated ones. The latter usually find their target situated where the disinherited and crowded poor live, waiting for what was once called Justice. Both categories of missile rip bodies apart horribly - who but field commanders can forget this for a moment?
Each provocation and counter-provocation is contested and preached over. But the subsequent arguments, accusations and vows, all serve as a distraction in order to divert world attention from a long-term military, economic and geographic practice whose political aim is nothing less than the liquidation of the Palestinian nation.
This has to be said loud and clear for the practice, only half declared and often covert, is advancing fast these days, and, in our opinion, it must be unceasingly and eternally recognised for what it is and resisted.
Tariq Ali
John Berger
Noam Chomsky
Eduardo Galeano
Naomi Klein
Harold Pinter
Arundhati Roy
Jose Saramago
Giuliana Sgrena
Howard Zinn
courtesy of Jamie

weeds & murder

stumbled across a show in the wee hours on TV Ontario and am now slightly addicted. Clip here.
The show is remarkably predictable as any mystery story/show; guaranteed in each episode are weeds (since it is about roving gardeners) and up to three murders.
One wonders why anyone ever hires Rosemary Boxer and Laura Thyme since their appearance is a harbinger of death and secrets revealed.
Or is it commonplace in England for people to die suddenly from stab wounds in gardens ... ? Or is that merely the case for those who own manor houses?

Despite this predictability, it's enjoyable. Partly because of the dramatic scenery and filming style hearkening a different time but mostly due to the characterization of the two leads. Trite and soppy as the series may be, the women are women in their 50s-60s(?) with sex appeal lives, character, exuberance, energy, trials, substance and silliness.

So I like it unabashedly — when I stumble across it at 4 a.m.
No, I have no idea when it is on during reasonable hours, so don't ask.

i'm a genius

Ignore the last post; I am not stupid — I am a genius!

I am also exceedingly funny.

but you know this already.

sigh

nothing else to say.

just sigh.
....
I think Ben was right. This is how evil supervillains get formed. Stupid, self-created disappointment. grrr.

*slow forming plotting mischievous grin*

But mine will have inadvertantly sparkling bedroom eyes and an inviting, come-hither, tractor-beam smile as weapons. And fetching lips, of course. *wink*

oh yeah. watch out.

I'll be wearing a black turtleneck, tossing my shiny hair and fascinating the male denizens of the university library, music haunt, dive-y bar and body-of-water near you.

Now all I need is a name and new knee high black boots. oh! and fetching new glasses.

*fumerantachesarcasm*

yeah. i am feeling that .... something. grrrr. GRRRRRRR.

sigh. stupid, am i.

beepa! beepa!

teehee

The Japanese-made honks flourished by Italian fans as they drive down the street, cheering, is kinda reminiscent of the teletubbies.

Sure that's the effect they're after.

B O O M

I didn't believe my colleague when she called into the office and told me there was a monsoon outside and she was concerned about coming back in because she was wearing white bermuda shorts.


She wasn't exaggerating much.

Walking from office to car at 12:20 a.m. (yes, after a 13+ hour shift. on a stat holiday, no less) I became fully drenched. After-Bikram-yoga drenched. Saturated-to-the-level-of-possible-reverse-osmosis drenched.

The frolicsome deluge reminded me of another Canada Day, a fantastic one four year ago spent with a large disparate group of friends culled from our respective offices, university, etc., who met up with plans to see Big Sugar at Majors Hill. At some point, the downpour started. And we were split up — not surprising given our numbers and the massive crowds.

Somehow I found two friends and we managed to find a plum spot to see two songs Big Sugar played until they were booted off the stage because of "safety concerns."

And then, among the thousands upon thousands clambouring downtown for Canada Day, all of our friends converged on this one point at precisely the same time. We were all soaked through, dishevelled, with great stories to tell and big grins on our faces. It was kismet. It was fabulous. It was Canada Day.

So we trekked down Bank Street to Barrymore's where we danced like mad fiends in the crush of otherwise soaked and grinning people far past closing time. [I definitely remember the raw energy of the dancing that night. how sexy and free it all was. Sweaty enthusiastic gyrations greased by gin and surrounding uninhibited friendlines ... bliss]

And this Canada day I will try to forget this year's excessively-long work day and instead remember the funny songs passers-by are making up as they trek back from festivities on the hill in the deluge.

Like the three drunk lads singing "I am soo wet, so very very wet. so wet. so wet. so weeeeeeeet!" off-key, or the man who re-wrote our anthem to "Ohhhh Canada ! You are so very wet! Cold, snow, and rain, what will you dump on us next!" — quite witty given his obvious level of inebriation. Then there are the ubiquitous "Whohoooooooooos" which is, I realized at my first football match in England years ago, a very Canadian sound.

And then there are the "Aaaaaaaaaaaaarghs!" shrieked simultaneously by walkers, drunken runners and neighbours in surrounding buildings as the thunder roars again. [Does thunder roar? Boom?] And then followed by laughter.

It's impossibly loud and right above my flat now. Actually tossed me out of my chair this last time and shook my building. i m p r e s s i v e. louder, it is, than the Snowbirds' fly-by right over my building as I was trying to nap.

Now the storm appears to be moving on.

Despite this fun, my favourite Canada Day remembrance must be the one spent in South Africa. All of mew new friends and acquaintances came to a party I threw, fully embracing the red & white dress code to a level rarely seen in Canada. They showed up wearing every scrap of red and white they could find. If it fit or not. Was clothing or not. They were so sweet and so game. And we BBQd (not braai'd) meat and drank Canadian beer and rye and told stories. And then I asked this varied bunch about their national anthem. Unprompted they all began to sing the new South African national anthem. In harmony. Strangers to each other.

It was one of the most beautiful sounds I've ever heard. These warm people who had kindly gotten into the spirit of the birthday of my home country and were singing a song that obviously meant much to them — strangers from every culture in the country, without practice, singing in harmony. It is a warm smile, that memory. A heart glow.

Until I recall the agonizing shyness when they asked me to sing mine. alone.

Ya know, we need a more tuneful (and easier) anthem. But otherwise, we Canadians rock. Flamboyant weather just adds to our appeal.

insight

1. jazz is amazing.

2. the saxophone makes noxious noises.

3. high school friends appear, a decade or so later, in disparate, unconnected bunches. when you can no longer remember their names (but the details are still ooooh so fresh).

seven in the past week. trés weird.

bed. now. time.