Archive for September, 2007


The World in a Chocolate Induced Haze

*Ping* *Bling* and *Ding*

These are the wonderful sounds my mature little heart makes at the wondrous advent of a new crush to stalk. Given my horrendously awful luck at managing crushes and men in the real world, am reverting to the teen stylings of having your heart stop and then pitter patter or does it go boom boom at an alarming rate when your favourite singer or movie star came on screen. (Oh stop it with the grow up and so mature looks! You still do it too!)

And what I’m about to share with you is absolutely critical in its importance. It is ‘Crush – Revisited’ and I am not talking about my neighbour. Will you please grow up! After reading what men in the real world are like on so many blogs and having seen some sterling examples of errr- manhood in my own life with my own two eyes, this option is so much safer… I can drool all I want, dream mushy nonsense, listen to his voice humming sweet nothings in my ear and best of all having the option to turn him off when it gets old…

So anyway, this takes me back a good ten years if not more… I remember reminiscing about Take That and the combined affect of twelve music and boy crazy girls dancing in a room to their music. For complete non-music-iers, think back to where you first saw Robbie Williams. You should get something and if not, google it! And if you’re snobs who were born listening to music reinvented rather than boy bands, you’re lying through your teeth but that’s your issue…

As I was saying, back in those days while my friends picked Robbie for being oh so cute, I found myself looking for Gary Barlow, whose main claim to fame was his absolute inability to dance, his tendency to look a little lumpy and his to die for lyrics that bordered on sappy… (Hmmmm, I wonder if it was just a case of kindred spirits????) It was probably his voice on ‘Back for Good’ and ‘A Million Love songs’ that would force me into that countenance of sitting with my arms around a pillow, head cocked to a side just letting the words wash over me.

And then of course, the band split up and my friends and I shared heart felt sighs of griefs, kissed the covers of the cassettes and moved onto other things. There was always the occasional drift like when Gary Barlow came out with his solo album and I fell with a thud! Irrevocably for sure! (I saw that look too!) But it was one song that has stayed with me in the time since then, and every time I hear it, I melt into a puddle of goo or kind of want to, anyway. It is mushiness at its absolute worth, the proverbial clichéd warbling of a boy so in love with a girl, it makes you sick but what a way to go….

What caused the revival, I don’t really know. I think it was just another countdown on just another music channel going over the top boy bands ever, and Take That was number 3 with a song that I hadn’t heard before. And there he was, looking older, still chubbier but the voice was the same and if I discount my growing up over the last ten years, he’s not bad at all… So here I’m thinking, how did that happen??? So armed with what I didn’t have ten years ago, Google and a night free internet account, I searched and came up with the news that there was a reunion of sorts and they had an album too or was that two. Khair, with the gracious help of e-mule, esnips and all these other pirating websites, I’m pretty sure I have most of the songs and some videos too…

*Sigh* And this is the max of troubles that crushes can cause. The hassle of finding out all the what ifs and hows of the ‘private’ lives of our favourite celebs. But thanks to the internet and the brilliance of a mind screwed and hell bent on getting the wrong kind of action, everything is now a few clicks away. And all one needs to do is to organize the latest proof of their psychological stability into accessible folders and you are set till you start seeing the wrinkles beneath the cake of make up, the plasticity of the expression, the utter poppycock that is the gist of what they have to say and of course the dawning realization that babe, for you this is the extent of their reality. And then, you move on. The folders are formatted, and a new search ensues for that look that will make your heart wander or for that voice that’ll pull you away from the troubles of your world.

Compared to what I’ve seen and heard in real life, I’d rather deal with this. One of my friends commented on my juvenile state of mind by telling me whether I knew that he was happily married and had kids too. What she was hoping to get from that, I’m not sure… What she did get was a blasé comment from me along the lines of so what else is new? I mean lets face it. When we were young, and our hair did not have split ends, we knew that the good ones were all married. That fact has not changed and is not liable to either. Besides, not like I’m looking to get married. What was it that I read on facebook today? “Single women cannot fart! Women get an ass hole when they get married…” Or something like that…

Can anybody else tell I’ve had chocolate today? The family went out for Iftar today and my li’l bro, being a total dah-ling treated me at The Gelatto Affair afterwards to the inexplicable joy of feeling lush, smooth, sinfully rich, dark chocolate melting in my mouth, spoon for glorious spoon… My nose is still tingling with the aroma of warm, sensual caramel that the coffee accompaniment was laced with… I am probably the closest to my personal idea of bliss right here… All I need to truly make me happy, is if I could find a chocolateer willing to fashion me a Gary Barlow for my own personal indulgence…

If I could have a Gary Barlow fashioned in chocolate, I think I would probably be the happiest woman in the world…


Confessions (And then Some) of an Almost Thirty Gym Virgin: Page 4

I know I’ve lost a little bit of weight and on its own merit, going to the gym every other day is kind of fun. At least I’m not clutching my stomach and panting after 15 minutes on a treadmill or an exercise bike but man, the crunches still hurt. I wonder if that’s God’s way of telling me that it’s my tum tum that needs the most work. I’ve been a good girl for most of these last 2 weeks but have thrown all goodness to the proverbial wind during my 3-day tryst with a migraine.  Although, for me this is heredity, my head has never quite thundered with the frequency that it has been showing for the last month or so.  It has got bad enough that I was forced to skip fasts and ingest capsules the size of mini-torpedoes every six hours to maintain a semblance of normalcy.  Unfortunately, this loss of fasting, combined with an inexplicable slump in my energy level is making me feel blah enough to indulge in a bit of binging.

*Sigh*  I’d love to say that I am so toeing the line as far as my diet is concerned but the half empty box of Pringles in my cupboard and scrunched up wrappers of Lindtt testify otherwise.   The bad thing is that I’m not eating muh otherwise.  I was worried my bulimia is back since I’m not quite retaining what I eat but according to an article I read on MSN on the subject, I am probably more in the category of women who ‘purge’ rather than being bulimic.

The difference being that bulimics tend to overeat before forcing themselves to throw up whereas people who purge may not necessarily eat their fill, let alone go overboard before letting it out.  But to revert, that can’t be good.  If I’m fasting on 2 slices of brown bread and not keeping those down while staying hungry all day; having fruit for iftar and not being able to digest that and then eating crisps and chocolate at 9pm at night before sending them the same vile, disgusting way, it really can’t be good.

I read something on my babe sis’s blog today that totally wrenched my insides and tore me apart.  Do I sound melodramatic?  I’m sorry but it was just one line that she wrote

“We all day dream about bumpin into the one who hurt us. You imagine sayin all kinda stuff to make them…making him see what he missed out on….I have many unanswered questions…and what hurts most…is not knowing if he ever did …love me…I am beginning to believe now that he didn’t.”

Okay, so it’s more than a line but you see, it said so much.  She still hopes for something.  She’s still wistful and she’s still hurting and whatever she’s written tells me that she knows that those hopes will not come to fore even if she does see him again…  She knows he’ll hurt her again but she’s exonerating him by still thinking to herself that he did it because of some self sacrificing nobility.

Babe, I’m not writing this to make light of your feelings.  It’s just that tt reminded me of myself not so long ago…  Every insult, every form of abuse hurled at me, was for my own good and oh so worthwhile for one minuscule moment of being held by him even when that embrace of a refined form of torture…  And I excused it, welcomed it wanting to see one instant of pleasure in me in that face that was now that I think of it usually mocking and cruel…  I never did see it.  Hindsight being what it is and knowing what I know now of all that transpired before my wedding to him took place, there was nothing noble in his intentions towards me or the relationship that fate forged between us.  I was a means to an end and I made it so easy for him.  For that one year, one month and twenty-seven days, my only reason for being was target practice for him.

And the sad part is, when it was over, my sleeping and waking moments all were spent devising various scenarios similar to the one sis has described.  *Sigh*  I wonder if that is just part of our tribute to our own trampled prides; a way to get back some of which they took from us?  A poem I refer to whenever I sink into that pitiful pit of pessimism recalling all that wasn’t, kind of helps…


Go — I from my soul disclaim thee,

Mine I never more shall name thee;
By the love that thou hast slighted,
By the joy that thou hast blighted,
By the fairy visions vanished,
Ingrate! go, forever banished!


By the promise vainly spoken,
By the heart thou wouldst have broken,
Did not strength of soul sustain me,
That I mourn not but disdain thee,
Go, forever from me driven!
Go — forgotten — not forgiven!


When thou findest all around thee
Faithless, worthless, as I found thee,
Thou shalt learn the worth to measure
Of the heart thou wouldst not treasure;
But in vain thy soul’s repentance —
Irrevocable the sentence —
Go, forever from me driven!
Go — forgotten — not forgiven!

– Broken Ties – The Romance Of The Ring, And Other Poems by James Nack –


Red Bubbles of Thought

I always saw, I always said
If I were grown and free,
I’d have a gown of reddest red
As fine as you could see,

To wear out walking, sleek and slow,
Upon a Summer day,
And there’d be one to see me so
And flip the world away.

And he would be a gallant one,
With stars behind his eyes,
And hair like metal in the sun,
And lips too warm for lies.

I always saw us, gay and good,
High honored in the town.
Now I am grown to womanhood….
I have the silly gown.

The Red Dress – Dorothy Parker

It is the most shockingly, flagrantly flaming shade of pure red that I have ever seen.  It shines and gleams with a life of its own even as it lays on the pristine, paleness of my bedsheet.  It escapes all the common metaphors of being fire-engine or a tomato or a cherry.  It’s not even the red of a rose in its prime nor the deep red of a drop of blood.  It is this well of colour oozing just this side of crimson almost bordering on that edge where colours fade into black but its red.  It is the colour guaranteed to make people stop and look if simply to try and align themselves to the sheer shock of the hue bright enough to tint all things around it.

It is a stunning display of all things considered taboo; whether you wish to look at it in terms of so blatantly asking for attention while doing away with the conventions of the day.  Wasn’t this the colour when worn had ladies of the ton in 17th and 18th century Europe to fan themselves, scandalized and gave birth to a thousand whispers that could cement the woman’s reputation as being questionable?  Yet it was this self same hue that was a mark of all things sensual and tempting… Maybe that’s where the pictorial aspect of the devil in a red suit complete with horns and a tail came through…

But to get back to this!!!  This appears to be poetry in motion.  It flows and floats and drapes where it lies almost caressing the surface below.  I was reminded of an oil painting I saw a long time ago depicting a sheikh’s opulent lifestyle even in the cruel parsimony of the desert where the inside of a tent was veiled with flowing gauzes of silks and lace to lend the illusion of the most decadent grandeur.

And it’s all mine.  Oh, I am so looking forward to getting this stitched.  In case, you haven’t figured it out, I am talking about my most glorious purchase in ages.  This silky, smooth wonderful bolt of cloth shaded the most wonderful, gorgeous, startling red.  It’s the kind of thing that needs no adornment, no fancy cuts to add to it.  All it will need is a tailor who can manage simple, straight lines and a ‘newly refined’ silhouette thanks to drastic weight loss. 😀

Did I say All it will need…?  The weight loss might be managed but heaven help me, where will I find a tailor who will actually do as he/she is asked rather than trying to showcase their unseen talent… 



“When I am with you, we stay up all night.
When you’re not here, I can’t go to sleep.

Praise God for those two insomnias!
And the difference between them.”

Jalal ad-Din Rumi


Of Words…

“Words mean more than what is set down on paper. It takes the human voice to infuse them with shades of deeper meaning.
Maya Angelou

But what happens when that voice is a lie…  The emotions false and their intention deceit and malice?  What if the words are there but the eyes belonging to them are hard and cold and the mouth twisted with the wrenching need to assuage the savage beast that is the pride of a man?

Words!  I am always believed in their power and known how to use them.  Yet, when it came down to the acid test, I realized that words alone can cloud your good sense and take away that part of you that has to look behind them.  I allowed myself to be played a fool because I took the words on their face value discounting the mockery in the face and the cruelty in the mouth that uttered them.  The beauty of those words belied the harsh and ugly reality that lay behind them…  And snuffed out the screams of my own conscience long enough for me to become embroiled in something that would forever change the way I looked at them…


A Different Diary…

I’m not happy today…

My arms hurt and my legs hurt and my shoulders feel heavy and my neck is stiff and my stomach hurts… And something inside me is kind of in knots! Am looking for an opportunity to just bawl my eyes out for no reason other than that I think I need to. I do that occasionally. I sit like I used to when I was younger with my arms up around my knees and my head down and I weep. Somehow the drama of crying into my pillow at night has never appealed. Yuck!! Imagine sleeping on a wet pillow…

It’s odd. I was thinking the other day that even when I feel hurt or I am in a bad place, I get angry first. When the hurt is fresh and my emotions thrust me right into the eye of the storm, I rant and I rage and I have the capacity to tear off strips of a person let alone the poor inanimate objects around me, both verbally and physically. I am excessively aggressive and quite physical in my expression, good or bad. I can admit without a qualm that in a rage, I am a very difficult person to deal with. Look at this in light of what I said before and I came up with the startling revelation that I’ve never cried in front of my friends. And I’m not talking people I’ve known for a year or two. I am talking about women who I got to know on my first day of school when I sauntered into KG in a chic red velveteen dress, complete with red shoes and red cherry bows in my two long ponytails off-set wonderfully with my red lunch box. It’s been twenty-three years that I’ve known them. They could probably count on the fingers of one hand the times they’ve seen me cry and all of those times would relate to our time in school… And no, their memories are not quite so faulty, nor so old yet. My post-crying face is actually the stuff blackmail is made of, thanks to a pink nose that clashes with the streaks the tears leave on my equally pink round face. Ugh! My life’s mortifying moments have been those where I have been forced to face people who’ve seen me cry.

But to get back to it, they’ve seen me screaming and raging and swearing the house down. Certainly many of them have had to physically restrain me from doing ‘any more’ damage to somebody and they’ve seen me take my room apart a considerable number of times. And when the lightening show is over, I shut up completely. No voice, no sound – I am ice, baby! Sure, they sit for a while and talk and I am the unflappable, logical, pragmatic, very realistic person who will call a spade, a spade and then tell them what they need to do to dig with it. I sound like a saint when I talk to them. They’ll try to pussyfoot around the issue and I’ll look at them and grab the issue by its proverbial horns. Truth be told, I still don’t know whether I do that to shock them or simply because I’ve always believed that problems don’t vanish. They’re there and good or bad, easy or hard, torture or bliss, you have to look at them, to see them as they are, on their own merit so that you can deal with them. The jaundiced versions, nor the ones with the pretty rose coloured glasses don’t help. They don’t. Eventually, in order to sort anything out, you need to look at it in the cold, harsh light of day and at the risk of repeating myself call a spade, a spade.

I have no idea where I’m going with this, so don’t ask please. I doubt I have an answer to satisfy myself even.

I guess it started with wondering why I chose to call my blog ‘Tears of the Moon’. Besides the fact that it is the title of a Nora Roberts’ book that I really liked, the phrase appealed to me on a more basic level. The moon has that quality, doesn’t it? Of being visible, of following routine every night that comes, yet its solitude remains intact at the very essence of what it is. For all my yens of being a ‘people person’, when it comes down to the heart of it, I actually like the being alone part.

I wonder if it’s because I now believe that only you can wipe away your own tears. Tears hold so much of what you are inside and precious for that reason alone. Most people who we end up crying in front of, are the ones who are behind those tears in the first place. Yes, that we allow them to drive us to tears is our own admission of helplessness and their power over us. There is a part of me that thinks that had I grasped the courage and actually slapped a certain person’s face the first time he crossed the bounds of our relationship as decreed by Allah as was my first instinct rather than following the tried and tested and failed path of female subservience, compromise and general misplaced belief in give and take, I would never have had to face the indignity of feeling the sting of that very slap on my own person…  And I don’t think I mean it metaphorically!

‘Nuf said!!


Confessions of an Almost Thirty Gym Virgin: Page 3


I felt the crunch today.  Each and every one of those 40 movements down half-way and hold; and up and down and up and hold; made my innards turn and squeak loud enough to drown the excessively loud thump that was passing as music in the gym.

I reaffirmed the fact that I enjoyed the treadmill but lingering from yesterday’s 20 minute stint on a bicycle that got me nowhere was the very literal pain in my ass which made today’s twenty minutes seem like a never ending hour.

And fasting from tomorrow.  Gosh, but I love Ramadhan.  It can easily be my most favourite month in the whole year.  There is something so restive about it, something that calms you from within provided you allow yourself to feel the spirituality that fasting actually is supposed to entail.  Abstinence not from food, and not for starvation’s sake, but for allowing us to recover from the excesses that we indulge in for the rest of the year.  It is the Islamic version of a detox diet that actually has associated rewards more than the correction of your overworked digestive system.  Fast once and earn material and spiritual rewards!

Right now, my concern is ensuring I’m not tempted by the site of the golden, buttery, flaky discs that my mama serves up in the form of the world’s yummiest parathas at sehri time.  I’ve taken a step by telling her not to include my share when kneading the dough.  *sigh* the thought of brown bread or weetabix at sehri is so strange.  Oh well… The thought of managing to avoid putting on weight is one heck of a motivator as all the reasons that Psyched recapped most eloquently when commenting on the last page of my gym journal. 🙂

How I’m going to manage gym?  Whether in the morning with a roza or in the evening on a stuffed full stomach after iftar are more decisions bugging me.  But we shall see what the dawn brings on the morrow.  For now, am content and happy with the advent of Ramadhan and looking forward to making an effort to celebrate it like it deserves with sincerity and good faith and reaching back towards the basics of who we are supposed to be.

Ramadhan Mubarak everybody!  May it bring you and your families the goodness and blessings it entails along with the peace and serenity that is so absent from our routines in today’s world!  Bless you all and bless me too! 🙂  Ameen!


Confessions of an Almost Thirty Gym Virgin: Page 2

Ow!  Ow!  Ow!

From the way, I passed out on my bed an hour ago, a sane individual would have doubts about whether I was alive or not but each of creaking, moaning, groaning, joints, cartilages, muscles, ligaments, tendons bears testimony to my being very much alive.  I swear I never knew I had so many body parts that could hurt quite so individually…

I have learned today that there are worse things than the possible embarrassments you imagine.  I did not fall on the treadmill as per my worst case scenario, instead I found myself on my back, trying to lift up without lifting my head.  I failed miserably and to my mortification, for the set of 25, I had to rely on the trainer’s assistance to actually move the apparatus so I could complete the movement.

Even worse, I always thought I so knew how to twist.  However, put me on a machine to do this and for 10 minutes, you will watch a trainer come up to me and tell me to try and complete the movement without moving my shoulders.

Oh, the agony!  But strangely, there’s a sense of deep accomplishment.  After months of inactivity, I completed an hour of pretty rigorous exercise without bursting into tears.  This may work out after all.  (I hope!)

According to my own assessment, I am nearly 15 kilograms over my desired weight and no, you cannot have the figure just yet.  Provided I manage to stick to my diet and exercise in Ramadan, starting on Friday, I hope to lose at least half that in one month.  I was thinking if I could manage to lose 4 kilograms in 2 weeks without the gym and just watching what I eat, the target is not too unmanageable.  Besides, it is now a matter of pride for me to lose weight.  I now have an ongoing bet to  be lighter on chand raat than I will be tomorrow with a family friend.  He had the gall to laugh in my face when I told him I wouldn’t be eating pakoras for iftar this year.  And then, the icing on the cake was his remark after the bet that his prayers will now be focused on my putting on weight rather than the reverse.  uffff!!  Men!!  I am finding them highly intolerable these days in any capacity.  And to think I was holding his 11 month daughter in my arms at the time… I was so angry I could have thrown the kid at him – and the way I’m feeling now, if it had been a son, I probably would have done so.   Needless to say, the satisfaction of my honour now rests on my dropping pounds.

The sad thing his that bhai’s laughter makes sense.  For some odd, incomprehensible reason, the link between pakoras and fasting is probably deeper than between Tarawih and fasting.  What is it about these deep fried, spiced morsels of chick pea flour mixed with potatoes and coriander and onions and spinach that just drives me to keep reaching long after I am full.  It is a disease honestly, to look at food still on the dastarkhwan, and just compulsively reaching for it.

May the Almighty Allah help me in remembering that this Ramadan is more about pleasing Him, and remaining healthy rather than about parathas, samosas and pakoras…

In other news, I think I’m going to buy myself a treadmill.  I love that machine.  Any takes on possible purchase in Isloo?


Confessions of an Almost Thirty Gym Virgin: Page 1

I’m terrified.  I am shaking in my boots and weak in the knees.  I am besieged by visions of falling flat on my face on a treadmill and being pulled into it and becoming the  walkway as I’ve seen in so many cartoons.  Pictures run amok over the wide screen in my head of machines breaking down as I pass by them, of people staring in horror at my bulk and of fainting dead away simply at the thought of facing the horror of an hour’s workout.

Ugh!  All that talk about a healthier lifestyle on BBC Food has addled my wits and souped my brain.  What was I thinking?  I cannot exercise on a regular basis.  It goes against all of my slovenly, sloth like behaviour carefully cultivated over the last ten years or so.  The years before that don’t count because I had energy to spare despite every day evening sessions of harassing the sector’s dogs and other entities on my lime green ten speed and beating the pants off my brother at badminton and roller skating to the central market at the drop of a hat.

And now, I look in the mirror and I see a cupcake…!  That wouldn’t be so bad since compared to some of the sizes in my family, I would be a bite sized morsel.  The ignominy comes in when you look at my dear mama who despite giving birth to 4 kids and in her fifties barely weighs fifty-two kilograms which sits quite wonderfully on her very petite frame of 4’10” (masha’allah!).  She still watches what she eats.  I watch what I eat too but that is usually just tracking the progress of the food as it makes its way to my mouth rather than keeping an eye on what I am eating and what my consumption has been.

Unfortunately, at my advanced years, it is not quite possible to trim myself down by starvation.  The point that I cannot live on grass and beans for the rest of my life has nothing to do with it.   I love food.  And maybe I have a few Italian genes because I adore pastas and spaghetti and cheese and pizza…  Besides, I’ve learned over the past few years that every time I’ve lost weight by drastically cutting out foods, I’ve regained that weight a few times over and in less time than before.  The one time I maintained an ideal weight for 2 years or so was the one time in my life that I was diagnosed bulimia caused by severe clinical depression so that’s not something I want to return to, no matter how high the temptation to lose weight.

The one way I can actually see this work is by following a guideline of my own making with the help of some suggestions taken from my favourite food channel.  Unfortunately, the one thing I don’t get enough of and would love to keep ignoring is exercise.  I am a slacker with a reasonably low attention span which just makes it so convenient for me to drop off any regular exercise that I may be getting.  It may be tempting the devil but some of you may remember my last winter’s walks motivated by a certain neighbourly situation.  That didn’t last so long and unfortunately, my walking routine fizzled out to a great big nothing and the 8 pounds I’d lost came back as 12.

So, I am taking myself in hand and tomorrow evening, without my mama to hold my hand shall venture into the world of the gym.  I went today just to check things out and saw all these ladies on machines working out with a single minded focus but looking like they were having fun.  In an adjoining room, ladies of various ages and sizes were heaving, laughing, panting their way through a rigorous aerobics routine.  Tomorrow I shall be one of them… provided I remember to buy a new pair of trainers…


I’m cleverer…

There are days when I just want what I’m feeling to appear in front of me in words as random and as rapid as they are inside. And yet, when the words come they seem strangely inadequate when compared to the tumult that storms within. In one way perhaps this ‘inadequacy’ is what lends coherence and recognition to what is really going on inside. Ultimately, it just may give us that perspective, whose loss causes us to flounder and scream in panic – that realization of losing control, of facing something that seems so much bigger than what we are, and of our own mortality birthing a sense of helplessness in our own lives.

Sometimes we need to reduce that larger than life manifestation of our nightmares to a statement completed in five words with no word extending beyond 2 consonants to deal with it on its own merit.

I was at an uber-formal dinner party today or was it last night, where the word is pronounced with a distinct flair that makes me somehow think of a pate served on a pathetic bed of fronds for an exorbitant amount at a restaurant whose name I would need an interpretor to even think about enunciating and whose menu would be posher than my fanciest sari. Has anybody else noticed how somehow saris have become the staple apparel for an appearance that is designed to project one as the epitome of an elegant, high-powered female who is completely in control of her life even when everybody can see the craggy edges where her world fell through on various occasions? Or maybe it is just me recalling watching another me sitting at that table, raising a toast to my impeccable persona.

I guess nobody else could see the mockery on my face as I watched at how polished my performance was. I was the epitome of a blasé, bored, cynical career woman who had moved on from such catastrophe. Nobody else saw the sharp edge of my own smile when I was likened to a phoenix rising from the ashes.  And for sure nobody knew how I was itching to mash my dinner companion’s face into the bowl of soup that he kept blowing on before drinking it.  Somebody apparently forgot to tell him that it was cucumber soup served cold.  And I did not enlighten him either…

Revenge is best served cold too or so I’ve heard.  My temper flares too hot and too quick for me to even contemplate a refrigerated version of what I dole out.  Not that it matters much when I get through.  I was wondering if it’s because the cold would allow the context of the revenge to be preserved and hence more rewarding for you whereas heat would turn it to dust just that bit more easily.

But coming back to why I was thinking of words, and expression and the par-tay.  I was walking away from the table with a friend of mine, this one definitely more tolerable, and reaching the entrance of the dining hall, just turned my head and waved good bye to the others back at the table over my shoulder and in turning back surprised this strange look on my friend’s face at my gesture.  His sheepish grin and just the overall affect of his face made me think of something I’d read in a book some time back…

” ‘…. You know, it’s not a man’s gesture, it’s a woman’s gesture.  By this gesture a woman invites us: come, follow me, and you don’t know where she is inviting you to go and she doesn’t know either, but she invites you in the conviction that it’s worth going where she is inviting you.  That’s why I tell you,  either woman will become man’s future or mankind will perish, because only woman is capable of nourishing within her an unsubstantiated hope and inviting us to a doubtful future, which we would have long ceased to believe in were it not for women.  All my life, I’ve been willing to follow their voice, even though that voice is mad, and whatever else I may be I am not a madman.  But nothing is more beautiful than when someone who isn’t mad goes into the unknown, led by a mad voice!’  And once again he solemnly repeated a German sentence: ‘Das Ewigweibliche zieht uns hinan!  The eternal feminine draws us on!’ “

From Immortality – Milan Kundera

How’s this for a perspective?  What say, suga, psyched and samar?

September 2007