Evensong

Yesterday: late afternoon, late June. The summer being at its blistering best, vicissitudinal music and a lilting tune...

From behind a grey-blue year long curtain of rain, my best friend had emerged: Verlaine. It pains me deeply that he hasn't found a mention on this blog yet. Verlaine and I, we have been inseparable since infancy and circumstance. Ah circumstance! How many times have I traced your peaks and troughs with my fingers, your very variability, your precisions and divisions... A dull acceptance have I learned off of your quirks.

Yesterday: late afternoon, late June. It was just a day, dull and laden with vacationable ennui. Yet anxiety niggled away at the base of my brain, playing the trapeze artist with my brain stem. I always get all hot and bothered before meeting Verlaine, our lives have drifted apart so much that I wonder if we have anything left to say to one another. Each time have I been proven wrong resoundingly, yet each time I am still a little bewildered.

The evening was stretched out against the sky, and I dressed in a worrisome way: why was I so worried?! It's ridiculous! I have known him all my life! Nothing has changed! The dynamic still exists...Dear God!

I stepped into the mall where our fashionable cup of coffee was supposed to take place and, in time, I saw him. Resplendent in red, he greeted me warmly and my fears vapourised. Of course, I have a penchant for botching things up...I gave him an awkward hand-shake! He took it in his stride and we made our way to La Gaufrette. Conversation was easy, quirky, dark, hilarious and, frankly, unchanged. What I find best about my conversations with Verlaine is that we slip right back into the scheme of things very, very easily. Suddenly, that one whole year compressed itself into an errant comma that places itself in a conversation because, just for a minute, something else had to be attended to, and now we're back and talking as if we'd never stopped talking.

There was time for laughter. We laughed a lot. That is what I remember most: full-throated laughter, very unlike the politically correct chuckles that befit our age. Laughter, slicing its way through a thick mist of disillusionment; meticulously scripted deceptions; love, bitter as chocolate; sex, sweet as nectar, the irony of therapy: a monumental rhapsody, set to the strains of laughter. And then there was time for Earl Grey and Mocha with sides of quirk, caprice, mousse and carrot cake:"This mousse. It isn't very good." said Verlaine at one point-

And so the conversation slips Among velleities and carefully caught regrets Through attenuated tones of violins Mingled with remote cornets And begins.

I had missed him. The full weight of how much I had came crashing down on me as the evening drew to a close. We hugged this time, as we probably would have when we met if I hadn't done that ridiculous hand-shake! The evening, it was still stretched out against the sky. A tedious dinner event (that, after this therapeutic rekindling, appeared to me an empty, soul-sucking monster of empty, soul-sucking conversation) waited for my attention. God O God! I wanted to go home and luxuriate in this feeling of overwhelming peace that came from knowing that I still retained that part of my soul which would resurrect itself in Verlaine's presence. Mollified by the sheer decadence of our talk and laughter, I wanted to go home and think of the world, having talked about it for the past 3 hours:

We, that do chisel words like chalices,
And moving verses shape with unmoved mind,
Whom wandering in groups by evening seas,
In musical converse ye scarce shall find,—


Until the next time,
GossipGuy!

Skinny

Having lived the dorm-life for the past year, I lost a lot of my inhibitions and a lot of weight. God knows, I was carrying at least 15 kgs in excess, of which I managed to drop 10. At this point, I am really tempted to lie and say that I found a work-out buddy and we did fun gymmy-buddy things pine fresh in the early morn, followed by a sumptuous (yet healthy) breakfast with an accompaniment of dark, judgmental looks that were cast upon those upon who opted for the delicious 'scone-and-a-latte' option. Now, all I need to do is throw in a clever and ironic Falstaff quote as seasoning and it shall taste just as a perfect, aspartame flavoured weight-loss success story is supposed to.

Of course, I am not going to do this. It's wrong! Not that that has ever stopped me, but, let us face it, the people who know me shall chortle at this Falstaffian approach, and Old Jack does have his pride, though he may be somewhat confounded by what is deemed morally questionable.

The truth is a bit more distasteful than the fanciful (yet false) picture painted above. Oh no no no! There was no frenching the tooth-brush! By distasteful, I mean bland, not puke-escent (totally coined that!). Allow me to eluciadate this by prevaricating the lie:

Item 1: "I found a work-out buddy": Untrue and, in no sane world, could ever hold true, I am a bit too cynical to appreciate the salubriousness of a work-out buddy. Or even a work-out.

Item 2: "Pine fresh in the early morn": I am snorting with sarcastic laughter here! The only times I'd, and pardon my French, drag my slothful ass out of bed "in the early morn", would be in order to make it in time for an 8 a.m. class. I honestly don't know which is the bigger joke here, "early morn" or "pine fresh" because I am not really a happy-"Good morning to you!"-awakening sort of a person. I am bitter and crabby and full of hate until I get that caffeine flowing.

Item 3: "dark, judgmental looks that were cast upon those upon who opted for the delicious 'scone-and-a-latte' option.": This dispels the "healthy, sumptuous breakfast' bit as well because I was the King of SconeandaLattenia (amongst other minor duchys of habit and mind). So yeah, self-hatred can only extend so far!

I find that I cannot run from this anymore: the sad, bland truth is that I basically neglected my meals. Sometimes, I'd eat once a day and that meal may or may not consist of a single (albeit fairly well-sized) bowl of cereal. I am a stress-junkie: caffeine and workahol are the fuels this engine runs on! *slaps rump* Under optimal work-load, I don't need food! This is, of course, a far cry from my 'O' and 'A' Level years as well as my York days when I was eating emotionally. Maybe there is something about college that makes us want to look svelte as we throb between assignments and exams, to bloom during paper season...I shall never understand it!

I cannot help but reminisce about the many weighty conversations that I had with my friends. For three guys and two girls, that is a whole lot of baggage to cart around! Santiago, who, it seemed, subsisted only on beef jerky and copious amounts of soda, would good-naturedly sneer at my crisply placed order of "Diet Coke please." everytime we went out to eat. He would also ruminate over his 'gut'- a gut that, I have firm reason to believe, was only in his mind. I never saw it and I was his room-mate! Punjaban would woefully remonstrate over how much she had bloated in the past few months while I would rush in with quick assurances that she was being ridiculous. This was true, of course, with sensible fashion choices Punjaban always looked unfailingly fresh and stylish. Now, Masakalli, who was by no means fat, a different matter all together! Everytime a lithe young Freshman thing would walk by, Masakalli would launch into a King Lear-esque rant, calling hell-fire, sulphur and brimstone on the aforementioned's perfectly toned ass. This would invariably be followed by a need to work-out and now! Sometimes she'd blame Punjaban for her (that is, Masakalli's) missed work-outs. I, on yet another hand, was petulant and dark about how fat I was: I'd talk about all my nice clothes (an understatement) and how it was unfair to them that they got to adorn such an unflattering frame (an understatement). After venting our respective spleens, we'd all take a moment to hate Baingan, (a mutual friend who looks like anything but an egg-plant) who would work-out each day come rain, shine, sleet, hail or all at the same time (and yes, this has happened!). Hamlet, with his swimmer's build, was the very pattern of patience, he said nothing.

The one factor that makes the aforementioned jeremiad sound like 'The Three Sillies' is that none of us were as disgustingly obese as we thought ourselves to be. Now, that I am back home, I find that I fit perfectly into jeans that I last wore when I was 14. Not that this has humbled me in any way, I guiltlessly shop at stores that I used to avoid because the very mannequins made me want to cut myself, I still stick to 'Diet Coke please' and mournfully order skinny lattes at Starbucks, but perhaps the most annoying habit of all is starting sentences with "Now that I am skinny..." or the lovably humble substitute, "When I was a fatty..." How quickly have I forgotten those days of sucked in stomachs and hurling my mobile phone at the help because she dared to agree with me when I said that I looked fat... I didn't work for this weight-loss, it just happened to me! Oh God, those phrases reek of hubris! I am such a fool! Weight tends to creep back! What must the skinny king do now? Must he purge? The king can't do it! Instead, he shall skip lunch!

Until the next time,
GossipGuy!

Deep, Silent, Complete.

Today is my birthday. Today I cease to be a teenager. My heart is rent, O kind keepers of my decaying age, as this decade tumbles to a close. Perhaps this is a luxury I can ill afford: nostalgia is an accoutrement purchasable only by those who have a few more scores of years in the purses of their minds and bodies. But this decade has been so tumultous, in its variance, how like man! In its hesitance, how like a fallen angel! The story of my teenage years is a story that spans three glorious cities, one vast ocean and packs within it multitudes of dreams and characters who had their entrances and their exits: some who I wished would never leave and others whose backs I was only too glad to see! Dream! How like a dream it does seem!

From a drama-ridden gremlin of 13, quick to tears and suicide threats, I have been moulded into a man. But what man? The sense of drama has not been lost, if anything, it has become more subtle- a far cry from the 'bleeding stump' wailings of a 13 year old voice of unstable pitch and loudness. The dress, the bearings, the carriage, the accent, the speech- all the marks of a man, a grown man who understands his place in the world. But do I, really? The magic has now begun to fade...Read on as I talk of love, regret and solace.

I found love twice in this decade. My First Great Love, my lovely Isobel Ingoldsethorpe, was the Zaara to my Veer. Sure, we may have been of opposed nations, but that didn't stop a life-long friendship to blossom into love. I was never more happy than when I was with her, yet, I was a mere 15 and, when things began to get serious, I withdrew as ungallantly as anyone ever did. Lady Isobel and I could have had a future together, as the years would have passed, our love would have only intensified. I forsook that virtuous diamond! I left that rubicund Rose of Lancaster to wither, as she eventually retreated into Lancastrian folds. [I am not going to phrase this in terms of world affairs as they stand now. It somehow seems appropriate to fashion this as a tale of courtly romance]. I was a fool not to see it, the fact that I could have been happy, despite what anyone would have said! Of course, popular support turned against me and My erstwhile Lady's friends' displeasure manifested itself in several, excruciatingly vocal ways. I will not soon forget the cold animosity that existed between Maraguerite D'Anjou (a close friend of My Lady) and me- animosity that made my 'A' Level year quite hellish at times.

My 18th year saw me return to my Yorkist homeland, where I was as miserable as an exile. Yet, in a moment of play-acting and patriotism did I pass this sentence upon myself. I was too much of a stranger to those lands: they wanted none to do with me nor I with them. Yet, a lot of good came from this migration: I met my spritely Punjaban and I could carve myself a path into the Newe Worlde and potential peace. It was during this time of upheaval whence I struck up a dalliance with the lovely, yet desperately lonely, Katharine of Aragon. While I languished in my Yorkist prison of spring, My Lady lived in a rain-drenched city of her own. Yes, A Long Distance Relationship fraught with frustration and drama, and drenched with tears. Suffice it to say, it ended badly. I was at fault again. We are friends, though, my goodly Katharine and I, but we all know what that means...

Now, at 20, I have many joys to behold: Santiago, the best room-mate in the realm; Hamlet, my soul-brother; Lyra and Prince Stepan, who I love dearly despite not knowing them long; Punjaban and Masakalli who are the sun and the moon to this piece of earth that is my body; Charles Ryder, who enchants and delights with his quick wit and clever quirks; Verlaine, my Official Best Friend who carries a piece of my soul with him; Signior Benedict, who is in possession of another bit of my soul, for he built me up when I was down...There are many others who I have not mentioned, but love just as fondly. My relationship with Prince Hal, my real brother, has lost its acrimony and has become one of mutual respect. I am a good son.

But, today, I shall finally come up and embrace the facts that I will never be a doctor or a man of letters. Given that I lacked the courage to make such major changes in my seemingly perfect life, I had always hoped for an omen or a portent that would compel me to. None came, and 'tis just as well. Mayhap, I shall never be good boyfriend material: my humours are too mutable, too unstable. I shall relinquish my idylls of Courtly Romance to the jaded generation after me that needs these more than ever. Now, at 20, I shall finally step through the mirror into the Real World and embrace as if it were my own. Evading it seems stupid now, at this age, the sparkles are dull in their twinkles- a sure sign to me that they were only of my imagining: no-one will give up these honours and start from scratch. No-one shall be whisked away by love. No magic. And, as I burn away the ambrosia of these fairy toys, these antique fables, I shall, in the words of the King I fashion myself after, 'forget what I have been, Or not remember what I must be now!' Nay, not the latter, it sounds too fantastical, too much of a conjuring humour. After all, At seventeen years many their fortunes seek;
But at a score it is too late a week:

Until the next time,
GossipGuy.