Sound, Fury, Now, Memory

As a Lover of the Eternal City, my mind is constantly seething, and why should it not, really? There are enough espresso tinged antique fables, enough branded fairy toys to take me on so many separate trips that will, at some point, converge. There is also the fact that the Spitsbergen beckons, as I am suddenly inundated with news from friends back there. What fun it is to throb between two such wondrously different lives: one as decadent as rich chocolate and the other bearing the familiar comfort (and snowy whiteness!) of vanilla. And thus, is too much inspiration a bad, bad thing. So much has been going on, I really don't know what to talk about and what to leave out! Seriously, I may have written a dozen drafts before this one and each of them could not do justice to the week I have had! Let's hope that this one hits the mark.

Peek-A-Boo!

Mall-hopping can be quite a trip! I mean that in the acid/meth sense! I can never really bring myself to leave and when I do, I spend several restless days craving just one more hit and, thus, I inevitably find myself throwing a tantrum at Cartier or trying on shoes upon shoes at Aldo: oh, and I am as happy as a clam! The stores, the ambiance: it's a heady, nourishing miasma! The fumes, though invisible, are potent, invigorating, intoxicating and basically the stuff that causes many writers to launch into paroxysms of purple prose. Not me, though. Never me!-I'd totally throw in a 'LOL' at this point, if the stick up my ass wasn't all that far up.

At any rate, this potent, potent headiness that I speak of is also found in the depths of the limpid eyes of, what I like to call, the Peek-a-Boo Girls. My first encounter with the species occurred at The Biggest Mall in the World. There I was, with a group of friends, wrestling with my guilty conscience at Marc Jacobs when I felt a pair of eyes burn into my Marc-ensconced back. That particular expression isn't a cliche for nothing- it really does hold true, I did feel the burn! And it hurt so good...I turned to face a pair of greyish-green eyes illumined with mischief and experience. I smiled, as the Spitsbergen taught me to, the smile was returned! A warbling giggle and a rustle of fabric later, she was nowhere to be seen! O God! O God! What was this? None of my companions seemed to have noticed the exchange but I had to tell someone! I pulled Charles Ryder aside and told him about The Green Goddess (as she was clad in this silky green thing that left just enough to imagination...). Charles nodded knowingly and said, "The City is all about sex, dear boy, but with a twist! It's all about eye-fucking these days: only lookey, no touchey!" Eye fucking?! Intriguing. Very intriguing. I wanted to see more of her! Go again, if you will. But the mall was a vast, vast terrain and having lost her...Oh I wanted to cry and laugh and dance and...I was losing it!

After a major detour that involved Orange Julius and another friend who fell unabatedly in lust with a frat boy's (he sure as hell looked like one!) shanks and followed him around River Island as the rest of us detachedly looked on, I found myself at Ted Baker where I ran into the Green Goddess again: Full beautiful- a faery's child! Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild. My God! We caught each other's eye several times, (Kiss me. Kiss me where your eye won't meet me.), she looked approvingly at the coat I had picked (Oh you know you know you know I love...) and I valiantly tried to look smoulderingly at the dress she caressed (I mean I'd love to get to know you.). With a lingering smile that bespoke a million velleities, she disappeared into the trial rooms, leaving me destitute...on a cold hill's side. Mon Dieu! I'd just been eye-fucked and I'd liked it. Oh God, yes! But now? She was gone! What would become of me?! (No you girls never know, Oh know you girls'll never know, how you make a boy feel.). Apparently, another gentleman in the store had noticed the exchange, a true Tiresias, he gave me an understanding look which seemed to say, "La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!" And when The Green Goddess emerged from Ted Baker, bags in hand, my newfound friend-Mall Tiresias- looked at her with prurience, his hands creating a riot in the pockets of his jeans until he finally whipped out his...cell phone and pushed play: 'Hauli nach, hauli nach kendey mundey tainu, lak tutju pataliye naare!' (All the boys ask you to dance slowly because the sway of your hips drives them wild!). Suddenly, I was Mall-Tiresias! My glitzed up version of 'A Man and a Woman' had suddenly acquired the sordidness of 'Backdoor Sluts IX'. Ew. I decided to join my friends at Cold Stone. If there was ever a time for a smoothie, it was now.

Supah-Dupah!

I love Sichuan cuisine, and having expressed the wish to spice up my palate with some, my parents took me to my favourite Sichuan restaurant in the City: Dynasty. I am fond of Dynasty for various reasons: they don't create a fuss over reservations, the food is lovingly prepared by someone who obviously cares for the cuisine and is just delectable- the understated and unpretentious elegance of the place draws me to it over and over again. Dynasty evenings always sizzle, be it the chilly flakes in the food or the crackling conversation--everyone's a bit drunk so...
At any rate, this evening was slightly different, and the cause? Memory. This time I was more than content to stare at the shadow puppets awnings and think back to a time so very, very different from this one. Back at the Spitsbergen, my room-mate Santiago and I would frequent this rambunctious, pungent (in many ways) establishment called 'Super Buffet'. He had discovered it while we were returning from a grocery excursion. Not a Sichuan place, per se. It was more of a Mongolian grill, but, I could guile them into making me some Mapo Tofu! Loud evenings- such a respite from strait-laced schoolwork and hall government duties- would ensue: a mixture of quips and fuck-yous, political humour and some toilet humour too. Laughter, as thick and heavily spiced as the sauce the tofu luxuriated in. Oh how I missed it all! The performance I'd put on so that the owner would let me carry some of the tofu home, and Santiago would get that look upon the charade with his laughing eyes... This, at Dynasty, was just elegant and where's the fun in that! I missed the 'rave-tastic' music Santiago played in his car on the way back (Are we human? Or are we dancer?), so different from the lilting thumries (a form of classical music) that were played in my father's car. The shadow puppets before me mimed battle, but, on the inside, I was battling my own confusion. What was going on here? Was I <gasp> missing the Spitsbergen? Oh no no no, it was so much simpler than that. It was Santiago who had made those evenings what they were. So no, it wasn't the Spitsbergen, it was my friend who, if he were there, would have even made 'Dynasty' a supah-dupah affair.

"So intimate, this Chopin..."

All this talk of Mapo Tofu proved inspiring enough for me to actually whip some up for a luncheon I had scheduled with Charles Ryder. So I unleashed my inner '50's housewife and set about the task of making onion soup, egg-fried rice with asparagus, mapo tofu, and avocado smoothies. It was exhilarating to 'create' a meal all by myself and, judging by how much Charles enjoyed it, I think I didn't do too bad a job! There was a Wharton-esque feel to the evening: suddenly my high-rise became a New York brownstone at the dawn of the 20th Century and we were two gentlemen, enjoying a meal and wittily talking about the many vicissitudes of life and everything else like it. I have experienced espressos with Charles Ryder many times in the past and the conversation that we've had has flowed as smoothly as the coffee concoctions that easily slipped down our talk-eroded throats. Conversations with Charles are always charged, informative affairs that run the gamut from popular culture to intimate confessions. The theme, that evening, was variation. Remember the diary I mentioned in the previous post? Well, I read out a few sections from it to Charles and all he could say at the end of the recital was, "Who were you?" Who was I indeed! That poisonous, bunch-backed toad of a diary belied the perky (Charles's word) in-control persona I projected at school. Yet, in an inscrutable way, Charles and I used pretty much the same defence mechanisms to keep at bay the chaos that threatened to take over our lives. The only difference was that Charles's battles were infinitely harder than mine....
The realm of memory is a welcoming yet shady place that may somehow show you that what you thought true then had not even an iota of exactitude in it. That is why it is always a good idea to have someone like Charles along when you visit with memory; doing it alone may just dement.

Snow Candy!

My early mornings, though rare, are rather organized albeit cozy affairs: Propped up in bed I nibble on Walker's fantastic shortbread biscuits between alternates sips from a steaming cup of light roast (thanks Charles!), while attending to my correspondences and Facebook things. It was on one such morning that my MSN buzzed and a bright "Hey A!" flashed up on my screen. It was Punjaban! She and I spent a good hour-and-a-half chatting about ourselves, our significant others (mine being the Eternal City!) and just things in general. It was a heartening, almost salubrious exercise for the banter, the persiflage, the memory of snow and eternal cold balanced out by sticky lattes and the warm glow of camaraderie put me in a fantastic mood for the rest of the day. I even smiled at the treadmill rather than glare at it with the usual contempt for five minutes before mounting it. It pleased me to no end that she and Neo were getting along fabulously. They truly deserve each other! Yet Punjaban found herself doing that thing again, that thing when she wonders why Neo chose the beguiling night of her dark tresses over the many sun-kissed blonde ones that were available to him. This never fails to astound both Hamlet and me. Here's Punjaban: funny, sexy, smart and solicitous and Neo is obviously enamoured. Then why question so good a thing? Oh how I miss them all! But Hamlet will be visiting the City soon. More on that another time...

Punjaban, if you're reading this: I LOVE YOU!

R.A. Apprehensions Part II: Rah Rah R.A.!

I cannot wait to be an R.A. Seriously. I am really, really looking forward to it. But I am afraid too: a new building, new people and me. O God, o God...it took a Santiago and a Lyra to get me to emerge from my self-constructed chrysalis and become sociable again. I really don't want to be stiffly formal again! I do it well but I don't necessarily enjoy it. Of course, I've corresponded with many of my co-RA's and my affable hall director, but the apprehensions persist! Last night I had a dream, and promise you won't think me weird, and in it, I was back at my old dorm and there was this Mrs. Danvers-esque person who kept steering me towards the windows and asking me to 'listen to the sea'. Creepy, yes. But a definite improvement over the 'Titus Andronicus' fantasy!

Until the next time,
GossipGuy!

Signs

'Coming Home' is, quite frankly, an over-rated concept. The cinnamon-spiced warm milk of a feeling is something that is the product of bad books and really bad movies! All in all, homecomings are bizarre! Take mine, for instance: my friends have completely different agendas now, some work, some study while they work, others can't return and yet others don't want to... I came home to a brother who is now taller than I am and is a quintessential sixteen year old, read: blithe, apathetic and a wee bit self-centred. Actually, more than a wee bit: a whole lot! The only constants in this world of wildly changing variables are my parents. This isn't really helping, though, because I have changed too! What I once considered charming, even (and I hate this expression) sweet, now seems cloying and fetter-like! Change and its many signs, that was the theme that this sine curve of a week subscribed to.

Diary.

While inventorying my wardrobe and organising my beloved books, I came across an old diary that I had maintained. It was dated back to that transition year between 17 and 18. There amongst a mess of Stephen King paperbacks (reject pile) and Beloved Classics That Improve The Mind (flaunt pile), I began to peruse a life left behind...
Amusedly, I read the first entry: 'Dear Diary, Oh how I abhor that appelation! But really, what else can I go by? Dear Kitty? Oh please!' As I ventured into deeper water, my amusement began to turn rancourous. I most certainly could not have been this...this...creature! He was a hateful snob who had something mean to say about everyone! It embarrasses me to say that I had written some pretty dreadful things about people I was now on excellent terms with! O God, O God! The number of times the term 'fugly bitch' appeared in the text is inveterately frightening! The text was also cringe inducingly loquacious. Sample this: 'I cannot help but abominate that abomination!' Heavens above!
There is no easier way to say this: My old diary is clearly the Burn Book from 'Mean Girls'. I don't even want delve into what that makes me...Strangely enough, in true sine curve fashion, my amusement that had became rancourous now gave way to an odd sense of tranquility. I had turned out alright! That document was proof of that fact! The acrimony and spite had dulled away, or, maybe, had been exhausted in My Year Abroad-Part Une (no, we never talk about that!). Despite this realisation, the diary still haunts me! It sits in my bed-side drawer and I can hear its pages rustle and shift, like the tell-tale heart. And, God knows, this is, in a sense, my tell-tale heart! A part of me wants to dispose of it-murder it ritualistically, sacrifice it to the flames and another part of me wants to hold onto it as a memento of residual angst, a ticket stub from a stomach-turning roller-coaster ride, a reminder that I will never be THAT again. I know not what to do....Advice would be welcome.

Afternoon Tea.
Another day, and I forget which one, I had lunch with an old child-hood friend. I do not use the term 'old' loosely! Her family had relocated to another country when she was seven and I was 10. See what I mean? She was here on that bewildering crusade we all know and love: The Great College Hunt. As I sat across from her, me sipping my jasmine tea and she a macchiato, this line from Henry James' 'The Portrait of a Lady' popped into my head: Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea. I cannot come up with a better sentence to describe the perfection of the moment. In the spirit of the sinuous nature of the week, the moment was that joyous point of inflection that followed the minimum point the initial awkwardness and led to the maximum point of an unconstrained tete-a-tete. For a moment I envied her fresh-faced, wide-eyed demeanour. At one point, I think, I was seeing an anime version of the girl who was gasping and laughing at the stories of my foreign homestead. I suddenly felt more avuncular and less friend-like! My brother and his companions, 16-year-old boys all, have done a great job of making me feel ancient and wise. Intelligent, I may be; wise, I most certainly am not! I'd rather not speak of the 'ancient' bit! This avuncular thought synapsed with my old diary that pulsated with my teen angst which, in turn, led me to wonder about how much she had changed! It was indeed like gazing upon the portrait of a lady! This girl, who used to glide through the corridors of her old house like one possessed, singing Bollywood numbers in a piercing falsetto, had bloomed into a marvellous young woman who had an air of quiet maturity about her. She obviously did not sweat the small stuff and her in-control manner probably made every contretemps shrink back. She was ready for the world, and I, sage as I am, can only wish her all the luck in the world!

Luncheon.

Charles Ryder astounds me. I did lunch with him this very day and it was exactly the kind of thing my somnambulatory existence required. Conversation was slick, creamy but had bite, much like the roux he deftly prepared: wildly different topics flowed into each other with ease akin to the delectable apéritifs that made their way down our parched throats, quirks like the caffeine of the man's mean cappuccino...oh, it was a delight! Ah, but this week is a circuitous bastard and within the swirls of a fudge-covered Baskin Robbins creation lay a dark, dark core. I have compared Charles Ryder to glamourous Gaveston, and as true as this is now, it wasn't always so. We spoke, this evening, of high-school where Ryder was a poorly understood outcast (and understandably so: Gucci and biochemistry seldom go hand in hand, but that's Charles for you!) and Mrs. Manson Mingott who had taken it upon herself to make a project out of him: it was a very public secret, sadly. But Mrs. Manson Mingott, like her namesake, wielded enormous power and influence over our microcosm. I love her! But I also love the way Charles Ryder held his own against her well-meaning yet unwarranted involvement.
"I didn't want to be pitied! I cannot imagine anything worse!" quoth he, as reminisced about those malingering conversations held in the class-room where Mrs. Manson Mingott held court. A tale of woe, repression and yearning studded with facetious jabs of humour (often self-deprecating) made for a sobering experience; thoughts of those tempestuous years when the line between appearance and reality had condensed and all but disappeared, took me back to that spiteful diary which, now, appears as a chronicle of what lay beyond that ornate mask of perfection and a smothering, cannibalistic quietude.

It appears to me now that coming home is not a return to the fold. No. It has more to do with touching base and taking stock. While I inventoried my wardrobe and organised my books, I also sifted through the baggage left behind by those particularly violent years and made note of what had changed, what had disappeared and what had appeared in place...

Until the next time,
GossipGuy!