17.12.06
the shadow of the wind
Daniel Sempere reveals the mystery surrounding author Julián Carax in this lyrical novel of words, people, and the impossiblity and tragedy of love as it could only befall the lovelorn. Barcelona is seen through an amber tainted lens, conjuring a sepia toned vignette of a city decades in the past, where pesetas still exchanged hands for a plate of mouth-watering tapas and a cool glass of sangria. Dusty rotundas and filigreed lamp posts are strewn throughout the book and often bring about the vision of Barcelona's La Sagrada Familia and Antoni Gaudí's architecture to mind. But then, often enough buildings and landscapes are overshadowed by the characters that rise out of the pages and embed themselves in your mind – you can't stop thinking about them and what should happen next until you find that you've turned every last page in the book and you've come to the satisfying end beneath
The Shadow of the Wind. If only I could read in Spanish – the satisfaction might far outweigh that of a delicious plate of tapas at a real Spanish restaurant, somewhere in Barcelona.
If you're ever in a city where
Bodies is exhibiting, GO SEE IT! It's a scientific and awe-inspiring wonder how a body can be preserved, peeled and cut up just so, so that one can marvel at the inner workings of the human body from birth to decay. From the intricacies of the framework to the anomalies that can deform, the show is entirely worth the $25, even though all I could think of was slices of meat – pork ribs, flank steaks, bone-in-ham – not that it made me hungry, it just reminded me of cutting up meat for the grill and the thought wasn't all too appetizing; especially after seeing what a scarred cirrohtic liver could look like whithering away in the cavity of a rib cage. It's absolutely fascinating how far technology and the human body have evolved to allow us a glimpse into form and function, and yet, it's even more amazing how many humans still cannot seem to grasp the simplicity of the words "No cameras".
5.12.06
never, ever quite
Obverse. Reverse. The other side. The Other. Not the One but the Other. The words echoed. Empty room. Why was she always just someone else? The only time she wasn't was when she was mistaken for someone else. In a crowd, when eyes scanned the humanscape of faces, eyes resting on her, determining, processing, pulling memories of faces, names, places, and her face seemingly matched another's except her own eyes were just a little off; a bit too wide apart, otherwise she could have been the One. Always passed up for another person, more fun, more friendly, more hip, more cool. She was the kind that would spend Friday nights at home in her apartment in pajamas wondering what to do with herself, then eventually watching hours and hours of TV in color and then in sappy old black and white, withering until the impressions of her elbows and the back of her head were permanently embedded on the couch, and she had fallen asleep with her glasses on. Then it would be Sunday evening as she was throwing out the rest of her dinner that would never be eaten by anybody else and she wondered where her weekend had gone. The days would spin and spiral up into the towers of the city and she would come down from the eaves in a daze, lost, bewildered and still, nothing had changed. She was still just someone else. A body lost in the surging sea of life that heaved and hiccuped on the dirty streets that could barely hold them all. Legs scurrying up stairs, across stations, into train cars. Hands holding onto hand rails and hand bags. A face distantly familiar, but never, ever quite.
She held onto her shopping bag tight. Or, she could just let go and let it drop to the floor. But the train lurched forward before she could decide, and someone was an inch away from her face, trying to right himself as the train gained steady speed. He whispered an apology then went back to ignoring her. The advertisement flickered past on the soot-black walls of the tunnel. Even that had a distinct face down in the dank, musty underground of the city. People would remember it as they emerged from the bowels, thinking that they would like to buy a car rather than take the grimy train again. She would come up into the air along with the rest of the crowd, and it was as if the stairwell had vomited a steady stream of people on the rush hour commute, and none of them would ever remember her again. She trudged home to an indistinct building, in a barely perceptible neighborhood, to one of many identical studio apartments, and opened the door to a cul-de-sac of dinner, shower, television, quiet, solitude and sleep. The next day she would leave and come back and do it again. There was once another life. Far different from this one, but it was only distantly familiar, though never, ever, quite.
3.12.06
The Usual Table
This would have been their usual meeting place. A table in the far corner of the room, secluded from the wafting cigar smoke and the boisterous laughter every now and then gurgling from the throat of some large man making a joke. There would be the soft clink of glasses and tableware as they enjoyed an avocado cocktail filled with tiny pink shrimp and creamy mayonnaise. They would order wine and smile at each other as the vine juice stained their lips with a sparkle of wetness. She would see that smile covered with Viva Glam lipstick; so red, so bright under the dim thus intimate restaurant lights, spreading wide across her face. Every now and then she would taste those Viva Glam lips across the table, and it had felt to her like fire, fire engine red, a burst of flames consuming her tongue, saliva, and wine-stained lips; lipstick the taste of caramel popcorn.
The table is now smaller, more cluttered, with the usual apple green table cloth and avocado cocktail taking up her eating space along with the usual glass of red wine; her lone body toasting no one in particular. The clink of glasses and tableware is not so subtle, but more sharp than usual, and the avocado cocktail is easier to eat, as she stuffs her mouth with the green fruit and tiny pink shrimp covered in heavy, thick mayonnaise. She wipes her mouth and lipstick stains the table napkin.
The usual table is secluded, intimate, away from prying eyes, away from anyone that might recognize her and wonder why she is alone on such a fine evening out. She feels a new kind of intimacy as she stares at her reflection in the glass pane across her table and smiles as she thinks about those Viva Glam lips and the taste of caramel popcorn on such a fine evening out.
