links for 2007-09-26
links for 2007-09-25
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Divorce as opposed to ending cohabitation?
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Fascinating analysis of online social networking.
Dahlia
And now let us resume normal programming, shall we, and pretend nothing happened.
Here is a flower I noticed in someone’s front garden on the way back from taking secondborn to school. Providentially it was both in the sun and could be approached from such an angle as to have something entirely white behind it.
links for 2007-09-24
Squid ink
Secondborn was telling me about his exciting birthday supper last night at a nearby fancy restaurant.
“You remember mussels?”
“Yes, I remember mussels.” It’s not so long since I last ate some.
“Well I had those, and a lovely sauce, and that fat spaghetti stuff, what’s it called?”
“Tagliatelle?”
“Yes, tagliatelle. Anyway it had squid ink in it and so it was black. I think everyone was jealous of what I had.”
Including me. When, I wondered vaguely, might I have such a supper again?
I mentioned this in passing to the shrink.
“And of course there’s nobody to do that for Rachel, to take her out on her birthday, look after her. Ah. That makes you cry,” – the latter remark said slightly triumphantly, I thought, probably because I never cry in front of her.
Of course it makes me fucking cry you fucking bitch. Of course it does. I’ve spent considerably more than half my likely entire life dealing with that thought. Concluding that the answer is because I’m as utterly undeserving and loathsome as I’m told I am. You spend five years telling me that isn’t the case and guess what. There still isn’t anybody there. Only now you’ve taken away my way of dealing with it.
My life is slipping away. Like the leaf I grow old, bruise, discolour, fade, embrittle. How to deal with this terrible wrenching desire for love, for tenderness, and the knowledge that I’m just too fucked in the head, too old for anything for me, just for me.
The pot of basil
I take the pot from the windowsill and carefully cut the last green stems, right at the earth, with the kitchen scissors. There aren’t many – this same small pot has lasted for months but now it is time for it to give up its last harvest.
I put the sprigs into the small blender bowl. Add pine nuts from the stash in an old jam jar at the back of the cupboard – too many for the quantity of basil but I want there to be enough pesto for my helping of pasta. Two small cloves of garlic, and then a third because the first two were so small. I have no parmesan. “Value” cheddar will have to do. Grind in lots of pepper. Drizzle olive oil. Blend, add more oil, blend again.
This morning I fried sausages, eggs, bacon, tomatoes and potatoes at the behest of the birthday boy for his breakfast. Later, in the park, we met with his friends and mine to share cake. “Eight years”, said one, in astonishment. “Eight years ago today”. This afternoon they went for the other half of the birthday, for the “big” presents, the trip to the cinema, the sweet things.
I boil water for the spaghetti and have a protracted inner struggle on the subject of wine. There is one bottle left in the house. Should I open it? If I do will I drink all of it? The pasta is nearly cooked before I lose the struggle and pull the cork, pouring out a single glass but into a receptacle so huge there’s not much more than two thirds left in the bottle.
I mix the pesto into the spaghetti in the bowl rather than letting it heat through in the saucepan on the drained pasta. I don’t want to lose even the small amount that would stick to the side of the pan. I take the bowl and the glass to the sitting room.
This is where, eight years and half a day ago, secondborn greeted the world. Right where my feet are, although there was of course a builders’ plastic dust-sheet protecting my great-aunt’s Persian rug during the process.
Every time I prepare pesto I think of Isabella; or, The Pot of Basil and the poor maiden who died of “heart-emptiness“. I pour another bucket of wine.
Maybe next year I will have tackled the garden, currently overrun with brambles. Maybe I shall plant basil and parsley and mint and coriander, chives and thyme, next to the rampant and untended rosemary bush. Maybe.
links for 2007-09-22
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Craving is the mechanism by which we try to augment and secure our ego-identity by including in it things from “outside” of it. By grasping onto things we like, things which give us pleasure, things with which we wish to be associated, or be seen to b
links for 2007-09-21
Ears and eyes
To Portobello market with snap-buddy Nehavish. She came from India bearing gifts – the most beautiful pair of earrings. Not only are they exactly the right colour, being “my” colour, namely turquoise, they also have little dangly jingly bits. The dangly jingly bits make little bell-like tinkling noises whenever I move my head.
This apparently makes me like an Indian cow. Which is apparently a complement. It also makes me like a London cat. Does this makes me a cow with claws?
While Neha paid attention to my ears I looked into her eyes.
With the occasional ear making it into the frame.
The Portobello set is here.
Still haven’t unmounted the lens. Although it was an unnecessary indulgence (particularly in the current circumstances) I’m so glad I bought it. I think taking pictures is high on the list of things that keep me sane.
frizzyLogic 
