Saturday, October 9, 2010

For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise

It is a moment of luxurious self-indulgence when one kicks off the covers early on a Saturday morning; to shrug off the temptation to sleep that is so alluring during weekdays and jump out of bed filled with anticipation for an entire day with no claims on one's time except what one may choose to grant. The phone is silent, the city is asleep for a few hours yet, and the very air one breathes is pregnant with the promise of realizable contentment.

A morning jog that was longer than usual, a hot shower on the late-summer morning of a day that was not yet hot but would be shortly, the cool, fresh feeling of cotton fabric as I put on traditional Pakistani dress that I had neglected to wear on the previous day - as is customary; each action was driven by no external motivation and was geared with exaggerated flamboyancy towards singular purpose and for singular cause: my own satisfaction and because I want to; de mi propia voluntad! Spanish because it sounds fuller in Spanish, and this is indeed one of the few Spanish phrases I have troubled myself with learning.

I made myself a pancake breakfast and sat down to eat it with relish. A steaming pot of coffee and the morning paper completed the menu. I spent an hour the previous night deliberating over what music to listen to during Breakfast and although I still had misgivings about not choosing a certain other album, they melted away with the first thrumming notes of the double bass. Over the next one hour, I read the paper and took my time with the pancakes - ruminating over whether canned strawberry was a worthwhile addition. I had to leave that question undecided, and instead turned my attention to my work during the previous week and mulled over some of the milestones for the coming week. There will always be places to go and things to do, however, so I drew myself back to the here-and-now; always the here-and-now; reality trumps analysis trumps hopes and dreams trump the Zodiac. Speaking of trumpets, here is the list of music I listened to that fine morning:
  1. Pithecanthropus Erectus, Charles Mingus
  2. Boléro, Jacques Loussier Trio
  3. Limehouse Blues, Arne Domnérus
  4. A Night in Tunisia, Dizzy Gillespie (w. Arturo Sandoval)
Of course the purists may have argued that Jacques Loussier Trio is not bop or even - strictly speaking - Jazz. But I was in no mood to quarrel, and with one generous, casually inclusive sweep of the arm was willing to lump Third Stream with its roots and call it a day. In fact, I felt so magnaminous that I put in a couple of hours of unpaid, uncredited work towards some goals farther along in time.

A friend mentioned croissants over webchat and I - filled with ambition and a sense of agency - announced thus to my friend JGirl:
Me:     I'm gonna bake croissants when I get another free weekend
JGirl:  Pastry chef, eh? Sexeh!
Me:     I want it for me.
JGirl:  Still, who could say no to a hobbyist pastry-chef?
Me:     I have yet to meet any woman for whom I would wish to bake pastries.
JGirl:  When you do, I'm sure you'll take her by storm.
Me:     I would much rather take her by drang.

An awkward silence followed and even JGirl decided she had had enough and refused to speak to me. Another erstwhile fashionista found me boring, and I was content to agree.

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