Morning's Foggy Commute

070103

On my twenty-sixth birthday, I received a red notebook as a gift which I kept as my diary. The pages of the initial entries are torn out and it begins with five recipes and a travel log, eight months after I received the notebook. It would take me over four years to finish filling its pages.

The first travel log is of my trip to New York, consisting of no more than the list of places we visited. Another travel log follows it, this one to New Orleans. Only one blank page separates these two trips. So according to my diary, a year and a half of married life means no more than a single page that went unwritten...well, I don't disagree.

At times I went months without writing anything. Sometimes I wrote page after page in a single day. Various trips, long and short, people I met, people I lost, books I read, dreams I dreamt, my desires, fears, pains....they are all there, condensed into a little red notebook.
The last entry in the diary was in mid-October of 2007. A good dozen or so pages are left, but I will leave them be. By far, this has been the most difficult journal to write in, and I care not to start another. This one, with all its mental and emotional burden, took too much out of me as it is. And my handwriting is becoming more and more illegible anyway.


10.4.06
...The mystique subsided, and I dreamt of Pluto, now a dwarf planet, all night long.

Ravens

We were sitting on a park bench, he and I, exchanging a pleasant conversation of unimportance. In the periphery of my vision I saw a man standing some distance away, straight ahead from where we were sitting. I turned my head to see who it was.

It was him. He was sitting next to me, talking, while at the same time standing at a distance, watching me. I was not at all surprised to find him present at two places simultaneously.

Then I stood up from the bench and turned around. There was a hill against a backdrop of stormy clouds. The hill was literally covered with ravens, hundreds--no, thousands perhaps, fluttering their wings or simply moving about. Not a single one of these black birds was to fly away.

* * * * *

Could it be true that my dreams have some prophetic qualities? This dream of mine was had not last night, not a week or even a month ago, but on this very day exactly one year ago.

From The Solitude of Ravens by Matsuhisa Fukase

p.s. This is my 100th posting. Many are hidden away, and some have never seen the light of day. I don't always know why I write. Sometimes I wonder if the purpose of writing is to forget, like scanning and digitizing a file and destroying the document, so I can make room for other thoughts.

J'entends

I dreamt I was losing my vision. With strained eyes I tried to read the words, but they were a blur. And this, all while mindfully perceiving the silence abound.

This should have been to me a nightmare, as vision was regarded to be the most critical of all my senses. But in the dream, I was quite unperturbed about the blurring eyesight. I should have waken up in cold sweat. Why did this dream not bother me?

The answer was had one late night in Messiaen, as the music faded into the deadening silence in the last movement of Quatuor pour la fin du temps. With the growing sense of distance between the world and the eyes with which I perceive this world, only music still finds a way to the very core of my being. The dream was merely a reflection of my rearranged priorities.

071231

Instead of spending the last evening of 2007 quietly at home with a bottle of Lambrusco like I planned, I ended up going out to dinner with my friend M. It was our first spontaneous dinner outing since I moved far far away from her. Not knowing exactly where would be considered half way between us, we decided to meet up in Long Beach.

The restaurant I chose was Christy's Ristorante, a quaint Italian restaurant whose rave reviews I had read about before. Due to the nature of the evening, we were not seated for close to an hour later than our reservation time. But we found seats at the bar and they carried pretty good selection of single malt Scotch, so I did not mind.

The restaurant had a special menu for the night. Reading through, my eyes rested on Italian Paella, but because M wanted to order it, I ordered rack of lamb instead. The house salad, mixed greens with feta cheese and tomatoes in balsamic vinaigrette, was served first. Although the vinaigrette was a tad bit more acidic than I would have liked, the simple salad was prepared by a chef who, understanding the meaning of the word "dressing," made sure no green leaf went drowning in it. Even more impressive, however, was the quality of pepper they used to grind it fresh atop the salad. A restaurant that cares for the selection of and invests in pepper corn? Now that is a restaurant worth going to.

M's paella, she commented, was more like risotto. Perhaps that's what made this paella "Italian". From the bite I stole from her, the overall taste was very ocean-y (if there is such a word) without being fishy, although the scallop was overcooked by a couple minutes. I personally did not mind the risotto-like consistency. The only regret I had with my main dish was ordering it to a medium doneness. Had I known that the quality of meat they would put on the grill for me, I would not have hesitated to order it medium-rare. Three perfectly sized racks served on a bed of garlic mashed potatoes, three spears of fried asparagus, drizzled with demiglace sauce with roasted garlic and dried figs--at least my last meal of the year went with a bang.

But, alas, even Christy's had a downfall, and that was dessert. Of a handful choices available, we decided to share an apple tart, served warm with a scoop of cinnamon gelato. What landed on our table could hardly be called a tart. In my mind it was a misnomer, since the patissier obviously did not use pate sucree. The dough had more of a bun-like chewiness, and I never really found the apple filling (I'm not sure if M found it on her end). Although the cinnamon gelato was decent, it overpowered the flavor of that tart/bun where the apples got lost. What's more, there was a ring of vanilla sauce around it, with dabs of raspberry coulis. Yes, they made the plate look pretty, but the raspberry flavor, mingling with cinnamon, was not the most pleasantly palatable experience. The garnishing of fanned split strawberry, decorating only two of the three tips of the triangular plate, did not look so hot even in the dim lighting of the restaurant, and I told M so when she reached for it. It was mid-way over to her plate, and she dropped it right back.

* * * * *

After dinner, we just sat at the restaurant and chatted, since we didn't have any party to go to nor did we expect to find a coffee shop that was open. I said to M,

"This was a strange year. I hope 2008 is nothing like it."

And then it occurred to me that I said the same exact thing a year ago. And the year before. And the year before that. Hmm....

At the onset of the new year, I was driving along the 405 freeway, heading south. I was glad to invite the new year with Mozart's Great Mass in C minor, the last of the Credos to be exact. Shortly thereafter, the CD player moved on to the next set, Vladimir Ashkenazy playing Chopin's Ballades. I skipped over to Ballade No. 4 and pushed repeat button. Same notes played by another acclaimed pianist, Maurizio Pollini, never did move me this much. The real reason for my particular bias for Ashkenazy's Chopin...well, I'll just keep that to myself.

2008.

Everything seemingly changed. Despite the outwardly appearance, however, everything remains unchanged deep down. And I am too weathered to pretend that the first moment of a new year brings forth a fresh new canvas.