Tuesday, 22 February 2011
Saturday, 19 February 2011
Wednesday, 16 February 2011
To underwear or not to underwear?
That is the question: whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the stickiness and discomfort of outrageous constrictions, or to take arms against a sea of fabric, and by opposing go commando?
OK, let's step back a little.
The modern world can be roughly split in two: people who wear undergarments all the time, including when asleep, and people who love letting it free, especially when 'hanging out' at home. Nothing wrong with either, as long as the first group remembers to disrobe to shower and the second one keeps away from windows and hot appliances. However, trouble hits when the dice-shaker of human encounters produces the unlikely coupling of a 'cover-up' and a 'happy flasher'.
American Friend was a recent victim of inappropriate sharing. She is quite happy to admit of being a bit of a geek-freak, i.e. she has a strong preference for nerds. A very commendable choice, may I add. As a neardy bird myself, I believe that nerds have plenty of rights to be liked by good-looking people. Unfortunately, nerds tend to adopt some disturbingly odd behaviours that can backfire at any time. You can therefore easily picture AF's surprise when she showed up at her new guy's flat in her best heels, carrying a succulent dinner and bags of hope for a romantic evening, and he opened the door wearing only a tee-shirt and Lord of the Rings underpants. And lucky she was, apparently, as he literally picked up his scant clothing on the way to the door. No, he wasn't implying a rapid evolution of their date that night. He just thought that it was perfectly appropriate to be his usual free self the first time she visited his den.
It didn't last. Certain boundaries are there for a reason. And require the development of a degree of intimacy before they are allowed to come down. (Like the whole leaving the bathroom door open thing; let's not even go there, shall we, it is too early in the morning) At the opposite end of the spectrum, I know of couples who have never taken their clothes off in front of each other and after years together fumble in the dark, trying to make sense of bits and bobs. That can't be healthy either.
To be honest, nudity can be the subject of numerous posts, so I won't exhaust all my ammunitions in one shot. More to come in the future.
I shall therefore leave you with a tiny tale. A few years back I was watching an art-house film with a bunch of girlfriends. In the lead up to the sex scene de rigueur, the male protagonist dropped his jeans to reveal a perfectly formed naked butt, devoid of underwear. The room burst into two simultaneous and opposing noises: 'Mmmmm', a clear sign of appreciation for the male form, and 'Yyyeeewww', a clear sign of concern for personal hygiene. It is amazing how (the lack of) such a small amount of fabric can either spark the imagination or put you off for good.
And BTW, if somebody knows the answer, pray tell, why is it called 'commando'?
OK, let's step back a little.
The modern world can be roughly split in two: people who wear undergarments all the time, including when asleep, and people who love letting it free, especially when 'hanging out' at home. Nothing wrong with either, as long as the first group remembers to disrobe to shower and the second one keeps away from windows and hot appliances. However, trouble hits when the dice-shaker of human encounters produces the unlikely coupling of a 'cover-up' and a 'happy flasher'.
American Friend was a recent victim of inappropriate sharing. She is quite happy to admit of being a bit of a geek-freak, i.e. she has a strong preference for nerds. A very commendable choice, may I add. As a neardy bird myself, I believe that nerds have plenty of rights to be liked by good-looking people. Unfortunately, nerds tend to adopt some disturbingly odd behaviours that can backfire at any time. You can therefore easily picture AF's surprise when she showed up at her new guy's flat in her best heels, carrying a succulent dinner and bags of hope for a romantic evening, and he opened the door wearing only a tee-shirt and Lord of the Rings underpants. And lucky she was, apparently, as he literally picked up his scant clothing on the way to the door. No, he wasn't implying a rapid evolution of their date that night. He just thought that it was perfectly appropriate to be his usual free self the first time she visited his den.
It didn't last. Certain boundaries are there for a reason. And require the development of a degree of intimacy before they are allowed to come down. (Like the whole leaving the bathroom door open thing; let's not even go there, shall we, it is too early in the morning) At the opposite end of the spectrum, I know of couples who have never taken their clothes off in front of each other and after years together fumble in the dark, trying to make sense of bits and bobs. That can't be healthy either.
To be honest, nudity can be the subject of numerous posts, so I won't exhaust all my ammunitions in one shot. More to come in the future.
I shall therefore leave you with a tiny tale. A few years back I was watching an art-house film with a bunch of girlfriends. In the lead up to the sex scene de rigueur, the male protagonist dropped his jeans to reveal a perfectly formed naked butt, devoid of underwear. The room burst into two simultaneous and opposing noises: 'Mmmmm', a clear sign of appreciation for the male form, and 'Yyyeeewww', a clear sign of concern for personal hygiene. It is amazing how (the lack of) such a small amount of fabric can either spark the imagination or put you off for good.
And BTW, if somebody knows the answer, pray tell, why is it called 'commando'?
Tuesday, 15 February 2011
The Valentine's pasty
London Bridge station, 6:30pm, Valentine's Day: chaos.
Londoners needing to be somewhere else fast fast fast. Pedestrian road rage. Fisticuffs at the florist's kiosk. Eyes poked out by gienormous bunches of long-stem roses. Teddy bears crushed by the enraged romantic mob. By comparison, Christmas Eve was as quiet as a shy pollock with a bad hangover.
In the midst of this madness, I saw a fairly composed man scouting the crowd, clearly waiting for someone. Indeed, it didn't take long for his lady companion to arrive and hug him with a big, happy smile. Close enough to eavesdrop on their conversation, I witnessed the most bizarre and yet authentically loving moment of the evening. After a bit of a rummage in her bag, she presented him with a warm, fragrant pasty to eat on the train. Somewhere in between laughter and tenderness, he kissed her and held her tight.
A Valentine's pasty. I loved the idea. Other options, maybe, the Valentine's pie, the Valentine's potato wedges? Or even better, the Valentine's unclogging of the shower plug? The Valentine's uninterrupted CSI omnibus? Now we are talking!
I may be the Grinch who killed Valentine's Day many many years ago, but if anybody out there is wandering what to get to their loved ones next year, I now know the answer. A smile, the sheer joy of being together and a pork and apple pasty. Judging from the couple at the station: success guaranteed.
Londoners needing to be somewhere else fast fast fast. Pedestrian road rage. Fisticuffs at the florist's kiosk. Eyes poked out by gienormous bunches of long-stem roses. Teddy bears crushed by the enraged romantic mob. By comparison, Christmas Eve was as quiet as a shy pollock with a bad hangover.
In the midst of this madness, I saw a fairly composed man scouting the crowd, clearly waiting for someone. Indeed, it didn't take long for his lady companion to arrive and hug him with a big, happy smile. Close enough to eavesdrop on their conversation, I witnessed the most bizarre and yet authentically loving moment of the evening. After a bit of a rummage in her bag, she presented him with a warm, fragrant pasty to eat on the train. Somewhere in between laughter and tenderness, he kissed her and held her tight.
A Valentine's pasty. I loved the idea. Other options, maybe, the Valentine's pie, the Valentine's potato wedges? Or even better, the Valentine's unclogging of the shower plug? The Valentine's uninterrupted CSI omnibus? Now we are talking!
I may be the Grinch who killed Valentine's Day many many years ago, but if anybody out there is wandering what to get to their loved ones next year, I now know the answer. A smile, the sheer joy of being together and a pork and apple pasty. Judging from the couple at the station: success guaranteed.
Monday, 14 February 2011
Happy bloggiversary!
OK, OK, I will say it myself: after having resisted the urge of the Christmas post, I have fallen miserably for the commemorative 1-year blah-di-blah-di-blah.
What shall we do to mark the event? A guest appearance from a friend's blog (a relationships and wine post with Fondi di Bottiglia)? A special episode with a shattering revelation (Male Friend #1 is my long-lost twin brother, snatched from hospital after birth)? Maybe not.
Anniversaries are always tricky. The Amarcord danger lurks in the dark (What were we like at the time? What have we done in a year? Where are we going?), and we all know that I don't do the looking-back thing. Yet, how did we land on these shores? What on earth got me writing in the first place? Bizarre EI experiences, like the ex boyfriend in drag that made so many laugh? My more or less secret friends with their stories, crises and adamant assertions? My family? My cats? My (now dead) swans? The ducks?
According to an article I read some time ago, female writers' muses are mainly doting husbands and sugar daddies: dedicated, devoted, often older companions who attend to the whims of the unstable artist. Who provide them with a psychological and physical centre that allows the craziness of mood swings to crystallize on the written page. If you think about it, it can’t be much of a fun job, and miles away from the histrionic, unreliable, beautiful nymphs who generally accompany male artists and end up immortalised in eternal opuses.
I am no artist, which is probably why I don’t have a muse. On the other hand, since I refuse to write when I am sad, this year-worth of blog exists thanks to the love and kindness of some really special, wonderful people, who, when I most need it, come to my rescue without proffering a word. A hug, a dinner in a (not too nice for me) restaurant, unrequested help, a compliment, my favourite comic books, a common project: big little tokens of affection, of unexpected, bizarre love that make my life worthy.
No sugar daddies needed.
Friday, 11 February 2011
Temptation
In this age of global warming, even in areas of usually temperate climate, when it rains it ends up pouring.
Similarly, it seems to me that not only it is easy to have enough of a bad thing, but also a good thing, if in Costco-like portions, can be hard to digest.
First of all, a confession.
I hide a terrible secret.
In my filing cabinet, under a pile of plastic folders and notebooks, there is a box of milk chocolates I snatched from the kitchen for my own, undisputed, unjudged, solitary perusal. When the need hits, I just close the door and let the endorphins do their job.
Having said this, even my apparently bottom-less capacity for chocolate has its limits. The other night I went out for a nice meal. Starter, main, dessert and a bottle of wine. Already well above my daily point allowance, I got home to find that a generous guest had brought a box of delicious chocolates hand-crafted by a famous Neapolitan chocolatier. I tucked in, no hesitation. Three chocolates later, rolled myself back to my room, I found that the same guest had also thought specifically of my personal preferences and left a sizeable slab of what translates as 'forest chocolate' on my bedside table. A heaven of flaky bliss.
Even I had reservations and decided not to open the box, which is now staring at me almost incredulous, if not right out pissed off.
So, I am wondering: is there a point after which temptations cease to be such? When the forbidden is transformed into habit, derobbed of its appeal?
'The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it', 'I can resist everything except temptation', 'Do you really think it is weakness that yields to temptation? I tell you that there are terrible temptations which it requires strength, strength and courage to yield to' - said Oscar Wilde, somebody with a deep understanding of the subject. So, Oscar, are you saying that we just surrender?
I quite like Mark Twain's take on the issue: 'There are several good protections against temptation, but the surest is cowardice'. In my case, the scary prospect of admitting to never-ending amounts of calories. But what if fear is preventing us from experiencing life's most secret pleasures, from journeys into the unknown, on a path of self-discovery?
Too many questions. I shall stop right there. Head hurts. Need a coffee. Maybe a chocolate to go with it.
Similarly, it seems to me that not only it is easy to have enough of a bad thing, but also a good thing, if in Costco-like portions, can be hard to digest.
First of all, a confession.
I hide a terrible secret.
In my filing cabinet, under a pile of plastic folders and notebooks, there is a box of milk chocolates I snatched from the kitchen for my own, undisputed, unjudged, solitary perusal. When the need hits, I just close the door and let the endorphins do their job.
Having said this, even my apparently bottom-less capacity for chocolate has its limits. The other night I went out for a nice meal. Starter, main, dessert and a bottle of wine. Already well above my daily point allowance, I got home to find that a generous guest had brought a box of delicious chocolates hand-crafted by a famous Neapolitan chocolatier. I tucked in, no hesitation. Three chocolates later, rolled myself back to my room, I found that the same guest had also thought specifically of my personal preferences and left a sizeable slab of what translates as 'forest chocolate' on my bedside table. A heaven of flaky bliss.
Even I had reservations and decided not to open the box, which is now staring at me almost incredulous, if not right out pissed off.
So, I am wondering: is there a point after which temptations cease to be such? When the forbidden is transformed into habit, derobbed of its appeal?
'The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it', 'I can resist everything except temptation', 'Do you really think it is weakness that yields to temptation? I tell you that there are terrible temptations which it requires strength, strength and courage to yield to' - said Oscar Wilde, somebody with a deep understanding of the subject. So, Oscar, are you saying that we just surrender?
I quite like Mark Twain's take on the issue: 'There are several good protections against temptation, but the surest is cowardice'. In my case, the scary prospect of admitting to never-ending amounts of calories. But what if fear is preventing us from experiencing life's most secret pleasures, from journeys into the unknown, on a path of self-discovery?
Too many questions. I shall stop right there. Head hurts. Need a coffee. Maybe a chocolate to go with it.
Wednesday, 2 February 2011
Secret friends
I have recently learnt that creating a fictional friend is an healthy step in the development of a child's psyche. As long as they retain the separation between reality and imagination, and know when they are talking to a made-up character versus a flesh and blood human (the chiasm is actually intended).
But what about grown-ups? Is it still acceptable to have an unreal confidante? Probably not. That is why we have secret friends.
A secret friend is someone nobody knows how close they are to us, how much personal information is exchanged with, how and when communication happens. A secret friend is our best mate, even if we wouldn't necessarily qualify them as such - at least officially. A secret friend is usually impossible to present to parents or partners, because, according to socio-economic conventions, we were not supposed to be their friends in the first place.
I can see you frowning, with a slight judgmental look in your eyes.. Relax, nothing dodgy here. This is the key: what is said to a secret friend, stays with the secret friend. And you know why? Because to the outside world the friend doesn't exist. To misquote Plato, the secret friend belongs to the world of ideas, not to the world of experience. Like an imaginary friend. Makes sense now?
During our day life, we are all wearing some sorts of masks - of respectability, intelligence, joviality, patience, authority. We do it at work, with our family, in our social life. Even in the privacy of our own home. Certain thoughts, dreams, wishes, fantasies are just not to be shared, as they would forever alter the external perception of us. And yet, sometimes we desperately need to evade the iron maiden of societal constrictions and voice our bizarre self. Or just say something inconsequential, just because we like the sound of it. A resolution that won't be maintained. A concern that can't be expressed. A complaint not allowed to be put forward. A vanity that would be otherwise ridiculed.
In addition, there is an element of childhood wonder that we should be aiming to keep throughout our lives. Of harmless, playful conspiracy to shield us, every now and again, from the seriousness of our commitments. Of hidden loyalty, undisclosed pacts and stormy fights. Which would encourage the continuous development of our psyche. As long as we keep separating reality from fantasy.
What? Me? Do I have a one? Ssshhh, it is a secret..
But what about grown-ups? Is it still acceptable to have an unreal confidante? Probably not. That is why we have secret friends.
A secret friend is someone nobody knows how close they are to us, how much personal information is exchanged with, how and when communication happens. A secret friend is our best mate, even if we wouldn't necessarily qualify them as such - at least officially. A secret friend is usually impossible to present to parents or partners, because, according to socio-economic conventions, we were not supposed to be their friends in the first place.
I can see you frowning, with a slight judgmental look in your eyes.. Relax, nothing dodgy here. This is the key: what is said to a secret friend, stays with the secret friend. And you know why? Because to the outside world the friend doesn't exist. To misquote Plato, the secret friend belongs to the world of ideas, not to the world of experience. Like an imaginary friend. Makes sense now?
During our day life, we are all wearing some sorts of masks - of respectability, intelligence, joviality, patience, authority. We do it at work, with our family, in our social life. Even in the privacy of our own home. Certain thoughts, dreams, wishes, fantasies are just not to be shared, as they would forever alter the external perception of us. And yet, sometimes we desperately need to evade the iron maiden of societal constrictions and voice our bizarre self. Or just say something inconsequential, just because we like the sound of it. A resolution that won't be maintained. A concern that can't be expressed. A complaint not allowed to be put forward. A vanity that would be otherwise ridiculed.
In addition, there is an element of childhood wonder that we should be aiming to keep throughout our lives. Of harmless, playful conspiracy to shield us, every now and again, from the seriousness of our commitments. Of hidden loyalty, undisclosed pacts and stormy fights. Which would encourage the continuous development of our psyche. As long as we keep separating reality from fantasy.
What? Me? Do I have a one? Ssshhh, it is a secret..
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