Right now, I am a little bit drunk, which means that my thoughts may be less restrained, but perhaps it is a good thing. If the past is any indicator, perhaps restraint has contributed to some of the problem. And since I have promised not to hold anyone responsible for expectations that I have not explicitly made, I ought to say something now.
I was troubled by your last SMS, unsure whether you believed it a sufficient response or if it was meant to shrug off a potentially difficult conversation. The flaw or beauty of text messaging depends on how much or little one wants to communicate with the recipient. "Me too." It is quite ambiguous about which of my feelings you are identifying with—presumably, my “I’ll be honest I’m disappointed.” But, my disappointment is different. Am I upset that you've cancelled on me Friday, Saturday, and Sunday night in succession? A little. Were it an isolated event, it would be a non-issue. But my disappointment, stems not from a specific instance—namely whether I see you this weekend—but relates to this persistent and unchanging pattern.
I don’t want to tread over the same tired ground—begging for attention from one who purports to care about me—as I am sure you are weary of having to point out your overcommitted schedule, responsibilities and lack of spare time. But, it shouldn’t be like this. I’ve always agreed with you that we all ought to have our own lives and not necessarily live for one another. Still, that doesn’t mean I should forfeit my desire to actually be a part of your life. What I could never figure out is why you would actively seek out a serious relationship if you knew you didn’t have time to maintain one. It didn’t occur to me that when you were expressing your ever-decreasing availability, it was a euphemism for ever-decreasing interest. That is, maybe you do have time for a relationship—just not with me.
Nobody is that busy.
We left these issues unresolved, to be discussed after Japan. Perhaps I should have insisted on it, but I was just happy to see you on your return, content for the moment to leave it all at the door. I now think about the few times when we did get around to talking about compatibility, you always ask me what I want from a relationship: Marriage? Children? To me, these aren’t requirements. But this is not to say that I have no expectations or needs.
What I need is something that cannot be squeezed within the confines of a few hours once a week—a willingness to be a part of my inner life. You can’t do this via text messaging. You can't experience that over IM. You can't catch all the tiny little bits that accrete to a loving relationship through a one-minute telephone conversation.
I’m in love with you, but I’m not feeble-minded nor am I in the business of being any man's mistress. For the last month, you’ve been keeping me at arms length. And I didn’t/don’t understand why. It scares me to posit a guess for fear that it might just be realized. If you're seeing someone else, want to see someone else, or no longer care to be with me, then please be honest. Even if we can’t manage my confidence, then at the very least it would be an improvement in managing my expectations for things to come.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Monday, April 09, 2007
Dim Sum
Chinatown Brasserie is 21st century chinoiserie in full force, an upscale interpretation of a stereotype wrapped up with the conceit of a swanky New York brasserie. The place is big, theatrical, and oriental. Such a thematic approach immediately makes the restaurant suspect, like other uber-trendy Asian-monoliths, serving up stylish but ultimately poseur variants of familiar dishes. Especially since dim sum bespeaks a certain modesty, in size and concept.
"Are you sure you want to eat here?" he asked.
Still, if Chef Ng did not exactly prove my suspicions incorrect, he did challenge my automatic distrust of non-regulation dim sum environments. This dish, Crispy Taro Root Shimp, was quite good, if the presentation is a bit precious. The buns were only serviceable and the soup dumplings were a cold leaky disaster of congealed crab and pork bits.
Although dim sum is usually an accompaniment of tea service, it is most appropriate to have drinks at a brasserie. The restaurant offers a fruity range of specialty cocktails, Lychee Martini, Ginger Mojito, and the Singapore Sling. The ginger essence in the Arancia Margarita made it a refreshing choice, if a little too sweet—perfect for sidewalk seating on the first warm weekend in April. The menu also offers a wide range of international wines and bottled beer.
The prices of the dim sum range from $6 to $20 at dinner, which is astronomical by Chinatown standards. One would expect the execution of even the classic to be impeccable. But the uneven level of quality means that the diner pays a premium for fancy plating and theatrical décor, making the overall experience a poor value.
"Are you sure you want to eat here?" he asked.
Still, if Chef Ng did not exactly prove my suspicions incorrect, he did challenge my automatic distrust of non-regulation dim sum environments. This dish, Crispy Taro Root Shimp, was quite good, if the presentation is a bit precious. The buns were only serviceable and the soup dumplings were a cold leaky disaster of congealed crab and pork bits.
Although dim sum is usually an accompaniment of tea service, it is most appropriate to have drinks at a brasserie. The restaurant offers a fruity range of specialty cocktails, Lychee Martini, Ginger Mojito, and the Singapore Sling. The ginger essence in the Arancia Margarita made it a refreshing choice, if a little too sweet—perfect for sidewalk seating on the first warm weekend in April. The menu also offers a wide range of international wines and bottled beer.
The prices of the dim sum range from $6 to $20 at dinner, which is astronomical by Chinatown standards. One would expect the execution of even the classic to be impeccable. But the uneven level of quality means that the diner pays a premium for fancy plating and theatrical décor, making the overall experience a poor value.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Night at the Opera
"I'm going to have to read up on this because I don't understand this shit," said Huli.
We has just seen the Met's long-awaited production of Die Ägyptische Helena. The music was pretty, if not exactly anything I would find myself humming after the performance. I realize that this was not intended to be Il Barbiere di Siviglia, but without any knowledge of Strauss or 20th century opera, I can only appreciate it with my eyes. Like the Germans sniggering in the row behind us, I found the production design highly amusing—colossal phallic comets, albino elves fluttering about in gauze and sunglasses, Poseidon's aqua besuited soldiers brandishing oversized harpoons, a towering bald Paris painted from head to toe in red, backdrops of seas and deserts overlayed by a gigantic decoupage of a fleeing man.
The story is an interpretation of Helen and Menelaus's reconciliation after he rescues her from Troy—marriage counseling courtesy of Aithra the sorceress. The best moment: opening of Act II, after their second wedding night (“Zweite Brautnacht”), Helen rolls around onstage in post-coital bliss. Menelaus wakes up, looks at Helen and says: I'm sorry. Who are you? And What is your name? Typical.
The finer points of the opera elude me, but the themes of psychological torment—the yearning for innocence, forgetfulness, and remembrance—touched me in ways that traditional Italian operas have not.
Now, if only I had an Omniscient Mussel to comfort me while I await the return of my lover.
We has just seen the Met's long-awaited production of Die Ägyptische Helena. The music was pretty, if not exactly anything I would find myself humming after the performance. I realize that this was not intended to be Il Barbiere di Siviglia, but without any knowledge of Strauss or 20th century opera, I can only appreciate it with my eyes. Like the Germans sniggering in the row behind us, I found the production design highly amusing—colossal phallic comets, albino elves fluttering about in gauze and sunglasses, Poseidon's aqua besuited soldiers brandishing oversized harpoons, a towering bald Paris painted from head to toe in red, backdrops of seas and deserts overlayed by a gigantic decoupage of a fleeing man.
The story is an interpretation of Helen and Menelaus's reconciliation after he rescues her from Troy—marriage counseling courtesy of Aithra the sorceress. The best moment: opening of Act II, after their second wedding night (“Zweite Brautnacht”), Helen rolls around onstage in post-coital bliss. Menelaus wakes up, looks at Helen and says: I'm sorry. Who are you? And What is your name? Typical.
The finer points of the opera elude me, but the themes of psychological torment—the yearning for innocence, forgetfulness, and remembrance—touched me in ways that traditional Italian operas have not.
Now, if only I had an Omniscient Mussel to comfort me while I await the return of my lover.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
My familiar
MISSING
Have you seen this bird?
I never understood how Kim Novak allowed herself to be so careless, losing her powers to a mortal man. The cost seems too high even if the man happens to be Jimmy Stewart. I am, of course, referring the 1958 film Bell, Book & Candle. In Act 2 turning point, Novak summons her familiar, Piwacket, to do her bidding, to cast a final horrible spell, to punish her lover, to avenge herself. Instead, Pi hisses and claws at his mistress as if she were a stranger. His defection is inexplicable until we discover Novak crying. Because witches are supposed to be incapable of emotion, her tears mark an irreversible transformation.
I'd prefer not to think overmuch about why I rely on moderately-successful 1950s films as a primary point of reference in relationships, rather than drawing upon real-life examples. My father did not exactly provide the best model for caring functional relationships. And although I have long forgiven him for being a gaping, if well-intentioned, void in his daughter’s life, his absence during the seminal years of development have left gaps in my emotional intelligence—that is, gaps filled by conventions of classic Hollywood movies.
It is embarrassing for me to admit that in my innermost imaginings of romantic love, my leading man and I are fabulously dressed, drinking gibsons, exchanging witty repartee through a series of medium close-ups and reverse shots. But beyond the artifice, I envisioned at core that perfectionism found only in films of that era—in Gary Cooper, Jimmy Stewart, Gregory Peck, and, my beloved Humphrey Bogart. So even if Novak was silly enough to lose her identity, I wanted Stewart to be the kind of mortal man who deserved her. Perhaps this is setting myself up for certain disappointment in real life, but only because the standards to which people normally hold themselves are lax and not that the earlier standards are unreasonable or unattainable.
Then again, there comes a moment when it is appropriate to let go of childish notions and own up to one’s own inadequacies rather than point to the failings of others. In other words, I don’t exactly measure up to leading lady material. And, just sitting here conjuring exemplars for this argument, even my own heroes prove imperfect. If Grace Kelly had to struggle with Jimmy Stewart over his fear of commitment (Rear Window) and if Audrey Hepburn had such a tough time converting a much-older Gary Cooper from serial philandering (Love in the Afternoon), what chance do I have? Bogart is another story. Although I have yet to be a “Slim” to someone’s “Steve” (To Have and Have Not), I did have serious involvements with modern-day equivalents of Fred C. Dobbs (Treasure of the Sierra Madre) and Dixon Steele (In a Lonely Place). That’s right: one paranoid and one rage-aholic, both liable to beat the shit out of anyone over the slightest perceived insult. Really really unpleasant. The point is, we can't choose the real-life movies we star in. All we can do is hope that it doesn't end up a bloody tragedy.
Have you seen this bird?
I never understood how Kim Novak allowed herself to be so careless, losing her powers to a mortal man. The cost seems too high even if the man happens to be Jimmy Stewart. I am, of course, referring the 1958 film Bell, Book & Candle. In Act 2 turning point, Novak summons her familiar, Piwacket, to do her bidding, to cast a final horrible spell, to punish her lover, to avenge herself. Instead, Pi hisses and claws at his mistress as if she were a stranger. His defection is inexplicable until we discover Novak crying. Because witches are supposed to be incapable of emotion, her tears mark an irreversible transformation.
-She's in love.Love in the movies does not make any logical sense. How could a woman of such strength, beauty, and talent succumb to the jealousies and insecurities of mortal love? And why? This is completely beneath her, a betrayal of her character. Worse, it is a betrayal of me, who up until that moment believed Gillian Holroyd (Novak) to be cool and in control, only to watch her rendered powerless and ordinary by a man. Again, even if he is played by Jimmy Stewart, he is only a man. See where I’m going with this, dear reader?
-Wouldn't she rather be dead?
I'd prefer not to think overmuch about why I rely on moderately-successful 1950s films as a primary point of reference in relationships, rather than drawing upon real-life examples. My father did not exactly provide the best model for caring functional relationships. And although I have long forgiven him for being a gaping, if well-intentioned, void in his daughter’s life, his absence during the seminal years of development have left gaps in my emotional intelligence—that is, gaps filled by conventions of classic Hollywood movies.
It is embarrassing for me to admit that in my innermost imaginings of romantic love, my leading man and I are fabulously dressed, drinking gibsons, exchanging witty repartee through a series of medium close-ups and reverse shots. But beyond the artifice, I envisioned at core that perfectionism found only in films of that era—in Gary Cooper, Jimmy Stewart, Gregory Peck, and, my beloved Humphrey Bogart. So even if Novak was silly enough to lose her identity, I wanted Stewart to be the kind of mortal man who deserved her. Perhaps this is setting myself up for certain disappointment in real life, but only because the standards to which people normally hold themselves are lax and not that the earlier standards are unreasonable or unattainable.
Then again, there comes a moment when it is appropriate to let go of childish notions and own up to one’s own inadequacies rather than point to the failings of others. In other words, I don’t exactly measure up to leading lady material. And, just sitting here conjuring exemplars for this argument, even my own heroes prove imperfect. If Grace Kelly had to struggle with Jimmy Stewart over his fear of commitment (Rear Window) and if Audrey Hepburn had such a tough time converting a much-older Gary Cooper from serial philandering (Love in the Afternoon), what chance do I have? Bogart is another story. Although I have yet to be a “Slim” to someone’s “Steve” (To Have and Have Not), I did have serious involvements with modern-day equivalents of Fred C. Dobbs (Treasure of the Sierra Madre) and Dixon Steele (In a Lonely Place). That’s right: one paranoid and one rage-aholic, both liable to beat the shit out of anyone over the slightest perceived insult. Really really unpleasant. The point is, we can't choose the real-life movies we star in. All we can do is hope that it doesn't end up a bloody tragedy.
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