Years ago my friend Rudy related the story of hearing of the death of President Kennedy. At the time she was a schoolgirl in Trinidad but even here, time stopped for a moment and people cried in the streets, it was a momentous occasion. This was an event that occurred before I was born, but had great resonance due to television. President Kennedy, in the early 70’s was still a household name, a shining beacon of hope who took man to the stars. That he was glamorous was undeniable, with his fashionable wife and relatively young age, Kennedy embodied the hope of a generation. Struck down in his prime by an assassin’s bullet, one wonders what the world would have been like if he’d lived.
The advances in global communications have pretty much made us a large village. The World Wide Web, once a tool used by some uber nerds at CERN in Switzerland is now ever present. We have immediate access to information and are constantly bombarded with even the most trivial of images and “news” twenty-four hours a day. So it is not surprising that today will probably become one of “those” days. You know, what were you doing when you heard Michael Jackson died? Did you watch the memorial service?
It brings to mind twelve years ago when Princess Diana, that other pop culture icon was killed in a car crash. Young and not so young women all over the planet wept for her. Her funeral was the most watched television event of the last century with 25 MILLION people around the world tuning in. Not even the Olympics come close to that. It is a testament to her appeal and the relentless press machine that operates today. Who can forget the sight of her coffin carried by soldiers, two wreaths balanced on top, the envelope tucked between the blooms with a heartrending “mummy” on one of them? Those glorious boys walking with their father and grandfather behind the hearse as it made its way to St. Peter’s indelibly etched in our memories. Elton John singing Candle in the Wind….
It comes as no surprise to see the public outflow of emotions following the death of pop icon Michael Jackson. In his words he went from,” where is he to there he is again”. For several generations, Michael was the defining voice, the original Brand, the ultimate in PR/Marketing, his life was played out across the media, but always, his music. Though at times he has been both vilified and revered he managed to continue to transcend boundaries. At any time, somewhere on this planet, someone is playing a Michael Jackson song. He touched our imaginations and our spirits in numerous ways and as the world gathers to say good-bye to the “King of Pop” it is with sadness but celebration that he lived and left such a rich legacy.
My ex-husband had a theory about shooting stars. When he woke me at 3:00 or 4:00 am to tell me that Princess Diana had died, I remember getting up in disbelief; it was almost like losing a family member. Or maybe it was that my sand unresolved issues so it was close to home. In those wee hours of the morning we talked about those people who lived so brightly and burned out in the prime of their life. We compared Diana to Marilyn, the other blond who’d also died at 36, what could have been, we will never know. And that’s the thing; I don’t think these people are meant to live forever and get old, fading away. They blow through our lives, make their mark and then are gone. They live in perpetuity in our minds, forever young.
In the aftermath of the memorial, Kenny Ortega did a great job, those of us who’d managed to keep it together through the musical tributes lost it when the back up singers et al sang “We are the world”, the tear filled family tributes and the moment that we’ll all remember, Paris Katherine talking about her daddy being the best in the world and the love he had for them.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Market days
Have you ever had a ripe mango? Peeled it with your teeth, tugging at the leathery skin to reveal the soft, glistening yellow flesh beneath. Digging in, the sticky juice running lazily across your chin, fingers and down towards your elbow as arms held away from your body to let it drip to the ground. The mango is soft and sweet against your tongue, better if it warm from sitting in the sun, the sugars developing, not cloying, just a piece of goodness. Sucking on the seed to get every bit of it off.
Now you might be offended by this description but there is a huge amount of sensory pleasure to be gained from food eaten with your hands. In my family, as children we were fortunate enough to have had access to fruit trees which we plundered with impunity, sometimes eating the unwashed fruit while still up the tree. It was magical, fruit eaten at its peak, not shrink wrapped, under-ripened science specimens from the grocery or quailed from long periods sitting in the blazing sun by the side of the road.
They say that you never miss what you never had, one trip to the market in Tunapuna was enough to awaken all those old memories, before the suit and heels, before eating with your hands was a no-no. Well sometimes depending. Tunapuna market is an interesting place, sorry, no pictures, forgot the camera. It’s now all housed indoors but it used to spill out on to the road and pavements, taking on a life of it's own apart from the chaos that was the Eastern Main Road. For years it existed as a loose amalgamation of stalls knocked out of spare pieces of wood and old corrugated galvanized iron for cover or bags spread out as buffer between the produce and the surface below. A place where farmers from the surrounding districts would come to sell their produce plucked from their gardens in time for market day. It was also inhabited by a host of characters who harked their wares in loud voices “tomatoes, fifty cents a pound. Come here!” The doubles men used to stand outside the gates so that you could get your morning breakfast as you left to go home bag bulging with goodies.
It’s been a really long time since tomatoes were that price and the market is all in the concrete building but the stalls have not changed all that much. You could always buy whatever you wanted in the weekend market, even clothing. The piles of fresh vegetables are all still there but these days it’s also bootleg DVD’s and CD’s and other sundry items. Don't be fooled by the technology, it’s still all cash transactions and surprisingly many of the same familiar faces albeit older.
Threading your way through throngs of people all looking for a bargain, bags slapping their sides, eyes eager. Squeezing an eggplant for firmness, picking up handfuls of peppers, green beans or plantains to be weighed. Rows and rows of canary yellow bananas or the succulent red flesh against pale green of a just cut ripe watermelon. Mouth watering, planning Sunday lunch as you go. Maybe some knobby sweet potatoes with their purple skin lightly coated with dirt as though just pulled up that morning or fresh dark leaved spinach. Mounds of fluorescent green lettuce or crisp watercress continuously sprinkled with water to keep it fresh begging to be taken home.
The meat and fish section removed so that the smells don’t overpower you. Mostly it’s pretty clean and “orderly”, sure, it’s no HiLo, but at every turn there is an adventure in cooking waiting to happen. What’s that odd looking vegetable? Don’t know, ask the vendor and you’ll get a lecture on what it is, how it’s grown and how to cook it. See, you don’t need google all the time.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Don"t stop till you get enough
You didn't think you were going to get away so easy did you. Of course there was going to be a blog on Michael, how could there not be. Michael Jackson was the defining voice of my generation. Like Elvis in the fifties, the Beatles in the sixties, MJ was the eighties. Watching the media hysteria unfold in the wake of his passing has been close to that when Princess Diana died in 1997. Everybody is clamouring for the inside story, every piece of his life is being picked over, again and again. His weirdness, his popularity, all the allegations, his spending, his life still under the microscope as it had been for his whole life. If you were in any doubt as to his popularity, his death caused the internet to overload, Google to freeze and YouTube to crash.
It is apparent looking at the mounds of footage being aired, that Michael Jackson, for all his money and fame, was a profoundly sad, lonely individual. As with the J.M. Barrie character Peter Pan, here is a man who never grew up. Put on stage at five by his ambitious father, it was the beginning of a life where he was constantly exploited by the people around him. If you look at his behaviour he wavers between boy and man, as though knowing he was supposed to act like a "grown up" but not quite knowing what it meant. And how could he, he's been "handled" all his life by various minders. If you look past the weirdness though, you will come to appreciate the consummate performer and know that the like will never pass this way again.
It was 1979, Off the Wall was released, we all knew who MJ was, he and his brothers were famous as the Jackson Five but this was something else. Off the Wall rapidly became the most played album at parties, school bazaars and the like. Long before YouTube, iPods and even MTV which did not make it's debut until three years later; CD's were still in their infancy and you bought vinyl which was by no means cheap. One of the guys in the class above mine had it and made his friends really happy ripping copies onto cassettes. We were pirates even then. It was my first year in high school, there are still a lot of good memories of that album and in case you hadn't guessed, Don't Stop till You Get Enough is one of my favourite songs of all time.
In those days Michael Jackson was still a black guy with an afro, but you know, it didn't matter everyone loved his music regardless of colour, class or geographic location. Much has been written by people infinitely more qualified than me about his talent, dynamism as a performer etc. , for my generation, he was a good time. As time wore on, his fame grew with the release of Thriller and then Bad. He was the face of the MTV generation, he pioneered the artform of music videos and his quickly became legends, short films using real directors, elaborate sets and story lines. Sure he was somewhat weird. In hindsight it can be seen that he was mentally ill but who wouldn't be under all that scrutiny. The pressure to top yourself over and over again. Think about it. Living in a glass bowl cannot be fun. His eccentricities became more and more pronounced, the chimp, his skin colour, he rapidly degenerated into a caricature, parodied mercilessly even as people wanted to be seen with him. The allegations of sexual abuse were the final straw and his popularity waned. Ironically, the very people who pilloried him were the people who did not question why an adult would blithely leave their children for unsupervised sleepovers with a grown man. MJ was bewildered by his treatment, he couldn't tell what he had done wrong but really had he? The doubt exists today, was it all a scam to get his money?
Admittedly I was a Prince fan, that weirdness more compatible with my own sensibilities, but the magic of MJ was undeniable and I confess you will find the music is in my iTunes library; a couple of nights ago while reminiscing several of us found out that we could do the Thriller dance. It amazing how many people talking about him, everywhere you went this weekend people had an MJ story irrespective of age, my friends kids who weren't even born in his heyday were crying having discovered him all over again twenty something years later. Grannies were talking about seeing him perform as a child at the Queen's Park Savannah and I have a memory of my mother singing along to Billie Jean before she died. He touched many lives with his work and gave many people a lot of happiness. And for that alone, Michael Jackson will be remembered fondly for a long, long time. Go listen to Man in the Mirror and ask yourself how you want to make a change.
It is apparent looking at the mounds of footage being aired, that Michael Jackson, for all his money and fame, was a profoundly sad, lonely individual. As with the J.M. Barrie character Peter Pan, here is a man who never grew up. Put on stage at five by his ambitious father, it was the beginning of a life where he was constantly exploited by the people around him. If you look at his behaviour he wavers between boy and man, as though knowing he was supposed to act like a "grown up" but not quite knowing what it meant. And how could he, he's been "handled" all his life by various minders. If you look past the weirdness though, you will come to appreciate the consummate performer and know that the like will never pass this way again.
It was 1979, Off the Wall was released, we all knew who MJ was, he and his brothers were famous as the Jackson Five but this was something else. Off the Wall rapidly became the most played album at parties, school bazaars and the like. Long before YouTube, iPods and even MTV which did not make it's debut until three years later; CD's were still in their infancy and you bought vinyl which was by no means cheap. One of the guys in the class above mine had it and made his friends really happy ripping copies onto cassettes. We were pirates even then. It was my first year in high school, there are still a lot of good memories of that album and in case you hadn't guessed, Don't Stop till You Get Enough is one of my favourite songs of all time.
In those days Michael Jackson was still a black guy with an afro, but you know, it didn't matter everyone loved his music regardless of colour, class or geographic location. Much has been written by people infinitely more qualified than me about his talent, dynamism as a performer etc. , for my generation, he was a good time. As time wore on, his fame grew with the release of Thriller and then Bad. He was the face of the MTV generation, he pioneered the artform of music videos and his quickly became legends, short films using real directors, elaborate sets and story lines. Sure he was somewhat weird. In hindsight it can be seen that he was mentally ill but who wouldn't be under all that scrutiny. The pressure to top yourself over and over again. Think about it. Living in a glass bowl cannot be fun. His eccentricities became more and more pronounced, the chimp, his skin colour, he rapidly degenerated into a caricature, parodied mercilessly even as people wanted to be seen with him. The allegations of sexual abuse were the final straw and his popularity waned. Ironically, the very people who pilloried him were the people who did not question why an adult would blithely leave their children for unsupervised sleepovers with a grown man. MJ was bewildered by his treatment, he couldn't tell what he had done wrong but really had he? The doubt exists today, was it all a scam to get his money?
Admittedly I was a Prince fan, that weirdness more compatible with my own sensibilities, but the magic of MJ was undeniable and I confess you will find the music is in my iTunes library; a couple of nights ago while reminiscing several of us found out that we could do the Thriller dance. It amazing how many people talking about him, everywhere you went this weekend people had an MJ story irrespective of age, my friends kids who weren't even born in his heyday were crying having discovered him all over again twenty something years later. Grannies were talking about seeing him perform as a child at the Queen's Park Savannah and I have a memory of my mother singing along to Billie Jean before she died. He touched many lives with his work and gave many people a lot of happiness. And for that alone, Michael Jackson will be remembered fondly for a long, long time. Go listen to Man in the Mirror and ask yourself how you want to make a change.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Return of the Dragon Lady
For the last two years that this blog has been going, it’s written on a Mac laptop. If you’ve ever seen the Mac ads with Justin Long personifying a Mac computer and some uptight dude a PC and you read this space, you might have a picture of the author. Ironically, the Coffee blog was started to fill the void left when my favourite bookshop closed after eleven years.
A Different View was where I came into my own. It was the shop that gave me the freedom to process and grow; the books, conversations and most of all, friendships were a huge part of my life. When the owner decided that her life needed to take another path, many of us, though happy for her, were left wondering, what next? The happy, loud Saturday limes with Stuart, Richard, Adele and the other transients who came and went were the mainstay of our week; it was here that ideas got tossed around, we talked about everything under the sun and explored our creativity. It was our home away from home. Two years later we still have not found a place to call our own and have resorted to e-mails, phone calls, gallery crawling and the occasional lime at someone’s house, but it is not the same. The shop was a special time and place and we’ve all had to acknowledge that we were lucky to have had it.
Living a creative life is not easy. Like any other profession, there are the days when you don’t want to get up and go to work. When you work as an artist, writer etc, you can’t exactly call in sick and not go to work, most times, the work does not wait for you and you aren’t paid if you’re not working. Most people think if you’re doing creative things that you float around, being all arty farty and it’s all wonderful, it is not. There is nothing worse than sitting staring at a blank page, blinking cursor, deadline looming and knowing, that you don’t have an idea in your head but you need to come up with one, fast. There are the days when the words flow, faster than your fingers can hit the keys but they’re all crap…of course, there are the times it’s almost as bad as giving birth, each word painfully yanked by its roots, painfully strung together to form coherent sentences. Forget paragraphs, you’d settle for sentences but nothing doing. Needless to say, now that this is not my life, I miss it like hell, the urge to create is still there simmering under the surface.
Lately, it’s been a challenge to write. Not that there is nothing to say, there is always something to say but there must be a balance so that the blog does not turn into a space that exists only to complain. Because in the end, this is not the reason for being, it is about living at least part of my life in a creative way. That was what drove my pardner Slacker and I to challenge each other to write, the almost urgent need to one up each other morphing into some really good stuff. Sadly, something we haven’t done that much of late. Life intrudes. Coffeedude asked weeks ago about the return of the Dragon Lady, well now you know. It is a titanium MacBook Pro with a blank page and blinking cursor.
A Different View was where I came into my own. It was the shop that gave me the freedom to process and grow; the books, conversations and most of all, friendships were a huge part of my life. When the owner decided that her life needed to take another path, many of us, though happy for her, were left wondering, what next? The happy, loud Saturday limes with Stuart, Richard, Adele and the other transients who came and went were the mainstay of our week; it was here that ideas got tossed around, we talked about everything under the sun and explored our creativity. It was our home away from home. Two years later we still have not found a place to call our own and have resorted to e-mails, phone calls, gallery crawling and the occasional lime at someone’s house, but it is not the same. The shop was a special time and place and we’ve all had to acknowledge that we were lucky to have had it.
Living a creative life is not easy. Like any other profession, there are the days when you don’t want to get up and go to work. When you work as an artist, writer etc, you can’t exactly call in sick and not go to work, most times, the work does not wait for you and you aren’t paid if you’re not working. Most people think if you’re doing creative things that you float around, being all arty farty and it’s all wonderful, it is not. There is nothing worse than sitting staring at a blank page, blinking cursor, deadline looming and knowing, that you don’t have an idea in your head but you need to come up with one, fast. There are the days when the words flow, faster than your fingers can hit the keys but they’re all crap…of course, there are the times it’s almost as bad as giving birth, each word painfully yanked by its roots, painfully strung together to form coherent sentences. Forget paragraphs, you’d settle for sentences but nothing doing. Needless to say, now that this is not my life, I miss it like hell, the urge to create is still there simmering under the surface.
Lately, it’s been a challenge to write. Not that there is nothing to say, there is always something to say but there must be a balance so that the blog does not turn into a space that exists only to complain. Because in the end, this is not the reason for being, it is about living at least part of my life in a creative way. That was what drove my pardner Slacker and I to challenge each other to write, the almost urgent need to one up each other morphing into some really good stuff. Sadly, something we haven’t done that much of late. Life intrudes. Coffeedude asked weeks ago about the return of the Dragon Lady, well now you know. It is a titanium MacBook Pro with a blank page and blinking cursor.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
The Mystic Island Diaries:
“I see a red door and I want to paint it black….” These lyrics are in my ears, pulling me along the charcoal grey asphalt strip, my feet finding their way without me. Run it says, be free! In deference to the gippy knee, I walk briskly but still with enough to look around me, the impudent wind ruffling my hair and the sun shining brightly down on my shoulders and upturned face.
It’s Tuesday – beautiful day outside, slightly overcast, a little muggy but beautiful. It’s the typical Caribbean scene painted in travel magazines and destination television. With Mick in my head for company, I contemplate the road.
This island is the Caribbean but not really – it’s all orderly here. The trees pruned back neatly from the road, not arbitrarily hacked off and the surrounding vegetation stripped; the usual practice is to remove everything in the name of “environmentalism”. It is so clean….devoid of anything out of place, some may sterile but it speaks to organization that is well run. This order is calming; it removes that constant breathless feeling that has been ever present. Here, you never feel like to have to constantly be doing SOMETHING, always.
The acid reflux has taken a back seat to the lure of open air eating and wine, yes, wine with meals. Hey, the purple pill can cure a multitude of sins and my body, though tired, wants to go with the flow and enjoy. Going into the ocean every day has proved healing, the warm embrace of the clear blue water a clarion call to just let it all go. Even the strays here are treated well, fed by strangers or homeowners, these people will even pay vet bills and Rescue, who sleeps on our porch knows that she is loved.
The eclectic selection of music on the iPod hanging loosely around my neck is a representation of events from different parts of my life. It plays in a random shuffle reminding me of a first kiss, the transcending of a long term relationship, absolute abandonment, children playing, school friends, in long, a life. This place gives you the space to just be and in though ten minutes away from the bigger island, it is a whole different world.
In the year that I’ve been retreating here to recharge and visit my energy source aka my brother, I have grown to appreciate the space. New music has joined the sound track, with the waves constantly in the background.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Grumpy guts
A chance comment from a far away friend some weeks ago was the wake up call. This was someone who'd known me WHEN. When we were young and supposedly carefree. When we shared most things, from an order of fries and a coke in KFC to clothes and confidences. So you could say, even though more than twenty years have gone by, she knows me. In our brief time together on a fleeting visit to home, she'd called me hoping to get together finally, something we have been trying to do for more than a year now. As usual, I was working. When am I not? Eventually we did get together, but we've not managed to do since.
And that's what did it really. Looking back at this blog there's been a definite trend, the joy has gone, to be replaced by a heaviness, a distinct lack of joy. That's when I knew for sure, no balance, I'd become subsumed by the rigours of job and given up the very things that made me interesting, that gave me pleasure and most of all, balance. A self confessed workaholic, my tendency to hold myself responsible for all things was now taking a toll.
That, and the residual effects of too much responsibility and overwork after the Summit caused me to re-visit my cognitive therapist. It has been a long journey back but worth the effort. In pouring out my thoughts, feelings and emotions to her, in our ritual of cleansing, I am reminded that I must be an active part of my own recovery.
When did food stop being a pleasure and become reduced to fuel? When taste become unimportant, when did the act of sitting down to a meal and being aware of everything going into my mouth become a chore? The act of cooking, or cooking for and with friends. Slowly I started to understand how much of me had been given up, most of all shocked by how bored I was by me.
It took a lot of little earthquakes to wake me up. Relating to another friend how tired my body felt, when did I become old? I remembered too, the all too brief sensations that took hold, salsa dancing one night recently, E. counting the steps for me, telling me to slow down and let him lead. The sound of his voice in my ear, soothing and reassuring, knowing that he would not let me fall. In those moments letting myself go, singing along to Elvis Crespo and really feeling my body move. I love to dance, it was one of the things that was so great about the X-man, is a great dancer and when we were on the floor it was magic. For a couple of nights it came back to me, as held tight against this man who smelled so good and moved like a dream, my body ignored the uptight me and really let go. We moved around the floor in step, it was an outpouring that opened a door I don't wish to close.
Yoga, an activity that I've practiced for most of my life and yet have only attempted sporadically over the last five years, how could I have let it go? The limber strength that was such a part of everyday living, put aside. My body knows the difference, the excuses are getting tired, how did I get from instructor training to barely being able to get into basic positions? This cannot continue.
Mother's Day today, barreling up the highway to see my Granny. Knowing that there would be at least fifteen minutes of her diatribe about my lack of visits and phone calls. The time I spend working and not looking after myself. In the end, we hung out together, she oohing over the plants that I bought her and then disappearing inside to bequeath a new dress sent to her by my aunt but too racy for her. No sleeves and short, you might see her knees! We giggled together like two girls. I truly love her and she loves me, warts and all. Yes Gaby, I took your advice, no grumpy guts today.
And so, the changes, slow in coming, some a deal between my therapist and me, are taking hold. My dog and I play ball again, he drives me nuts and I put up with him. Spanish class starts in two weeks, meanwhile, yoga on Tuesday. Work is that thing you do to live, you do not live to work. When people speak of finding balance it should not be an abstract concept. Today, really tasting the savoury bite of fresh watercress. The vivid green leaves crinkling as I put them into my mouth, enjoying the peppery bite against my tongue. Later this week my brother, John and I will split a bottle of good wine, maybe some cheese, and talk.
Taking pleasure from reading a good book or going to the movies. There are art exhibitions to go to, play clothes to try on, meals to be cooked, lots of coffee to be drunk and new classes to try. Maybe even a coffee shop...who knows what waits.
And that's what did it really. Looking back at this blog there's been a definite trend, the joy has gone, to be replaced by a heaviness, a distinct lack of joy. That's when I knew for sure, no balance, I'd become subsumed by the rigours of job and given up the very things that made me interesting, that gave me pleasure and most of all, balance. A self confessed workaholic, my tendency to hold myself responsible for all things was now taking a toll.
That, and the residual effects of too much responsibility and overwork after the Summit caused me to re-visit my cognitive therapist. It has been a long journey back but worth the effort. In pouring out my thoughts, feelings and emotions to her, in our ritual of cleansing, I am reminded that I must be an active part of my own recovery.
When did food stop being a pleasure and become reduced to fuel? When taste become unimportant, when did the act of sitting down to a meal and being aware of everything going into my mouth become a chore? The act of cooking, or cooking for and with friends. Slowly I started to understand how much of me had been given up, most of all shocked by how bored I was by me.
It took a lot of little earthquakes to wake me up. Relating to another friend how tired my body felt, when did I become old? I remembered too, the all too brief sensations that took hold, salsa dancing one night recently, E. counting the steps for me, telling me to slow down and let him lead. The sound of his voice in my ear, soothing and reassuring, knowing that he would not let me fall. In those moments letting myself go, singing along to Elvis Crespo and really feeling my body move. I love to dance, it was one of the things that was so great about the X-man, is a great dancer and when we were on the floor it was magic. For a couple of nights it came back to me, as held tight against this man who smelled so good and moved like a dream, my body ignored the uptight me and really let go. We moved around the floor in step, it was an outpouring that opened a door I don't wish to close.
Yoga, an activity that I've practiced for most of my life and yet have only attempted sporadically over the last five years, how could I have let it go? The limber strength that was such a part of everyday living, put aside. My body knows the difference, the excuses are getting tired, how did I get from instructor training to barely being able to get into basic positions? This cannot continue.
Mother's Day today, barreling up the highway to see my Granny. Knowing that there would be at least fifteen minutes of her diatribe about my lack of visits and phone calls. The time I spend working and not looking after myself. In the end, we hung out together, she oohing over the plants that I bought her and then disappearing inside to bequeath a new dress sent to her by my aunt but too racy for her. No sleeves and short, you might see her knees! We giggled together like two girls. I truly love her and she loves me, warts and all. Yes Gaby, I took your advice, no grumpy guts today.
And so, the changes, slow in coming, some a deal between my therapist and me, are taking hold. My dog and I play ball again, he drives me nuts and I put up with him. Spanish class starts in two weeks, meanwhile, yoga on Tuesday. Work is that thing you do to live, you do not live to work. When people speak of finding balance it should not be an abstract concept. Today, really tasting the savoury bite of fresh watercress. The vivid green leaves crinkling as I put them into my mouth, enjoying the peppery bite against my tongue. Later this week my brother, John and I will split a bottle of good wine, maybe some cheese, and talk.
Taking pleasure from reading a good book or going to the movies. There are art exhibitions to go to, play clothes to try on, meals to be cooked, lots of coffee to be drunk and new classes to try. Maybe even a coffee shop...who knows what waits.
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