Memoirs of an Ardent Particularist: October 2008

About Me

Suffice it to say that I am an ardent particularist. What this means is that I like to look at the particulars (Duh!). So for example, I like the deep furrows on a withered tree trunk, the jet black curly hair of a woman walking past me, the swing of a very short skirt on the behind of a girl in front of me, the sunflower like irises in my husband's blue pupils, the soft and gentle curves of his body, the shape of a pebble that skirts off the tyres of a truck at a construction site, the toc-toc-toc of the table tennis ball on the table, the feel of a full mango fruit in the palm of your hand, a bowl of translucent, red, pomegranate seeds, the speckled sunlight on a patch of grass under a tree, the deep yearning for someone you care about and love, the deep sense of grief when you have to forget someone you love, the mixture of white steamed rice and pink oleander petals strewn on the cold dark stone tile of the temple, the smell of a decaying banana leaf, the pungent smell of a raw mango just fallen from the tree, the clang of utensils and the clamour of sundry voices and stray dogs infused with the smell of boiling tea as India wakes to life every morning, and so on...

Thursday, October 09, 2008

Rio Maniqui

Milky-way extending from horizon to horizon. A million stars stud the dark blanket of the night. The full moon garnished with moisture-laden, heavy, creamy clouds. The other bank fringed with trees and grasses in profile. The waist-deep river flows noiselessly.

The occasional plop of the crocodile. ??? !!!

Or a fish.

No mosquitoes, no jitum. A slight cool breeze.

Five on the bank with rum and hot chocolate. The fire burns enthusiastically, flames leaping out of the logs, licking the air, stretching their tongues out- long and persistent.

Happy tongues of flame.

Three on the bank. Heavy, sleepy, lazy tongues of flames.

Two on the bank. Embers kept reluctantly alive. Warming feet and socks. SLeepy. Sad. Silent.

One on the bank. Burnt socks. Solitude. Borges.

One on the bank with a desire to hug the night. To never let it go. To stay awake till morning, afraid to miss the night, hoping to discover it's magic secret hidden just behind the veil of darkness studded with hot orange lava.

One on the bank.

The One.

Churros

The churros at Restaurante Manolo´s on Via Argentina are so yummy! Better in the evening when they are slightly warm. Filled with dulce de leche that oozes out of the grooved, cylindrical breading with every bite. Brown, thick, gooey, sweet, tantalizing, rich, erotic, heaven. I savour every bite, dig my tongue into the chamber of dulce de leche before setting it down. Chewing the crisp, granular sugar and hearing it crunch into the layer of browned breading and then the softness of the less cooked interior, and then the thick, wanting to melt, now melting dulce de leche, I am convinced I would walk five miles for these churros.