Carolime Time

most of the time, i;ve looked at her with envy. i blow her off in a fit of spite, while admiring her from the corner of my eye. she’s everything i;ve wanted to be she’s everything im not. she does all the things i wish i could do, says all the things i’ve been unable to put into words. She has me rapt not with love or affection but with shock and jealousy. i used to hate her cause i was nothing like her for she was everythoing i wished i could be. the way she looked at the sky, the way her footsteps made a sound, the way she walked with direction, making heads turn from all corners and in all angles. the first time i saw her, i watched her. she watched me, too. we looked at each other knowing that we could either be the best of friends or the worst of enemies. she was my greatest competition at my prime, but i soon fell to the wayside, her longing spectator never asking for the time of day from her, i lost track of my schedule and soon lived by hers.
i’ve seen her grow, and even when she fell, her bruises made her beautiful. in fact she came out stronger, and i faltered in her shadow. i have taken from her and i’ll admit this…i need her. she has thickened my quest for survival, birthed and hardened my fearlessness and brought me back to life after being pronounced dead on arrival. i live for the day that she will notice me and learn from me.  till then, she is the force that lies behind my meager efforts at existence.

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God, I miss writing for the love of it. I never make the time these days, not even to write to myself. And when I do write to myself, they’re mangled indulgences text messaged to myself, often observations, regularly my internal conflicts. I am not emotionally nor mentally numbed, no, but I channel it… Read the rest of this entry »

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For some reason, these tender nerves somehow stand on end even when there’s nothing to lose, nor fear.

I found myself cowering over my lunch bag, transported back to my highschool years, hoping that two and a half minute microwave nuke would never come to an end so that I may never face the pending question. Where would I sit? What would be a smooth segue into comfortable silence? Yes, it happens, even to me, social butterfly extraordinaire. Read the rest of this entry »

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I have a dirty little secret to share. It’s a little embarrassing, because it makes me sound stuck up.
I have developed a horrid
attachment to GOOD FOOD!!! I think I come off like a sheikha, and my significant other always shakes his head at me because of the way I make choosing a restaurant or eating a meal SUCH a big decision. But there are reasons for this, I tell ya!

I have learned that eating, and satisfying a hunger or craving, can make or break your day. I know, I know, there are people starving out there who can’t afford a meal, and that’s why I used to make a habit of visiting for-profit charity corporations such as The Hunger Site on a daily basis (not as regularly these days, sad to say).

That being said, it has not stopped me from perusing restaurants and getting finicky about the specifics. I am still up for a good meal at the local hole in the wall (I leave my critic’s hat at the door, hanging loosely from a charming old rickety coat hanger). The only reason I have the god-given right to judge is because I spend my own and other people’s savings on these restaurants. They are not cheap! In fact, even when I was making next-to-nothing at my previous job, my friends-in-law (not through marriage, rather those friends with wallets funded by the law) would gawk. Yes, the key to fine dining is to find cheap rent and live on the edges of the core.

My point is, there is some delicious food out there. And you’re paying not just for the food, but for the experience. The components of a good meal can come right down to the bathroom.

We went to a lovely place tonight, and I don’t think I want to name it because it ended on a sour note. It shares more than just its dark furnishings and location with the likes of restaurants like Ki, while going beyond face value and reputation with a confident and actually reliable menu.

The Food

I say that because each and every one of us (8 ppl) was floored by our meals.

Starters of crab cakes, tuna tartare, quail rolled in bacon..all displayed impeccably, divided for sharing. This was convenient, clean, and all very special for a night out.

For mains? The cod fell to pieces more willingly than that which I had on the West Coast, at Rock Cod Cafe in Cowichan Bay. Is it possible that this Toronto restaurant could serve me something fresher than something I ate with a view of the water?? (And let me say, Rock Cod Cafe was some good waterfront cookin’).

Not only that, but my rack of lamb was so tender, I actually felt like we were alone in the room for the first few minutes of my meal. Everything around me just turned into background noise. I had it medium and it was served with sauteed spinach.

Even the simple tomato mayo was remarkable.  One of the chefs we had the pleasure of dining with tonight said that it’s simply a mix of ketchup and mayo. You learn something new everyday! I even wanted to stick some of my leftover Yukon Gold fries in my purse. I might’ve, by mistake, of course. 

The Wine

We decided not to order wine to match our meals tonight, as we noticed the restaurant offered a wine we had once in 2007 and haven’t seen anywhere else since. That wine is Charles Baker Reisling, 2006. I look for it on every wine list, and my lover and I once spent an afternoon considering buying a case of it from its Niagara vineyards. But we’re not really that badass. Anyway, I suggest that wine to anyone searching for a sweet white for sipping. Apparently it is high in ‘residual sugars’ which explains my affinity to it– I typically nurse colourful cocktails and sugary so-called ‘girly’ drinks. But my beer-guzzling lover also loves the Charles Baker, so there must be somethin’  to it

The Service

Consistent, friendly, actually charming..he described the special so amiably that he reminded me of a small town radio broadcaster. I had a passing crush on him and liked it when he helped me put on my coat. He laughed with us, joked with us, and walked away at the right time. He might’ve topped off my glass a little bit more than I’d have liked, but he probably just did it for the sake of having something to do. The restaurant was not packed, for no reason besides our own late reservation.

The Flaw

Gosh…everything else was so good that I don’t even want to talk about the flaw. Sigh. I shouldn’t have gotten started.  But alas, I must continue.

We were celebrating G’s birthday, and her sister brought a cake along. It was a delicious little thing, made with a ‘lemon curd’ as she put it. She works with pastries at a Toronto bakery. Oh, by the way, our table was home to three people in the restaurant industry– three chefs with some interesting stories and takes on Toronto restaurant movers and shakers. As for myself, though it’s not my forte, I am currently the editorial assistant to the restaurants editor at a website that tends to get around, if you know what I mean! I don’t really have any pull, but I hear bits and pieces.

Anyways, it was strange…when we finished our meals, killed our desserts, and licked our spoons of cappuccino foam…lo and behold, the bills each had a $4 surcharge, for each person. That meant $36 in total (we had a 9th join after dinner)…for what, you ask? For the cake that was cut and placed on our plate. Yeah! Go figure! I mean, I’ve had some good, expensive cake and pricey, not-so-good cake, and it can be anywhere from $4 per piece to $15..but I’ve never had someone charge me to place a piece of cake on my plate? Apparently the cutting of the cake amounted to more than the wholesale cost of the cake itself.

Sure, the raspberry almost-coulis and one or two blackberries and blueberries arranged next to the dessert was great but..please, don’t flatter yourself, my dear chef! It was really the cake that we came for, not the restaurant’s added frills.. and anything else should’ve been complimentary. It wasn’t really the price that threw us off. It was just the idea of charging for such a simple thing. Yeah so that was something to get annoyed at.

But all in all, if you’ve not Google’d all the items on the menu that I’ve mentioned, I’d be happy to share the restaurant name with curious readers. It really was a good night, I’m just being cranky and looking for an excuse to relive the things I eat.

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a thousand words, they say, will keep the crazies at bay..

The world is celebrating the New Year, 2009, bringing it in with a bit of subdued joy. The past year has been tumultuous. I’ve come across a poem, and heard a sonnet, both referring to the different economic scandals and political big whigs that have graced our headlines. A lot of people I know are staying in, avoiding the extreme cold alert on Toronto’s streets. Others are visiting the always dependendable, immovable Nathan Phillips Square. One group of girlfriends are organizing a candlelight vigil at the Israeli consulate on Bloor against the current bloodshed in Gaza at the hands of the Israeli army. It will take place between 11:50pm and 12:15am..

I must say that I was pleased to read that so many Arab countries are coming together in support of the current Palestinian situation, which is getting more dire by the day. I didn’t expect it, to be honest.

I never know what to do on December 31st. Frankly, I feel completely neutral and indifferent to the day. Moreso than any other day of the year. It’s literally a day in limbo. I can’t get anything done cause everyone’s off and I can’t go too crazy cause I just don’t see the point. I really, really don’t. :)..Let me figure out, now, how I’ve spent my past few NYEs

2007-2008-> Goa, dancefloor

2006-2007->selling these light up toys at nathan phillips square, then running around trying to take photos at different events and make some $$..ended up stuck in the rain, in a storm..with an old friend..wishing e/other happy New year..hah..then onwards to play some pool and drink…that was probably the best one

2005-2006-> dance floor, Goa, with my parents

2004-2005->in a car, on the corner of queen and bay in toronto..by myself..i was in mourning, as my aunt passed away just a few days prior

2003-2004->this was my first year of university, i had an NYE party at my family’s old, empty and unfurnished house in Scarborough.. definitely memorable, for more reasons than one..

2002-2003->i believe i drove around Toronto with my cousin, ran down church street and pranced around with randoms all night..fell down the stairs of the Westin Harbour Castle..flirted

2001-2002->i went to a GOA dance with my best friend and whatnot

2000-2001->some dance with the parents

and the rest was family events that i can’t recall..after a while, the years blur and fade into one collective past..

I can’t say much for 2008. I learned a lot, on an individual level. I think I attained that confidence I was searching for, somehow, much to the disdain of my bank account. I didn’t think I’d ever have to pay to work. But I did. I learned a lot about how the corporate world works, the steely, well-oiled machine of man. And I learned there’s very little to lose. I had this fear, before, that the world is bigger than it is, and tougher than it is. I put aside many of my interests, picking and choosing the most important. But I realized that wasn’t necessarily the right way. Finally, I’ve gathered the experience as well as the B/S that one needs to get through this sometimes horrid affair of life. Oh, and in the last days of 2008, I laid my eggs in a basket that slips neatly into a cool, safe place. I feel pretty good right now, to be honest. Better than I’ve felt over the past two months of this year.

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I was sitting at the corner of Queen and Yonge today waiting for Mutton to meet me for dinner..it was rush hour, everyone was leaving work and I was reading the paper on a bench. Truthfully, I couldn’t concentrate, as there were too many fashionable clacking heels passing amidst the streetcars and out-of-place bicycles. I need to take notes on what’s in! Not to mention I was wearing sunglasses and I’ve not grown accustomed to the accessory, let alone a dark shadow on my print.

For those who aren’t familiar with this hood, it’s a bit of a crossroads. Walk a little north, and you hit Toronto’s attempt at Times Square–Dundas Square, where flashing lights and fountains run the show. This is also where the main downtown mall is situated, the Eaton Centre.
Take a stroll a bit south, and you’ll hit the financial district, where Blackberrys and speed-walking mark the territory. You’ll also cross paths with some young lawyers and old ones that will swallow you with their eyes.
East and west are a little trendier, but haven’t formed enough of a consistent identity for me to comment on, or rather, are in such transition these days that labels such as ‘vintage’, ‘boho’, and ‘yuppy’ would not suffice.

I noticed these two women stop beside me. One was in her mid 50s and the other was in her 20s probably. They didn’t look at me, even though I was yakking away on my phone about all the hot suits that work in my building. Not that my conversations are so important they should eavesdrop, but I was sitting right beside them. They didn’t really talk to each other, and I figured they were taking a rest from shopping, or working. I went on with my mundane chatter, and a friend I hadn’t seen in about 3years happened to recognize me, even incognito in sunglasses and prep wear.

The friend and I reunited, chatting for a short bit about what we’d been up to and how our lives are progressing. We were distracted, with him noticeably pacing at the thought of his departing train and myself, wondering where the hell Mutton was and when I’d be eating.

As D turned to leave, I glanced to my right and saw that these two women were sitting cross-legged at the core of the city, with eyes closed and fingers poised, pressed together in the direction of the sky. I was stunned. I hadn’t even noticed them. Their expressions were blank, but full. They were withdrawn, but present. I am convinced they were in a space so quiet that no one could wake them until the time was right. Theirs was a peace I don’t envy, but would rather achieve, master, and recreate.

Mind you, theirs wasn’t the attention-grabbing religious activist sort of prayer. It was private, not shy but natural.

If two people can sit with traffic blaring,
honking,
lights,
cell phones,
smog,
talking,
screeching,
laughing,
the brush of bodies on the street,
the groan of trucks and transit system
under their feet…

Then there is little we can denounce in faith of the purest kind, and sincerity of the most congested mind.

I was stilled. Quiet, so quiet I wouldn’t dare speak in their presence. I had to walk away to exhale, and I had to lower my voice to a hush as I told my boyfriend what I’d just witnessed and not been able to take part in. In fact, I couldn’t even tell him the details as I was afraid of breaking the spell. I didn’t watch them, I only saw them.

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i’m fairly smitten with milan kundera. i am not smitten by him the way i have been caught up in a fine balance, or shantaram, nor the way i whizzed through jhumpa lahiri and unaccustomed earth..they’ve got nothing on him. i wouldn’t say i’m drawn to him the way i was intrigued by gabriel garcia and immediate host to gallons of respect for his compassion.

i would compare my reaction to kundera’s ‘immortality’ to the same weak-in-the-knees, to-be-left-alone shyness, willingness, and vulnerability i sensed in myself when reading the ‘intimacy’ compilation by sartre. elements of my short but intense relationship with ‘wicked’ by gregory mcguire….quick but never forgotten and forever touched upon in a positive light. triggers to my growth and dog-eared pages of notable points in my book-reading career. no, it’s hard to fall in love..and it happens so rarely that when you’re in it, you don’t want it to end, even though it must. i’m not the sort that wants to read book after book of one author after i fall in love with the first. i would hate to compare one with the other. but i am a slow reader when i sense an immediate connection. i want to write down everything they say, i take pauses and savour the words, the structure of thoughts and the immensity of what my lover is saying. i re-read sections within minutes, touching upon them over and over again. sometimes, when i am with a mortal lover that i can’t get enough of, i write down the things they say on a napkin beside the bed. but with a book, you can turn the page back, and no one will know you’re so love-struck. it’s all between the pages.

why do i feel so strongly about some books, and not others? i could quote kundera and support my statements..but i think it is that i see elements of myself manifested in the thoughts of these writers..that they could see right through me, and humans in general, is so profound that i believe them to be demi-gods.

so why would i read them slowly, and why would i not race to read their next book? i think love, when it nears its end, is the sweetest tragedy. best contained in its past. to read another book by the same person, with a completely different goal, time, place..could lead to a complete disconnect that may dissolve all previous . the same person i was in love with a year and a half ago is my friend today, and will never be my lover again. the person/book/place you fall in love with can come at the right time, fitting into you perfectly and clicking in place. sometimes you carry on this romance until it ripens into a sweet forever. but a lot of the time, relationships are meant to stay in their place. a book does not change with time, as people are so prone to doing.

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i am treading through ‘the secret’..my godfather’s wife has raved about it, and she’s one of the most optimistic people i know…not to mention some businesspeople i know who seem to love it..

it was one of the leading books in india…every bookstore i went into (and i went into A LOT) (hence the 14kg overweight;)) had “The Secret” at #1…
Whenever kids would come up to my rickshaws selling books, the main three were…The Secret, Kite Runner, and A Thousand Splendid Suns..

Anyway, I think there’s a trend in India surrounding motivational thought and literature. Even as I read magazines and statements from celebrities, all their quotes and ideals are based on these laws of attraction, in a way…And I’ve noticed people are really into passing along inspirational quotes and sayings…either via text message or through email…It’s one rupee a text message, so technically the Indian text message costs more than the Canadian…yet, no one sends me inspirational text messages?! You know, it really did mean something to me..to wake up and re-read it..added a little light to my day..HINT HINT..SEND ME POSITIVE MESSAGES!!!…

okay so i gotta tell you something…i have three days left to write…after that, i cannot blurt out anything more under the pretense of ‘traveling’..for i will be back in toronto..
the question is, do i write my ass off, or have i written enough..
is it quantity, or quality, in this case?
i’ve done some facebook lurking, and people have come home with a lot of wonderful pictures, photos from their winter extravaganzas and adventures….
i did not use my camera once on this trip.
The camera. my archnemesis. my possessive ex lover, confidante, my wanderlust and vanity, all in a little hand held contraption that has never quite made sense to me.
broadcast journalism classes consisted of me, fiddling, often calling an old friend just to make sure i had the FPS (eh??) and white balance right..auto focus or manual? am i overacting? should i wear makeup? what’s that trick you mentioned that would make me look skinnier? ahh, yes…that one..

i am thoroughly anti-camera. i’ve reluctantly embraced this phase for the past couple of months, almost veiled myself in it. every passing urge to capture a moment with a lens has been followed by a pebble in my throat..why do i want to use my camera, i ask…so i can have a zillion shots of the same thing from different angles? because digital is cheap? so i can look at it immediately afterwards?..this is what the camera has come to mean to me..it’s sad, because i know there’s more to it than that…am i really much of a photographer, though? i want to know, how many people develop photos these days? why does blacks’ photography have so many frames on display these days?

i don’t carry my camera anywhere anymore. when another pulls it out, i am first arrested by how the camera might spoil this moment–my own defensiveness– and then reminded that i don’t have a pen to write this moment down and they have their camera, to write it down for themselves.

some people do it really well, as i’ve seen. and the colours, the vibrance, there really is the possibility of quality with a camera. i just can’t do it.
i have been at war with the camera for some time. I think it’s because I’m still transitioning, 1.5yrs later, into acting for film. If only I could tell you how I feel about this comfortable, emotionally abusive lover of mine, these days..i’m so attached it hurts..

There are some things i am dying to take a picture of. i wanted the red paan spray on the streets, like graffiti on a wall..though people apparently spit it on special property, like a scar..not so sure about uninvited scars. My cousin said it can get really bothersome to the point of…VANDALISM? but i think paan juice could be useful in self-expression…kinda like that vomit on canvas art fad..but vomiting on someone else’s art, not so cool..

so there, did i just take a picture? does that count? is writing way more revealing than photos?

here’s the thing. my friend once told me she didn’t take pics with any of the people she met on her trip to israel. me, i have decided not to take pics of any of the things i’ve seen. so far, i’ve gotten a lot on paper/screen. and people take pics of me with groups of others, or on my own.

i’ve had a lot of thoughts, asked a lot of my silly questions, and done a lot of things. i consider my writing my photo album. i wouldn’t have felt comfortable taking out a camera to take a picture of vadaes, and it’s difficult to aim a camera at the steam rising off the top of a cup of tea, i don’t think my camera’s good enough to catch the stain on the side of a glass or the fingernails and dry skin of that woman’s day, nor could i quote, with a camera, the things i’ve heard around me, that make me wonder and think twice..and since i’m on a mission to ‘focus’, i decided to use one medium and not the two..

i am feeling a lot better..

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arrived in goa dec 29th..we left at 5am this morning to return to mumbai…i thoroughly enjoyed the 10hr ride there and back…the morning air was as crisp as the skin of the vada baji we ate at 6am, with tea..the bathroom reeked so badly that i couldn’t use it, and i later found a lovely bush on the side of the road…when i got back in the car, we spent a minute trying to figure out if i had left the bush with bugs attached to my shirt..or if they were just dead leaves.. i then had to wipe my ankles with antibacterial wet wipes that my virgo driving buddy was smart enough to bring along..i kept the towels for a souvenir, and they will be on ebay shortly..

keep you updated on the next move

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careful, catch the gasp..one look over the shoulder, it may be the last..lock all the doors, keep yourself out of view..each creak and groan, and my ears perk up..the house is settling in, and i’m up and about..running out of places to hide, so we ran back inside..suitcases filled with clothes unwashed, leaving with it all..for a place that knows nothing of threat..one look over the shoulder and you’re in front of me with the next..i’m panting, i’m frozen in one spot and no one’s around to hear me shudder..tucking secrets between sofa folds and i am blank, i have nothing to tell, my mouth is sealed. i imagine the aftermath, the scenario that will ensue..lights out, hands folded, words outstretched. give me a few more days and i’m out of here for good. give me just a few more days, let me last. but what about you? can i leave you alone to fend for yourself? i don’t want to hear about it on a phone, least of all in print. i don’t want to see it in pictures, and last of all in person. but who will find you if i’m not here to be found in your place?

this is the only way i know how to pray and plead.

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