So, you know how some musique captures you in a hypnotic state ? like when you are in love for the first time & completely captured by its seductive, elusive power; you feel helpless, obsess compulsively and almost in tears as it courses through your veins achieving that perfect orgasm where your soul, mind and body melts down in an agonizing ecstasy and leaves you shaking for hours. Well, this is one of the songs which has that effect on me. This song I classify under champagne musique. I stumbled on to this song, Paolo Conte’s Sparring Partner, while watching the French movie 5 X 2 along with other songs like O capito che amo, etc. No clue about the lyrics but who cares, I just want to drown in this sublime musique. Maybe I should rewatch 5 X 2.
It’s another lazy Sunday, all my kids stretched out next to me and I am back in bed contemplating if I should get up and make more coffee. It’s supposed to be another hot sweltering summer day. Sundays are for coffee. Sundays are for lounging about in torn t-shirts, going barefoot and nothing else. Sundays are to stretch seductively and eat things right out of cartons they were packed in. My trainer cancelled on me so I am in no hurry to get out and go to gym to work out. I have musique playing in the background and I am trying to focus on what I should do. I texted my beautician if she could fit me in today as I don’t feel beautiful at all. I am thinking of going to the library as I ran out of books to read. The last one I read was Murakami’s Windup Bird Chronicle.
When is this summer ending ? My laptop’s key board is missing out the “I” when I type as my cats have jumped on it and now my writing is all underlined with red squiggly lines to point out the incomplete words and it’s jarring to see all these squiggly reds against the sea of black letters. I am constantly going back into my writing to press down the “I” hard to complete the words so as to neutralize the red squiggly lines and it’s immensely satisfying to see these reminders disappear. I have a collection of laptop’s with non-functioning keyboards. I learned so much about the command prompts of computers thanks to my kids jumping on the keyboards or walking across them non-chalantly.
I detest doing anything domestic, cooking being the exception as I love cooking. But cooking for one person is tremendously boring. I would buy all these vegetables as they look so fresh, so crisp and so inviting and bring them home and I’d turn lazy to cook them. When I finally want to cook them, they are usually useless having been forgotten for ages & I’d throw them in the bin. My boy used to tell me, why do you even bother to bring them up into the kitchen ? Isn’t it easier for you to throw them out, right from the trunk of the car ? I used to glare at him. Funny, but true 🙂 and partly it’s his fault on account I am a vegetarian and my boy wasn’t and so I’d make steaks etc for him and not able to cook veggies. But I’m on my own now and I still do the same either out of habit or to honor him. Idk.
I prefer lounging lazily with my cats, drinking coffee and reading books or netflixing (or amazon) or play online games. But I have to do laundry I suppose and kind of vacuum the house on account I fired the maid.
I wish I were like a cat and live just in the moment and not mull over things in my head whether to submit myself entirely to the way of the world or just close my eyes and let the universe lull me and rock me with false sense of security. I think for most part I have solid grasp of myself and I stop confusing myself with the ways of others. Soaking up the world is good but I should be picky and soak up the right things; get drunk on life I suppose.
And then there is this disembodied sadness which comes with having had everything and not having anything at all. Dwelling on things which should be tucked away and put in the back pockets and not be dwelled upon. I should just talk about now and this moment and not think about the story I found lurking in my back pocket for years and which I forgot was still there and it’s like finding a story with no identity on the pavement of the city which still finds you a stranger, but the story moves you profoundly and holds you like an old friend.
I probably should get up and do my laundry but my sheets still smell like him and I want to cradle that feeling. Sundays are for coffee and for never opening my eyes long enough to look at the day full in the face and greet it. Sundays are for sighing and for figuring out the parts of my life where I lost my control. Sundays are for no longer having the desire to make rules for myself. Sundays are for getting drunk without drinking wine.