What Possessed Me

The gold of her laughter

To him she seemed so beautiful, so seductive, so different from ordinary people, that he could not understand why no one was as disturbed as he by the clicking of her heels on the paving stones, why no one else's heart was wild with the breeze stirred by the sighs of her veils, why everyone did not go mad with the movements of her braid, the flight of her hands, the gold of her laughter. He had not missed a single one of her gestures, not one of the indications of her character, but he did not dare approach her for fear of destroying the spell.

Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel Garcia Marquez

 

I read this beautiful novel when I was too young. At thirteen, I read for conquest more than comprehension - there was no way that I could understand the pathos of the rejected Florentino Ariza the way I did at twenty-eight, when I revisited those pages in my London flat while weeping over my own romantic dramas. Even so, this excerpt from Love in the Time of Cholera reminds me of being very young and wistful, wondering if one day I would ever become the object of such perfect adoration. 

 

Quotation via Everything's Just Rosie. Photograph via Bohemia.

Last of the season + dieting misery

On this gray, cranky day, I present you these, the last of my roses. I read that roses go through a last push in October, producing a profusion of blooms that are larger, brighter and more fragrant than May blossoms. They seem like an undeserved blessing during a time when I am mourning summer and bracing for winter.

In addition to mourning and bracing, I am also dieting. It's only Day 3 and I feel utterly disconsolate, convinced that the fun part of my life is now over (sound familiar?) and that I will never eat Thai deliciousness ever again. (Of course this is utter bullshit, because I ate Thai deliciousness last night with Deb, who picked me up in her chariot and whisked me away to a magical place where watercress is deep fried.) Moderation, you mean, joyless motherfucker, I hate you. But something must be done - since my wedding I've gained - wait for it - THIRTY pounds. THIRTY. Without even trying! Just going about my business, innocently stuffing my face with baked goods! I am only disclosing this because it appears that I have no vanity at all, and the person from whom I hide these ugly secrets (ie: my husband) already knows the dreaded number. For some reason Fauxhawk is intensely interested in this sort of information because he thinks that sharing will bond us during our mutual weight struggles. For example:

P: (Sitting on the couch) I am such a fat bastard. It's gotten out of hand. 

F: My pants have no room for my balls. 

P: Wow. Did your balls gain weight? Does that happen?

F: No, just my ass. Anyway, I weigh ___ now, which is unacceptable. What do you weigh?

P: LIKE I'm going to tell you. PLEASE.

F: Honey! Why won't you tell me?

P: Because you will hear the number and instantly see a giant ham hock instead of a wife.

F: No I won't! What are you talking about?

P: NO. I don't share numbers. 

Later.

F: Sweetie, is this how much you weigh? (Holds tiny scrap of paper with my handwriting on it)

P: Wha--? No.

F: Did you write your weight down on this piece of paper?

P: I ADMIT NOTHING.

F: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

 

P.S. Before you guys get the wrong idea, I am doing Weight Watchers and attempting to be sensible. I am not going on some crazy cleanse, nor am I eschewing carbs. 

Portrait of a boy from Mozambique

I want to know more.

 

Source.