30 June 2008

The devil is in the details...

Often, when the muse eludes or I'm short on time, I'll take advantage of the status updates on myspace to post what have become micro-blogs. Some of them elicit almost as many comments as the full length entries do.
In a recent one, I alluded to a particular evening I had with The Banker. I didn't think much of it, until I received a grudgingly envious message from one of my male readers. How is it, he wondered, that I have all these extraordinary misadventures, and furthermore, how could I be so glib about sharing them.
The latter sentiment has been expressed by others, who feel I do myself and my lovers a disservice writing about the intimate details of our...well, our intimacies.
I would disagree.
It has been said that the best way to conceal something is to hide it in plain sight.
I wholeheartedly live my experiences, lovingly wrap them in words, and craft them until they resemble colorful little packages tied neatly with a bow. You can shake them, rattle them, make out the general shape of what's inside--- but the true contents are known only to me and the other parties directly involved.

As for the "extraordinary" quality of my misadventures, I would say it's a matter of perspective. Like everyone else, I work, I play, I go out with friends occasionally. Even some friends, however, are surprised to learn that I spend a great deal of time at home, alone in front of a computer. (These blogs don't type themselves, dearies!)

No, my life is not extraordinary, I simply see the magic in the mundane.

The secret, I told this envious young man, is in the details.

To the average observer my evening may have looked like this:
The Banker and I went to Fred Meyer, bought some groceries and some inexpensive wine. We then cooked and ate dinner at his apartment, listened to music, then retired to his bedroom.

But...my friend The Banker is a fellow sensualist, though you might not know it to look at him. The above "date" is no more in his nature than it is in mine.

The seduction began in the produce section.
Together we chose red and green peppers, not because the recipe required them, but simply because they were beautiful. It was the same with the rainbow chard, the leeks and fragrant jasmine rice.
Once in his kitchen, we snacked on sweet-tart cherries. Soon the scents of peppery olive oil and garlic mingled and sizzled on the stove with plump scallops. Then tomatoes, and that elusive earthy scent of saffron.
He picked fresh herbs and chopped them with abandon, pausing occasionally to take a sip of wine. Even a modest wine tastes like the finest vintage when sipped from hand-made ceramic goblets.

When heat and time had worked their special alchemy, we had a beautiful paella.
We eschewed his dining table for a smaller one in his sun room. On our way there I saw a most inviting sight in his room. Spread across his bed was a luxurious alpaca blanket, and I couldn't help but smile in anticipation of feeling it against my bare skin.
We ate as we watched the sun setting, chatted, clinked goblets, and savored the complexity of the dish we'd prepared.
I kept thinking about that bed.
Once he cleared the dishes, I scooped up my goblet and made my way to that inviting expanse of alpaca fur. He followed, bringing his harp with him.
It was sensory overload, and I surrendered to it--- the food, the wine, the sound of the harp...
Those last notes just seemed to linger in the room and we became a tangle of fur and skin and limbs. Fur feels so lovely against bare skin...


And that, my envious friend, is called: living life with gusto. I highly recommend it.


Copyright 2008, Juliana Tobón. All Rights Reserved.



03 June 2008

Mes Rêves

Some people dream of exotic things. I dream of the mundane.
I dreamt last night that I lived with a hot French girlfriend (ok, so maybe not everyone's version of mundane). The dream had a lot of detail, but was very much slice-of-life.
I was sitting at a computer desk, photo editing presumably, while she moved around in the other room. I could hear movement and catch an occasional glimpse of her through the open door.
It was very cinematic.
It was one of those unmistakably Parisian apartments, light and airy, cozy, complete with little wrought iron balcony.
So where does the mundane part come in?
It was just a relationship.
She had moved in with me and was rearranging my furniture and decorations, and adding hers. I was too absorbed in work and she had to call my attention to some of the changes she had made in the place. I was nervous about meeting her parents, especially her mother, for the first time. I was self-conscious of my French accent. There was an awkward moment greeting mom---was it two kisses or three?...

I am a romantic at heart, for all my misadventuring.
Is it really any surprise that I should dream of the boring minutiae of "normal" relationships?

*sigh*

I'm going to take a nap...and hang out with my hot French girlfriend...



All Content Copyright 2008, Juliana Tobón. All Rights Reserved