Verona in Autumn
Sweet-pea sat in her sepia-tinted cave listening to a carmoisine voice crooning a melody that makes one crave for a hot cocoa with a butter cookie or an espresso macchiato with a biscotti. She reaches out for a homemade cup of tea and lights a cigarette and hold it in her nervous hands, hoping for some magic sun rays to break into the first salubrious morning light and to shine on to her. Daybreak in autumn is a melange of fading twilight, made even more so vitreous by the sparkling display of falling leaves playing a vituperative melody. Falling dawn can chastise and start the day on a morose note, if only there were no reprieve from it by the song of the lark.
The ephemeral rays flee into ambient light as a warm saffron tinge glistens the hue and mostly misty and foggy weather into timid submission. As phantasmagorical epiphanies are brought to life swimming in front of sweet-pea's eyes she drifts to hitherto unknown worlds and slowly eases out for a walk and hopes for a light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. She gathers her ebullient self and with all her vivacity throws herself out at the beckoning world, but only with the help of the ever present technological wonder in the form a machine that takes her around, her bicycle.
With days growing shorter and the nights, long, dull and sombre, the avenue looked well lit, fragrant, a bit musty, but all and all, when taken into perspective, vibrant and cheerful. Hearken on to the days when she was just a child and everything seemed like a bit more fairy-tale like, at present the gentry looked more on the wizened side. In all her typical absent-minded, child like, scatter brained, enthusiastic and gregarious self, she had still remembered to take her satchel and at present her hair needed urgent looking after. She flung it off her shoulder in a quick pilates move, what with all the new age fitness gurus preaching off the balconies of verona. Rummaging through the pile of knick- knacks she found an antique comb, her mother's legacy bequeathed to her when she was a child, and carefully housed and transplanted in various nooks and crannies by even older grannies than her nannies. Action speaks louder than words, but mind preceded matter and sometimes deciding on a hairdo can be a bit of a hastle. She chose to razzel dazzle with a rustle do, more like a side part from the conformist side suiting the bob cut she had got on a friend's advice. Sometimes, she wished she was not so fickle and that she did not heed to advice and was not so extravagant and outgoing. Her mother's calm demeanour, poised elegance, and charisma made her feel uncomfortable and reach out for her father's cool candour.
Surreptitiously, she envied the charms and goulash bestowed by Morea on Cassioepeia. The only saving grace was, the foolhardy and lovable Roman. His angelic, cherrubic eyes which spoke chocolate in a soul music ensemble on the gay flotsam that was the Mardi Gras parade in New Orleans, defied his devilish persona and added to his animal magnetism. She took the usual winding avenue down the central town square avoiding the hoi polloi at the bazaar, and the menagerie at the charcuterie and finally found solace in her coterie huddled together at the cul de sac, next to the palisades.
Her eyes met the bashful eyes of Roman and brought about livid recollection of last nights events. One raven, moonlit dance under the al fresco capella lit nightsky had made her feel like a fool and melt into a tumultous rack of raw nerves, snowballing into an avalanche down a gulch. At present she was gasping for air and felt like all the eyes were on her and there was no place to hide. She felt like squirming in a tight spot, swimming under the coves of Napoli and that there was the trinity of the Amazona, Aphrodite and Orion hunting her down with their armada of pall bearers. At the dance, she had felt jolted out of a reverie at first and then jilted and yanked out of the very grasp of destiny's hands. Later, back at the cottage, choco lava cake with extra creme freche, devil's own is what the locals call it, was what she shoved in large wollops to feed her voracious appetite whetted by only the waltz playing on the cello in the streets.
Petanque is a pleasant Mediterranean leisure sport. Sweetpea's gardenia of foolishness was flush with pleasant childish games like marbles, hopscotch and sometimes the like of foosball played by the blossoms and thrushes with much chiding each other but at times the blossoms chose the more dapper game of croquette with the thrushes rushing into borrow paraphernellia mostly stashed in Mr. Morea's barrow gathering dust in his garage. Croquette is good to eat, good to draw, good to sing like a tad-pole morphing into a toad, and also good to play especially when you are not good at other sports like mini golf. Its also less embarrasing, if you are not a hit at cocktail dos, and a hit with the ladies by coming up with alternative words from the bowlers hat for croquette like crostini, picquante, salsa, meringue, carte blanche, mea culpa, et cetera, et al, et tu brutus, et bon appetito. Most normal people cannot tell the dance form from the eating kind, let alone differentiate between the social dance and the flamboyant courting ritual, vis a vis, the dessert and the dressing sauce. Other peremptory display of exuberance especially the more bizarre and exclamatory vicissitude at display in such sports as croquette is the occasional Bellissimo, Bravo, Bella Donna, and sometimes Bolognese like Benne, Multo Benne which participating crowds of teeming people which looks like giant army ants can mistake for Penne, Rissoto et Penne.
Roman loved to wax poetic about her like the tidal waves wash under the waning and the waxing moon. Many a times, he compared her to the girl with the pearl earring in veneer, and croquette was like nibbling on the earrings on her earlobes while gently carousing with her tresses that caressed her face that was a blend of her heritage - a matronly grecian venus di milo and the revolutionary romantic, heretical, authoritative and yet infantile and docile, all in all, a man child - garibaldi.
There was much veracity in Roman's daydreams, reminisces and especially those dreams that began with late night hallucinations and ended with the starry eyed, lazy, ruffle my feathers, sing song for a tuppence, magnolia he woke up to every passing sun shining day; for no doubting Thomas, could overcome his Calvinist temperament enough to surmise that she was anything other than a beauteous bloom. The two were to be seen everywhere and he was like putty in her deft hands, which she knew how to wield with finesse. Much to his chagrin and the onlooker's glee and charade, she was like a hot cleaver out of the blacksmith's anvil that cut straight through the butterscotch heart of his after it had been caramelized enough by adding pecan nuts and the scorching flame of life. A darting look of his which he managed to sneak every now and then, the ever wandering minstrel eye he possessed; when she needed him to lend his ear was enough to bring out the talons, the claws, the sharp beak and what typically turned out to be the last straw, the flashing eyes expressing wrath, fury, all ending in a raging swell of scowls, grimaces and finally pity.
Pity and piety have been observed in many cultures, especially in small towns as culminating in a marriage ceremony, and in the case of Verona, it was almost always solemnized by the local go to guy, confidante, a truly great humanist, the rabbi Lusid. The local bard, aptly christened Avid, by Lusid at the local parish, having lost his wits after consuming too much of a mix of local consomme and other popular concoctions like "Senor Dolce con Senorita Agua", contrived this vignette from his absentismus haze and called it moonshine.
With days growing shorter and the nights, long, dull and sombre, the avenue looked well lit, fragrant, a bit musty, but all and all, when taken into perspective, vibrant and cheerful. Hearken on to the days when she was just a child and everything seemed like a bit more fairy-tale like, at present the gentry looked more on the wizened side. In all her typical absent-minded, child like, scatter brained, enthusiastic and gregarious self, she had still remembered to take her satchel and at present her hair needed urgent looking after. She flung it off her shoulder in a quick pilates move, what with all the new age fitness gurus preaching off the balconies of verona. Rummaging through the pile of knick- knacks she found an antique comb, her mother's legacy bequeathed to her when she was a child, and carefully housed and transplanted in various nooks and crannies by even older grannies than her nannies. Action speaks louder than words, but mind preceded matter and sometimes deciding on a hairdo can be a bit of a hastle. She chose to razzel dazzle with a rustle do, more like a side part from the conformist side suiting the bob cut she had got on a friend's advice. Sometimes, she wished she was not so fickle and that she did not heed to advice and was not so extravagant and outgoing. Her mother's calm demeanour, poised elegance, and charisma made her feel uncomfortable and reach out for her father's cool candour.
Surreptitiously, she envied the charms and goulash bestowed by Morea on Cassioepeia. The only saving grace was, the foolhardy and lovable Roman. His angelic, cherrubic eyes which spoke chocolate in a soul music ensemble on the gay flotsam that was the Mardi Gras parade in New Orleans, defied his devilish persona and added to his animal magnetism. She took the usual winding avenue down the central town square avoiding the hoi polloi at the bazaar, and the menagerie at the charcuterie and finally found solace in her coterie huddled together at the cul de sac, next to the palisades.
Her eyes met the bashful eyes of Roman and brought about livid recollection of last nights events. One raven, moonlit dance under the al fresco capella lit nightsky had made her feel like a fool and melt into a tumultous rack of raw nerves, snowballing into an avalanche down a gulch. At present she was gasping for air and felt like all the eyes were on her and there was no place to hide. She felt like squirming in a tight spot, swimming under the coves of Napoli and that there was the trinity of the Amazona, Aphrodite and Orion hunting her down with their armada of pall bearers. At the dance, she had felt jolted out of a reverie at first and then jilted and yanked out of the very grasp of destiny's hands. Later, back at the cottage, choco lava cake with extra creme freche, devil's own is what the locals call it, was what she shoved in large wollops to feed her voracious appetite whetted by only the waltz playing on the cello in the streets.
The Game of Croquette
Roman loved to wax poetic about her like the tidal waves wash under the waning and the waxing moon. Many a times, he compared her to the girl with the pearl earring in veneer, and croquette was like nibbling on the earrings on her earlobes while gently carousing with her tresses that caressed her face that was a blend of her heritage - a matronly grecian venus di milo and the revolutionary romantic, heretical, authoritative and yet infantile and docile, all in all, a man child - garibaldi.
There was much veracity in Roman's daydreams, reminisces and especially those dreams that began with late night hallucinations and ended with the starry eyed, lazy, ruffle my feathers, sing song for a tuppence, magnolia he woke up to every passing sun shining day; for no doubting Thomas, could overcome his Calvinist temperament enough to surmise that she was anything other than a beauteous bloom. The two were to be seen everywhere and he was like putty in her deft hands, which she knew how to wield with finesse. Much to his chagrin and the onlooker's glee and charade, she was like a hot cleaver out of the blacksmith's anvil that cut straight through the butterscotch heart of his after it had been caramelized enough by adding pecan nuts and the scorching flame of life. A darting look of his which he managed to sneak every now and then, the ever wandering minstrel eye he possessed; when she needed him to lend his ear was enough to bring out the talons, the claws, the sharp beak and what typically turned out to be the last straw, the flashing eyes expressing wrath, fury, all ending in a raging swell of scowls, grimaces and finally pity.
Pity and piety have been observed in many cultures, especially in small towns as culminating in a marriage ceremony, and in the case of Verona, it was almost always solemnized by the local go to guy, confidante, a truly great humanist, the rabbi Lusid. The local bard, aptly christened Avid, by Lusid at the local parish, having lost his wits after consuming too much of a mix of local consomme and other popular concoctions like "Senor Dolce con Senorita Agua", contrived this vignette from his absentismus haze and called it moonshine.
The Boardwalk at Napoli
A weekend trip to Napoli was like swimming in a cornucopial shore of alabaster, perlite, lapis lazuli all ensconsed in a mother of pearl eye blinding sunshine and brought out the fashionistas with their shades and sun glasses on the boardwalk.
Pea's time at such sojourns was occupied with people watching, observing how they varied from rotunda to burlesque, twiggy to tincups and hourglass to voluptuous and fecund. Roa's roving ramshackle retina rallied, raced, rowed and raved. The family always went together and the togetherness can be best appropriated as scene out of "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof ", with Pea as the kibbutzy kitten, Moa as Big Delirious Daddy and Roa as the philanderer philosopher. The promenade des anglais was lined with bou doirs that spoke of the parfumerie, debaucheries, bachchus, paegantry and hedonism. Moa chose wisely, to always carry with him a good read and to indulge his senses in a quiet read on a well lit bench in a good part of the town while the much amorous Prosey couple waltzed into Prosody. As a woman on the altar once uttered in a gutteral sigh, ain't love grand and a many splendered thing.
On many of these walks, a constant companion to Moa was the samoan pooch Sweetie. She was the apple of his eye and he always carried with him tit bits for her and always kept her at an arm's reach. Moa's gate could be best summed up as gaunt, and his walk, either an ambling pace or a nervous shuffle as Jack in "As Good as It Gets", Pea was more like helen, the heroine on the hunt to keep him well fed, and Roa just toed the line and regaled them with anecdotes and wisecracks, to put it in a way, a merry and happy go lucky hero. Alas, Pea wondered if what kept Moa alive and in good spirits was his fondness and affections for Sweetie. Sweetie loved being the center of attention, threw a fit whenever she got a chance, and thanks to her special place in the scheme of things, got away with it !
At the grandstand which was hosting a small carnival, a stall caught Pea's attention. In colourful words a banner read, "Pong Posie Pop & Meme Mes Cal In Townie Balloon d' Or ". Another screamed attention with 'Joie de Vivien Ray', but being the mastodon mastiffs, the quintet of Cassie, Sweetie, Moa, Pea and Roa , or shall we shorten it to the Casiopera gang, graviated towards the one that had a clown with a horn blaring at the top of his lungs, "Que man gundi Rosie Tse Amora".
The sudden outpour of banal verbosity in words which reminded her of dahlias, primroses and buttercups, evoked in her an upsurge of yet unfelt boweries and made her feel long forgotten goosebumps on her forearms and buterflies in her petulant tummy. She felt exhausted and pulled moa-roa towards a bench and sandwiched herself betwixt them and ordered for a limonade to beat the harsh sun.
Pea's time at such sojourns was occupied with people watching, observing how they varied from rotunda to burlesque, twiggy to tincups and hourglass to voluptuous and fecund. Roa's roving ramshackle retina rallied, raced, rowed and raved. The family always went together and the togetherness can be best appropriated as scene out of "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof ", with Pea as the kibbutzy kitten, Moa as Big Delirious Daddy and Roa as the philanderer philosopher. The promenade des anglais was lined with bou doirs that spoke of the parfumerie, debaucheries, bachchus, paegantry and hedonism. Moa chose wisely, to always carry with him a good read and to indulge his senses in a quiet read on a well lit bench in a good part of the town while the much amorous Prosey couple waltzed into Prosody. As a woman on the altar once uttered in a gutteral sigh, ain't love grand and a many splendered thing.
On many of these walks, a constant companion to Moa was the samoan pooch Sweetie. She was the apple of his eye and he always carried with him tit bits for her and always kept her at an arm's reach. Moa's gate could be best summed up as gaunt, and his walk, either an ambling pace or a nervous shuffle as Jack in "As Good as It Gets", Pea was more like helen, the heroine on the hunt to keep him well fed, and Roa just toed the line and regaled them with anecdotes and wisecracks, to put it in a way, a merry and happy go lucky hero. Alas, Pea wondered if what kept Moa alive and in good spirits was his fondness and affections for Sweetie. Sweetie loved being the center of attention, threw a fit whenever she got a chance, and thanks to her special place in the scheme of things, got away with it !
At the grandstand which was hosting a small carnival, a stall caught Pea's attention. In colourful words a banner read, "Pong Posie Pop & Meme Mes Cal In Townie Balloon d' Or ". Another screamed attention with 'Joie de Vivien Ray', but being the mastodon mastiffs, the quintet of Cassie, Sweetie, Moa, Pea and Roa , or shall we shorten it to the Casiopera gang, graviated towards the one that had a clown with a horn blaring at the top of his lungs, "Que man gundi Rosie Tse Amora".
The sudden outpour of banal verbosity in words which reminded her of dahlias, primroses and buttercups, evoked in her an upsurge of yet unfelt boweries and made her feel long forgotten goosebumps on her forearms and buterflies in her petulant tummy. She felt exhausted and pulled moa-roa towards a bench and sandwiched herself betwixt them and ordered for a limonade to beat the harsh sun.
The Soiree
Peas getaways to the sun and surf were charming, panoramic, and were much akin to Panacea pancakes floating in dollops of butter, with extra servings of maple syrup. Nestled on the italian riviera, Napoli has fjords, marshes, mudflats and salt flats sustaining a plethora of flora and fauna, providing an eclectic mix of epicurian delights for the taste buds.
Moa being an affocianado of food, drink and the after smoke, spotted a little bistro dishing what seemed like smorgasbord. The Dona Ce Pas looked like a bohemian rhapsody miming the nouveau Parisienne couture with a hip crowd flowing in and out in pret ensembles.
The jovial busboy Julienne took no time in turning on his new world charm towards simmering the girls appetite and pointed out the menu d' jour. He suggesed that a hand tossed salad, with fresh cheese mostly chevre, a minestrone potage, all washed down with an aperitif of curacao was the day's delight. Sweetie, Cassie and Pea were by now ravenous, famished and flustered and decided that they would first get plastered.
So, on a detour, the Pixies dived into a neighbouring tavern and amidst much hullabaloo got themselves mojitos and shot a lot from the pot, back with a toss of their cloudy heads. On their way out, they spread some love with Pixie dust and Sycamore grew raspy and scrompy. Julienne mystified and amused, had found time to set the note for the evening.
He had coaxed and cajoled his very good friend, the up and coming mariachi, Miguel de Seville for an impromptu, unplugged performance at the bella dona. Miguel de Seville looked like a conquistador and by this time the wayfaring Casiopera looked more like a sun burnt Pomerance, all juiced up, tangy, ready to be served with a twist in a screwdriver, and if the barman Flannagan could have his way, all shaken and stirred in an martini glass overflowing with liquorice, not to mention a pierced extra virgin olive on top.
Miguel picked up the guitar and began strumming a tune which made Pea's mind reel, rollick, rasta, rhumba, and it felt like it would rain on the coast cascading to a tsunami. Zeus resting in the chasms of the ocean, resonated Pea's symphony with a sweet breeze blowing on her face and a drizzle on her hair, straight from the salty and warm Mediterranean. It felt like a ray of maestro and mistral had begun a duelling dance on the pan-pipes. Moa's calloused hands, hard from long walks in the sun and swimming in the salt flats, pulled out a cigarette and he started puffing his worries away, and he seemed lost in a haze of nostalgia.
Julienne popped in to break the spell of spasms with a sprig of basil as the cherry on top in minestrone lavished with croutons swimming in butter and pepper. Pepper is a fork lover and a nosy fellow that likes to bring out the whooshes and goes well with a cherry chapstick drowned in lard to mellow the emojis popping out of a runny nose, watery eyes and a sniffling nose. Cassie sees her salad being tossed out by the sous chef and her appetite going galoshes, makes an extra order of rice pilaf. Julienne is quick to recommend paella, along with a side of bouillabaisse. Bouillon is to food what castanents are to the flamenca and the chef de partie is your man friday who knows exactly how to blend it in. With the music turning rouge, and the platter turning embers, Moa's thoughts moved to recounting innamoratas, pizzicatas, mezzos and fuselit firecracker nights on cagnes sur mer and being woken up by the polizei in the morning with a haggard criminal, got ethel and esta eh, got the sun in my eyes and the ocean in my belly and brothas from another mothas on my mind.
In the meantime, the klown from the stall started bellowing `Sages smiles serves similis. 'Quote of a famous poet - Silimis Sevres Selims Segas. Moa liked mulling on bitter cigars, rude and rouge claret, and cassie was the synchronicity that played white lies, and we can work it out by the beatles, when they rode out on the old buggy in Moa's garage, when he got time to tinker bell, taco bell and raise hell in general with his toolkit in the broken shanty that was the home. Things always needed fixing and Roa was always glad to help out, not that Moa needed much help, and Sweety always was quick to point out with her pursed lips, finicky eyes and adroit hands that Rome was not built in a day and may be the god sent mercedes from the heavens to drive her around would be a good swap for the old bug.
As the hors d' oeuvres started to roll-in, Moa began to reminisce his days as a botanist at the botanist at the botanical garden of Napoli. Nowadays, with his greying hair bringing on much needed retirement years, the leisurely hours were spent taking long walks in the garden, observing the perennials and the seasonals. The things that had needled his mind with their innate detail oriented tiring nature were now a source of everlasting joy. From romancing the seasonal petunias to gazing and perusing the everlasting daisies, his days were mostly spent flirting with his new discoveries, the hybrids linnaria and gazania. It was quite a coincidence that some of these blossoms shared names with Pea's friends and acquaintainces. Cassie had a daytime job teaching kinder-garten and liked to tap every now and then into his vagabond spirit and fountain of knowledge to aquire gems of florid conspicua.
The duo of Roama were sometimes inseparable, countering each other's nature; the young and the carefree with the old and the wise, the stallion breaking into the steeds gallop on the beach as compared to the heron meditating on floating anemones breaking out in calm water pollulating with pink flamingoes. Moa liked sporing mocaccins with cute tassels while Roa always sported the latest beachwear be it hawaiis or crocs or if he chose to play peek a boo with Skimpy, a good pair of sneakers, his favourite converse. At times the two were much like comparing a wild albatross in flight with no air left in its flaccid chest or beneath its wings, yet magnificently in flight powered on by sheer will that was the fire in its belly against the backdrop of a grasshopper gently laying itself along with some merry nymphs on a cosy glade, basking in full sunshine amidst dew-laden mossy pebbles on a cascading waterfall down a gentle zen like stream of agua dela vida.
The main course was a spectacular sizzler of paella served with a side of salad made ever more so caliente by miguel's flamenca. With the quintet digging into the goodies on the platter, the evening progressed on like a boat moored on the marina del ray of Napoli and gently lulled to sleep by the waves on the shore. Julienne bested himself again with a dessert that was a good mix of the west and the east, what he liked to call, Flanirini - a combination of a flan and rice pudding (phirni). The group went dutch as always and split the tab four ways and decided to call it a day.
The evening was once again brought to an end by the somehow omnipresent, cacophonous wanderlust vagrant Avid with his new thyme.
Wishing on a stormy desert night.
For a dune akin a mousakka habib.
Top it with some baklawah hassan.
For the winds howls left and right.
Sand is time, and smites with all might.
The jovial busboy Julienne took no time in turning on his new world charm towards simmering the girls appetite and pointed out the menu d' jour. He suggesed that a hand tossed salad, with fresh cheese mostly chevre, a minestrone potage, all washed down with an aperitif of curacao was the day's delight. Sweetie, Cassie and Pea were by now ravenous, famished and flustered and decided that they would first get plastered.
So, on a detour, the Pixies dived into a neighbouring tavern and amidst much hullabaloo got themselves mojitos and shot a lot from the pot, back with a toss of their cloudy heads. On their way out, they spread some love with Pixie dust and Sycamore grew raspy and scrompy. Julienne mystified and amused, had found time to set the note for the evening.
He had coaxed and cajoled his very good friend, the up and coming mariachi, Miguel de Seville for an impromptu, unplugged performance at the bella dona. Miguel de Seville looked like a conquistador and by this time the wayfaring Casiopera looked more like a sun burnt Pomerance, all juiced up, tangy, ready to be served with a twist in a screwdriver, and if the barman Flannagan could have his way, all shaken and stirred in an martini glass overflowing with liquorice, not to mention a pierced extra virgin olive on top.
Miguel picked up the guitar and began strumming a tune which made Pea's mind reel, rollick, rasta, rhumba, and it felt like it would rain on the coast cascading to a tsunami. Zeus resting in the chasms of the ocean, resonated Pea's symphony with a sweet breeze blowing on her face and a drizzle on her hair, straight from the salty and warm Mediterranean. It felt like a ray of maestro and mistral had begun a duelling dance on the pan-pipes. Moa's calloused hands, hard from long walks in the sun and swimming in the salt flats, pulled out a cigarette and he started puffing his worries away, and he seemed lost in a haze of nostalgia.
Julienne popped in to break the spell of spasms with a sprig of basil as the cherry on top in minestrone lavished with croutons swimming in butter and pepper. Pepper is a fork lover and a nosy fellow that likes to bring out the whooshes and goes well with a cherry chapstick drowned in lard to mellow the emojis popping out of a runny nose, watery eyes and a sniffling nose. Cassie sees her salad being tossed out by the sous chef and her appetite going galoshes, makes an extra order of rice pilaf. Julienne is quick to recommend paella, along with a side of bouillabaisse. Bouillon is to food what castanents are to the flamenca and the chef de partie is your man friday who knows exactly how to blend it in. With the music turning rouge, and the platter turning embers, Moa's thoughts moved to recounting innamoratas, pizzicatas, mezzos and fuselit firecracker nights on cagnes sur mer and being woken up by the polizei in the morning with a haggard criminal, got ethel and esta eh, got the sun in my eyes and the ocean in my belly and brothas from another mothas on my mind.
In the meantime, the klown from the stall started bellowing `Sages smiles serves similis. 'Quote of a famous poet - Silimis Sevres Selims Segas. Moa liked mulling on bitter cigars, rude and rouge claret, and cassie was the synchronicity that played white lies, and we can work it out by the beatles, when they rode out on the old buggy in Moa's garage, when he got time to tinker bell, taco bell and raise hell in general with his toolkit in the broken shanty that was the home. Things always needed fixing and Roa was always glad to help out, not that Moa needed much help, and Sweety always was quick to point out with her pursed lips, finicky eyes and adroit hands that Rome was not built in a day and may be the god sent mercedes from the heavens to drive her around would be a good swap for the old bug.
As the hors d' oeuvres started to roll-in, Moa began to reminisce his days as a botanist at the botanist at the botanical garden of Napoli. Nowadays, with his greying hair bringing on much needed retirement years, the leisurely hours were spent taking long walks in the garden, observing the perennials and the seasonals. The things that had needled his mind with their innate detail oriented tiring nature were now a source of everlasting joy. From romancing the seasonal petunias to gazing and perusing the everlasting daisies, his days were mostly spent flirting with his new discoveries, the hybrids linnaria and gazania. It was quite a coincidence that some of these blossoms shared names with Pea's friends and acquaintainces. Cassie had a daytime job teaching kinder-garten and liked to tap every now and then into his vagabond spirit and fountain of knowledge to aquire gems of florid conspicua.
The duo of Roama were sometimes inseparable, countering each other's nature; the young and the carefree with the old and the wise, the stallion breaking into the steeds gallop on the beach as compared to the heron meditating on floating anemones breaking out in calm water pollulating with pink flamingoes. Moa liked sporing mocaccins with cute tassels while Roa always sported the latest beachwear be it hawaiis or crocs or if he chose to play peek a boo with Skimpy, a good pair of sneakers, his favourite converse. At times the two were much like comparing a wild albatross in flight with no air left in its flaccid chest or beneath its wings, yet magnificently in flight powered on by sheer will that was the fire in its belly against the backdrop of a grasshopper gently laying itself along with some merry nymphs on a cosy glade, basking in full sunshine amidst dew-laden mossy pebbles on a cascading waterfall down a gentle zen like stream of agua dela vida.
The main course was a spectacular sizzler of paella served with a side of salad made ever more so caliente by miguel's flamenca. With the quintet digging into the goodies on the platter, the evening progressed on like a boat moored on the marina del ray of Napoli and gently lulled to sleep by the waves on the shore. Julienne bested himself again with a dessert that was a good mix of the west and the east, what he liked to call, Flanirini - a combination of a flan and rice pudding (phirni). The group went dutch as always and split the tab four ways and decided to call it a day.
The evening was once again brought to an end by the somehow omnipresent, cacophonous wanderlust vagrant Avid with his new thyme.
Goldie Sandman.
Wishing on a stormy desert night.
For a dune akin a mousakka habib.
Top it with some baklawah hassan.
For the winds howls left and right.
Sand is time, and smites with all might.
Rocking at the Kugel
The much observed difference in the linguistics of children and adults is that while the child - a free spirit and the true revolutionary, the perenially diligent, dilitant, troublemaker Dennis the Menace, his sidekick Joey, not to forget the ambiguous at first but cemented in later memory, love interest Margaret by Ketcham indulges in HearSay. On the other hand, the grown up Mr. Wilson with Aunt Wilson always by his side, soothes his soul and the palms and especially the sole of the heals with aphorisms typically by the wisest lady of the house like, "Dont just do something StayThere", and the most popular in old age - "Oh, this too shall like all things shall eventually pass". Pea's reverie early morning was broken by a sour reminder that her winter beaten lips that could use some balm, and since things always proceed from tail to head much like an old jalopy in need of a makeover needs a little rubber in the soles of her feet more than the wax on her ailing frame and a golden aura to clear the fog on her mind.
Dawn broken in again in Pea's studio, much like an orange showing a glimpse of nectarines. The ocher on her walls, the burnt umber on the trees and the amber on her ring, all shone in a cherry red hue atop brilliant cat's eyes hiding peal whites in their folds. A calm meditative melody on her cuckoo clock rang in her recent paramour music, the lover that had taken a toll on her beatified mind and kept her preoccupied at most times with putrid and moribund thoughts like chopin's nocturne etude under a dim lava lamp on a winter night reminiscent of a lotus pond flush with acrid smoke hewn sufmato, moving on to a dalliance with the moonlight sonata on a charcoal laden summer's eve showing luna eclipsed while at the same time shining bright eclipsing all the stars all at the same time, or perchance a tchaikovsky swan ballet on an arid desert like barren and frozen winter snow laden pond brimming with the promise and arrival of dandelions in monet's garden, and finally resting on may be soul music with comforting cajun food on a gondola in the far east where tantra meets materialistic magnificence.
Choice as the wise say is indeed the devil and this time it presented itself in the form of what to put on from the closet and she chose a parka, hot pants, and finally topped it with a stole, for it seems that something had been stolen again from her other than the warmth around her. Avid it seems was wide awake and his voice was again back to eulogizing love with his new cantos,
Dawn broken in again in Pea's studio, much like an orange showing a glimpse of nectarines. The ocher on her walls, the burnt umber on the trees and the amber on her ring, all shone in a cherry red hue atop brilliant cat's eyes hiding peal whites in their folds. A calm meditative melody on her cuckoo clock rang in her recent paramour music, the lover that had taken a toll on her beatified mind and kept her preoccupied at most times with putrid and moribund thoughts like chopin's nocturne etude under a dim lava lamp on a winter night reminiscent of a lotus pond flush with acrid smoke hewn sufmato, moving on to a dalliance with the moonlight sonata on a charcoal laden summer's eve showing luna eclipsed while at the same time shining bright eclipsing all the stars all at the same time, or perchance a tchaikovsky swan ballet on an arid desert like barren and frozen winter snow laden pond brimming with the promise and arrival of dandelions in monet's garden, and finally resting on may be soul music with comforting cajun food on a gondola in the far east where tantra meets materialistic magnificence.
Choice as the wise say is indeed the devil and this time it presented itself in the form of what to put on from the closet and she chose a parka, hot pants, and finally topped it with a stole, for it seems that something had been stolen again from her other than the warmth around her. Avid it seems was wide awake and his voice was again back to eulogizing love with his new cantos,
Te Amo
Ashes from the mashes,
Rye with the lye.
Lumen on the rumen,
Mi estrella buleria,
Palabra Corason te amo.
All art requires muses and in case of our troubled heroine Pea, it turned out nature provided the much needed breeding ground, sometimes in the form a terrarium, sometimes in the form of a spurting volcano but mostly in the forms of wordplays such as congregation of alligators, battery of barracudas, murder of crows, coalition of cheetahs, congress of eels, a memory of elephants, troubling of goldfish, cackle of hyenas, which at most times seemed to her like a shoal of fish in her watery mind seeking a lone lighthouse shining on like a troubadour singing paeans to his newfound damsel in distress.
The waking up from a early morning dream ritual was always a replay of prudence guiding her to her inner love child, reminding her that her's was a loving heart, an organ of fire, flashing eyes which could singe potatoes to a mush, kind hands that could make hash browns gather crumbs from the crumb tray and cookie leftovers from the bottom of the jar to garnish and pep up a decent breakfast, and that the same loving heart and fire in the eyes caused many a lanky lad in town to lose their to hers, which she preserved thoughtfully folded as betel leaves in the folds of the daily diary that she kept close to the pillows on her mostly unkempt bed amidst the other neat and clean furnishings of her studio.
Avid's songs had stirred in her some feelings which she had recapitulated as some facts such as, " The first kiss kills you and the first cut is the deepest leaving a chasm, or a ravine, and if things get really amorous a crevasse that felt like a dagger through that pulsating pink ball of flesh and gore". Moa had once summarised platonic longings much similar to smoking a cigarette, it starts as a desire to get away from the routine humdrum of life and ends up with a regular need to hold something bittersweet betwixt your lips, something that one cannot get enough of. With all these thoughts Pea turned on the stereo and put "Smoke gets in my eyes" and started to hum along to practice her vocal chords.
She possessed an effervescent persona and a mere mention of notable musical prodigies like Ludvig Von Beethoven made her think of her foreign language classes and wander in prurient directions to contrive child like banter as in "Lustig Yo". The smokey voice of Leonard Cohen singing "Dance me to the end of love" or a Placid Domingo made her come up with convivial utterings like "Shiver me timbers. She was at times into role playing with her favorite playmates and mostly loved playing the jilted heroines. The characters had varied from the old Florence Nightingale, the medieval Helen of Troy, the Shakespearean Juliet to the more recent flying and girl gone missing Amelia Earhart.
The heroine's mellifluous forebodings were interrupted by a distant din growing into a beckoning chant and she decided to make her way to the town chapel, the basillica of Saint Gruyere. The basillica was an imposing monument of love as Saint Gruyere was an apostle unlike any other to have graced the humble town of Verona. On the way, while riding her bicycle her thoughts raced towards the people in her life as always and at present chose to halt on the sometimes disconcertingly grave Mr. Morea, and she felt like he was a relic of a bygone era. At times, she felt his wisdom belied his age and made him seem older than time itself and she wondered whether he had ever been a child, more like herself and Roa in their playfulness and careless mannerisms. But, she immediately discarded the idea for it would then disrupt her otherwise perfect world in Verona with Mr. Morea as the umbrella holding gentle giant, Cassie as the benign guardian giving him company and Roa as the playmate.
The waking up from a early morning dream ritual was always a replay of prudence guiding her to her inner love child, reminding her that her's was a loving heart, an organ of fire, flashing eyes which could singe potatoes to a mush, kind hands that could make hash browns gather crumbs from the crumb tray and cookie leftovers from the bottom of the jar to garnish and pep up a decent breakfast, and that the same loving heart and fire in the eyes caused many a lanky lad in town to lose their to hers, which she preserved thoughtfully folded as betel leaves in the folds of the daily diary that she kept close to the pillows on her mostly unkempt bed amidst the other neat and clean furnishings of her studio.
Avid's songs had stirred in her some feelings which she had recapitulated as some facts such as, " The first kiss kills you and the first cut is the deepest leaving a chasm, or a ravine, and if things get really amorous a crevasse that felt like a dagger through that pulsating pink ball of flesh and gore". Moa had once summarised platonic longings much similar to smoking a cigarette, it starts as a desire to get away from the routine humdrum of life and ends up with a regular need to hold something bittersweet betwixt your lips, something that one cannot get enough of. With all these thoughts Pea turned on the stereo and put "Smoke gets in my eyes" and started to hum along to practice her vocal chords.
She possessed an effervescent persona and a mere mention of notable musical prodigies like Ludvig Von Beethoven made her think of her foreign language classes and wander in prurient directions to contrive child like banter as in "Lustig Yo". The smokey voice of Leonard Cohen singing "Dance me to the end of love" or a Placid Domingo made her come up with convivial utterings like "Shiver me timbers. She was at times into role playing with her favorite playmates and mostly loved playing the jilted heroines. The characters had varied from the old Florence Nightingale, the medieval Helen of Troy, the Shakespearean Juliet to the more recent flying and girl gone missing Amelia Earhart.
The heroine's mellifluous forebodings were interrupted by a distant din growing into a beckoning chant and she decided to make her way to the town chapel, the basillica of Saint Gruyere. The basillica was an imposing monument of love as Saint Gruyere was an apostle unlike any other to have graced the humble town of Verona. On the way, while riding her bicycle her thoughts raced towards the people in her life as always and at present chose to halt on the sometimes disconcertingly grave Mr. Morea, and she felt like he was a relic of a bygone era. At times, she felt his wisdom belied his age and made him seem older than time itself and she wondered whether he had ever been a child, more like herself and Roa in their playfulness and careless mannerisms. But, she immediately discarded the idea for it would then disrupt her otherwise perfect world in Verona with Mr. Morea as the umbrella holding gentle giant, Cassie as the benign guardian giving him company and Roa as the playmate.
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