Top: Prada; Belt: Aldo; Skirt: Tailored; Shoes (not in picture): Kari Ang (I actually adore these wannabe Louboutins more than the actual SJPs!)
Despite the work and countless assignments (including a deathly professional responsibility one due next week), I have managed to read some very good and bad books (or parts thereof) this week! Will share some parts if I have some time. My high school best friend X (whom I’ve not met for almost 6 years as she had been in Canada, I in London etc. at various times) and I recently met in a lovely reunion, and she laughed at the way I had not changed, with books in my bag sticking out in a very non-plussed geekish manner. How can I ever begin to explain the way I still secretly love my hard copy physical books, despite the fact that they are definitely not as sexy as a Kindle! And the way I like old books more than new ones, even though I came across some Oscar Wilde/Graham Greene novels in Ion’s gorgeous new book haunt recently with seductive glossy black covers embossed with a thread of slick lines to take your breath away. And I secretly still fall for strangers who read while walking.
Many of my friends, especially the lawyers, give me strange looks to learn I am still reading classical fiction – sometimes I feel guilty, like I ought to be reading more-important-things like my law manuals or non-fiction or even Kafka and political treatises, and every-now-so-often I find myself on a dose of something ethereal and moving. Oh dear! I have never really grown up after all. But it remains, 6 years after meeting X, that I still love X, that boys are still chasing X to no end with calla lilies and engagement rings, and it still remains, that I always feel unloved, talk to cats and and read books that no one else wants to.
I can’t explain how and why, but everyone needs a little poetry and Eliot for this lifetime.
More and more, I think I will write something proper (or improper!) one day. Something beyond the normal articles in law reviews. I would like to have a nom-de-plume like Mary Westmacott and write about avant garde musicians and giant’s bread.
If all fails, my children will keep my stories. I would like to be the mother who tells stories about The Curious Candle and other mysteries.
If I end up a spinster, the cats can relay stories to other cats for an extra rub. And read stories as Aunt CP to Irving’s children in return for Irving playing violin to my little bevy of cats named Lady Treacle, Lady Eclair and Sir Lucite.
I read stories that bring me back to earth yet remind me to build castles in the air.
I remember my kabuki teacher once telling me, this is the difference between kabuki and ballet. For ballet, you need to have the spirit of a soaring bird, to reach your dreams and the sky. As a kabuki dancer, you are weighted, to your history, to your ancestor, you listen to the whispers from the ground.
As I danced and turned and pondered, I listened to my own whispers from the ground, and felt their words tremble in my heart.
This is why, I can never quite explain the sudden jerk in my senses when someone asks me in an incredulous tone why I still read. The soft-copy stories are not just for Sundays, the stories, ideas and visions are, in an uncanny way, part of my life.