Point de vue

Point de vue


Tidbit Confessions: a slice of the Icebox Cake

The tidbit confessions: Small personal ongoing confessions about late night cravings.

Bloomingdales is absolutely beautiful.

Yeah whether it’s their clothing line or cute Little Brown Bags, stepping into their stores is an experience by itself.

I was with my good friend when I literally pressured her into going in that part of Bloomingdales where they sold cupcakes and displayed them so perfectly on white plates it was just too good to pass. My eyes practically glowing when I saw THAT ICEBOX CAKE.

I can already feel the cream and chocolate blend melt in my mouth. The taste didn’t change at all, from the last time we got some. This could gladly become a ritual of ours, because my good friend actually introduced me to that cake and I just can’t thank her enough.

Bad breakup? Bring me a slice will you, and some napkins.

Fight with family? Don’t talk to me while I’m eating it.

Meeting with a friend you haven’t seen in a long time? Let me take you to the best place in town, and the best taste.

But for now, the routine will be: Bloomingdales- Touch the window- spot the Icebox Cake in the crowd of sugary goodness- beg the guy for the biggest slice he’s ever given- mooore, just a little more to the left, and when the guy starts looking at you weird-“perfect! ”

“Sure you can eat that all by yourself?”

“Don’t doubt me man.”

Because every bite I took was one from the past, and the near-past felt a little sweet. Not that sour kind of past you don’t want to make your tastebuds go through anymore, but more of the near-past where everything was okay, and where you still remember what perfume you liked and what music was playing in Bloomingdales. That near-past where you can still remember what it felt like when your friend dragged you in to taste what you’ve been craving for a couple of months.




Reading lines

We were sitting around the table as the click clacks of forks and knives had made their ways into conversations and filled-in the occasional silence of food chews. My aunt spoke loudly as she usually does, and my grandmother listened and nodded as she always does. An unimportant phone call interrupted my aunt’s hilarious subject, to then start talking about a certain gallery or museum she went to. Oh right I REMEMBER, it was a project made by physicians? I don’t even know.

Point is, the project involved taking pictures of elderly people’s faces.

The way she described it almost made me tear up. I felt her eyes sparkle for a little  I’m sure of it.

They took the pictures and framed them (or at least that’s how i imagined it) and focused on the beauty of an old face, scarred and almost hand-drawn. I could imagine how each crack told a story, how the lines next to my grandmother’s eyes indicated her smiling for so long, how i would like to know what it was that made her smile so much and what she saw through her now tired eyes. she saw generations grow and children one day getting married and moving into someone else’s loving arms. This house has seen so many moments of joy it’s hard to miss the sheer the happiness that bounces off the walls. This house doesn’t lie. If I could speak to these doors we’ll have a long heartfelt conversation because I grew up here. Years ago I was sleeping on that same bed when I was half my size now, and I got comfy with the same sheets I wrapped myself around with for years, today. How things don’t change even when they do. You leave home and all you do is want to see it one more time and smell the coffee in the morning one more time and see your grandmother standing on the terrace just a few more times so you could be sure that memory will be encrypted in your brain so well you remember details like the weather and the time and who it was your grandmother waved at from the balcony. I know it here so well, all so familiar to the point that I still remember the crisscross patterns of the laced sheets my grandmother still puts on the small wooden tables, hinted with fairly tiny bruises from being moved too quickly or dropped by a cousin at some point (the tables, that is). The carpets feel the same on your feet, and you never get tired of watching that pattern trying to figure out what animal it was and where it was going and why it looks so scary on the carpet. My brother and I used to make games off the big triangles we saw on it. I can still hear us laughing for no apparent reason, which felt like the best reason of course.

Every little piece of this house somehow ended up giving me a little piece of memory. A flash really, that comes by with particular smells or a certain laugh. The cracks on the walls, just like the one’s on my grandmother’s face and hands, have seen happiness and love and went through years on with generations of difference and similarity. The couches know me more than quite a few people. They’ve seen me cry and sob, laugh hysterically and get angry. They’ve seen me grown up and adapted to my body getting bigger. Somehow the couch always fit me, then and know, and it always will.



Time should give us more time sometimes

I wish time would be stuck on 9:19 pm right now.


Even when I’m writing I feel like time is passing by in a flash, I always need to be doing something else, studying, projects, connecting, talking, thinking. Everything takes up so much time. Just stop the clock right now and watch for a moment. Things don’t have to literally stop. It’s not a bird-just-stopped-in-mid-air type of moment. It’s more that man in the suit suddenly doesn’t seem so tense to get to wherever he’s going, or that lady waiting in front of the school finally stopped looking at her watch so much. A lot of things would be different if time stopped just right now. Instead of writing for like five minutes I’d write for days.  Sometimes time should give us some time. Tongue twister much?

Time should give us time to think and to feel. To decide and then re-decide and decide again until you lost track of your decisions and fall right where you need to be. Time should stop, and give you time to think about the people you haven’t thought of in a long time. It’s not that you don’t care for them anymore, you still smile when you hear of them, but you’ve been racing lately and too tired at night to start anything. So sleep it off till the next month or year until you forget the number you used to know by heart and the last name you’ve learnt to pronounce in different ways and accents.

If time should stop, let it give you some time to feel proud of yourself for all you’ve accomplished, and forgive yourself from the mistakes you’ve learnt to let pass by in your mind because you could give no more effort into regret. Let’s keep in mind it’s still 9:19pm. Time is being very generous by giving you time to realize you were wrong at one point, to know that sometimes you should be wrong. Think of that song that makes you want to shut everyone up and make them listen, at 9:19pm, to a song that could play on for hours without you noticing it anymore, it turned into a part of your environment. It is your chairs and your bed, your mug and nightlight. it’s that stack of papers you keep on your desk, it’s your favorite pair of shoes. It’s in the oxygen you’re letting into your lungs right this moment while you’re reading. It’s the hiccup you wanted rid of last week. Oh how nice it would feel, to be and stay at 9:19pm.

I’m listening to that song right now and I bet you can hear it too.

I  hope you can anyways.