pastries

Yesterday, after my skating lesson, I had an urge to buy myself some cheese and spinach pastries. The lesson left me in a jolly mood, unlike the week before. In some ways, the instructor was a bit more amiable and focused this time. I found myself rather amused by his routine of separating guys and ladies when he asked the students to practice moves. During c-motion backward skating, he came to me and remarked that my right foot was looking "pretty good" but my left was "messed up." That gave me a chuckle. I like instructors who give straightforward criticisms.

Eventually, I decided to go home and cook myself a crude but hearty breakfast with the cabbage and pork shank I bought the night before. The pastries can be had next time when I am in town. They are so good, and they warm up my heart even when it momentarily forgets how to warm itself up. I recalled the previous Saturday, when I had a big craving for them and eagerly drove to the store myself. For some reason, I decided against eating in my car, so I walked down the neighborhood as rain started to fall. Not wanting to get the pastries wet (though they were so hot that I bet raindrops would evaporate as soon as they came in contact), I parked myself under a big tree and continued munching on my food. Unsurprisingly, I effectively burned most parts of my mouth as I finished the first one. Realizing that I could compromise taste if I started on the other one, I kept it in its paper bag, took it back to my car, and drove away. That was the day when I sat through Battle: Los Angeles and the first 10 minutes of Godard's Film Socialisme.

I asked myself, whether I would actually be able to watch all of Film Socialisme had it been released 2 years ago. The answer is: I probably would, but I would also forget almost everything about the movie 5 days later. Back in the days, I would sit through anything, sometimes more than once (and a particular Catalan movie comes to mind), just because I wanted to experience the qualities that earned others' admiration. Most of the time (or rather all of the times), I failed, and I would walk away remembering the movie as one from the "appreciation over enjoyment" category - only that I didn't enjoy it. The point of all this rambling, is that I don't think I have, after all, lost interest in cinema. What I have lost is the stubborn determination to force myself to appreciate the selection from critics I respect.

How could I doubt my passion, when I can still vividly remember my sheer contentment as the song "Ce seara minunata" plays at the credits of Police, Adjective and the exquisite resonance when the protagonist of Aurora says that no word can describe the complex relationship between him and his ex-wife? My passion for cinema lives, and so does my enduring readiness to think about the person who matters to me the most. They join harmoniously with this loving feeling that has enriched every aspect of my life and many parts of my personal history. For the first time, I don't doubt my feelings, and for the first time, I can extract positive energy from them without succumbing to the effect of longing. This wholesome feel to life is more than anything I've ever had.


And for a moment, the tomato is no longer sad.