I thought at the time that the ocean was the best backyard anyone could ever have – so vast and alive and musical, always changing colors, always singing different songs. We ate little pieces of raw fish and candied ginger and my parents had cocktails and wine.
In the same way I ate a double-scoop pistachio-and-cherry ice-cream cone and then had popcorn and a large Sprite at the movie theater where we saw Young Frankenstein for the second time. My dad guffawed but I just sat there chomping on popcorn and rolling my eyes along with Igor. But still I wanted more. [...] After the movie we went to Café Figaro for dinner. It was dark and there was sawdust on the floors and we ate bread and soup and the waiters were very beautiful young men in white button-down shirts.
Charlie escorted me inside and we sat down under the wooden birds and ate the ornage sticky buns the rastaurant was famous for, as well as turkey dinners with pressed turkey and cranberry jelly and mashed potatoes.
Going out to eat was one of our favorite things to do together. When I was a little he liked to take me to Norms Coffee Shop for hamburgers and vanilla shakes that we ate in the vinyl booths, or we went to Ships where you could make your own toast in the toasters at your table. We had ice-cream cones at Wil Wright's ice-cream parlor in Hollywood, with the striped awning and the parquet floor. We drove all the way out to the Valley to Farrell's where they made a huge ice-cream birthday concoction called the Zoo that was covered with little plastic animals. The waiters, dressed in boater hats, striped shirts, and suspenders, ran around the restaurant honking horns until they arrived at your table to sing "Happy Birthday." There was also something called a Through that was so big you became an honorary pig for the night if you ate it all by yourself.
Butterfield's was a sunken garden at the bottom of the stair, like someone's run-down mansion where you could have elegant brunches with quiche, fresh fruit, and champagne among lacy trees.
When I checked on my mom she was asleep, breathing normally in the bed with the blue satin quilted headbord, so I got myself a bowl of Lucky Charms. The pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars, and green clovers ached my molars as the milk turned rainbow colors. I made my lunch, brushed my teeth, and put on my roller skates. The pavement rumbled, rough under my feet and up through to my heart, as I skated to school past the palm trees that my dad said looked like stupid birds, under i smog-filled Los Angeles.
He smelled like sand and tar and wind, gasoline and sawdust and oranges. He smelled like Los Angeles.
I would show them Monroe and make hot chocolate with whipped cream and mini mashmallows for us to share.
My mom looked like she hadn't gotten out of bed all day. I brought her Brazil nuts and ginger ale and red licorice. I would have tried to cook but I always burned the grilled cheese sandwiches or let the rice bubble over. The only thing I could make was instant mac and cheese but she didn't want that and neither did I. I wished she had taught me to cook when I was littler and she was happy and loved to make dinner but now it was probably too late.
[...] the cassette he played, a woman's raspy voice singing over raucous chords. She was whispering something about horses again and again. I'd never heard anything like it. Finally, I asked who she was. "Patti Smith. Isn't she cool?" He handed me the cassette. It had a picture of a gaunt, androgynous person in a white shirt, a string of black tie hanging loose around her neck. [...]"
He, above the rest
In shape and gesture proudly eminent,
Stood like a tower. His form had yet not lost
All her original brightness, nor appeared
Less than Archangel ruined, and th' excess
Of glory obscured: as when the sun new-risen
Looks through the horizontal misty air
Shorn of his beams, or, from behind the moon,
In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds
On half the nations, and with fear of change
Perplexes monarchs.
De første vårbud. Tøvær. Luften dufter av pannekake og vodka som i fastelavnsuken. Solen blunker søvnig med sitt oljeaktige øye mellom trærne i skogen, de søvnige grantrærne blinker med nålene sine som med øyenhår, oljeaktig blinker sølepyttene ved middagstid. Naturen gjesper, strekker seg litt, snur seg på den andre siden og legger seg til å sove igjen.
Forelskelse er Culminationen i et Menneskes reent humane Existens
Poenget var jo ikke at man må spise det som smaker grusomt bare fordi det smaker grusomt likesom man skulle imponere med å ha gjort seg selv vondt, en slags selvskading eller snobberi. Nei, heller det at man venner seg til det som først virker tungt eller trasig ved stadig å vende tilbake til det og prøver igjen, prøver kanskje litt hardere, prøver kanskje noe nytt, ja, at man gir seg selv litt motstand eller kanskje endog mye motstand i den tro at det vil virke oppløftende. Som sagt foraktet jeg løk da jeg var en unge (erm, kanskje er jeg det ennå, hm...), og jeg hatet sopp, kunne ikke fordra det, samt mye annen mat som hjortestek og andre retter jeg nå vil regne som lekkerbiskener. Idag setter hobbiten i meg stor pris på å ta en liten helgalunsj bestående av sjalottløk og sjampinjong stekt i rikelig med smør. Nåvel! ikke akkurat sunt, men smaken min har endret seg (jammen sa jeg smør!), den har modnet; smaken modnes, den utvikler seg og er forhåpentligvis alt annet enn statisk. Rasputin skal visstnok ha gjort seg selv immun mot gift ved å ta inn små mengder gift daglig. Sammenligningen er kanskje litt uheldig, jeg vil jo ikke mene at klassisk litteratur er å regne eller likestille med gift, men kanskje er det noe i det allikevel. En stadig eksponering: da kan man overleve det. Jeg føler jeg har tapt noe hvis en bok ikke gir meg noe som jeg ikke allerede har funnet andre steder eller med mindre den gjør dette noe klarere eller i det minste sterkere enn det var før.
I do remember him at Clement's-inn, like a man made after supper of a cheese-paring: when he was naked, he was, for all the world, like a forked radish, with a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife.
Who lin'd himself with hope,
Eating the air on promise of supply.
Så du avfeier alle tanker om å utvikle seg og "utvide sin horisont"? Selvsagt skal man finne glede i det man leser - livet er jo ingen botsøvelse -, men tror du ikke det er mulig å lære seg å like tyngre litteratur? Siden du bruker mat for å poengtere det du mener, så la meg spinne videre: Man må lære seg til å like oliven og vin, må man ikke? Ved Teutatis, jeg likte ikke engang løk da jeg var liten! og hver dag var en fest hvis vi besøkte Burger King. Idag har jeg vanskelig for å stappe slik mat i meg.
Jeg hadde hverken lest Richard II eller The Merry Wives of Windsor (hvor Falstaff har hovedrollen) før jeg begynte på Henry IV. Det er nok ikke nødvendig. Men kanskje vil man finne større glede i dramaene eller forstå mer av dem hvis man leser dem kronologisk; selv føler jeg imidlertid at jeg ikke gikk glipp av noe eller at noe stod igjen uforklart eller ufullstendig. Kanskje er det også en fordel å gå rett i strupen på hendelsene, heh, jeg er ikke sikker. Jeg så dog Orson Welles filmatisering The Chimes at Midnight før jeg leste stykket, som foruten å være en helt ypperlig film også gir en noe å kretse rundt og forholde seg til når man leser.
It was always yet the trick of our English nation, if they have a good thing, to make it too common.
We are ready to try our fortunes
To the last man.