Words in Air

I am reading a heavy book as my cousin describes it. Seeing it on my coffee table, she lifted it briefly and said, how can you hold it up for a long period, too heavy.

Well, for the record, my ability to tote it around and strain my faux designer handbag (who buys real when you can get a Tod's Bag for 45 ringgit in Chinatown?) is purely for the sheer delight I take in its contents. The extended exchange of letters between two poets, Robert Lowell and Elizabeth Bishop, spanning the time they met in 47 to the time he died from a heart attack in 77, is an intimate potrayal of friendship and love, marked by mutual respect and regard for each other's life and work. Its extraordinary; and remembers one to shared ideals and values, the remarkable dedication to the truth that poetry demands. I have already spent many hours on rainy evenings, my reading hour between 4 and 5 daily; and as I please, on weekends, being drawn into the chatter, the discussion, the gossip, the critical questioning and comments exchanged between the two.

Of course on Sundays, it pleases me no end to spend part of the day, reading. Often a book and the weekend e-editions of Times, Guardian and some gossip stuff from Marie Claire or quick bits from Yahoo News. My coffee sits beside me, cold now. Today, the rain fell early, just before noon. I had gone swimming at 9; but the pool was besieged by more then 40 young boys after I swam for 20 minutes, so I desperately finished off another 10 minutes before leaving the happy splashing at the shallow end. It would have made a wondrous picture, the simultaneous sprays that formed a line of human fountains; much embellished by the morning sunshine forming jewels of light as they rose and fell to the shouts of joy.

I came home to my rice today. I had hungered for steaming rice today; and had put some sliced Chinese sausages, rice wine, fresh ginger and dark soya sauce into a pot of rice, to cook, while I went to the pool. When I returned and after my shower, I sliced Chinese cabbage and stir fried it with lots of garlic and ginger and a pinch of Himalaya salt. I cut green chilli padi, tore some coriander leaves and splashed generously, light soya sauce and roasted sesame oil to go with the rice. I boiled water and steeped pu-erh tea. And I sat down and listening to a story about baseball, about a miner turned famous pitcher who honed his skills by throwing stones at tin cans daily for fun, on National Public Radio, I ate my rice and cabbage. It was quite a tale and the food ever delicious. Baseball and sausage rice - I must be plebian after all, although I have seldom have declared myself otherwise. Comfort is where we find it.