Phantom Thread

The movie began with a rather procedural outlook of Mr. Reynolds Woodcock, famed couture designer, and confirmed bachelor. Despite having no dialogue, the ambient "My Foolish Heart" glided across each scene like taffeta silk. He was quintessentially well coiffed, but the magenta socks may have foreshadowed his unctuous attitude.

Food seemed to be a reoccurring theme through the movie, namely breakfast. It was the start of a brand new day, and thus must be spent in absolute silence. "Don't speak, unless you've been spoken to"seemed to be the unwritten rule, with the exception of his sister, who he lovingly dubbed as "so and so." While Mr. Woodcock sketched his next winning look with his fountain pen, the girl of the week protested at the table, and accused him of preferring work over her. One look to the so and so, and a mutual understanding was reached.

We never saw the girl again.

The sister convinced him to take a drive to the countryside to regain his peace. He quickly obliged, and drove with his roadster in top speed. He stopped by a seaside inn for a meal, and an instant attraction was formed between him and the clumsy waitress. He gave her an order fit for three men; welsh rabbit with a poached egg on top, sausage, toast, the whole darn sink, jam (but not strawberry. "Raspberry then," Alma smiled coyly), and lastly, a pot of Lapsang tea.

Only Daniel Day Lewis could turn a pedantic order into seduction.

Coming from a five story townhouse draped in white and beige, the restaurant dazzled in colors. Light blue floral wallpapers, salmon pink table clothes, Thonet chairs; it was everything he wasn't. A hedonist at heart, he took a gamble with Alma, and asked her out for dinner. They drove in his roadster, and for a second, it was pure bliss.

They were sitting across each other in a restaurant. This time, it was elegant and aloof, a sharp contrast to the inn's restaurant. "May I?" Reynolds stopped in mid conversation, dabbed the corner of napkin in water and slowly wiped away her lipstick.

"Ah, now I can see you."

Rituals

Ideally, I'd like to be able to wake up with the sun, refreshed from a sound night of sleep. I'd wake up with perfectly dewy skin, with nary dark circles, or eye bags in sight. I'd glide into the kitchen, and put the kettle on for a nice pot of tea. I'd then take a steaming shower,  and cook a full Japanese styled breakfast.

Lately it's been waking up till the last second possible, brushing my teeth while trying to put on clothes. Gone are my sanctuary, replaced by this little thing called frantic reality.

It's 2018, time to be more strict with myself. Sleeping early seems to be impossible these days (seriously. How hard is it to sleep before 11? Surely can't be that difficult), and even though I do wake up with the sun, I have little to no motivation of getting up. Worse, I can feel my skin deteriorating. Well, not Freddy and Jason bad, but you get the gist. For someone who is trying to delay wearing make up for as long as possible, having dewy skin is kind of a big deal.

This is what I propose for myself:

• Wake up at 6:30AM
• Read for 30 minutes in the morning 
• Cook better breakfast, and actually be able to sit down and enjoy it 
• Drink enough liquids 
• Be more productive at work 
• Spend no more than an hour cooking 
• 30 minutes exercise 
• Have a lighter dinner, but a fulfilling lunch 
• Learn something new every day 
• Sleep by 11PM 

Well, with that in mind, I technically only have 3 hours of free time each day.
I'd probably put in 2 more hours of work every day.

Which leaves only an hour of free time.

How does that even work? What about cleaning, staring into space, volunteering, meditating? The next time I talk to you, just know that I'm using my precious minutes to spend time with you.

Exhaustion

Spent the whole day looking up places to go in London, and finally have a concrete idea of where to go. Not to boast or anything, but I am somewhat of a connoisseur when it comes to food and hotels in London now.

My goals are simple: to eat a plethora of food, to see beautiful things, and to hopefully, find some hidden gems. Food is, and always will be, the most important aspect of my trip. I have searched high and low for places to check out, so much so that I feel like I've lived there for years. Heston, Ledbury, Pollen Street, Clarette, just to name a few. Then there are exquisite shops to check out. The Portobello market, the Columbia flower market, the Leadenhall, all the vintage shops, and the newly vamped Sonia Rykiel store (is it a bookstore that happens to sell clothes, or a clothing store that happens to have books? Je sais pas).

I've always had an affinity when it comes to hotels, specifically hotel lobbies, and London has a fair share of stunning interior designs, that goads you into dressing up. A 1920's beaded dress with spaghetti dress, and open slits in the back sounds like a good bet, even if it's a couple of pounds added to my luggage wait.

Oh, the things we do.

Subway Musings

Is leaving your ankle exposed to the bitter cold a thing? I am crouching on the subway, tiger style, and the little boy sitting next to me seems to think so. His ankles are exposed in this 8 degrees weather, and I wonder briefly if it is his idea, or his doting parents. At least his dad has the decency of wrapping his giant hands around the boy's ankles for warmth. He could have tucked the jeans lower, but how else would the world know his son is wearing designer sneakers? Fashion before function.

It isn't enough. The boy's body trembles with every cough, and doses the compartment liberally with germs. In the 1900s, I might have have been worried that he has pneumonia, and won't make it through the night.

It's 2018. He'd live.

I get off the train, and aim for a transfer. The guy shuffling in front of me has an AOL patch on his Jansport backpack. Does he know AOL no longer exists? Should I be the person to break it to him, or is he doing it for the sake of irony? Alas, I have a train to catch; someone else can break his heart.

"Please be the E. Please be the E," I mutter in my head and stare blankly into the tunnel of oblivion. They are making another announcement overheard, something about train rerouting due to construction. Weekends, where everything can go wrong, and time does not matter.

By a small miracle, my train arrives in under five minutes. The conductor must have somewhere urgent to be, or is ending his shift. It wobbles dangerously against the current, and speeds into the light.

The train is crowded, but I somehow manage to snag a seat. Miracle number 2. I cross my legs, then remember what my friend said from years ago. Crossing legs can block circulation, and that is how people have spider veins. I quickly uncross them, even though it means I have to take up more space. No one is particularly interesting on the train today. I'm the emerald drowning in a sea of greys and blacks. No one looks especially content, save one couple, where the guy gesticulates animatedly, and the girl looks at him adoringly.

I glare at them and their blatant happiness.

Another couple is clearly getting off at Penn Station, or Port Authority. With a carry on, three backpacks between the two of them, it's hard to be anywhere else. They whisper urgently to each other, and look out frantically at every stop. The backpack on top of the carry on topples under the enormous weight, and the combination hit me flat on the foot.

Ow.

Darn. Missed my stop.
Darn. There is no train going back.
Darn. This train just stopped moving.
Darn. Darn. Darn.

And that's the weekend train for you. No matter how early, or how late you plan, it never works out. Unless you plan two hours ahead, then the joke's on me.

I hop back to the earlier train, but the door won't shut. Cold air seeps through the crack like Dementors, and with no service in this dreadful tunnel of disillusion, I am once again seeking entertainment from my fellow passengers. The guy sitting next to me is wearing avant garde earphones, the ones that snap onto your temporal bone. He is watching a hip hop concert on his iPhone X, and bobs his head to the music. The phone emanates strobes of lights, and the peripheral makes me think it should come with a epilepsy warning.

Ten headache inducing minutes later, I'm still stuck at 50th Street. I get off the train, along with a number of other disgruntled passengers. Naturally the train starts up the moment we get off, and we quickly run back. At least I'm no longer sitting next to the epileptic shock dude, even if the new person smells like cabbage soup.

The train is back on normal speed. Going without a transfer means I have to walk five additional blocks to my destination, or seven additional minutes travel time. A herd of people rushed in at 34th Street, full of nonchalance. The rest of us glare at the newcomers with disdain. They have no idea what we have to endure. A little boy is selling fruit snacks, but no one acknowledges him. A guy with heavy lashes has only a Supreme camouflaged hoodie on, and skinny jeans. His burgundy scarf covers half of his face like a renegade, and another yellow scarf drapes carelessly around his hoodie. Maybe he's partial to the Gryffindor house, maybe it's Maybeline. At least his hands are warm. They are protected by snowboard gloves with wrist guards. I look at my own hands: blistered from this unforgiving weather, flaky from the lack of lotion, replete with paper cuts from work. Abashed, I hide them in my leather gloves.

"Canal Street," the synthetic voice chimed. I take one last survey of my fellow comrades, and step off the train.

Until next time.

Identity

The best part of living vicariously through someone is forgetting your own troubles. Like every ephemeral dream, it will always come to an end. At least the journey is beautiful. That ought to count toward something, right? 

I read page to page of The New Yorker today, something I seldom do. There is never anything that grips me, save a smattering of articles over the years. There are two that jump out to me this time around, namely a memoir styled short story.  It is a comparison between a native Pakistan man who lost his values in the new environment, and an American Pakistan girl who despite living in the states since she was young, only strengthened in her beliefs. 

United States is a nation built by immigrants, yet ruled by something else entirely. Being an citizen means to change your name, shed your identity, and sometimes, renounce your nationality. Thousands of us go through the ceremony every day, and naively believe that “with this 8x11 stock paper, we are one of them now.” For those of us who are less fortunate, and have a question mark next to our status, we live under the loom of deportation. 

The husband came to the states on an H-1B, and when it wasn't renewed at his job in New York, he grabbed frantically to a lower paying job at a different state, and convinced himself it was for the best. He and his wife soon moved to Stamford, Connecticut, a city that seemed desolate compared to their old lives. They were invited to a wealthy Pakistan family, and wanting so hard to impress, they toyed with deceit and lies. It was a holiday, and the host asked the husband if he could take up grilling. Men in America are proud of their barbecues, and would often showcase with every opportunity. In Pakistan, grilling meat is something an educated man would never partake. He hadn’t done anything more than an boiled egg in the kitchen, and left the chores to his wife instead. Reluctantly, he took up the grill challenge, and had charred exterior, pink meat to show for. The wife, not wanting to lose to his husband, told the hostess that they were looking to buy a house with four bedrooms, something that was well beyond the husband’s humble pay grade. We all lie; it’s almost impossible not to do so. How many times have we lied just to save ourselves, and how many times have we lied to save others? 

The grass was greener on the other side, and the husband stared at his coworker, the Pakistan girl, with bitterness. Here was someone who had all the advantages in the world; no wonder she was moving up the staircase, while he was still shuffling in the cubicle. She didn't have to worry about citizenship, or a family; she was young, and nothing could stop her. That was, until the husband heard her recount. She was an American who still held firmly to her beliefs. She used a prayer mat every day at work, and practiced abstinence from alcohol and non halal meat. She was not married, but had brothers and sisters to take care of. She valued actions over pompous words, and her success was reflected in her diligent work. She was also an active member in the community, and took up canvassing to raise the importance of voting. She was walking through a predominately white neighborhood with other Pakistan women, when she was harassed by rowdy street kids. One of them leered and grabbed onto her hand while others sped. She fell on the ground with a broken limb. She was not seriously injured, but trembled all the same. Sometimes, it was the words that broke us, not the sticks and stones. 

We might hold the same passport, we might even dress the same; but we cannot change the color of our skin. We cannot change our past.

But we can change the future. 

Liability

Have you ever looked at a Rorschach Test, and wondered how people could be so ignorant and see anything except the complete obvious? That was me. Ignorant with a capital I.

Today's world might celebrate diversity, but when you were young and misunderstood, it was nothing but a liability. Being completely mute until I was around 3 certainly did not help my case; so was not being able to differentiate colors, or count until I was in first grade. I lacked understanding, and was unusually optimistic about everything. Even that time when I fell flat off a desk and cracked my front tooth. Unable to associate pain with tears, I thought it was hilarious, and cackled instead. My parents, being normal as they were, freaked out and took me to the emergency room. The tooth was never found, and I was put under careful watch after the incident. As if they expected me to do it again, just to test the outcome. The doctor dangled the word "autism" to my mum like candy. Because what else could I be, except as someone who was "incomplete"? 

My daydreams became my reality, and I was its self appointed director. I didn't know how to follow directions, and boundaries confused me. I asked too many questions, the more lethargic, the better. I could recite poems and newspaper articles verbatim, but I didn't know the first thing about making small talks with my peers. Music was the only thing I understood inherently, and every night, I'd look out the window and compose a new soundtrack of my life. I discovered books shortly after, which was a good thing, since I had no other friend except my unconditionally loving family. 

I was eventually cleared of my stigmatization. Turned out I didn't qualify medically, I was just "different". Self awareness soon kicked in. I became obsessed with the idea of normalcy. I wanted so badly to fit in that I was ready to become whatever the world wanted me to be. My metamorphosis replaced my true self. I became an avid listener, even though I was a natural story teller. I was always second best, even when I knew all the answers. I braved the world with a bright smile on my face, and saved the tears when I was alone. Soon, friends poured in, and acceptance soon followed. Who needed individualism, when you can have collectivism? I was the attentive sidekick in my own movie, and oh, you should have seen me. 

I was owning it.