Unfaithful

I woke up with a little knot inside my head. An impression recognized by the subconscious rather than the sense of touch. Too much sleep.

I still feel the frenzied energy from last night, reduced and parallel to the lingering buzz of a hangover. I remember being complimented--- the kind that left me open-mouthed in disbelief and made me blush. Oh, you're the one who writes! J and I were talking about you the other day... I don't recall his words exactly, but I've managed to preserve much of the pride. I'm looking forward to reading more...

I was laughing for the greater part of the evening, flashes of conversation coming back to me. Brief, as discreet second glances. I wonder if the friend I had dinner with thought I was abnormally excitable. And if it was obvious I took sips of tea in an effort to quell the hysterics bubbling to the surface.

I've only recently started drinking tea. A coffee fiend, another friend likes to call me. Tea, I discovered, is lighter and tastes cleaner. There's much to be said about such purity. It's my new and alternative choice of oblivion.

This morning finds me awake, but not animated. The mirth from the previous evening a faint echo. Pleasant, but vengefully distant.

Glee is unfaithful.

I should not have closed my eyes.

Guilty Pleasures

I just started an affair...

A shot of vodka. Some melted dark German chocolate. A driblet of wild honey. An almond. A walnut.

I mix them up, languid swirling motions with my teaspoon. Half-listening to conversation which may or may not have been directed at me. But I remember Annie Lennox's Something So Right in the background, a palliative for the weary. Excitement builds up as the drink gets closer and closer to the consistency I want. I lay the teaspoon down to rest, bits of dark chocolate dripping onto the white saucer. A flaw on the immaculate, but nevertheless beautiful.

I hold off drinking and focus my attention on dinner-table talk. Half the pleasure of the experience is knowing how much I crave it, yet denying myself gratification.

Finally, I give in. The warm, the bitter, the sweet: a sensuous explosion.

Thus began my affair with Mel Gibson.

(The Mel Gibson vodka shot at Van Gogh is Bipolar, 154 Maginhawa St., Sikatuna Village, QC)

In pursuit of...

I felt right at home even before I crossed the threshold. A welcome mat has never been so inviting. Inside, the waft of cool artificial climate made me realize just how hot the noonday sun was.

The first thing I noticed was a table by the wall, decked with small clay teapots-- glazed, handpainted or left in their raw, unembellished form-- and ceramic jars filled with the promise of a soothing tea adventure.

Mounted on the walls are big frames: thumbnail photographs in a sea of black matting. On the far end of the room, only handwriting adorns the walls. In pen, in ink, in paint-- sentimental or whimsical outpourings of the instrument-wielder. Admittedly, there is much pleasure to be gained from reading these musings from faceless strangers.

The owner of the place served the food with a smile that lit up the entire room. Radiating warmth like an old friend, he eagerly answered the numerous questions about the food and other interesting pieces around. He writes, he sews, he cooks, he takes photographs and he makes art out of most anything he touches. Midas, up close and personal.

The food is divine, but more than that, the entire menu was designed for the specific purpose of nourishment while giving a boost of happy hormones. The premise of the menu alone gives a welcome surge of delight.

It's a restaurant, a cafe, a living/art space-- call it what you will. Van Gogh is Bipolar, most certainly, is a unique experience that explores the elusive art of being happy.