ME, MY YOKE AND I

I like songs that set the tone of a day; influence the atmosphere around me. Walking around East London just off Brick Lane during my lunch hour working at Yoga mag, seeing but not hearing the hustle and bustle of Indian Immigrants selling their trade, glittering saris and bright fabrics in the sunlight, colourful displays of healthy fruit and veg, an old woman grabbing at her sequined skirts with her henna'd hands and running after a giggling toddler with gold bracelets on his arm. This song is perfect for that; people and culture watching. One of the guys I sit next to at the office was on a cigarette break outside and I caught him watching me puzzled. I was beaming with my headset hugging my head.

I had to sub-edit a piece at the office yesterday. One of the issues involved was the fact that everything is inter-related. This post works well with that.

This song is one of Gustavo Santaolalla's (my favourite composer these days) and is from Motorcycle Diaries (Che Guevara's road story- and also one of my favourites). It's been on repeat on my iPod for about a week now. I find it so calming but it also makes me miss traveling around Spanish countries, and keeps taking me back to my dream of living in Mexico for a few months as an impoverished writer in a motel with a leafy green pool. I miss Costa Rica so damn much...Anyway, fittingly, this week was my last chance to see Che Pt. 1 (Pt. 2 has been out for a considerable amount of time now) so Tuesday night I went to watch it in Leicester Square. I felt I owed it to myself to figure out why the hell as a youth in Trinidad, I blindly embraced all things Che Guevara without knowing squat about him save for the fact that he was quite good-looking on the t-shirts my peers wore. I have a t-shirt, a mug, a ring...and up to Tuesday, I hadn't really figured the guy out. So, need I say more than Benicio del Toro as Che? Think not. So round two next week.

I think it a sign if you encounter a man's name twice in one night. Che Pts. 1 and 2 director, Steven Soderbergh appeared within the pages of the book I was reading on the bus home from the movie; in which his Sex, Lies and Videotape was cited. I shall explore the man's portfolio some more as requested by the forces around me that are drawing me towards him.

Speaking of that book, there are just some books you feel so damn good about reading in public, where everyone can see it. What I was reading is one such. I went to the library today to pay some late fees and re-issue some books. And the stately gentleman behind the desk reminded me:

S.G.: And the other one you've borrowed is due back on the 19th.
ME: Which one is that?
S.G.: uhhh...'Bitch: In Praise of Difficult Women' by Elizabeth Wurtzel
ME: hahaha (pointing at him) that was funny. Okay, thanks!

I also love Elizabeth Wurtzel (Prozac Nation lady). She's so hot too. My God. And such a feminist bitch! The essays in that book are quite angrily thorough. From famed bible bitch Delilah to Patti Smith, Courtney Love and fierce female murderers. I'm not a feminist...yet. But I definitely side with her on the alluring qualities of the bitch. And from her meandering definitions, I find myself smugly in the middle of the category.

ANYWAYS, SO...what's up with me?
Forever pestering mags and eating fat pasta dinners. Yoga. Yoga Magazine. Magazine launch party tomorrow night. A weekend of essay writing. Might give in and buy moccasins. Hair looks sexily hipster messy and needs washing. Asking my L.A. friends on Facebook to hire me while talking dirty with the boyf on Skype. Now ripping the plastic off the first ever Skin Two Yearbook and jumping into bed with it. C'est tout and good night.