The past twenty-four hours have been damn good.

After I watched City of Lost Children last night, I went to a party at the house of someone I don't know, populated with people I sort of know. Alex would be the person who roped me into going, and then... had to leave when I arrived. Granted, I arrived at 1:30am, but he knew that was going to happen. However, he didn't drive and his girlfriend had to go, so he did a lot of embarassed shrugging and he felt pretty lame.

I, on the other hand, was mildly pleased. I had come to the party hoping to be mostly anonymous, sit on the couch in the corner, drink water, and perhaps converse or not converse with someone nearby. That's not Alex's gig at all, and the party would have been a different story had he stayed. As it was, it turned out to be a highly enjoyable, relaxed, lucid, conversant evening with a handful of intelligent and fun people. I became better friends with the people I was sort of friends with, and became acquainted with some people I didn't know. I left when I felt excellent and not at all tired, and the rarest thing happened: when I said goodbye to the few that I had been conversing with, the entire roomful of people practically got up to shake my hand and tell me they enjoyed my company. Goodness, I felt like I was surrounded by human beings!

And today was a great mother's day. My dad and I took my mom out to brunch on the SF waterfront at an excellent restaurant called... The Waterfront. But it was good, man, so good it set me to thinking about the philosophy of food.

There is food; then there is lunch; then there are meals; then there are really good meals. The best meals impress themselves upon your memory as an excellent experience. The eating of the food itself becomes a memory to cherish, as though you have visited a place. When they boxed up the food I didn't finish, it wasn't leftovers--it was a souvenir.

Afterwards, we walked the waterfront. We ate fine chocolates. We bought bouquets of sweetpeas. It was windy, and my mom tied my hair back with my scarf.

When we got back to my parents' house, my mom and I shared a glass of Riesling, and then pruned the roses.

Pruning a large rosebush never fails to be a transcendent experience for me. My mom has a number of large rose bushes. We set to.

If we lived in a society where every woman* tended a rosebush, I would say this: she treats a rosebush the same way she treats a romance, or a life. My mom and I have different styles of pruning. You should hear my thoughts when I prune.

*Why do I say woman? Because I am culturally brainwashed, horribly biased, and I have never known a man who liked to (or ever did) prune roses.

"A rosebush should have a heart, clear and spacious; it should be kept clear so that you can understand the beginnings of things.
"Sometimes a perfectly good branch should be sacrified for the good of the bush as a whole.
(Looking at a healthy branch that cuts through the bush's heart and crowds other healthy upright branches) That branch can only lead to heartbreak. (snip)
"A rosebush is like a person's heart. Though it wants attention, it is still protective of itself; the further in you go, the more likely you might get scratched. It acts as though it does not ever want to be cut or hurt or pruned; but if a person does it anyway, regardless of the thorns, the bush is happier and healthier for it.
(Looking at a particularly malignant branch which bears unhealthy flowers) Sigh. That branch is like an abusive boyfriend." (snip)
"Its shadow is as much a part of the rosebush as the leaves and flowers. The soul of this rosebush is strong and gracious. Its shadow should reflect that.

It's like I'm having a dialogue with the bush as I prune, and I swear one started singing to me when I went to the extra trouble to prune a branch that was especially deep. "No one in the world's ever done what you do for me, and I'd be sad and lonely if there were no you. How do I need you? Well can't you tell..." It... it was singing Garth Brooks.

So, there's this phenomenon I don't quite understand. Round these parts, among the younguns, it is fashionable to say that you hate roses. I'm thinking it's probably because I live in the Bay Area; it's probably because we're so freakin' hip here. In a discussion, perhaps about flowers, perhaps not, if roses get mentioned, I bet you money that 1 out of 3, perhaps 1 out of 2 bay area girls will say, "Oh, I hate roses." I mean, jesus, kids. What, because they're traditional? Doesn't mean they're not pretty. No other flower gets badmouthed like the rose does, and for no good reason I perceive. It annoys me particularly because pruning roses is awesome; I would like to have at least one rosebush when I have a garden, and I would prefer not to get any flack about being proud of it when it is beautiful. I don't care if that's so suburban. I like it. Fucking hipsters.

Anyway, I ended the day with most of my hair having escaped from its ponytail and smelling entirely like garden. My hands smelled like gloves; and I smelled like happy. I had a really good time with mi mama y papa, and I'm glad to be alive.

10:09 p.m. 2004-05-09�