Caffeine Jolt Jazz

Until recently, I don’t really remember coffee working as an upper for me. My paternal grandma always brewed kapeng barako in the morning, and sometimes we put it on rice with bits of daing. But just because they thought it’d encourage us to eat. My maternal grandma always had Nescafe on the breakfast table, and we always had it as kape-gatas. But just because nothing goes better with pandesal. There was a time I downed mugs after mugs during hell weeks in college. But just because that’s how they say you survive it. I actually once used that insulated mug for the workplace and prepared 3-in-1’s via the hot water dispenser. But just because everybody else did it supposedly to stimulate thinking. The wonderful thing is, I think it’s now working. When after lunches make me dizzy, I reach for a cup–brewed or what, decaf or not–I actually lose the sleepies. Maybe it’s all psychological. Or that one ornately handled stainless thing–sized between a spoon and a teaspoon. I’ve never found anything like it to stir my coffee.

Atonement and Some Sexy Time

It is not that bad that I finished Atonement just now since I opened it almost two years ago. I got lost when the war started. But towards these last pages, as I inched to the ending bind, I realised how more intense the writer’s effect worked because I also had the same distance from the beginning. An old Briony (Keira Knightley in the movie) is back in her childhood home, and the clan’s grandchildren perform the same play that she wrote back then. And there I was at the train, secretly awed at this:

The problem these fifty-nine years has been this: how can a novelist achieve atonement when, with her absolute power of deciding outcomes, she is also God? There is no one, no entity or higher form that she can appeal to, or be reconciled with, or that can forgive her. There is nothing outside her. In her imagination she has set the limits and the terms. No atonement for God, or novelists, even if they are atheists. It was always an impossible task, and that was precisely the point. The attempt was all.

And can I just say, Ian McEwan can write The Sex:

The sighing noise she made was greedy and made him greedy too. He pushed her hard into the corner, between the books. As they kissed she was pulling at his clothes, plucking ineffectually at his shirt, his waistband. Their heads rolled and turned against one another as their kissing became a gnawing. She bit him on the cheek, not quite playfully. He pulled away, then moved back and she bit him hard on his lower lip. He kissed her throat, forcing back her head against the shelves, she pulled  his hair and pushed his face down against her breasts. There was some inexpert fumbling until he found her nipple, tiny and hard, and put his mouth around it. Her spine went rigid , then juddered along its length. For a moment he thought she had passed out. Her arms were looped around his head and when she tightened her grip he rose through it, desperate to breathe, up to his full height and enfolded her, crushing her head against his chest. She bit him again and pulled at his shirt. When they heard a button ping against the floorboards, they had to suppress their grins and look away. Comedy would have destroyed them. She trapped his nipple between her teeth. The sensation was unbearable. He tilted her face up, and trapping her against his ribs, kissed her eyes and parted her lips with his tongue. Her helplessness drew from her again the sound like the sigh of disappointment.

I forgot to recommend parental guidance. But heck, kids watch Gossip Girl anyway. OMFG.