Today I wore my pretty pink ballet shoes in order to start the day right. While nothing miraculous happened - work went pretty much the same way that it always did - still, it could have been a lot worse. I am pretty sure that the work will pile up as the week trudges along, kind of like an old man with heavy feet. Dinner was capped off with Ginny at Wheatberry. I haven't been there for quite some time, and as usual, we closed the place up just as it was nearing midnight. (Another lovely and healthy snack alternative: Wheatberry's bread chips, which comes in onion-and-garlic, barbeque, and cinnamon flavors and is only Php 45.00 for one large bag. It's a good alternative for the potato-chip-loving crowd out there, myself included.)
So far, I have three things pending this week:
1. Chapter 2 of the Custodio book (which I have one measly paragraph written)
2. The Neil Gaiman story (one page of the first draft?)
3. Mock-ups of the NTF packages for Norman
Tonight, speeding down the almost-deserted Quezon Avenue, Gin and I were listening to Alanis Morisette's acoustic rendition of her Jagged Little Pill album. I'm sure you remember that particular album: it was the musical spokesperson of a generation of angry, angsty teenage rebels who couldn't articulate what they were feeling and so relied on the words and the music of a 19-year-old woman to express their innermost frustrations and deepest desires. I was in high school back then, a round-faced freshman at Miriam College High School, writing my measly fanfiction even before it became really popular, and I really didn't understand this woman who sang these beautiful and powerful words that really ought to have meant something to me, but didn't (couldn't). I found the videos to "Ironic" and "Hand in My Pocket" really cool, but I didn't understand much of it. (And the lyrics to "Ironic" aren't exactly, well, ironic. They belong to the figure of speech known as the paradox.)
Now, ten years later, Alanis' voice seems to have matured along with her material. The amazing thing with her songs is that that the themes they impart doesn't seem to have changed with time - ten years down the road, and they are still imbued with that magical timelessness that is applicable to all walks of life. I am particularly in love with "Head Over Feet" - but that's the sap in me - but really, I am thinking of buying this CD just to relieve the Alanis glory days. (I have her third studio album, Under Rug Swept but it's still not as powerful as this one.) It's a fun album to visit time and again: one that never loses its nostalgia-tinted glow, suffused with memories and times spent driving down the road, singing at the top of your lungs, the wind in your hair and the world at your feet.