CHOCOLATES

Opening a box of christmas chocolates from Hotel Chocolate.
Luxury christmas chocolate box.
 

PLAISIR

noun

1. French concept of pleasure, for its own sake.
2. A pleasure that is not hedonistic, but wholesome.


In Edinburgh I derived my pleasures from chocolate. I was very frugal in my spending and my eating, having only porridge and fruit for breakfast, no lunch, and a dinner of whatever vegetables I had on hand. For chocolate, though, I would not thrift, but instead I would indulge in three boxes a week. 
Every little part of my chocolate ritual gave me pleasure. The excitement at getting to choose a new box, and the sensual joys of untying ribbons, unwrapping tissue papers. I would save my chocolates for study sessions, then, partway into a new journal article I would pause, hand hovering, to choose one at random. I especially loved to buy those seashell pralines, and I would look to my instincts on which shape to eat next, for every different form of the chocolate could imbibe a differing taste on the palate, despite their identical contents. The clam shells were full and rich; the spiraled shells more delicate and break-able on the tongue. As my birthday approached, my family asked what I wanted for gifts. Nothing but chocolate, I replied. 

 

It's funny to reflect on those things we remember more vividly, or with greater fondness, after a time. Often it is the smaller things, day to day pleasures, that I will remember. My proclivity is shared, if I am to consider the stories of others when they reminisce about how they lived at one time or another. The trick, perhaps, is to pay attention to these smaller wonders and to dedicate part of our day to their appreciation. Otherwise, like Citizen Kane, we might look back on all our great achievements and instead remember our 'Rosebuds,' those things that gave us happiness when we thought about it least. 

 

Small luxuries
Leonida chocolates in pink wrapping with other luxuries.
Leonida luxury chocolates from Belgium, one small box.
The grass may be greener on the other side, but a single flower that thrusts up through a crack in concrete can give us as much delight as a whole meadow, if only we let it.
— DAVID GREER
Christmas chocolate box from Hotel Chocolate - wrapping and ribbons.

CALTON HILL

Calton Hill cemetery - creepy tree fingers.

THE TOPOGRAPHICAL, STATISTICAL, & HISTORICAL GAZETTEER OF SCOTLAND

A. Fullarton & Co. 1853


CALTON-HILL, a rounded eminence in Edinburgh, rising abruptly from the southern termination of the ridge on which Princes-street is built...

 

Between it and the Princes-street ridge, a deep and narrow hollow is formed, which winds eastwards round the base of the hill, and is lost in the plain that extends to Leith. Its elevation above sea level at Leith is 344 feet. Its great mass is composed of claystone-porphyry and trap-tufa. 

 

With its fissured, cracked, and crumbled appearance, the Calton-hill would present an emblem of instability and desolation, were it not partly covered with buildings, and placed in the midst of a city. 


This one fine evening I found myself in the graveyard on Calton Hill, famous for the tombstone of David Hume, philosopher and historian. A tourist bus showed up at one point and a bunch of Polish people crowded into the cemetery to take a few blinding pictures before hustling back to the bus. Myself? I was there for nothing more than a good wander, between the grey stones and the grey sky and the grey twiggy branches. I relished the silence as they left...

The castle-like building that loomed over the jutting tombstones reminded me of those graveyard visions in silent horror movies, where ghouls creep between the unpathed areas when the main character is not watching.

Out in the city, the colours of daytime gave an encore, one last curtain call, before deepening their tones in response to the pale gold lights emanating from each window.

But behind me, in the cemetery, the gloom persisted. A gorgeous gloom.

At about this time I spotted one weirdo, prancing among the graves and climbing onto high walls. I watched surreptitiously for a few moments before throwing caution to the wind and joining him up there, to have a good view and a chat with a stranger. 

We talked about his artwork as a sculptor, about the city and about traveling. After a few minutes, I felt as if the husky sky was calling me ever-upward, so I said my goodbyes and ran up, up to the top of the hill. Wow, the view was amazing. I love to count my blessings, and record my own daily philosophies in a tiny notebook which I bring with me on every solitary outing.

Meeting a stranger in the cemetery, Calton Hill.
Circular turrets on the tombs in Old Calton cemetery
Tombstones and knarled trees in the Old Calton Cemetery
Looking over Edinburgh Old Town from Calton Hill, through winter trees.
Tombs in the Old Calton Cemetery, Edinburgh.
View of Edinburgh's train station and Old Town from Old Calton Cemetery.
Calton Hill, at night, Edinburgh.
Calton Hill observatory at night, Edinburgh.
EPITAPH OF DAVID HUME
(1711 - 1776)

Within this circular idea
Called vulgarly a tomb,
The ideas and impressions lie
That constituted Hume.

ABBEY ROSE & CLAIRE

Roses on a trellis in Melrose, Scotland.
 

STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS

 

I met Claire at a Harry Potter party, where she was dressed as a phoenix. Her feathery head-dress kept molting everywhere, because she danced with complete abandon, and I knew I just had to be friends with her. 

There is something about making friends when one is traveling, something so spectacular and fizzing and bright - like a sparkler. It is almost exactly the same, because I know I will eventually lose this person; the sparkler will die. In fact, I could relate these concepts even further by pointing out how, if you twirl them around, sparklers make lasting impressions on one's vision, and so do temporary close friendships, but you get my point. 

Claire was awesome! She had this smile that seemed to take over her whole face. We would meet up and then hop on a bus together, and just go somewhere. This one time, we went to Melrose Abbey - a crumbling monastery in a tiny village in the south of Scotland. The bus dropped us off in the middle of nowhere, and we ended up walking through fields and backroads with only half-an-idea of where we were, but we didn't care. I was too caught up in the conversations. I was spilling my soul into Claire, telling her my life story, and every random thought. I like to relish this part of a friendship: the very beginnings, when one is more adventurous, and there is so much to be learnt about each other. Then again, it is also incredibly beautiful when we reach that stage of complete security, when we are familiar, and when there are those inside jokes we laugh at till we almost cry. 

I think that, when you know you have a limited time with someone, your relationship with that person can speed up, in order to fit everything into that smaller time. Also, by attaching ourselves to one another in an unfamiliar location, we can temporarily detach from the real world and focus on the person entirely. Thus, we become more spontaneous, and our time together may be more intense.

 
Old arched bridge over a river, Scotland.
A dreary walk on a countryside lane in Scotland, in the morning rain.
Small cottage in Melrose village, Scotlands countryside.
Claire hiding in a red telephone box, in the tiny Scottish village of Melrose.

MOMENTS IN A DAY:

Walking through fields sodden with dew, to find a signposted archaeological site - once a Roman fort, now a series of ruts grown over with grass.
Stopping mid-conversation to say hello to each dog-walking stranger on a path lined by tall stone walls.
Laughing so much I almost peed, when we tried to get inside a musty old telephone box that was blocked by somebodies car.
Two little Scottish boys yelling something very crude at us.
Talking about all the important things, from love to politics to religion to food. 
Measuring each-others height against a short wooden door marked: Brier Cottage.
Reaching the Abbey in late afternoon and finding it shut. Shrugging it off, and eating raspberries instead. 
Waiting for the bus in some unknown town, and killing two hours with walking and beer. 
The jangling of the bus lulling us both to sleep.

Melrose Abbey in the half light of evening.
Melrose Abbey window out of focus, berries in front.
Melrose Abbey window tracery
Light shining through a window in Melrose village, Scotland.
I want you to know what I think,
dont want you to guess anymore,
you have no idea where I came from,
we have no idea where we’re going,
launched in life,
like branches in the river,
flowing downstream,
caught in the current,
I’ll carry you, you’ll carry me,
that’s how it could be,
don’t you know me?
don’t you know me by now?
— DELUSION ANGEL - by DAVID JEWELL for BEFORE SUNRISE