In medias res

In medias res or medias in res (into the middle of things) is a Latin phrase denoting the literary and artistic technique wherein a story begins either at the mid-point or at the conclusion, rather than at the beginning (ab ovo, ab initio).  (I thought I saw the term in A.O. Scott's review of the film "Anonymous", but apparently not.)

The presumed advantage of in medias res is to open the story with a bang, and then fill in the rest after the reader/listener/viewer is hooked.

It made me think of some disturbed souls of my acquaintance who assumed that everyone was familiar with the dramatis personae of their lives.  Stars of their own life and that of everyone else.  At the time I thought it made them special, not realizing how double edged that descripton can be.

On meeting they'd start a conversation assuming you were already familiar with their live, referring to people by nicknames and places by short hand reference.  "We were all down at The Corner" presumed that you knew that "we" referred to the usual crowd of friends minus Larry who used to be a friend, but was now, because of the tiff with Sooz, no longer, and "The Corner" was the south west corner of the student center.

Affinage/You Only Go Through Life Once

The October 5th edition of the New York Times contained an article, "Cheese: A Coming-of-Age Story" about affinage,

"the careful practice of ripening cheese... a series of tedious, ritualized procedures (washing, flipping, brushing, patting, spritzing) that are meant to inch each wheel and wedge toward an apex of delectability."

Uh-oh.  As someone who only draws the line at eating cheese from a spray can, "ritualized procedures" fired its sh*t detectors.  Biodynamics, phases of the moon, unnatural acts with common objects.  Still I buy into it.  Paying attention to what's happening is more likely than not to produce a better cheese.  (Of course to my uncle Hal, "good cheese" was an oxymoron.)

The Times taste sampling of 3 cheeses supported the idea that attention to the cheese resulted in a better cheese.

Living close to the bone it's unlikely that I'll ever taste an artisanal cheese.  Chalk it up to parochial tastes, inherent cheapness, pedestrian aspirations, something.

Oh, wait.  It's could be like the time my brother brought a special meatloaf over for us to sample.  I could tell it was special because there were two different textures of meat separated by pistachio nuts and the slice had a crust around it.   Nice meatloaf I said.  When my brother was able to stop laughing he identified it as a hideously expensive pâté.  (I can't recall the exact figure, but as I remember it, a pound of that pâté costs as much as a ticket to a first-run Broadway show.) Tasted OK though.

Going through life once?  Oh that.  I had a recent conversation with an aunt, the wife of the uncle who wouldn't eat cheese, who said we only have one shot at life.  Why not enjoy it?  Why suffer?  In the specific, she was referring to fixing up her house and eating good food.  My mind translated this to dying as my money runs out: having a fatal attack with the last morsel of that hideously expensive pâté. 

That would be OK in my own home, but not in a restaurant.  Keeling over in a restaurant would stick my estate with the bill and inconvenience the establishment. Not a socially responsible way to go.

mot juste & crepuscular

I've found myself searching for words lately.  Could be a cold which has now arrived in no uncertain terms or it could be a harbinger of something darker.  Be that as it may, I stumbled across the term mot juste just in time:

Now, if I can remember the pronunciation (those wacky French) I may be able to sound competent.  ("Those wacky French" was a phase one of our French profs used to make light of the difficulty students had with French pronunciation.)

And another word which used to be applicable:

crepuscular

1. of, relating to, or resembling twilight : dim  
2. occurring or active during twilight 

In another time I would leave work in the wee hours.  I heard birds which only sang at night and discovered the scents of night blooming flowers.  I was the only one around except for campus safety and the night crews.  I did my grocery shopping without waiting on lines although I'd often have to find the night manager to get behind the checkout register.

My manager at work enjoyed saying that, considering the evidence: avoiding sunlight and being active at night, I was probably a reformed vampire.

But that was then, before other responsibilities intruded.