IF ONLY IT WERE TRUE

last sunday i decided to start the last newly purchased book i had in my room. i began reading as i awaited the afternoon train. i got to pretend i was back living the city life as i sat with feet propped up on a starbucks coffee table, back & tush comfortably supported by a velvety chair, and best of all, a window seat. bay windows are magical, didn't you know.

anyway, upon page 63, i decide i'm going to watch a $2 movie matinee next door. literally three frames in, i realize i'm watching the movie version of the book i'd just begun. i half got up to leave, not wanting to ruin the experience of savoring the trek through a new story (and at my own pace), but decided what the heck, how often does the movie live up to the book, nevermind how often does the movie stay true to the book? plus, i like reese witherspoon. she is terrifically funny.

so i was right. the book was better than the movie, plotwise. reese didn't disappoint. she made the most of that role. and i almost forgot! both the book and the movie were set in guess where of all places? san francisco!!! the city that almost became my home. i'd just turned down a promotion that would've taken me there. how i pine for the lost opportunity. i hope the future weaves me a beautiful tapestry, of silk and satin and all.

so the book is named if only it were true. cute read. the artist-slash-sadist in me would've preferred a more somber ending. is it a french thing to scowl like a grumpy old man waving a cigarette believing he can, at his whim, turn it into a wand wafting le sênt des roses, simplement parce qu'il se plaît? however, the denouement was salvaged by the philosophical pain evoked by the last paragraph. memory's faltering is one of life's greatest tragedies.