Zensationalism, or the Tao of Garlic Sauce
It could've been UFO's over Bridgeport, or fireworks in August, 4:56am. I've always been distracted by ochre. Especially on garden walls. I've climbed steep streets in Barcelona and meandered through narrow passages in Rome. Led merely by a glimpse of ochre. There's a profound life-observation in this somewhere. Akin, I'm sure, to a cantilevered greenhouse roof. It's not always the fantabulous in life that marks its passage. It's neither agony nor ecstasy that I anticipate, but quiet pleasure.
Not a powerful hormonal scent, but a subtle melange from wine. Not the hard lights of studio, but the quieting reflection from a book's page. Entranced, rather than enraptured.
Walking the steep paths of Ydra with no digital enhancement. Listening to pine whistles, but not through a cell. Remembering Paris without an lcd. My bag is filled with cheese and ouzo, not a laptop.
I take trains, simply because I can. Because they're filled with lovers and children. Arguments and sleep. They flow and jerk and stop and start. They speak Hegel and Nora Roberts. They sing folk songs and downbeat. Dance, mope, pontificate. I rarely remember planes. I rarely forget trains. And I think I'm learning to smile.
I'm going out today hoping to find a green caterpillar on a hibiscus petal. I think this will help understand Bach's cantatas. All of them, hopefully. This revelation came over sweet and sour scallops, followed by plum wine. As revelations go, it was a gentle nudge. Not with the pungency of garlic sauce on meatloaf - but that's another meal, isn't it? The hope of finding. Going from here to there and back again.
I like my mangoes straight from the tree. My salsa full of lime juice and hot peppers. Horseradish-sour cream on onion mums. Fresh tomato and parmesan on hot bread. Flour up to my elbows making pasta. The hope of finding. I'm going out today hoping to smell bacon.
It could've been UFO's over Bridgeport, or fireworks in August, 4:56am. I've always been distracted by ochre. Especially on garden walls. I've climbed steep streets in Barcelona and meandered through narrow passages in Rome. Led merely by a glimpse of ochre. There's a profound life-observation in this somewhere. Akin, I'm sure, to a cantilevered greenhouse roof. It's not always the fantabulous in life that marks its passage. It's neither agony nor ecstasy that I anticipate, but quiet pleasure.
Not a powerful hormonal scent, but a subtle melange from wine. Not the hard lights of studio, but the quieting reflection from a book's page. Entranced, rather than enraptured.
Walking the steep paths of Ydra with no digital enhancement. Listening to pine whistles, but not through a cell. Remembering Paris without an lcd. My bag is filled with cheese and ouzo, not a laptop.
I take trains, simply because I can. Because they're filled with lovers and children. Arguments and sleep. They flow and jerk and stop and start. They speak Hegel and Nora Roberts. They sing folk songs and downbeat. Dance, mope, pontificate. I rarely remember planes. I rarely forget trains. And I think I'm learning to smile.
I'm going out today hoping to find a green caterpillar on a hibiscus petal. I think this will help understand Bach's cantatas. All of them, hopefully. This revelation came over sweet and sour scallops, followed by plum wine. As revelations go, it was a gentle nudge. Not with the pungency of garlic sauce on meatloaf - but that's another meal, isn't it? The hope of finding. Going from here to there and back again.
I like my mangoes straight from the tree. My salsa full of lime juice and hot peppers. Horseradish-sour cream on onion mums. Fresh tomato and parmesan on hot bread. Flour up to my elbows making pasta. The hope of finding. I'm going out today hoping to smell bacon.
posted by the Bay at 12:09 PM
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