.. like a warm pie on a window sill.

This entry is stolen!

Hunger
 
Saturday, October 11, 2008

 
Heart throbs through flesh. Flesh through heart. The magical properties of cooking. Here I have baked and boiled this for you, these vegetables, these fruits, pulled from the earth, into my hands, rolled onto your tongue. It is a love potion. It is something that I have created and now you are devouring. It is part of me: it is the creation of those things I notice and witness and have constructed together, it is the visceral experience of how I perceive food and flavor. Its richness is its flesh, its sex, its delicacy. Its magic is in its subtly, its faintness, spices too remote to identify: mystery. Its texture is its history, where it grew and burned. By feeding you I am giving you a living thing, emotion, history, flesh, and sensitivity. It will grow inside you, travel through your veins and whisper to you. 
Listen.
 
 
This writer is fascinating, mysterious and very sensual.   She’s just herself and that is my downfall, because her words speak to me what’s buried .. lost inside me.  She bathes in the warm well at my center. 
The same reservoir that is splashed on my journal so clumsily at times.  I’ve noticed in years of reading her that she’s consistent and aloof .. always aloof, yet beside me.  Why are women such as this unattainable and, usually .. half a world away?
 
In life, I fear she may speak in a more common jargon that doesn’t register the depth and beauty of what she really is .. spread on her diary page so openly.   I believe her thoughts are drawn from her own well and not placed before us  from her imagination.  Rather, a biography, if you will, of what’s gone before .. what’s ongoing .. what’s left, after the dance .. the embrace .. the wrinkled unmade bed.   You have style, malady.