NASA Image of the Day

Saturday, August 15, 2009

Inverted First and Last, Steamed and Sauteed.

This could be the first time I have tasted.
Before, the food, like the movements I made, filled space.
The space was me, before you: a void, with lined curves and spaces covered with something alive that made a white spot, when you pressed it hard, seeking pain.
It was an absent reaction, that; a kind of spasm protesting a state of prefrozen fish packets, with freezer burn.
Funny: I never thought of myself as a frozen dinner foil packet, stored too long somewhere...
All shrunken peas, like small heads, glaring out, balefully, and horrid dried flaked bits of chemical potato slices, jammed in, for something akin to a lack of boredom, ice crystals glazing the whole mess, with congealed gelled sauce of mystery meat eyeballs dumped over the whole thing, like some angry food processing plant workers' finger painting.
No wonder I worked nights, ate chicken sandwiches, dreaming of nicoise, and rammed cabbage salads down my throat with green tea for two years, until I shed the other self I grew around me, because I was so startled at it all.
It was very strange, stepping out of myself, and all that baggage of loss and agony.

There you were....with a beard, and everyone shocked at facial hair, which made me feel safe. How can you possibly explain something that silly to anyone, while I was becoming a less supersized version of myself? I cannot explain being shocked at my own'll have to, for me, oh Thespian Mine. I'm still afraid I'll dislodge something, if I do it.

Now? I search in vain to add to my collection of Butter Cookie and Caramel spray cologne, thinking myself some kind of freak dessert, like a wild raspberry tart for Sunday tea.
I may even design a whipped cream beret, and flaunt it, while driving the new EggMobile down Main Street, daring myself to try out the electric windows again: Ms. Creme Caramel, grooving to George Clinton and varying versions of "Peg" blasting out of the windows at three a.m, as I careen down the road....sadly, the dog died two years ago, otherwise the picture might have almost been pastoral, except for the still-perpetually shocked farmers, the electrified funk and acid jazz wafting out of the raising and lowering glass, and the secret way I have of keeping time with internal technological devices with which I have recently become adept. I pretend they're very small flip tambourines.

I've only just graduated beyond Amish roll up window status, after all, and I am the only person I know who is still fascinated for minutes at a time with the fact that I have windshield wipers on both ends of my's an odd thing to explain at parties... this wild positional cleanliness. (I feel I must qualify this, and roar loudly, lest my shattered reputation be further mutated into truly decent, newsworthy, rag mag tart status.)
It makes me feel wild, like ...oh...I don't know:finding a hotter Szechwan sauce, just to see whose eyes will tear up first - knowing I'll win, of course. It's the same with horseradish, so you really should just give up now, and accept it calmly, with suitable male grace. You won't though; you'll make me eat suicide wings until I can't breathe, and try and kiss me at the same time, you beast. And me attempting controlled weight! Ah, life; ah, struggle...ah...lip locking in mid-tingle burn.

I, contrarily, am the only person I know who promises a complete body cleanse with every meal consumed. It's become a very odd source of pride, like in Homemakers, or something...I fear you're laughing, now, in the doubly funny way you have of doing nothing, and exploding inside, retaining gas, until your ears feel like they're going to blow out, so no one knows you're roaring inside.
I worry for your arteries, frankly.

Oh....cook me stir fry, and eat butterscotch sauce off of my navel, till you make me yell, and we'll call it a day, you darling, darling wonder in my life. How I adore you.
I'll even be the Cherry on top, if you promise not to throw financial reports at me.


I am of spring, of flowers, and growing things, and possibility, budding green of shoots and yawning, bursting out of the sleepy earth;
I am of fall, in crisp golds and greens; olives and burgundies, and all good celebrations of good work and plenty like honey and rose noses on a crisp afternoon of favourite sweaters and kisses, feeding each other with crunches of bread, sweet onion soup, apple juicy slices on warm tongues, and sharp wine nectar;
I am of winter, when ice fire and mellow fire mix and gleam in candle's glow,
and all good things and good loves, and goodness, find their Noel magic;
I am of summer, when hot sweet moments dive in water's comfort, refreshed,
and gleam with bronzed summer sun on hot sweat skin, when lips meet, and youth is reminded of itself, in the torpid twirls of passion and rhythm, on a fevered night.

I am all these things, and more, to you; and I have seen them, reflected, and known, somewhere,
the circle's match, and measure, and May, in the Deep Quiet and Flicker there.

Dawn Nevills, August 15, 2009