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…nutella…

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The beauty of sitting and writing is much like the beauty of sitting and drawing. There’s no wrong place to start, and it really doesn’t matter if you’re any good at it. Maybe that’s the problem people have with things in general, they always want to know how or where to start something, what they’re supposed to accomplish, and what they’re going to wind up with, or that they even need to have a point or some resolution. I’m as guilty as the rest of the world, but when I’m not; I’m free. I just start without really knowing anything and let whatever it is unfold.

Driving into my play job as an apprentice butcher/some sort of ‘real’ cook, I saw a woman walking with a man who was holding a child clad in purple. The woman was equally clad in a purple top, with sad and oily hair that hung in clumpy strands, fighting her mandate that it stay tucked behind ears, falling quickly back around an ashen though probably once vibrant face. She struck me as a wilted flower. I could only look and wonder as she kept a pace two steps ahead of the man with the child, looking forever over a left shoulder, arms crossed about a slender waist, never making eye contact with anything other than cracks in the sidewalk. Life does that, sometimes, to people. Maybe that’s why I’ve never been one to embrace it in most of the conventional ways that others seem to need to. I’ve seen what it can do…

I am feral. Often by choice, sometimes by circumstance, and sometimes it’s simply a thing I’ve held on to because I am stubborn. Occasionally I think I can change all of this, that maybe I’ve had it all wrong and I imagine I’m capable of waking up on any given day, enlightened and able to overlook certain and obvious flaws with it all. It’s easy to be seduced. Check that – it’s easy to want to be seduced, blown away, utterly stunned. I live for those moments. In fact, I sometimes wonder if all I do is tantamount to writing checks to Karma, hoping that I’ll receive some payment in kind someday, or at least a little bit. I want to believe that there’s something magical and fulfilling about being a productive, rather than disruptive, member of society. I never give up hope because sometimes things come along that completely change the rhythm of existence as I might have otherwise known it.

To describe the manner in which I came across this, is virtually inexplicable, though it’s the sort of thing that makes me believe that miracles are more commonplace than we know. Maybe driving to the grocery store, and making it home safe is miracle enough, when you think about the physics of plowing along in 3000 pounds of metal, glass, plastic and gasoline all with less than a square foot of contact area on pavement, dodging about with others doing the same while talking, texting, eating, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, having bad days, offering unsolicited editorials punctuated with accelerator and brakes – a spontaneous symphony directed by unknown engineers who’ve programmed red, yellow and green lights.

It was a thing I never in a million years would have tried on my own, simply because my mind doesn’t orbit the planet of sweet, when savory is around. The name alone is what turned me off of it; Nutella – which sounds a bit too kitschy, like Spam, or even worse a nut borne version of salmonella. I tried it though, for the first time, at the direction of a complete and forever stranger, coddled in a simple and elegant crepe, oozing and warm. The only way to describe it is that maybe it’s like engaging in a long and delicate french kiss with the platonic ideal of melting chocolate, with a little hint of hazelnut. I knew this had disrupted my life so completely when I woke at 2am, heart pounding, completely aroused two whole days later at the simple thought of having this in my mouth, covering my tongue, around my teeth and gums, in every nook and cranny of my cheeks… I’ve never experienced such a food related erotic fantasy…

Of course me being me, I couldn’t stand the idea of not trying to recreate it for myself, and so I tried. While it tasted, maybe, better, the texture isn’t the same and I’m still wondering if it’s the sort of thing that one can actually replicate in a home kitchen, or should…

It’s easy, sometimes to think that change is mandatory, that you’re a work in progress a thing in need of some continuous evolution. More difficult, is to accept where and what you are at any given moment in time – realizing that where and what you are isn’t always wrong, or that you have to actually master anything – or replicate it. Sometimes, it’s divine to simply surrender to things and just enjoy them… Being feral, completely oblivious to simple things is exactly what allows them to exist in the realm of that which is magical. Maybe what my existence is, is a bit like discovering ice cubes for the first time, and this blog is nothing more than me running around the neighborhood like Archimedes, shouting out ‘Eureka’ about things that everyone knows is completely obvious… Sometimes I think it just doesn’t matter. I couldn’t really have it any other way.

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Discussion

One thought on “…nutella…

  1. There is nothing wrong with being feral… It are the persons who are such that it make those of us who aren’t stop for a moment, challenges us to think or try to look at life differently and hopefully be affected by what we start to see along our paths! Thank you for that! And who doesn’t like a wonderful French kiss!!!

    Posted by seabreezelouise | June 4, 2012, 3:01 pm

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