meditations 9/19/08

I took a cantaloupe and split it in half. I ate that half with a spoon. The fruit was delicious; the seeds plentiful; I left the seeds in the empty fruit shell, and covered them with dirt. I placed the pot out on the front garden, to settle under the sun and rain. Within days, little green things began to sprout.
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That man was a mystery. Everything he did was mysterious. He would come home and throw himself on the floor. He would stare at you with his pale eyes and skin from the depths of darkness. Who knows what thoughts occurred in that mind of his. He sometimes howled and sometimes yelped without reason; and in conversation would blurp out facts on some erotic practices conducted by some isolated ethnic cultures. I always thought it was the way the man made his women. He was a mysterious man, after all.
In fact, the word ‘mysterious’ was bestowed upon him by someone else. I told him one afternoon, as he lay sprawled out on the front stairs. He didn’t care whether there was dirt, cigarette ashes, and possibly spit on the ground on which he lay. He was mysterious you see, and I told him how someone had said precisely that about him, about how he was ‘mysterious.’
Naturally, he asked me who said it. And I, the clever beast, said,” That, too, my friend, is a mystery…”
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By the time the lizard hit 15 it didn’t speak to its mother. Sunken in the slivery strings of drug addiction, the silent mourning gulps of alcoholism, the heavy smoke of misbehavior, the deviation, the perpetration, the insolent derision and contempt with which he viewed the state of affairs, the apathy, the antipathy, the anarchy of his actions; all that, consequently, had opened a gap so wide between himself and his mother the lizard no longer spoke to his mother, by the age of 15.
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Take some flour, as much flour as you want, then add a proportional amount of baking powder and salt. You got your grain and your rising agent. Use some oil for the shortening, so that the flour, wet, does not stick to your hands nor the surface on which you bake it, and also so it holds all the contents of the mix together. Add some water. Mix. Add some more water. Mix. Mix until you have bound all the flour in the bowl into a ball. Then add a little more water and knead. If you add too much water, to the point when the dough is sticky, then you can either add more flour or knead it until the moisture has dissipated or evaporated. If the right amount of water has been used, where only a little sticks but the rest can be manipulated, then knead, knead, knead until you know that all the contents of the mix have been mixed together and proportionally in all its parts. Any bit of flour that is left unknead will attack you after it has been baked. It will be like the cocoa powder than didn’t quite mix into the hot milk. You have to therefore knead, twist, cut, punch, knead, twist, cut, punch, cut, stretch, knead, twist, press, pull, press, crush, twist, knead, punch, ever so much, until it has all been mixed proportionally into a beautiful, moist little ball. Then punch it some more till flat, and bake.