It only takes one body to lessen eternity
It seems like the older you get, the years pass by quicker. From 2 to 3 seems to pass in the same time it now takes to get from 40 to 50. Time is running away from you, exponentially. Faster.
The only value we get in our lives is what we put into it. It’s the reason why the happiest, or maybe the better word is satisfied (passionate, inspiring?) people are those who create. Chefs, architects, artists, musicians, the list could go on for a while. The pride we get from creating and sharing is far greater than any we get on the receiving end. Maybe it’s for approval, maybe its to show off but why doesn’t matter as much to me. It’s more a question of how. How well can you do this? How dedicated are you to moving forward? Anything else is just a waste of time. Find work that challenges you and gives you stress. Work that you can care and love. Love, even on the days you hate it.
Is tagged in more photos
of food on facebook than
pictures of himself
You all know this guy. Less of a hipster and more Epicurean. A hedonist. A believer of the moment but worried about sustainability. He talks loudly and brags on his heirloom tomatoes (as he should, they are delicious). Undoubtedly, he likes dive bars, Bourdain, foie and uni. What else would you need to know?
Hurricane Sandy is coming, I’ve bought some water and canned goods for the few days. The flooding should be fun, right? Thank god I’m on the second floor.
Confession: I really do not have the patience for prose. I try it from time to time but I find it to be so much more…lengthy and you can’t jump around like you can with poetry. At least, not in my limited experience.
But occasionally I get bit by this bug and I try again to write prose and I get something like this.
Miguel, recent fiftyish
There was light now. So much of it. Buckets of the stuff, spilling over everything. Overflowing the potted plants. It wasn’t divine, he’d had enough of the boxes and bibles. Just more of it, like his eyes were permanently dilated.
Miguel, recent fiftyish woke up and got dressed. He trimmed his beard, affectionately deemed the eternal smile. He showered. He shat. He ate breakfast at work after service was underway and moving smooth. Not at home. Not like normal people, whoever they are. He left Mary sleeping. He kissed her head and locked the front door.
The surgery went well enough that he could drive without glasses. Bruce B Downs. Right turn, loop and park. 6 days a week. Even if its just around the corner, it matters to him. The size of his victories are inversely proportional to his age.
His smiles migrated back and nested in his root canal. The wonder was slowly seeping back into his blood stream. telling his boss no was the same yawn it always was. Content was the word he’d looked up. He felt content. At this point, when he was praying he didn’t really know who or what he was praying to. Was he thanking deaf or non-existent ears? Maybe. But it wouldn’t matter either way. It needed to be said, this much he knew, even if it was only to hear these words as a mantra. Convinced there isn’t enough grateful in the universe and he’s just putting out what he hopes to get back. Why go to church when god is everywhere?
The meals are balanced now. Less meat, less carbs, more greens. Less sugar but he’s still using that Splenda shit. Pricking his fingers.
Its getting colder so now he’s beating the sun to work. Even the universe takes time for a smoke break while man toils away. On time. Lets see a god go through this. Strip the title and power and let it step into this humanity. Lets see what a god is really made of or does that kind of power defang the desire to live?
He never imagined this growing up. Why would you? No one dreams of paperwork. Victories and honor. Battles. Like changing the world was just a set of double a’s away. Women and kingdoms are the dreams of the young. Now he dreams of dinner. He dreams of jam sessions on the weekend. He wakes to a second wife and a king sized bed. His world is small enough to hug now. And he does.
He starts his work. He makes the rounds. He sees his son. A sun. All the woulds he could never be. So many weres he was. Standing there, facial hair, looking Dad straight in the eye. From a seed to a tree with branches that could hold the sun some days.
The son, a sun, a son suddenly aware of the mirror he’d been growing into. Scrooge dumbstruck at the gravestone and the coffin shaped like a bed. A mouthful of I told you so. A mouthful of fritatta, a gulp of extra pulp. Conversations with a stranger.
Plates cleaned. Seconds. Mouths wiped. Napkins crumbled. And pictures, side by side, chests out, shoulders back and smiling. A future and a past paused for a moment. A gift to be grateful for.
The son left, the sun followed suit. He went home to his second wife and his king sized bed and had dinner. He exercised on his home-made-all-in-one gym. He played some piano. He smiled and took a shower, smoked a little weed. He kissed her on the neck. She loved him. He loved her. For the first time, in a long time, maybe even ever, he felt like he was enough.
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