Sunday, December 21, 2014

THE PASTA ON THE TABLE

As i sit comfortably in my armchair there is much to please my retina The penumbra outside ,punctuated by stipples of neon, give forth an agreeable opalescence. Inside the chequered whorls of the tablecloth, studded with sequins, gleam iridescently. Dots of luminosity flash before my eyes, pinpricks of points of light, flickering, momentary yet persistent.
The dish of pasta on the table is fuesli. Macaroni like spirals interweave to form a constellation of softened fragments with mushrooms and onions in them. The whole mass is densely lumped together, higgledy piggledy. That's how i prefer it anyway. The bowl is cream coloured, speckled with daubs of inchoate arabesques,that mirror the spiralline pasta within. All in all there is an agreeableness to it that is highly prepossessing.
The day began with preparations. Going to the supermarket on a soggy morning, overcast, damp, smelling of garbage and rain. The grabbing of a trolley, carting it across, putting together the assorted ingredients packed in cans striped and streaked with lurid paint and loud labels. Then the momentary cessation that rain necessitated and finally the trip home.
And now the dish lies before me, to be microwaved and consumed. While the white sauce striating the fuesli is appetizing the whole soggy ,lumpen mass diminishes appetite . The impression i get is of the inside of the human brain. The lumpish mass, though olfactorily gratifying is spiritually enervating. I have composed  this dish with the paraphernalia of consumerist accoutrements. Each garnishing, addition, grating, excision and putting together indicates, to me, the abnegation of my spiritous essence. I was prompted by hunger, propelled by craftsmanship but when my tools disgust me the finished product redoubles the repugnance.
Yet these metaphysical speculations discomfit me. My stomach rumbles with hunger. But will the satiation of bodily hunger lead to a sacrifice of my spiritual sense. Given that the tablecloth is lovely and the bowl agreeable and the aura of the external soothing does this recondite reasoning indicate an unconscious misgiving. Or the surreal effluvium of the brain that impulse  betokens hearken back to a sci fi movie i saw yesterday night. There is a schizoid split in me between the compendium of associations that complicate my partaking and the ipso facto reasonableness of having troubled myself sufficiently to have cooked in the first place. In order to make a choice i suspend choice. My mind goes blank.
A spaceship with fried human brains embalmed intersects with the diagnosis of depression i received yesterday which conjoins with the philosophy books i've been reading lately amalgamated with my dream yesterday of a perfectly prepared pasta that i sought to actualize commingled with the ever louder rumble of my stomach. Disparate images, thoughts, reflections aggregate in a random mess, permutated chaotically, with no recognizable shape or form. A concatenation has occurred, an indeterminacy i can neither fathom or decipher or sort through by reverting to its constituents. Chaos builds up, builds up until my hunger supersedes.
I pick up the fork and eat.

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