To say that I have been reckless would be a bit of an understatement.
The revelations of the past few months — even of the past month — have inspired an elaborate wildness in me that the witnesses of my life are not quite accustomed to. You’re only young once, being the worried wisdom I’ve hung my hat on. Once, if you’re lucky.
—
These gifts then, that I have sent? You don’t need them, of course. They are for the rest of us, to see what you make of them. For me. For us.
—
Ovid
I remember him on a night like this but warmer, the moon shimmying down the black lake. He drinks and wanders from room to room. The blanket is on the floor, breathing softly. Men in exile owe so many letters. Now he is weeping – improbable. Every night around this time I put on desire like an old coat. I wonder from room to room.
Reader I have lately felt inadequate to the task of writing you.
I am including this very average photo of my breakfast — a cinnamon-laced latte and a ham and cheese croissant, snapped on a phone — because I have all but retired my ‘real’ camera and my ‘real’ photography in favor of this mostly artless, haphazard snapping which, for reasons requiring no elaboration, bugs old souls when they witness it. And I’ve retired a lot more of myself that I believed real, that I believed made me real.
My response to turbulence in airplanes disturbs other passengers.
It’s not what you probably think. I don’t go white-knuckled or green-faced or breathless or limp. I don’t jabber or skulk or pray. The opposite, really—though my response may be born of the same awe. When I see from my window the tremoring of wing tips, when I hear the rattling of loose luggage overhead, I laugh. The more violent the tremor, the louder the rattle, the harder I laugh. Come now, I think. Is that all you’ve got?
Readers, I’ve been struggling for a while with the question of where this site is going.
Struggling because I have found, as you may have noticed, that I no longer wish to write only about food. Every loved subject must have its own made-up language, a rich set of secret signifiers. This is where the trouble comes for me: food has become everyone’s language. It is omnipresent, the story of our time. It is said that everything worth writing has already been written. I’m beginning to suspect that everything worth writing about food has already been written twice.
