Keep it simple, someone said to me today.
Good advice. Old. I’ve been struggling with this. I prayed this week, of all things. I prayed that if I don’t possess the bandwidth, the strength, to do it all, please make it clear to me, please help me (make me) trim the fat out of my life. Nothing has become clear to me. I am even mixing my metaphors.
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.
There’s a wordlessness that exists just beyond softspoken, down some gentle inexorable incline.
It threatens tenderly, terribly, like a cooler season. Today the lakewaters churn and foam and savage the buoys. A wind quivers the leaves. So ends the world of yesterday, the world I’d most like to inhabit, the season of skin and sweat and burn and the cool fire. And here we come down the easy slope, pulled on by free fall, this controlled stumbling-forward, the cruel logic of forward, into the wordless valley.