I want to take the mundane and wrap it up, put it under a Christmas tree for you. It's all in the wrapping. I'd like to solve your own personal mysteries of the universe by describing how I made a pot of coffee. It might take a while - much longer than making the coffee itself - nevermind drinking it. The thing is it's important that the coffee ground came from somewhere exotic - I won't buy the Arabic as I used to have the Turkish stuff every working day in Saudi Arabia - swept in figure-eight motions in a long-handled dinky pot in some kind of hot sand - that tangy, synapses-blasting fix. I have been there and done that though - and that's the thing - I have to notch up everything. I have to try a new one. There we go - I've never been to Colombia or South America at all - Colombian is the one for now coffee then. Another tick - 'hey, have you tried Colombian?' I can hear myself saying - pretentiously abandoning the noun which should follow the adjective.
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I only dare listen to myself remotely though - no more than tapping the veneer. I can't face why it's important to have Colombian coffee because I've drunk Turkish a lot. The problem being that with each experience I bury my real self further - if ever there was such an object as a pure me. But now it's dead and buried - that distant, dull self. Each type of coffee takes who I was deeper into the forest. Every country lived in digs the grave a foot deeper. Every cuisine consumed compacts the soil over it more. All the women I've slept with thicken the trees, bulk them closer. And so on. And before you know it I can't be found anymore. I am my experiences and my experiences choose my experiences - the motor is rolling and I don't know how to stop it because I'm not driving anymore. Who I want to be has snuffed out who I am. And, all I have left are metaphors and grammar to deal with it - and Jesus - even those are not mine.
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This dirge was brought to you by a flu-ridden, sofa-nailed RuKsaK. I've worked straight for two months and just started four days off for Chinese New Year and my body turns round and yells 'fuck you for not letting me rest sooner.' This is a perfect start to the Year of the fucking Pig.
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By the way, check out A Fraud Inking Muck. Not read by anywhere near enough readers and wish he would post more often, but he's good. Check him out. .
Anyway, I'll be bringing a new post to you soon which I'm working on, well, thinking about. Tuesday.
