Eat Mangos

I am perfecting the practice of enjoying my food, so listen closely, and I will share with you the secret to eternal bliss.

I’ve forgotten how good Rosemary & Olive Oil Triscuits are. They’re much too satly to eat with cheese, unless it’s cream cheese, which I can’t say I particularly care for. There is, actually, a wrong way to eat Triscuits. When you bite, the lines on the cracker should line up horizontal to your mouth, or else you get crumbs everywhere, and surrender vast amounts of tasty Triscuit to the kitchen table.

Triscuits and keyboards really don’t go well together, so I’m going to put these goodies away and type.

It’s funny that as the world around me grows more and more nebulous, and as I lose myself to the expanses of doubt because of the apathy reflected in the eyes of some stranger whose gaze was at once familiar, my narrative voice grows calmer, neutral, colder. I’m not always honest, which is why I can afford to let you read these entries. I boast of recapturing the world in my writing, but instead I create a new version of it for my own comfort; it really is a lot like daydreaming. Watch, someday my house will be destroyed by inter-gallactic terrorists and I will elope to the hills with my right-wing republican hubby and an Ethiopian baby, and my journal entry will expound on the virtues of chai tea with soymilk. Because what we long for most in turbulent times are the simple things we can get our hands on, things we can understand–the things that can never change or leave us–like Silk and Celestial Seasonings.

But I promised myself that I’d try and stick to reality, so I’ll tag this on for good measure. Have you ever noticed how the arrival of one person can repaint an entire neighborhood? I swear, there are those who can shift space, tangle up the roads and street signs, reprogram the dimensions of our comfortable continuums and plant us back into houses we don’t even recognize as our own. In this already confusing realm of re-encounter culture, I gotta say I hate it when life comes in to rearrange my furniture without permission. But now the lights on San Thomas are not nearly as glaring and I can be smooth and coast with my sun roof open carelessly. It’s like I just came in from another country. Creepy how that is; funny what a trick of the light and daylight savings can create.

Oh, but living itself is such easygoing madness.