Time

Today there is no time. The watch has been lost. It fell off making up for forgotten days - when the ticking was too loud, and the sun never reached its peak. It dove back into sleeping before you could see.

The rice cooks long. It starts between a seed popping and the glass of milk you left on the stove. We leave the rice, let it turn into porridge and notice breakfast isn't ready when we wake up, it talked to lunch and dinner to neglect the schedule. We combine the three of them on a stretched timeless afternoon. I have coffee with my minestrone, take breakfast as dessert.

The stories I read on this day vigorously agree. They visit, but don't hunt me down. I pick up cookbooks and select recipes, randomly. There is no blaming the absent ingredients. I prepare a pumpkin risotto without the rice.

Time peeks in now and then, but I refuse to look up- I keep on combining and mixing, stirring and baking - scale and timepiece behind locks.

With thanks to the Andrew Marvell poem 'To his Coy Mistress and J. Winterson, and the Pascal Campion blog for the picture (see favourites)

The Lonely Life

There are many things you can disagree on: the size of the fish, the shape of the onion, the thickness of the porridge, the kosherness of the meal.

You disagree.
You disagree, because you feel things differently. As a person you want to do things more your way, so you can become balanced, one with your environment. And there you sit, in a fight with him, he, one with his environment. You feel at home in your habits.

Tell me why am I born with an appetite for ice cream in the morning and seeds on the road, why do I prefer tomatoes in the oven, rice cake on the go. Desire for equilibrium I need. Anything else: no.

And so I wait, I wait until I have enough of all these, 'til the ice cream has melted, and birds run away with the seeds. Maybe then I'll be ready for some harmony.