It's Thursday and I wish you were here. I'd give you a poem: a bowl of vegetable beef soup, extra garlic.
The soup is the poem and it doesn't travel well, so here I am with the cold hard keyboard and the smell of garlic marrying the onion and it's so lovely I want to share. Can the translation be made? If I mail it to you in text will the contents slosh out and become a sloppy mess?
It's the risk I take every time I type. Sometimes I can't stand the suspense.
So sometimes I quit writing. I eat my soup in peace, happy to have the concrete on my taste buds without the worry of shipping it to you. But eventually I can't take it anymore. This place we inhabit, with the cold and hot, the poor and rich, the day and night, the garlic and onion...how can I not write it down?
Here's my soup. Here's my poem. Here's to sharing even though things can get messy...and my family, who lives in mortal fear that I, a writer armed with a cell phone camera, will NOT keep "some things private". And maybe I wont, but too bad, Mom and Dad. I promise not to throw you under a bus without good cause, and the cause will usually be my amusement. Like the time in November you fell in love with a pet frog and ran around your house for days wielding a fly swatter, doing your best to set your phasers to stun and mourning when you accidentally squished (pet frogs prefer live lunches).
These things happen. The soup, the fly, the hilarious smell of life. I will type it out, wrap it up and mail it out. The publish button is my postage and I apologize in advance if the package arrives a little soggy. I'm sending it anyway.
