I live in a world of preposterous ease; at times aggravating ease; and always with an awareness of the facade of ease.
I’m celebrating this day on the Earth by eating, eating to ensure the survival of the carrier vessel of my genetic material; eating because it’s a sensual playground.
The whole world offered itself for my consumption today, all I had to do was reach out my hand and pluck it: off the shelf, off the menu, off the web. If I look closely at the price tag on the chocolate bar I might see that it was enormous. If I raise a pound of coffee to my nose, I might smell the gasoline. If I hold the bottle of wine I might feel the enormous weight. If I press my ear to the meat case I might hear the cries of pain.
On the road to Praxis we confront absurdities and can either languish or celebrate, maybe both. Castaneda’s mentor Don Juan spoke of controlled folly, knowing that it’s all illusion but still allowing yourself to participate in the drama.
I typically opt for the languishing, and I can’t say I blame myself when you have oil rigs exploding into the sea and big ag corrupting climate bills. But the inverse applies, where articles like that can inspire joy, perverse as that may seem.
So today, in celebration of the glorious flaw, I give gratitude for the culinary wonders about me without critique. Tomorrow will be different.
Chocolate! My god, food of the gods, served molten in golden chalice to emperor gods. You arrive as a bar like a gold brick, you are the golden ticket, you melt and bond and slide and expand consciousness. You’re choc-full of beneficial compounds, you perfectly marry cream and nuts and mint. I drink coffee so my mouth is warm to properly savor you.
Coffee! I spent days plucking you from the trees at Kanalani Ohana Farm on the Big Island of Hawai’i. You start as sweet cherry before being popped out, dried, and roasted. You might also be pooped out by a Kopi Luwak. Fired twice, by sun and mortal flame, you are ground into dust and pour your essence into waters. How many ways to steep you, how many creams to mix with you, the blessed cup you kick me in the adrenals like you did the Ethiopian goats who discovered you. I drink to them!
Wine! White wine is quicksilver, a quaff of that crisp clarity and the essays, odes, letters pour out of both hands. In hot hills I plucked Cabernet Sauvignon grapes and ate them by the bunch as if posing for a Grecian relief. The sultry reds, dark sun, covenant of iron and salt, the shoulders tighten and relax and the body becomes the old world, a compass needle and open sea, seeking fruits and meat.
Bacon! The wild boar, a leading cause of fatalities in Idaho, ferociously tusked and bristly with a bullet-proof collar bone. Primal flesh, it drives men to madness, creating star wars figures, or horrendous sandwiches (that are actually healthier than some salads). You infuse vodka for Bacon Bloody Mary, you arrive on maple donut with your precious voodoo, you are breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Smoked, salted, cured and the cure, you’ve ensured the survival of countless winters.
I found you all just down the street, a mere bike-ride away. I walked in, stood in front of your habitat as you vied to be chosen, lifted you up and put you in my cart, slid a piece of plastic through a machine, and you were mine, all mine, coming home to live with me now. And so that I may grow most strongly I’ll see the best in you: locally raised, lovingly cared for, honorably harvested, animal and vegetable and mineral. Taking life to give life, the most important posture is gratitude.