Sunday, 27 April 2008

Monologue of Groceries and Ideas

There is an explosion in my head. A bursting of ideas so palpable I have to let them out on this screen so I don’t disappear under the weight of their accumulation. I don’t know when the pile reached this point. I have been caught unawares. Especially since I haven’t felt any new emotions in a while and was beginning to wonder if there was any way out of the rut of groceries. I don’t hate groceries. I don’t dislike supermarkets or farmers’ markets or any other kinds of markets. But the constant filling up of my basket/trolley/shopping bag has become mundane, story-less. Where are the hidden aisles, the undiscovered tastes, the emerging aromas? In my head? I want to let them out.

So I baked today. Created a cake. No pre-mixture was involved. And as its freshly-cooked smell wafted through my home, I came back here to finish writing this. I also watched a David Lynch movie in between. There was nothing mundane about this film. Perhaps that is how I came to have an appreciation of normality. To get back into the post-Lynch real world, I went to the kitchen to taste my cake. A bit dry, but will do, especially considering I haven’t baked in months. And also keeping in mind I didn’t use a recipe. Just a long-developed knack for sensing fluffy sponges from the texture of the batter. I knew this batter wasn’t perfect, but it had that special mingling of coffee and hot chocolate in a cake that I find irresistible as winter makes its annual windy-rainy way into town.

I wrote. I baked. I ate. I wrote again. And I feel lighter. In the head and in the heart. I know my dilemmas won’t go away if I serve them a piece of the cake I just baked, or offer them my writing/editing services. However, as long as they are not an impediment to my creative and emotional development, they can take their jolly time in the supermarket queue. I’ll either wait patiently, or try talking to the person in front. Perhaps I secretly hope that another cash register opens soon so I’m the first one in line. So I can be served in a jiffy and make my way home. But what’s the rush? I can think as I wait. Getting home will unleash countless chores. When/where will I fit in the baking? I did today, a day I also waited almost an hour at the bus stop. Without reading. Without listening to my comfort-playlist. Maybe over-stimulation was the rut in the first place. Can you smell my cake?

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