In The Soup Odor Records

restaurant kitchen depicting food preparation and orders

There is a listing for Minestrone, and after it, my name and a notation which reads, finds disgusting.

Where am I today?  Am I in the photos of the Colosseum that some local group posted today, suddenly transported back to Rome?  Am I in the crunch of the bright yellow leaves that I suddenly noticed were here, against the bright blue and open sky? In an autumn that I have found myself excised from and now submerged in.  Am I hanging idly off the tufted cotton ball that is attached by elasticity to the cat tree, watching a little kitten draw back her paw to wap me into the air?  Am I in Julia Sugarbaker’s front foyer, wearing a massive hoop skirt, and silently applauding as she harangues some unfortunate with righteous fury?

I was, if only for a moment, elsewheres.

I do feel better.  Was it the night on the couch?  Was it being paid?  Was it getting to shrug off a couple pounds from the anvil on my shoulders?  Was it the dear little kitten?  Was it the endless questions?  Was it the vegetables in dinner?  Was it forgoing dessert without a moment’s pain.  Was it knowing that the weekend is essentially here as work tomorrow’s less work, and more just dressing up women for 8 hours? Was it viewing the peaceful conflict contained in Great British Bake-Off?  Was it watching the Obamas, separately, rhetorically own the universe?  Was it hearing from my dad in his simple email form that he loves me and yes, he too, hates Trump?

Yes.  It was definitely that.

It is better to be here, in this odd state of floating above what might be a cloying, sickly-sweet cloud of depression, than below it.  So I regard with curiosity the name of Mr. Confusion cropping up on my OKC list rather than any deeper emotion.  He has not changed his picture.  I could click, but…honestly, there’s no reason to tear open that wound from last year.

I do see the pattern.  I do see the thing that I do where there’s a connection, a vibe, a “thing” and then, I am non-committal, or there’s a gap, a Void, a non-thing, and instead of say, hey, hey there, you, fellow person with whom there was a thing, are you done with having that thing with me…I just say, oh, the thing died.  No need to pull out the paddles.  It’s dead.  If it was supposed to live, it would be.  It’s a real Christian Science version of romance.  It’s kind of hardcore.  It’s mostly awful.

But if he is floating around out there and seeing my face and reconsidering, I don’t even know what I’d have to say about that now. One of those scientific hypotheses that isn’t gonna get tested beyond the naturally evolving negative result.  If man stands in a bowl of goose feathers long enough, will man grow wings?  No.  Of course not, but you’re certainly welcome to try for as long as you care to try before accepting your no.

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