Daily Deviation
‘Beloved, gaze in thine own heart,
The holy tree is growing there;
From joy the holy branches start,
And all the trembling flowers they bear.’
Vale!
Where have I been? What have I done? I’ve had a turbulent, cathartic weekend. Solitude is one of those funny elements that makes you question your piece of the puzzle in the world’s canvas. Short and sweet I know, but kicking a stone across a thick tar road in rumination did not sound appealing.
How do I summarise?
- Organic wheaten flour, triple sifted white gold with yeast product and amylase met its partner, sweet rotten brown red mouldy egg tomato crushed and boiled and simmered with bruised chopped garlic, peeled rolled and flattened thyme, dessicated oregano, sea-swept salt and cracked nut pepper. Whew! My hands were thoroughly drenched in olive oil and succulent tomato fructose, seeping into the cracks of my palms.
- I met the band Creedence (Sweetwater Recycled) and came within inches of a $53,000 guitar used by The Beatles, The Rolling Stones and Nirvana. Nothing flash about it really, except that it makes an interesting wah-wah when vigorously plucked. What can I say, they (the band members) all needed a good grooming!
The above quote, if you’re wondering, is from a Yeats poem known as ‘The Two Trees’ - the meaning of it still escapes me; where on one hand it seems to talk about a divine unity between human flesh and earth-organic matter, it tends to deviate into subtle issues of sexuality and lustful desire for ‘the fruits yet to be ripened’
Jasmin and I had an absolutely wonderful experience in the city today. Or should I rephrase: we had a wonderful time in each others’ reflective company and felt more than a little impinged upon by the push and shove of city life. Let me describe it in a little more detail: from the rude tourists in The Rocks to highly impatient roadsters, torrential winds that bore down upon us a great burden, the masses of crowd in books Kinokuniya leaving us no room for analytic discussion and the sheer number of mindless passerbys that indirectly impinged upon us with bumps and gossip.
The highlight? La Renaissance Patisserie Francais in The Rocks. Jasmin and I, although greeted with a rather rude customer assistant, felt indulged by the triple-berry glazed tart and quietly sipped a Latte and a flat white. The plaster walls, creeped with lichen, were as inspiring in masonry as the cobbled courtyard we sat in; endlessly dreaming about each other and what profound secrets of a place and theme afar must rest beneath theat archaic architecture. Our photographs would more than suffice a riddle in time.
-Ave!
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