The room has been forbidden. You have been told only bad people, strange people, naughty people go there. You don't want to be like that. You want to be good. You crave righteousness and the approval of your elders. You sit down every night and eat your porridge. It is good, comforting. The heat warms you and the oaty gelatinous consistency fills your belly gently. The meal comforts you the way an old man is comforted by the predictable rock of his afternoon chair. But you are not an old man in your heart. Your favorite part of the meal is not the substance, but the sprinkle of cinnamon that dusts the lumpy dish. A hint of the exotic. Warming and aromatic, adding that splash of color atop the richness of cloud-sky grey. And you long for more.
Your curiosity grows. The banquet awaits. You hear people laughing, crying, the sound of delicate glass repeatedly kissing itself. You press your cheek against that prohibited door. The sound is interesting, but it is the smell that calls to you. Having just finished your meal, you are not physically hungry, but the pull of decadence is strong and the aromas are so attractive. You know not how to distinguish among them, nor which heady scent belongs to what, but the bouquet seduces you anyway. It has a depth like the color of blood - or the rich brown of fertile soil. The perfume moves up your body, evoking images of the evening ocean spreading itself across the beach. You smell animals - the heady funk of a feral goat and the sweet musk of the hare. Whiffs reminiscent of spring flowers and cedarwood and the green moss that celebrates after autumn rain arise and fall in the complicated mixture. You can bear the mystery no more. You defy the moral code and the piety of tradition. With a thunderous kick, impelled by carnal desire, you break down the door.
Your eyes adjust to the candlelight. Wrapped in that delightful odor, you drink of the spectacle. A runner of silk, cream in color, spreads across the great, mahogany table. Festooned and besprinkled with flecks of gold, the beautiful fabric underlies hundreds of ornate platters, each offering a different arrangement of sultry meats, fresh fish, harlequin vegetables, and steaming grains of various colors and shapes. You see voluptuous fruits with arcs like the crescent moon, sliced and bleeding their juices in playful droplets. A motly collection of polychromatic sauces, some still bubbling, begs the dip of a rebellious finger. There is an array of candies, pristine and sparkling in sugary patinas. Frosted cakes sit plump and inviting - like grandmother's breast, waiting to comfort the weary child with a sweet story.
You do not know what to do. The spread is overwhelming. The longer you gaze at it, the more beautiful and seemingly untouchable it becomes. You want it more now and understand why it is forbidden. There is a part of you that pulls away. That urges to turn and run through the heavy door back to the safety of principles and porridge. Faced with this freedom, you realize you may not want so much choice. Perhaps it is better to remain with the simplicity of grey. Yet you know the cinnamon will always taunt you. But now, here, what to choose? How should you know what you want? And if you do not like what you choose? Where to begin?
It is one thing to break down the door into the secret room. It requires another kind of courage to taste the food. With food, however, this is not always such an existential crisis. With sex, for many, it can be. With life, for most, it is. There is so much out there and if we let ourselves see it all at once, recognizing that it is available to us, who wouldn't feel momentarily burdened with the weight of that freedom? I had a professor who referred to this as ontological insecurity. When faced with the reality that we can have anything we want, we would rather not take responsibility for our choices and have the institutions (and their respective dogmas), articulate life for us.
There are parallels between the ways in which we experience food and sex. Both exist across cultures, both are often riddled with guilt, and both offer powerful experiences of sensuality in our bodies.
Your curiosity grows. The banquet awaits. You hear people laughing, crying, the sound of delicate glass repeatedly kissing itself. You press your cheek against that prohibited door. The sound is interesting, but it is the smell that calls to you. Having just finished your meal, you are not physically hungry, but the pull of decadence is strong and the aromas are so attractive. You know not how to distinguish among them, nor which heady scent belongs to what, but the bouquet seduces you anyway. It has a depth like the color of blood - or the rich brown of fertile soil. The perfume moves up your body, evoking images of the evening ocean spreading itself across the beach. You smell animals - the heady funk of a feral goat and the sweet musk of the hare. Whiffs reminiscent of spring flowers and cedarwood and the green moss that celebrates after autumn rain arise and fall in the complicated mixture. You can bear the mystery no more. You defy the moral code and the piety of tradition. With a thunderous kick, impelled by carnal desire, you break down the door.
Your eyes adjust to the candlelight. Wrapped in that delightful odor, you drink of the spectacle. A runner of silk, cream in color, spreads across the great, mahogany table. Festooned and besprinkled with flecks of gold, the beautiful fabric underlies hundreds of ornate platters, each offering a different arrangement of sultry meats, fresh fish, harlequin vegetables, and steaming grains of various colors and shapes. You see voluptuous fruits with arcs like the crescent moon, sliced and bleeding their juices in playful droplets. A motly collection of polychromatic sauces, some still bubbling, begs the dip of a rebellious finger. There is an array of candies, pristine and sparkling in sugary patinas. Frosted cakes sit plump and inviting - like grandmother's breast, waiting to comfort the weary child with a sweet story.
You do not know what to do. The spread is overwhelming. The longer you gaze at it, the more beautiful and seemingly untouchable it becomes. You want it more now and understand why it is forbidden. There is a part of you that pulls away. That urges to turn and run through the heavy door back to the safety of principles and porridge. Faced with this freedom, you realize you may not want so much choice. Perhaps it is better to remain with the simplicity of grey. Yet you know the cinnamon will always taunt you. But now, here, what to choose? How should you know what you want? And if you do not like what you choose? Where to begin?
It is one thing to break down the door into the secret room. It requires another kind of courage to taste the food. With food, however, this is not always such an existential crisis. With sex, for many, it can be. With life, for most, it is. There is so much out there and if we let ourselves see it all at once, recognizing that it is available to us, who wouldn't feel momentarily burdened with the weight of that freedom? I had a professor who referred to this as ontological insecurity. When faced with the reality that we can have anything we want, we would rather not take responsibility for our choices and have the institutions (and their respective dogmas), articulate life for us.
There are parallels between the ways in which we experience food and sex. Both exist across cultures, both are often riddled with guilt, and both offer powerful experiences of sensuality in our bodies.
Kat I liked this very much. Your descriptions are superlative. Seriously. Where are you frolicking right now? Hope your adventures are sour with surprises, tantalizing in their astonishment, yet fulfilling as today is sweet like breast milk in the wind...... ta ta Barry
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