Leftovers, 1/2/2025

 

If you were wondering, the borscht is just as good on day 2, if not better, and Elizabeth is mesmerized by the color, you know, the beads of orange oil, the way it turns pink when you add sour cream, the little bastion of white inside a bitten potato. She’s right, it really is very glorious in a silly, simple way, like Sir Duke by Stevie Wonder or teenagers laughing loudly in a public place. I have some excellent news which is that I finally get Ethel Cain, and she is just as good as all the trans femmes promised. So the lesson is that I should really quit being so stubborn for no reason and give the music and books my friends recommend at least two honest shots, and not just the recommendations from the friends I might be a little in love with. It’s one of the kindest things you can do, I think, and one of the best ways to really, really see people, except maybe asking questions the way Jesus would, like How’d You Make This Beautiful Soup and Would You Add Cabbage Next Time? I’m not so good at ambling slowly, the world is too frenetic and strange for me to sip my coffee like a philosopher. Sometimes when I try for poetic observation I just end up rubbernecking, which feels no-good, plus I like being over-caffeinated, at least for a little while, and maybe I don’t want to go down easy or smooth, I’d rather make throats burn/cough/ache, but I doubt that’ll be true in a week’s time or even a couple days or maybe right now if I’m honest. I think I ought to be a disciple of something, make some vows, shave my head, but I couldn’t tell you more about it. Khushal would tell me to be more specific, but it’s the haziness that is evocative for me, like Silent Hill’s fog or blurry morning vision. Likewise, I keep having the same conversations over and over with my Dad, like how cold it probably is in South Dakota, how British television really is better, and how to tie a bowline knot. I couldn’t tell you what it means, or how all these things connect, but they do mean something, and move in and out each other with ease and without the usual nausea of free-association. Anyway, I’m getting sick of my own spit, and the feeling of the shoes on my feet, so I need to quit. Maybe tomorrow this stupid neck pain will fade, I won’t try to diagnose myself with anything anymore, and I’ll be gentle and slow and still.