Like water, words are a wonderful conductor of energy.
i always find pleasure in bringing words together, as if i am out there scouting for all that is edible in different colors, textures, smell and tastes. all the elements in unison to celebrate meeting of hearts.
like cooking, writing for me is a ritual. it will start with invoking the void above among our constellations, that perhaps as it clash and collide a new world will take place. that for a moment i am caught in the dizzying rhythm of giving birth to new flavors, the ecstasy of having an emotion incomparable to other emotions, it is a warmth that grows inside us, something that we have long forgotten until an explosion occurs and rekindle the burning to cook and to write faintly about how we were being alone and the joys of living in the corners of forgetfulness. that for an instant, in sudden, in swift gestures of our hands, we met.
go to the market
as if you are going out to war
silent alert and deadly
chose which stalls sells the best garlic
mark them like how you marked enemy camps
eye those who are clinging
together think of them as cowards
who’ll fell apart without the others
think how you will
attack them how your knife will cut
through with precision separating them
then think again of those individual
garlic as the heart of your lovers
that you can peel, crush, and mince.
a couple of months ago, i wrote a lengthy letter, construction took almost a month, for a time, it almost became a metallic element, that will crowd a ring finger. it metamorphosed back and settled in the lines of my paper, whew! well, who among us still resort to writing everything on a piece of paper, on a 10 page paper that is.
the night before i completed my letters, i went beside a river, and howl under the incomplete moon above me, i stared in disbelief at myself on a broken mirror lying among the stones where the river once was. the dirt on my face glitters as if they are falling stars refusing to reclaim its place in the heavens. near my pouting lips are manuscripts, little fables, stories that rivers from my mouth.
that night i didn’t think of armani, and other names of designer gigolos, i didn’t wear them, as i don’t have them. you only have my honest essentials to the skin.
without my rituals, the intricacies of my crazines, i’ll be left with nothing, i’ll be cliche. if i will take back those letters i wrote, i wil ask my lawyer and send a demand letter. this time without a ritual.
this is how you’ll do it.
Prepare garlic and onion, chop cooked prawns with shells intact, use prawn stock to cook ground meat.
prepare yourself, chop your inhibitions with shame intact, use your sweat to cook your grounded ego.
let my tongue weave stories more vivid than your imagining.