‘Bought some mini eggs, Mum. Bad luck.’
I copied some more poems from my journal onto the computer last night, while we listened to the Off-Menu episode with Richard Ayoade. I like the results of rewriting a line distorted, as if it was misheard from another room. New meaning can emerge. It’s a bit like a DIY neural network. Haha it’s actually the OG neural network.
For a long time I harboured a small annoyance at people keeping an online recipe database on their site, or in their blog. It felt a bit like people who will recite an entire recipe they made with ten minute monologue where every sentence starts with ‘just’. Recently I have changed - I recognised the otherness in myself and myself in everyone else. I love food. I get a lot of joy out of making it and enjoying it. I am proud of what I make. If I posted recipes online, I would not care who would read them. It’s a sign of pride, more than that, of affection. I’m still not going to do it myself, for the most part, but I appreciate why people do now, and in certain circumstances I really enjoy it. A recipe as a poem.
I’ve had a sore stomach for a dew days, and last night I tweaked a muscle in my back. It was a sore night, and sleep was fitful. The wind blew - at midnight I went outside to make sure there was nothing to blow away. Everything washed out in moonlight. Bolting spinach menacing in the garden.