Week #46: Faux pho
'I been warped by the rain, driven by the snow.
I’m drunk and dirty, but don’t ya know … I’m still, willin”
Everything about this is as true as I can make it, but it’s still false.
There are words on my screen, and soon hopefully, your screen. There are pictures. There is some conception of what pho is. There is a soup blog that was supposed to go for a certain length of time. Behind all of this, there is me. Or some version(s) of me. And there is you, in all of your various, glorious second-person versions. Soup has often been a part of it, but I think it’s fair to say that the potage does not give a shit. So, really, this is about me and you – remember?
So, here we are.
Waiting for my words.
Maybe you should give something back every once in a while. Eh?
But of course, these will remain my words here and now – my hesitant gifts to an uninterested world. Which means, they are probably really for me. A way to harness the voice in my head to better ends. To establish a tone, a paradigm, a way of being? More on that in the weeks to come.
I served this soup to a room full of mostly strangers, who all noticed it needed salt and politely added copious amounts. I’ve adjusted the recipe a bit, but always remember to taste your soup at the end, my friends, especially when busy and when you have a soup with a variety of components.
Anyway, after, I left my car at the party, and on my way home late at night, walked into a blizzard on the beach. An unbelieve assault of ice particles on the wind. Not hail, but like tiny flakes of broken glass (or sea salt!) peppering (!) me at up to 50 miles per hour. Although it was not terribly cold by many standards - 20 degrees F – 65 degree days are not uncommon right now, so my tolerance was low.
I staggered, sometimes I slowed to a stop. Everything my senses could process raged against me, and I felt like I was nothing – even though I stood there, a solid beast, on top of a hill, possibly freezing to death. I laughed at the thought of being found frozen on a beach in North Carolina along with some yowling foxes, and kept plodding. Certainly I might have had an accident and then who knows, so I imagined my fate like the icy Jack Nicholson’s mad man face at the end of the Shining.
I am a nothing that moves. And that mobility is a big tool in the Swiss army knife of life. I knew all I had to do was keeping moving, and I would get home. Didn’t matter how fast. Didn’t matter how straight the line was. Nobody was waiting. Nobody was worried. One foot, another.