I’m trying to bite through a tiny chunk of garlic, using only my front teeth, and becoming aware of two things: the futility of it, being so ridiculous and difficult, and two, that it is very pleasurable.
Sitting out on the porch finishing my grain bread toast with butter garlic avocado tomato pepper and salt, and the second piece with butter garlic peanut butter with chia, plus tomato pepper and salt, and my mug of Bushells’ tea, I am also conscious that telling the details is more satisfying that simply saying “breakfast”.
My wife has earlier come out here and quenched the thirst of the potted garlic plants with a mixture of water and her urine. My tinnitus is sizzling along the array of electric wires in front of me – I counted 26 of them, and I may have missed one or two. Every day now is a Gregory Day, since I read Archipelago of Souls with my toast. I am infused with Mr Day’s love of words, and before long, long to write, allowing the words to appear just as the sensations of sight and hearing do. (Delivery truck rattles by.)
Already the Day is warm and I live in three places, Nelson Mountain, Crete, and King Island; although you may say: two of those are made up, only one is real, but they are all in the mind.
One mind. One moment. A Singularity.