For the life of me, I can't recall where or when I found the pot, but I'm certain a cosseting dealer at some hodgepodge stand in Manhattan or L.A. must have told me it was an object effort to get U.S. support for England as it was attacked by Germany. Five inches tall and made in Staffordshire, like thousands of others, it was daubed with childish flowers by women in city factories. The teapot, as teapots go, is hideous, but I counted out my money and carried it home. I'm listening to Morrissey as I write. His voice is in Manchester, an … [Read more...]
Archives for April 2020
Juice, Tomato
Of course, I had to grow, pluck my own and juice them. I even bit one on the vine like an animal -- I am an animal -- and sucked and chewed, thinking of another writer who acted on the same impulse before I was born, though with a different lure. Perhaps MFK Fisher transmitted that to me, a gastronomic Tesla. As I get older, and maybe as others do, I tend toward something I will call "jeweling" my past, surrounding habitual memories with Wordsworth halos. This happens more often now, under pressure to consider the present a permanent past. … [Read more...]