Fluffy Thoughts on Writing and Living

The savory and the sweet. Let me talk about that for a bit. These two things are not all there is to me, but they are probably the best way I summerize how I can get by with the world. The sweet is all robins egg blue, end-of-summer memories, clear, clean ozone-laden smells, a resonant tone throughout all of me, a me that I like, a me that I'd like to stay for at least a while, a me that's happy. It's the me I want to give to others; it's not a selfish happiness. It's a me that's both gracious and gentle, sympathetic and empathetic. Of course, since it's a me that wants to be happy all the time, it's a me that's a liar. That's where the savory comes in, all the sugar crystals get dissolved by the various acids of the savory. The savory is where all the tools dwell, the sharp, the quick, the vitriolic, the bilious. It destroys because it must destroy, it must get better and better at destroying. It doesn't want things to be destroyed though; it wants what is true. Destroying is a mere prelude to creating, but a necessary prelude. The dross of what was there before would keep you from seeing, from growing, from pushing yourself into your discomfort zone; that's why all the venom.

Both the sweet and the savory fall into their own egomanical self-delusions; that's why they need each other, just to bring each other back to earth. They're the squabbling couple in the next room, whom you only hear when you press your ear to the door. You're sucked in like an old gossip, you can't not listen, it's too juicy. But what are they saying to each other? Why is it so loud sometimes, so quiet others? Why can you hear how they say things even if you don't know what they're saying, and why do you impart meaning to that how?

That's the function I provide, I think, when I write. It's my ear to the wall, fingertips delicately balanced there, embarrassed at my self-discovery if the sweet and the savory were to burst through the door, where I could see them, even though you'd think you could then talk to them directly, it just never seems to work out that way...

Too much sweet and I can't be honest with you reader. Too much savory and I can't write at all, and can barely live. With proper cooking techniques, the pages will emerge.