Humor keeps me alive. Humor and food. Don’t forget food –you can go a week without laughing. Food is one of the things I enjoy tremendously. After a good meal one can forgive anybody, even one’s own relations. But in this beautiful home of mine there is scarcely ever any evidence of food. It is positively appalling at times. My life, as this blog, is quite artificial. No need of trajectory, coherence or rigor to be lived. I go out for breakfast and lunch. I eat in the restaurant out of consideration for my family –it hurts to eat a big meal and have them watching me. And when I come back, picking my teeth and a little egg hanging from my goatee, I write.
That’s why (my plastic life) perhaps I’m blogging. I simply need being read –and not even that. It’s just being a writer is more difficult. That’s why so many people write blogs. Most of them claim to describe reality –whatever that could be, but in the background blogs are just the outfit in which someone dons for others to have a look. The reality is conveniently distorted. But it is reassuring to know that there are people willing to lie for entertaining, albeit in exchange for some elusive admiration.
Sometimes I’m trolling the blogosphere as you do by Siberia or Tierra del Fuego in Google Earth, knowing they are artifices. But then … then it made me sad when I caught myself pretending that everybody out there in cyberspace cared about what I thought, when really nobody gives a shit. And when I multiplied that sad feeling by all the millions of people in their lonely little rooms, flaming away like a blowtorch, writing and posting to their lonely little pages that nobody has time to read because they’re all so busy writing and posting, it kind of broke my heart. If you want to meet interesting people you would rather travel!
But, maybe, with a practice of writing comes a certain important integrity. A culture filled with bloggers may think differently about politics or public affairs, if only because more have been forced through the discipline of showing in writing why A leads to B.
But I’m digressing from the point: Lasagna.
Chloe is here today with a metaphor. She is, as a Volkswagen Bug, a tuned girl. My spoiled small daughter defines her as a female who fell out of the ugly tree at birth and hit every branch on the way down. A minger in laymen’s terms. My daughter is very beautiful, probably misses her mother, and has a point. But I console myself thinking like Sade (the Marquis), “Beauty belongs to the sphere of the simple.” Still, that’s not all. Chloe enthusiastically endorses the roll that today seems to cancel oneself behind hairstyles and accessories with more personality than most of its carriers. Incredibly, to boast being normal is nowadays an anti-system attitude … God, give us back the Rolling Stones and we handle you the Jonas Brothers!
Chloe got under my radar in a party. She was next to a sculptural black girl, full of some strange energy, from Ivory Coast. “I’m a little Bi,” she said, while I was calculating my chances with the African. Since the dawn of humanity, there is not a more effective phrase to attract the attention of a man. I read that 80 % of hetero men have fallen at least once in their life into this trap, to realize that the phrase lacks of practical sense, which does not mean we are not willing to continue trying, in case we hit the jackpot. The mechanics of the trap is the same as in the top scams, to take advantage of the bad faith of the prey to accomplish the swindle. Using this trick, they add to their beauty, at once, the one of the rest of the women in the world, who are the real target of the seduced man.
Ok, let’s be fair. Once, when drunk, she kissed the lips of a girlfriend, perhaps rubbed her tits a little, and now uses it as an excuse to blow out your imagination. Her bisexuality decreases by the day. But it is not much worse than when I commented her that “I never discussed exclusivity” –after I’ve slept with someone else.
Chloe is here today with a metaphor shaped as lasagna. A metaphor because our relationship is layered –not because I make love with her like I make lasagna: with extra meat. But her lasagna, unlike her, looked good. It was overstuffed. It had a pomposity, and an overreach. Its ambitions extended in the direction of not-missing-a-trick, it had a bursting omnipotence up its sleeve, or rather, under its dough. It was pretentious food.
While the bizarre ideas of quantum mechanics befuddled even Einstein, I seldom consider quantum theory when eating lasagna. But as a metaphor, the Many-Worlds Interpretation inspires my imagination, and with equal importance, keeps me open-minded for possibilities that my easily frightened ego may reject with knee-jerk conformity.
Digging with the fork through several layers of her lasagna sheets, alternated with sauces and various other ingredients, it came that reality is a curious lasagna. Lasagna is said to be a structurally and layered meal. Easy to read because the layered structure. However, because of unpredictable interdependencies in segments of dough, a lasagna-society may be difficult to modify without break it.
You live in a quiet layer of meat, sensing through the translucent sheets the ingredients that are hidden in the above and below floors. But if you cut the lasagna with the knife, the ingredients slide between levels, to discover that the neighboring homes are organized exactly like yours, with the same prejudices and values, and always focused on the neighboring level.
I was looking at a perfectly satisfied Chloe, as a flatulent frog, when I came to this lasagna theory: You can be normal and modern, as long as you do not leave your coat, of course. You can also be overtly normal and then be a hero and a stoic and a punk at all levels.
The devil frequently fills our thoughts with great schemes. In my case there’s a capacity for appetite… that a whole heaven and earth of lasagna can’t satisfy.
Maybe she shouldn’t waste her nice lasagna on me.
Lasagna and me – Dugutigui
In the “Diula” language in Mali, the term « dugutigui » (chief of the village), literally translated, means: «owner of the village»; «dugu» means village and «tigui», owner. Probably the term is the result of the contraction of «dugu kuntigui» (literally: chief of the village).