Friday, June 24, 2005

Three things.

Firstly: The BDP has had an area of tension over it today.

*DNA Pigeon is still DNA-ish. I have noted before that it takes a long time for a sploosh of Pigeon to become nothing. Hence Zombie Pigeons, perhaps?

*All three other Pigeons remain much as they were. Flattish sort-of-Pigeon-shaped lumps. Am wondering whether the fact that two are almost central in the road, and one is by the edge relates to this. Perhaps lighter traffic.

Secondly: I hate myself today. I know this isn't the place to talk about it (although maybe it is. This is like a diary, isn't it? God, I dunno). I'm not looking for affirmations. I just need to note it. Because I can then look at it objectively and ask myself why. Of course, the answer is always 'because you're hideous', but at least I can see that I wrote it down. And it helps. It does. It does it does it does it does. Please let it.

Thirdly: I love Poppy Z. Brite books for their use of... almost... taste. I adore books that describe food in a way that makes me want to cook something exotic.

From Drawing Blood:

"Then he was in the French Market, surrounded on all sides by delicious smells and harmonious colours and all the symmetry and bounty of the edible vegetable kingdom, heaped together in great glowing piles under one old stone roof.
There were pyramids of tomatoes so achingly scarlet that they hurt the eyes, bushel baskets of eggplants like burnished purple patent leather, the verdant green of bell peppers and the delicate, creamy green of the tender little squash called mirliton. There were onions as large as babies' heads, red and gold and pearly white. There were nuts and ripe bananas and cool frosted grapes, fresh herbs by the bunch, great thick braids of garlic and dried red tabasco peppers hanging from the rafters. There were stalks of fresh sugar cane, sold by the foot so you could gnaw and suck out the sweet juice as you walked through the market smelling and marvelling. There was home grown rice, and barrels full of shiny red beans to cook it with, and long links of smoky Cajun sausage to throw in for flavor. There was a fish market to the side where you could buy fresh crabs and crawdads and catfish, bright blue Gulf shrimp as long as your hand, even alligator if you liked"

In this way, I love this book in exactly the same way that I love 'A Year in Provence' and 'Toujours Provence' by Peter Mayle.


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