Salt and spice

I had a specific issue ever since a very early age: I’ve always hated what I already know. What has been consumed, digested and absorbed by my mind, holds no interest for me. So I ran out of anything interesting around the age of 5, I stopped looking for more around 8 and ever since I have been as miserable as it gets. And now, only to deepen my misery, I can not find the forsaken salt. 

Unfortunately the universe has failed me and I did not die at the age of 10. Mama raised, in fact, quite a quitter, so I never tried to free myself again. I don’t believe in doing anything twice, trying to die included. I have, after all, some style. Thus ever since, I have to suffer the burden of keeping myself alive. With that connects another abhorrent notion: I have to sustain my biological side. I have to be fed, bathed and sleep in regular intermediates. So now, in consequence of everything that unfortunately happened or didn’t happen in the past, I have to prepare some bread for myself. 

It is really a terrible process. Painfully dull repetition of what has been done in the past over and over again. That’s what life and cooking really is, the constant over and over again. Whether I add raisins or chili to my bread, the ultimate “breadniness” of the bread remains intact. And I have to walk through it each and every time. 

I do whatever 'has to be done'—walk from point A to point B, talk about A or B, or, in this case, make bread. All while disappearing as a person. I go through those frustrating actions, suffering like young Jesus, but I’m simply not there. It took years to master, to turn my awareness away from my physical sense. Really, I’m nothing if not a modern meditation guru. I can repeat some action for quadrillion times, but my mind will be exploring an entirely new world. What that world is I can not explain, but my leading theory is that it is a “no-place”, certain “nowhere to be found”, a kind of limbo. While I do something destroyingly known and repetitive, I just vegetate in my fluid limbo.

That barely existence of mine works just fine, as long as there are no problems. Problems is really a big word for things so maddeningly small and stupid. Sometimes something just appears on my way, standing there thoughtlessly and yet so frustratingly. This barely there element of surprise pulls me out of my limbo and makes me want to gauge my eyes off. Because that element of surprise destroys my delicate veil of protection from the outside world and makes me solve the smallest of issues. So now, I’m stuck in the kitchen forced to exist and provide for my biological needs looking for the condemned by God and Satan salt (and some spice).

I contemplate my blind rage for a moment, before dropping everything and going in search of those devil-sent spices.

It’s a sunny Sunday afternoon, so as I go on my spice searching quest, I pass many happy (or not so happy) couples and groups of friends. Quite unnecessary if you ask me, I’ve always considered relations nothing but the sureness of repetition. And why add to my misery? I already know what I would be getting from someone, and honey, I’m unfortunately getting it every day from the world.

The forces of unknown decided to throw another avalanche on me, through decidedly hiding the location of salts and spices. My blind rage was rising again to the top. The second time a day, with the same repetition as previously? Oh, hell and heaven must really hate me today.

“I’m just looking for spice, I’m looking for salt, I’m looking for some forsaken taste!” I was murmuring aggressively to myself making my way through an excessively copious selection of produce. Brutally forced again out of my limbo hiding I was suffering greatly, until I heard a very light singing voice coming from the other alley. 

“Just call me angel, of the morning angel…”

Well, despite modern day sanctification of consumerism, the shop was, in reality, no temple. Confused, I approached the source of the song. 

The source of the sounds turned out to be a gray-blonde man, carefully considering selection of foreign confectionaries. Seemingly unaware of my presence he continued with the lyrics:

“Just call me angel, of the morning angel…just kiss my cheek when you leave me, babe…”

The sound I was hearing was not only off-key, but also off the musical scale entirely. Quite horrendous, but the man’s total lack of concern was somehow surprising. He really was standing in the middle of an alley, in front of a painfully colorful selection, completely focused on something he was holding and humming to himself. I suddenly became glad. That unnecessary apparition heavily struck me with its allure. Finally some novelty in an eventless world. Genuinely, the last time I was really excited about something was when I was having a near death car experience. Loved that one, but obviously the quitter that I’m, I can’t try again. My lifestyle is really about consistency, when you think about it. 

And thus my suddenly awoken interest decidedly surprised me. Before I had the time to consider it further, the man’s head stuck up.

His misleadingly gray eyes struck me with intensity unproportional to the color he seemed to suddenly bring into my life. Acting on an uncharacteristic for me whim, I asked:

“Where can I find some spices and salt?”

His strangely knowing gaze warmed up with a smile.

“I wouldn’t know you see. Usually when I come here I just visit this alley. I like the colors here” he pointed at the shelf with the brush he was holding. 

That’s when I realized that he was not just standing in front of the colorful products, but he was also painting them on a small cardboard canvas. It was really minuscule, like a matchbox really, but even in that scale I could see decided brushes and prominent colors. 

Apparently noticing my confusion he shook his head and smiled even wider, showing some pretty teeth. 

“Yeah it might seem a bit unorthodox, painting in the grocery shop. But I like noticing beauty in small things. I like to appreciate what’s given.”

“So you like to confine an already small world into an even smaller prison?” I responed provocatively, pointing at his matchbox “Isn’t that a bit cruel?”

That gained me another smile.

“Heh, that’s one way of looking at it.” he shook his head “But for me it’s more about rediscovering. I like to see all of the faces of what I already know. And what’s better for that than commercial commodities?” the feux Andy Warhol looked very happy with himself.

And yeah, it’s not like I haven’t thought of this before. I’ve been there, done that, trying to take those small things with all of my appreciation. But I never could really avoid the feeling of lying to myself. I already know those small things more than perfectly well and I profusely don’t care about them. I already perceived and understood them. I don’t want to change my prescription about them, I want them to be different. Reinventing things you know already, seeing some additional value in them never feels really honest. Honestly, how can you reinvent the wheel with any dignity? 

But looking at the man in front of me, I felt, like for the first time in my life, I met someone who would be actually excited to reinvent the wheel. I looked for him a bit longer, prolonging the silence, while he had already gotten back to his painting.

Right now, at this very moment I could reach out for him. I could inquire further, I could get to know him. I could talk to him, hoping that his newness wouldn't get out burned like it usually does. I could hope that this, one and only time, the freshness would last for longer. That it would leave a lasting imprint on me, that I myself would become fresh and new, reborn from the dead repeatability of the known. I just could do that. 

“Yeah, sorry for the interruption, I’ll be on my way” I said “I have to find some salt and spices”

I might be myself, but I’m not blind. He might have been my salt and spices. He might have been the one to redefine “breadnines” of bread, to invent the wheel anew. And yet I walked away. Walking away I knew that the blandness I so despise, might have got the better of me. Perhaps I’m not who I thought I was.

For some of us finding is an impossibility and the only thing we are left with is searching. Maybe I’m just condemned to search indefinitely for some salt and spice. Because deep down, I am still who I always had been - resigned to the search, but never willing to grasp what I found.

As I left the aisle, his voice floated after me, soft and unbothered.

“Just call me angel, of the morning, angel…”