Oh well, I guess I will be eating lentil soup for awhile. That is okay. Most things are by me these days of summer, these casually lived days, where I could just as easily do something as not do something and feel no difference either way. Today, I called and harrassed the temp agency about throwing some work my way. Then, rather than do something that would have made me seem productive, maybe even had made it seem that I was actively trying to find employment, I walked down to the park with a blanket, a big bottle of water, a book, and a magazine that was delivered to Hans Nelson who no longer resides in the house, which to Bonnie and me means his magazines are up for grabs even though we have recently learned that he does periodically come by to pick up his mail, and sunbathed and read, soaking up the comforting rays of a bright, July sun and also the almost equally comforting energetic sentences of Zadie Smith's White Teeth. There was a sentence that made me relate the book to my surroundings, to the nourishing sun, to my relationship with it: "[Samad] worries about whether Magid got enough direct sunlight. What was the country doing to his sons, he wanted to know, what was it doing?" (150). And, I looked at my skin, which is not nearly as dark as it normally is, and then I squinted and looked directly into the sun, which shrank my pupils to the tiniest of dots, making everything seem darker except the bright sun, making me feel good, making me feel drugged even, that aggreable heat stupor where everything seems Okay. Everything. The sun, my mother that I haven't called in too long, brought me to her breast anyways, always forgiving, absolving me, and let me suck her tit, fed me, let me feel the life force, and made me resolve to spend time in the sun everyday, to feel this thing more often.
I came home and dipped my hands into the soaking lentils to stir them, kept my hands submerged in the lentil water for far more than was neccesary to stir them, but for just the right amount of time to feel like a little kid, to be amazed by my sense of touch, by how squishy and wonderful my hands in lentils could feel. It kind of made me want to take a lentil bath, to be entirelly submerged in this pot of lentils, in the feeling of feeling something that feels strangely familiar but not knowing why squishiness triggers that sense in me, wondering why exactly it does, and then realizing why, again immersing my hands and my sense of wonder into the lentils, knowing that that is why, that I cannot even verbalize it to myself, let alone to you, that to do so would be silly and miss the point, that this is why, my hands right here in the lentils, no other reason.d