A Certain Type of Decisive

United States

Just your unfriendly neighborhood disaster, bringing you bi-weekly updates from the bottom of my own shoe!

Message to Readers

Dinosaur train was the only thing that prepared me for the harsh realities of the fast food industry.

Hogwash and Moonshine // Chapter 2

August 17, 2020


    Have you forgotten the shorb? I hope so. Today, the shorb is meaningless. If you have accidentally brought the shorb back into your mind, please dispose of it before beginning today's exercise. 
    Picture, in your mind, the process of cooking spaghetti. You may use your own pots, pans, and stove, but try not to picture yourself completing the steps by hand, just imagine them being done, as if by their own will. The water is so loud in its boiled state-- move quickly before it is evaporated away. The spaghetti is simple-- milled wheat and water-- it knows not, it feels not, and yet, it rises and sets. It enters the water like a timid child at their fist swimming lesson in a new state. Will they still do kick board races? Will they get a prize when they finally learn to float on their back? No. The pasta only sits in the water, changing states-- not unlike the child just did.
    You know that thing that grown-ups do where they throw spaghetti at a wall and if it sticks, that means it's done? Imagine that. The scent is sticky, there is a bounce in it, but not in a way that makes you recoil. It is just like it has always been. Ever memory you have ever had of spaghetti was just like this, but different. Imagine how the pasta clings to the wall, not in desperation, but in confusion. Only moments ago, it was boiling, surround by pockets of fast moving water vapor, a senseless turmoil in an endless chase to nowhere. Spaghetti fears nothing, but that does not mean when it is given the chance to breathe, that it does not take pause to try to make sense of the nothingness. The spaghetti is done cooking.
    Imagine the pasta, poured out of the pot. The is a sink below and, in between, a strainer. Imagine the clock on your stove-- the numbers have not changed. Imagine the pasta, suspended in the air. It is falling as one, but also, as individuals. Spaghetti fears nothing, but imagine you were falling with them. It is a motionless decent. You understand falling and that falling must be happening, and yet, it is not. Imagine your wait-- it's long time. You are certain that hours have passed and you know the pasta is still suspended in the air. You have not moved a millimetre. 
    You don't have to imagine for very long, but imagine if you did. It is a recursive thing, but it's within you. You have been falling with the spaghetti for days, weeks, months, years-- you have gone insane. You wish for the end, but there is nothing. You have named every strand, counted them. You do not need to imagine all the names, but imagine that you has imagined they had named themselves-- it is less of a recursive thing. You have tied them together and one end, pushing them closer until they fused into a single knot. On one end, they are separate, free-- they have the guise of independence and freedom, but on the other, they are the same being.  Spaghetti does not fear, but I don't believe this is spaghetti anymore.
    Though you have imagined imagining these things, you have not truly imagined them, so you can simply push the clock forward. Imagine the spaghetti falling, gracefully, yet unsatisfying towards the strainer. Be glad that you did not actually spend years imagining this spaghetti. 
    Picture each strand sliding perfectly through the holes in the colander. They slide-- like children on real life slides; or perhaps those folks on that one game show where they had to match the silhouette in the wall or get knocked into the slime pit. They are graceful-- but they will not escape. The spaghetti knot, the spagot, if you will, is their anchor. It keeps them from the drain, despite every effort. 
    Imagine the strainer was also made of boiled flour and water. The spagot, with all it's fear and intent to grow would attach itself to the colander, forming a copagot. The long strands hang free-- sticky, but free. They still long for the bottom of the kitchen sink, but imagine them away from the sink. Place the copagot in an empty space, free of connotation and cross contamination. Let it sit for a couple minutes.
    While you wait, try to imagine some hands. Two or three-- even four if that's where you're comfortable imagining. Remember, they don't have to be your hands, but they do need to be able to grip things. An easy way to do this is with joints! No, not the weed kind, silly! The kind in hands, and feet, and arms, and brains, and snails, and hands! And spaghetti! Imagine the hands in a medium detail, somewhere between abstract and photo-realism.

    Now try to picture some of the hands picking up the copagot, handling it gently. It isn't delicate, but it isn't a wonderful texture. After sitting, it has lost some stickiness and parts have a skin of chalkiness. You will need to act quickly so they don't calcify anymore.
    Imagine the hands grabbing at old paintbrushes. They are plastic and brittle, dipped in watery green paint. You haven't used this art set since you were a child, the scent is chemically intoxicating-- and by intoxicating, I mean completely non-toxic. It says so right on the label. The hands are trying to spread the paint over the copagot, but it's a fools errand. The paint is so thin and the copagot's absorbing so much. The hands are getting frustrated. Imagine how they abandon the brushes, opting instead to grab chunks of paint and manually cover the copagot. They start pouring the bottle, but there is no end in sight. The copagot stays a light, yellow-ish green and the bottle remains three-quarters filled. Leave the copagot to dry

    Imagine a field of grass-- flat and empty. There is nothing but pasture and sky and you are unsure why it unsettles you. There are no birds or bugs. It reminds you of a video game, or perhaps a computer background. This is not a real place that you are imagining, and yet it seems familiar. The hands place the poorly painted copagot on the ground. It's covered in fingerprints and smudges. It doesn't look like grass. Imagine how much the green copagot doesn't look like grass in this endless world of grass. 

    Why would you ever want it to look like grass?

   I'm your host, Charlie Chopping Board, and this has been Hogwash and Moonshine, tune in next time for another guided thought experience. Maybe it'll be deep, maybe it'll just be weird! I sure don't know.


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  • August 17, 2020 - 3:55pm (Now Viewing)

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