Here I Go

Writing a blog post from scratch - not copied or pasted from an email or a scratch elsewhere - is new to me tonight.
I have been practicing stream of conscious writing. Doing it. Repeatedly.
Gobble cuisine to fullest extension of my nervous innard walking style. Did y'all grapple with the gimping gourd of crumpled tether ball beef wellington. If food news is new, I'll know it and then some. To boot your father incredible backwards typing I'll dream you one more sigh up and don't come back before it's more than alright and more than airtight to be you. Call! And finalize the motion. Jennifer deserves a break for once with her terra cotta infirmities to please the almost noxious waves of plaid verbage that racked her apple pie mocha latte glass to shingling dynasties or dinosaurs of inner wreckage to please and to beckon me. Indefinitely.

I have this theory. That to continue to do this will strain my writing to a fine pulp of beautiful condensation. Distillation. Reduced. Reused. Mounted on a chalky platter sky high and wishbone dancing crooked happiness walking. Loveliness drinking to all that want their there...

3 Food-imonies

I think about these stories often (and they are probably warped and folkloricly large from years of steeping in my mind not being told): An Apple Pie Story, A Brownie Story, and...there's a third...

First, The Apple Pie Story

Picture a thirty-ish year old mother of three, of supple strength and brown shoulder-length hair, and anxious over list-loads of plans, tasks, and ornate self-imposed expectations always. Three children. It is snowing outside hard.
It originated in her mind to make a pie. Two even. This is strange.
That second pie should go to ____, who we don't know so well, who lives behind our house. But, these wintry Salt Lake City blocks are big.
She bundles up her three not-so-bundly children, baby remains in one hand, pie in the other, and then she - in lieu of trekking with handcart and crew around the block, hoists herself, baby, and pie over tall white fence and lands at the back door of said neighbor-stranger woman pie recipient.
Answering the back door, ____ gives a strange face to thirty-ish year old mother with baby and pie at back door, but quickly gets over it in Mormon neighborly fashion. Mom-supple-strength says "I felt like I should bring you a pie." The pie is hot and _____ woman takes it quietly grateful and calmly quiet.
3 days.
"Julie, did you know that I had a miscarriage the morning that you brought that pie over?"
"No-"
"I had prayed for comfort from the Lord."

2nd story:

AND ONCE, my mom felt impressed to bring brownies to a sister in the branch. Not there, mom put the circle paper plate of brownies into the square mailbox. Sister X was in diabetic shock in the upstairs hallway inside above, groping down the stairs bannister holding, she felt God say "Go to the mailbox!" And stumbling reaching into the mailbox felt squishy soft brownieness to which she sucked inhaled sugary body freedom.

What is that third story? I think it has to do with pineapple. Pretty sure am I.

In response to http://www.deseretnews.com/article/1,5143,705260374,00.html we must acknowledge the weighty beautiful abstraction that is language. Like bombs, profanity can abstractly do real damage. Vague cloak-like bombs intended to suffocate, pummel, and damage, stunt, and whack, and murder: I believe language to be as powerful as the intention behind it. And this is not an individual arena. We agree that swear words are these wounding things. And that is enough for now.
Oh, the wonderful work that is word definition! To assign and attribute life, experience, and transcendent color to a word is to bless it as a little tool. The holy rite of word assignation sweeps blankets across the sky in which we recognize constellations. Together we shoot darts and pluck the same flowers orderly in one universe. I climb through your ear canal to know you and the wallpaper that you lick (anybody read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?)