This morning I made a stir-fry with a quarter cup of olive oil, two sweet potatoes julienned, a quart of sliced mushrooms, one thinly sliced onion, a handful of parsley, and two cups of baby spinach.
And last night I drew a picture with a professional assortment of crayons, my moleskin journal everybody knows smart people like me use, a handful of emotions that must have been sent from the clouds, and a sprig of chaos reserved only for MFA poets that are too good for Academia.
Tonight, I think I’ll probably draw another one using more of the sacred crayons, another page from my journal, some different more mysterious emotions, we’ll see what I’m being summoned to,
but instead of chaos I think I’ll add some lust, pre-mushed and salted with some activated charcoal volcanic salt from Iceland my friend gave me.
I hope I’m not being too long-winded and redundant when I say right now, I’d like to spend a little time announcing that
its probable most of what I care about each day could be compared to not only making what’s alluded to up there in the all-important title,
but compared to preparing a concoction a shaman might prepare before asking you to drink up and let go and trust whatever happens to you, to just go with it, and know all will be well,
even if, like the soon to be expert on shapeshifting you’re soon to become, you have to first let your ego be pulled away from your body and then watch it be eaten by your idols.