slow-cooked pork

I will roast a pork today.
There is no reason or occasion, just a desire to eat slow-cooked pork at the end of the day. I woke up this morning vaguely aware of a hunger
I will take the pork out of it’s waxy twined casket and rub a crust of velvety sage and astringent pepper over it, nudging them into the hard to reach places.
I will tuck a napkin under my shirt at my left breast and sit on the floor in front of the oven until it is done.
I will gently, but firmly press it twice from the outside to ensure it won’t fall.
While I wait, I will feel my cheeks redden and the little hairs around my face and at the nape of my neck dampen and curl from the heat of the oven.
I will take big slow gulps of ice water from a tall glass.
Here’s what they don’t tell you at the movies. Sometimes, nothing happens.
A glass of water sits on the counter undisturbed, or a pork sits in the oven, slowly transforming to something sweet, dead, and moist.
When the pork is done, I will slide it out of the oven, let it rest, juices redistributing, a karmic transfusion.
And then I will gently force the rested meat apart with my hands and lick each finger tenderly after.
Until now, I’ve been accustomed to fashioning a narrative out of my life, lifting each day the tables of absurdity to fashion welding and girdles on them.
I taste my fingers slowly, feel the heat condense on myself and trickle.
Sometimes, you sit and nothing happensand you  can’t find yourself under the tables.

This is unsettling because the movies told me everything had meaning,
there is no such thing as nothing happening.
The first monk was a response to narrative, the one who climbed that great slope with ardor and said,
I can’t do this
I can’t pretend it is all linear
I feel the pressure to not do anything and to not make anything.
How revolutionary, to not do or make anything, to leave the water undisturbed, to let the raw footage unfold in great swathes on the floor,
all of our lives a giant cutting room floor, unedited, unfinished, unwatched

 

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