Rumblings on the Brain

I eat too much at my desk. No. I eat too often at my desk. The child-like meals of a man staring down thirty in a job that he loves/hates in a normal sort of way. That photo there was taken Wednesday and I couldn't not take it. There was just something... funny about it. But then I have been working like 10-12 hours a day and running on little to no sleep (and yes, that part is completely MY fault), so I'm just the TINIEST bit slap-happy.

Have you ever had a cookie that you would describe as sensual? Yes. Sensual. I have. I know, a cookie, right. Well, it's not just a cookie. Not some milk-dippin' crumblin' little piece of frak. No. It's a macaron and it's from this amazing little bakery in German Village. And I swear, if any desert was ever going to give me a hard-on, it would be this one.

I'll forgive you if you laughed at that. It's amusing. And no, before you hide the Chips Ahoy, I do not have a cookie fetish. It's just... you know how some things draw certain memories to the forefront. Certain images and scents and sounds that dance from the recesses of your memory, caught up in a wave of emotion? Well, this little pastry does just that.

First, it melts. It's looks tough and hard to get through, but once it touches your lips, it melts. And there's the sweet burst of raspberry, which makes you smile. And you savor it because it needs to be. Soon the burst of flavor that gripped you fades... only to be replaced with something more intoxicating. The silky, delicious taste of a rose. It tastes like a rose petal. It fills you with its aroma and flavor. And then it's gone and you hold onto that in your mind and lock down the memory. And to me its sensual.

What? (He says with the devil's grin)

There's an empty Coke can on my desk today. Shame. Utter shame. My horrid attempts to "eat better" and "cut out caffeine" have been met with mockery. Self mockery. That little devil on my shoulder who hog-tied the angel and left him squirming—left me to watch him squirm as I reach for another Coke, another snack, as I drive home and ignore the gym—the devil laughs and the angel curses.

I need to take a walk.

Need to get away from my desk for two frakkin' minutes and stretch and get outside and enjoy just two minutes of the day before it's gone and I'm rushing off to another something or other.



I don't take a walk. I sit at my desk and do my job for a bit. Searching out stock imagery online. Like sifting through fleas on a farm cat. Instead I think back to the weekend past and apple picking with family. And I came upon a tree that seemed out of season with its brothers and sisters. All spindly and dry... dead to a world still thriving. And it was beautiful. The picture above doesn't do it justice. It recalled tales from my youth and a story about a magician's nephew and a tree that would become a wardrobe that would fill my imagination with such wonders.

I knew since I was eight years old that I would be a writer. I knew it. I remember the rush I got from listening to my teacher read us The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. And running home, begging my mom to take me to the store to buy the book because I couldn't not and would not wait until Monday to find out the fate of Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy. And I felt like I'd made some discovery akin to bottling lightning. That we could put our imaginations onto paper. And the magic would follow.

I was driving to work the other day and a report came on that claimed that each time a memory forms, it it assigned to a neuron. And when that memory is recalled, that same neuron fires again. And that it does seconds before you are conscious of the memory.

It's funny how some things set off certain neurons and synapses in the brain. The butterfly effect on our subconscious. The taste of a macaron that reminds you of a woman. The image of a tree that reminds why you create. That scent in the air that only October in the midwest can carry, that smell of summer's end and a season of football and bonfires. The sound of a tune that returns you to your adolescence, to the night you stole your first kiss and realized that puppy love was for boys and you now longed to be a man. The feeling of fresh cut grass between your toes and sensation of running across a park, collapsing onto your back and watching the sky explode above you on a hot Fourth of July.

That's enough rumbling for now. Time to run. Another weekend has crept up on me... hell, it came at me full speed. And I aim to slow it down, dance with it a little if I have to, and see if I can't do something worth remembering.