musky

right now, I'm eating musk melon. It is, as Jerri Blank might say, dee-lish-us. I was planning on eating this melon before I checked my voicemail and listened to a 5 (or so-- coulda been longer) message from my former employer (or one of 'em), who was the big factor in my leaving that line cooking job. I'm not really sure what his message was about, other than a kind of groveling for me to come back, combined with a guilt tripping thing about how I left (I didn't feel compelled to explain myself to him, and opted to tell his business partner, instead), and this weird pseudo familiarity based on nothing (other than the fact that we spent a few days touching food together). To top it all off, he sounded a bit fucked up/drugged, which is was the reason behind my leaving that job. So I've been sitting here, feeling out of sorts, because this, like my time working with him, brings up all kinds of issues and pushes all those old buttons, which, like those wired to so many old doorbells, are tarnished and grimy, and not the kind of thing you want to look at for too long, much less touch.

I took a shower a half an hour ago, and I opted for this shower because I was worried that with a bath, I would find myself pulling a Madge ("you're soaking in it!"), and I don't want to pull a Madge even if she did have that cool green shirt. So. Even after my shower, I'm still trying to let go of the stickies, to look at the ways in which I still have this natural tendency to put someone else's (in this case a guy I worked for) needs ahead of my own. It's like one of those horror films, where you're trying to shut the door, and the tendrils keep poking through (or crawling under), and it just won't stop. But what I really want is the Get Smart! doors-- the ones that bang shut with such finality. And so I'm trying to muster all that heavy steel right this minute, despite the fact that I still have a paycheck due to me. You know what? I can chock up those 16 hours to experience. No problem. It's worth it to move on and never look back.

But this musk melon-- I'm eating it because I wanted it. I'm also eating it because it is not the pile of salt, grease, sugar, whatever! that I want to medicate with right this minute. And maybe that's how I made it through all that button making (promises, lies, promises broken) of my youth. When I revert, I want to revert all the way. If I'm replaying all that old triangulation (and this is, with my female acquaintance the other owner, a kind of triangle) of childhood crap, can't I have some Orowheat english muffins and Laura Scudder's Old Fashioned peanut butter to ease me through?

But maybe it's not about easing through. Maybe it's not about going (and growing) numb. Maybe it's about pulling a door shut with such force, such finality, that it shakes my very being. And that, my friend, requires musk melon. Cold, sweet, maybe even a bit too ripe, musk melon.