Moab, Utah
6 August 2001
The chicken ceasar salad still sits on my table, only half-done after 20 minutes. I feel like a cow chewing its cud. My first meal after fasting for three days.
I decided to chew real slow, savoring each nuance of flavor and each subtle change in texture of my food. I feel like the kid whose mom tells him to chew 100 times before swallowing. Mastication seems close to masturbation.
My tongue must be forced to push the sludge back to my teeth and cheeks, away from the ravenous esophogus, always trying to suck the food away. Not swallowing takes practice, like at the dentist.
Chewing and working takes focus. Resistance to our ingrained chew -swallow - next bite takes discipline.
My meals in NY resemble a meat processing plant, with its never-ending chain of animals humming along. Knife, fork, spoon, chopsticks dance at our plates. Sea bass, lentils, and garlic mashed potatoes disappear in moments.
We rush our meals.
Actually, we rush everything. I rushed to finish my 18-holes of golf today, although alone with no-one behind me. People blaze past me on the highways at 80 MPH. I drum my fingers while pages load on a T1 line, frantically alt-tabbing thru three pages of netscape to see what loads first.
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My friend's t-shirt bears the zietgiest of our times: "Instant Gratification is not Fast Enough." We try to squeeze in events between the ticks of the clock, always fighting time, our most precious commodity. Too bad we cannot buy some at the CBOT. I do not know why I feel rushed most of the time; even though my life has no concrete goals for the next two years. Maybe an answer will make itself known. But, now I have to run, my Palm is chirping, my cellphone ringing, and I am late to get...somewhere. Well, at least my Mom will be happy...I chewed my veggies. As Pink Floyd says in their lyrics: "Every year is getting shorter; |