Jazz

The thread of narrative snakes its way around the Caledonian club, passing nooks where now-forbidden fumes hung, encoiling flames flickering, couples conspiring, glasses clinking and the heady mix of free pheromones and improvisational harmonic enthusiasm, but quick! it twines into a rope... all stories are ropes, with a thousand nooses, each cinching a sensation, event, or thing, leaving it hanging in ink, blackened tongue lolling, bowels voiding, swinging lifeless on the page.

Mulieritas aeterna nos salvat per cognoscere vacuum inter ilia quod meminitur vacuum inter alia omnia...

Concerning British Food

...but what was really odd were the crisps -- what the transatlantic crowd call potato chips-- of whcih there are as many varieties and flavors as there are of jelly beans e.g. prawn cocktail, roast chicken, spicy chilli, guacamole, cheese and onion, pickled onion, lamb and mint. At the moment, I am eating a Christmas Turkey and Bacon crisp, that smell and taste redolent of new-opened presents, pine needles, and familial disputes masquerading as holiday banter, were not so much like turkey as like someone´s idea of turkey, as if the fleshlanimal flesh had become, by inverse transubstantiation, a vegetable idea, Turkey made Potato, processed for our inward digestion, a metaphysical reversal that would blow Aquinas´socks off. Such is the power of the modern food industry -- able to undo even the mystery of the Eucharist!