HORROR - Monday 9 November

Blanking out at the lava-lamplike curry bubbling away, the broccoli emerges like Martin Sheen and rolls dead, a corpse that once grew in a field, or a backyard, or on a shelf in a hydroponically manipulated harvesting facility.

The heat gets into me at the start of the week and shuts down the noise. Everything slows down. Everything gets harder to do. You have to concentrate. It feels like what Huxley was banging on about in Island. It makes every little activity like a piece of meditation on the action rather than the act of doing it.

I observe myself watching the curry and I see that the broccoli has something to say. Everything comes from somewhere, has travelled to be here now. It doesn't just exist in my curry. It came from somewhere. Not something we think about too much anymore. Everything has a history. Everything has a future. I play a part in all of it. So do you. Where you eat, what you buy, who you kiss, what you wear. There are consequences. It's all a part of it all.
 
Make sense? If not... blame the broccoli.