Last night I caught a fever, first of the mind, and then of the body. It was only to be expected. Dali cracked me like an egg, he opened me like a fig.
Naturally this lowered my resistance; I walked around unprotected like a washed egg; my guard was down.
I catch his ten thousand jokes slowly, one every few years. In the museum, I laughed out loud when I realized that there were as many paintings in each painting as I cared to find, and last night, in the middle of the dark, I laughed again, thinking of the bottles, what obvious clues they are, except in reverse. Everything is also something else, which is also something else.
This reflection reveals a distorted embryo of bone as a skull; the placid still life or portrait contains surrealistic secret worlds.
I get tired of Gala, Gala, Gala. This is not my place to think or say. But it is not Gala I am interested in. Not Jean-Claude, either. I don’t think about women very much.
I like fierce people who will do their own work no matter what other people want them to do; people who have what they need and not a lot more. People who don’t live to support other people’s agendas. It’s so much easier to find men like this than women, but admittedly it’s extra exciting to find a woman who is truly her own person.
It’s so much harder for us to pull this off, as we have nurturing natures, which lead to entanglements, we bear children, we are living connections between other humans. Men are perhaps less useful, therefore also perhaps less used.
Regarding the washed egg, and its dangers: I learned this week that eggs are not refrigerated in Europe because here it is illegal to wash the cuticle (the clear layer of protective fluid) off of the eggs; as European eggs cannot be washed, they must come from clean pens, as naturally no one wants to buy dirty eggs.
In America, mass egg-producers with miserable chickens scrub the miserable eggs with machines that mean to sterilize them, but what they do is remove the very barrier (the cuticle) that keeps bacteria out, and so bacteria gets in, and then we must refrigerate them to retard its growth.
Eggs don’t even work chemically as you expect them to when they are cold (unless you need them to be, as for meringue) and so if you have add an eggish recipe fail in a mysterious way, it’s probably because you used them straight from the fridge. Over here in civilisation, the egg situation is happier for the chickens, the egg-eaters, and Europeans are not wasting power refrigerating eggs.
I cared for myself today, cleaning the apartment, washing my clothes, staying in bed. I walked out after siesta-time, in the fading sunshine, for a beautiful food I was slow to discover, the local version of vegetable soup… silky, intense, like sunshine and life in a bowl.
It will restore my soul, I’m sure of it.