The other day, whilst doing yard work, I happened to look up into the clear turquoise sky. There, along the southwest flank of Mount Pendelton, just above the valley's rim, sat a half-lidded eye of the moon, showing phantasmal. I drew a deep breath, finding this spectacle tragically interesting; in the imagery and tongues of science fiction, where everything is rocket-fueled and laser-powered, the sight of another heavenly body, another world, is awe-inspiring. Exotic. Yet, here, on this pale blue dot, such a thing is lucky if noted with a passing glance. It's only the moon. Here, it is a mundanity.
As of late, my culinary tastes have been turned in the directions of Mesoamerica and the Caribbean. I find this to be a bit of a natural progression; I've mastered pan-Asian cuisine and I've got a bit of reputation amongst some who know me for my grasp of food from the Indian sub-continent. Some have waxed poetic about my taste and heat in their mouths.
And apparently my curries don't suck neither...
A few years back was when I started traveling to Africa on a gastronomic level. North African-Morocco, specifically-and Ethiopia host some of my favorite dishes, though I do like piri-piri out of Mozambique. That savory heat factor. It has been suggested that my taste for spicy is one of those things that helps me in rarely taking ill.
Then, it was up along the Mediterranean regions and the middle east. I especially dig Spanish. Probably because it's in spitting distance of Morocco, but also because the recipes, along with the wines, are nothing short of fantastic.
Sabina was not surprised in the least when she caught me rooting through my cookbooks. I usually have our meals schemed out a week in advance, which makes going to the souk a quick and painless process. When I told her about my jones for Mesoamerica and Caribbean food, she merely smiled.
"Of course you do," she said. "It's exotic! You're drawn to things you find exotic. You have to be different. Contrary." Then she got a wicked gleam in her eye. "Go ahead, deny it! Argue about being different and contrary."
"Nobody likes you," I said with a glare, and she threw her arms around my neck.
"You don't like me!" She chuckled. "You love me!"
Fucking woman. And the other day, somebody had the audacity to ask me why I drink. Imagine.
I know a pair of distinguished gentlemen who proudly proclaim they're Francophiles. That's fine, I suppose, though I wonder how Frank feels about it. Of course, it seems when phile comes into context, you're on some sort of registry and people look at you with disdain. Personally, I'd rather not be marked, filed, briefed, or debriefed at all. My life is my own.
Sabina, Jezebel, and my daughter would all say I'm an exotophile. As long as it's not American, too far north of the equator, or from the present age, I'm all kinds of Holmes-like interested. Maybe, maybe not. Perhaps I find those above listed things to be a mundanity, and there might be tragedy in that.
After all, someone in Tibet might find those ancient Buddhist monasteries as everyday as the Presbyterian church down the way, but think Coldplay or Nickelback just might be edgy. The exotic is merely a point of view. So it goes.
Once, a girl, quoting an indie-film told me anything less than extraordinary was a waste of time. She said this unto me when some of acquaintances of mine were fading into the slow death of suburbia and television lobotomies. Celluloid though the line was, I hearkened, and, was made glad, by receiving what I would take as gospel.
I've never done well with boredom, though I've sometimes described myself as a boring little man. Certainly, those who have, or still do, lead the rock and/or roll lifestyle might find what I find entertaining downright dull. Of course, I did my penance around the rock and/or roll lifestyle, and it can get trite after awhile, believe it or don't.
I search for the extraordinary in the little things, taking pleasure in it. There are adventures to be had in the magical moments between heartbeats if one knows how to look. Perhaps it's just a stubborn refusal to grow up and settle down, but I've mentioned before, I fucking hate grown-ups.
The moon was extraordinary that warm mountain late morning. As was the chorizo and potato tinga I made for supper. The rhythms and rhymes of the cosmos is the most fantastic of backbeats. I try not to allow myself to be suckered by mundanities, but, then again, these days, I try not to let anything be mundane.