Delay nothing of value.
It’s months since I was pointed toward Adam Phillips, and one particularly brilliant hour with him. My wait ended tonight, which suits me fine as it capped off a day of spirit’s relief.
From the painter, Benjamin Robert Hayden’s diary:
“A man’s liberty is gone the moment he becomes official.”
Want of fame lost hold on me some time ago, and my most influential relationships are kept inconspicuous. That said, I’ve loved a lot of people in my life; some might even call me promiscuous.
But don’t jump to conclusions, please.
The origin of the word promiscuous is not sexual, at least not strictly. For the purpose of this story, let the term itself be loose. I’m pro (for) miscere (to mix), or indiscriminate. Meaning, I’m not a bigot. By nature, I tend toward union.
There’s a way in which this makes me an outsider, since our society has a habit of drawing lines. Around perspective, persuasion, piety. Is it a ‘p’ thing? Again? Anyway, there’s all these distinctions made between people and so often defended rather than enjoyed. Some are opinion driven, like politics, while others are apparently physical like gender. Phillips speaks to the root of this with owl-like precision. My cry is less grown up and guttural.
A couple bubbles ago I wrote gender matters, by which I meant to say beauty. The beauty of difference. Not different labels, but actual verifiable difference. In color, temperature, scent.
A great chef makes contrast sing, as lyrics do.
At Anju two nights ago I ate.
Acid balance, internal warmth and crisp. Fatty heirloom beans mashed to better than potato.
As ever, intermingling harmonic delight.
So this, I tell myself. Delay nothing of value. Not for self-preservation or as Phillips put it, the violence of our preferences. So much to do whilst still alive.