The Security of Shared Recipes

by Jessica Schneider

To think there are places that exist. That should be enough. But to think there are places that exist a mountain so high in elevation it has the ability to block rain from neighboring towns—that is something to think of. To think too, a wave infinitely falling, as though being on the cusp of something greater, as you try to slide the chase of that wave, sliding that will keep you-that is something to think of. Only with water will a wave billow, crest, and thereby allow you to ride that very wave, shifting as fast as change, your water-gliding belly upon this salt crawl from below, wave that gets repaved by newer wave still. So that eventually it becomes as though you are infinitely falling in this cradling body of the sea, falling, just as one might fall when approaching the direct curve of the earth, at that precise speed, leveling into limbo, a place that sends and keeps you all at once. To think there are places that exist, containing all the ways in which beauty can be ascribed. And when looking to all the ways in which beauty can be ascribed, you realize then the absurdity of it all.

You might wonder then, just where does the wave begin? Is the sea just saving it from beneath, waiting for this glimpse of gravity to be pulled upward and then back down again? For a process as complicated, it must begin much deeper and further out than realized. And yet the spaces in which these waves spawn hold no impact upon that of the fish, these fish, these creatures that go about their business and without concern for what rises above them. There is a photo in this Jack London book I have, where the caption reads THROUGH THE SHARK'S JAWS. And in this photo is a man, believed (by me) to be Jack London, peering through its center and his head surrounded by teeth, as he holds the set of jaws on either side of his face. The man is slightly smiling, and one might even claim the set of teeth is too. While the photo is not indicating definitively that this is in fact a photo of Jack, his tanned features and puffed cheeks from having traveled on his boat, which he named the Snark, for no supposed reason other than to just name it that—I believe this is in fact the same boyish face accompanied upon the jacket sleeves of the many writings of his I own. But the thing worth mentioning, aside from the photo itself, is that this photo would have been taken sometime during his voyage, during the years 1907-1908. Remarkably, the photo could have been taken in 2007-2008, and it would not have mattered, for the photo is too close up to capture the age of his clothes—all that is seen aside his buttoned up shirt. Similarly, the same can be said when looking at other photos in his book, SNARK AT SUVA-FIJI ISLANDS another caption indicates. Here there are several men in shorts, standing around the stationary Snark, resting at this junction- the dock, where some are sitting and others are standing, doing nothing differently than one might expect. In fact, what struck me in the timelessness of these photos was just that—it was not until the camera caught the notice of clothes, when I could then tell what era these photos were taken. Women in their long skirts and pulled up hair and white blouses, and the men in their shortened ties and caps—obvious attire for this turn of century. The send of the sea and the sail of a boat—these things occur as they would today or hundreds of years from now. The same laws of physics while sailing then will still apply. But I came to notice, by the looks of these photos, how time is meaningless without events to set it into place, to give it purpose. And the dates of time, from what we know of it according to how we perceive it—humans have always existed, according to our own egocentric minds. Of course this perception is no different from the rabbit or toad or duck-billed platypus, with reason being that any being shoved into existence, regardless of what that being is, can only experience sentience or a true notion of becoming through all that they are and all that composes them. So in their minds, they are everything they know of living, and regardless if these creatures question existence or not—such doesn't matter when their existence alone confirms their being. There are creatures that exist, just as there are places that exist, and that should be enough. The elephant can only see the world through the view of another elephant—it cannot fathom the little life of a fish. And the human, for all our tools and study, we are only sentient through being human, and nothing more than that. That is probably one of the most honest statements a fellow human can make about his species, a species that has linked itself by 'nature' to being a species of insincerity and imitation. How is that the case? When looking at these photos, it is not until our own man-made elements are taken into account, when an era is marked by our own doing, such as the design of a dress or the shape of a hat—that an observer can notice any era at all. What is era anyway? Do the fish know? It is our own making. One of the synonyms for man-made is artificial. So what is artificial? The dictionary I have says: made by human work or art, not natural. Some synonyms that follow are falsity and insincerity. Artifice is a word meaning deceit or trickery. What does that say, then, of Art, this man-made thing, unnatural?

I look again to these photos, and more specifically, these distinguishers of time and place. Why is it that something man-made is regarded artificial, or unreal, despite being no less real than the sea and everything surrounding? I look to the clothes of these passengers. I can determine the dates when most probable they lived within. In the background is the sea, and it is real. But the hats and blouses—they are artificial. They are unreal. They are fake. Instead of cotton we get polyester. Instead of sugar we get aspartame. Is one really better than the other? I am not a snob when regarding these things—I believe just as much beauty can be found amid a crowded city dressed in pretty lights, as it can lost within the solitaire of some desert. It returns to my point: to think there are places that exist, containing all the ways in which beauty can be ascribed. And when looking to all the ways in which beauty can be ascribed, you realize then the absurdity of it all. Why is it absurd? Absurd to choose between one and another for which is more or less is silly, but inevitable. It is something we have all done, including myself. Beauty can be seen in the shape of a hawk's wingspan, as it can in the shape of a woman's frame. It can be seen in the Brooklyn Bridge, as well as in Hart Crane's poem To Brooklyn Bridge. Both are beauty. I leave it at that, despite the many things I leave behind.

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There is something to be said as well, regarding the restaurant and its chains. Think of it—a brand of restaurants, all who share the same recipes, have spawned to all parts of the country for your dining convenience. The tired traveler from Vermont does not need strain his taste buds on items that won't appeal, when he is stranded somewhere in Texas. All he need do is find his nearest restaurant chain, and despite where he is- place does not matter. The food will be the same in Vermont as it would be in Texas. I too am a frequenter of certain chains—some more than others, for I am not above eating in such if the food is good. Why, just recently I entered one of these chains, and in deciding not to eat there, I instead took the food to go. I pulled open the heavy glass door, you know, the one that has the large door handles? And I saw the girl waiting to take my order. The first thing she said to me was not hello, but she addressed me as "Beth", thinking I must be the last woman who called in her order, and now here I was, ready to claim it. But I just shook my head 'no', correcting her that I was not, in fact, Beth—but instead someone else here to order her order. Or rather, to 'place' it.

After speaking with her, the girl informed me that the food should take about ten minutes, and that I should have a seat in the meantime. The walls were decorated in lots of gauche ornaments—photos of strangers embracing, marked by their 1980's era clothes and hair, license plates and hats—just about anything. Was the purpose of these items to give distinction to this generic place, when really the act of having done so only makes the walls appear like all the other restaurant chains that participate in the same décor? Hating to imagine having to dust all this junk, I imagined, while waiting there, the places I have left behind, just by being in this restaurant chain, waiting for my food, at this very moment. Just what would someone like Jack London or Edward Abbey do in a place like this? Both would probably head for the bar. Perhaps too, Ed would be a little condescending, as his tone often alludes throughout his narratives. His hair would be mussed and his beard scraggly, missing his Utah hawks and his Jeffersian-like imagery, he might complain a bit about such material surrounds, then wash his bitterness down with a beer. I, in fact, at this moment, could have been anywhere. These chains can be found all over the world. Yet at the same time, I was strapped by these ten minutes of time, free to run out the heavy glass door, yet not willing, and rather remained there, waiting for something to arrive.

I began to hum a song, playing overhead. Wondering a bit, I thought of how once I reminded myself that the act of humming was an act of extroversion. One becomes lonely when the humming stops. When there is no one around to listen, however, we find ourselves humming. Were these walls, decorated in all this junk, trying to communicate something? Or was the décor nothing more than a non-sequitur, existing regardless of what consciousness is there to witness? Still, I continued to hum, loneliness or not, alone or not. These are the delicate shades of communication—juxtaposed to the feeling that these places and objects are attempting to speak. Noticing, my humming ceased when these thoughts began. How stupid, I thought, to wander these realms of impression, impressed so easily by what surrounds. Without, I noticed—the minutiae seemed to disappear.

I thought of how earlier that week, upon one of my runs, I passed over this small bridge, where in a breath I'd often look over my shoulder at what resided below. Nearing dusk, below the bridge trickled a stream over loose pebbles, where over the stream hung large bodied bowers, long green limbs that remained green well into November, and under them a young boy crouched, appearing about eight or so. Looking up at me, I could see through the shadow that he had dark hair and eyeglasses, reminding me most of a young Harry Potter. Just after having thrown a stone at some object that only he, and not I, knew was his aim, he paused a moment. And as though this moment was not enough, just then the both of us heard a rustling. What was it? We both wondered. The stone the boy had just thrown hit his goal, and expired with a sound, falling into the heap of all the other old stones, indistinguishable and forgotten. Would that be the last time that very stone was thrown? Or how about all the many other stones that would never get picked up by human hands and thrown by a child towards some goal that only the child and stone could know?

I looked over further and saw some movements in the dusk. It was a small doe, accompanied by several smaller does, and one large buck. It was the lead, running over first, clearing from the boy and saving itself from getting wet by the cold stream—leading this family of six. It jumped over casually, and the water was unaffected. Several of the other deer followed, but what caught us both by surprise was the glance from one of the babies. She was not very tall at all, and for a second she just stood, exchanging a look towards me, and then to the boy. So quickly she did this, that in an instant her back was to the both of us and she was gone. Thinking, and listening a moment to the water pooling in a place where no fountain ran, and imagining, as a child, below the bridge being haunted, like rooms peopled with ghosts, where footfalls had meaning, and echoes were entities all their own. Was that all that was ever to approach? I wanted to speak to the boy, to say what I thought of this image of him throwing rocks down by a stream, near this small bridge where deer could pass, and leaves tossed asunder, but I did not for I felt that doing so would undermine the event. And it was at this moment, where I acted as witness, realizing that feeling of aloneness when simply witnessing felt like not enough. Was it enough? Certainly, but it is natural to desire more. Sure more was there, over this stream where I craved human company, and upon imagining myself witnessing this company, I had grown shy by my own thoughts, if these thoughts would ever become adapted to life. I knew they probably would not, and within my head is where they would stay. To be more gregarious, in the way I believed nature was being with me, and flirt with the smallness of things—the glance of a child, the sight of a family of deer, these small noticings that so easily spawn chit-chat with others, this is what I craved and wanted to share, yet refused, this refusal mirrored in the opening and shutting of doors. And so instead I kept it closed.

I could still hear the rustling of their bodies and the slight thumping of their heels upon the grass, above the stream. And following this, the boy acknowledged me again, and we noted this moment in our glances. However, by this time, the boy was reaching down for another stone to throw, and the deer had disappeared—even the baby that lagged behind, having considered us for a moment. How intimate a glance could be, from the doe to the boy and then to me.

Yet after receiving my food, I thanked the girl and left the same way I came in, passing another customer ready to engage the same waiting activity I had just begun ten minutes ago. Just what would he be thinking, I wonder amid this suspension of place, floating anywhere that gives in? Like with anywhere, these are the things we share.

Copyright © Jessica Schneider 2005-2008