I am creating. Chaos out of order.
Following step by step instructions to create a proper mess. Out of a designer to move. Out of a desire to explore. To create. To nourish.
The day was long. Hours to reach this point yet I am happy for the chore. For me, no, I would not put forward this effort, but I have the energy for it and the mouths that smile around the flavor become my reward.
They will say how good, how warm, how fulfilling. As if the doing was mine.
I only channeled the original creator. Their instructions like a demonic possession. Moved by their will. Their pace. Their say so. If I move aside and let them take control, I can create anything.
The best recipes are detailed. Explicit. Bossy. Condescending, they assume I know nothing. A blank slate for their projection. This casserole. That pie. The luscious sauces. None of this is me, but like a grand imposter I take the compliments given to me and feel a burst of pride.
I have the ability to spend hours to prepare delicious meals, and it makes me content to do so. But at the point where my designs are complete, a sink of dishes. A counter of spent trays and pans. These are the gifts I leave behind. The price of ransom paid for the meal. They are not covered by my instructions.
Author’s note: These snippets are unedited free-writing exercises that I use as a way to shift my brain into a creative state. I use Lynda Barry’s What It Is YouTube timed exercises (usually 9 minutes worth of writing) for these. They are handwritten in a composition notebook, and then typed up here. As I transcribe them, I do tiny grammar and spelling checks, but the overall “clarity” (if you can call it that) of the exercise is left as-is.