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Friday, Mar. 08, 2002 / 11:05 p.m. ~Flowing and Free~ I needed a change, I couldn't stand the sound of the television, didn't want to fall asleep to that incessant glow, those moving pictures, the noise. I was restless, felt I'd never sleep, I wanted music, I wanted soothing, I wanted a soft, liquid sound, a warm and sensual wrapping of highs and lows and middles, and I went to the living room, grabbed Miles Davis' "Kind of Blue" and popped it in the player by the bed. I lay with my eyes closed, finally, thinking there was no structure, there were no notes, this music could not be written, but it was free, and free was the only word. I lay, with my eyes closed, wondering how they could play it more than once if it weren't written, and how many times was it played?, and it could only be that one performance, and it was the best music ever, it was the sweetest, the sexiest, the lullingest sound, the most, the best, the only..... And I woke up before my alarm. I'd fallen asleep. I'd not heard it all, not this time. I'd fallen asleep thinking about it. Wondering. How, why? This perfect music, wondering. Tonight a Chinese movie, a movie with images of crowded streets, and overcast skies, and peeling paint in rooms with single lightbulbs hanging from electrical cords, light bulbs losing their power, dimming, brightening. A girl with pigtails, on the back of a motorbike, holding, not holding on to the boy who escorts her, the boy she is beginning to love...but he has secrets. No attention span, no tolerance, eating a Danish, and microwave popcorn, or one then the other, backwards, not like that. No appetite, but thinking of eating. So eating. Hockey, but it's skating, the announcing is merely announcing, it's words, it's yak, yak, yak, it's skating back and forth and no action. And Red Snapper is the theme ingredient. Use tails and heads, and this reminds me of Bourdain, again, and his little joke at the reading, the mention of the head, the French food, prepared of animal head, and I can't remember what it was, but it sounded awful, and it can be good, but his was old and awful, in France, and it made him sick, and he read it straight from his book, with such fervor, swelling as he read it, the sound, the words, rolling off his tongue with alarmingly increasing speed, never faltering, and he jokingly said it was "the worst head" he'd ever had, and he meant it every way we could hear it. But not everyone was listening. Hearty laughter from those who were. Surly and sexy, Borders called him. "At once surly and sexy", the blurb blurbed. Thinly sliced Red Snapper, chunks, stock made with bones, and Chef Morimoto in his debut performance wins! Bourdain would never do "Iron Chef", so he says when asked. He acts terrified. I know he couldn't cut it, he'd never win, he's not a consummate chef, he is a writer. He studied cooking, he knows food, but I doubt, as does he, that he is anything approaching an "Iron" Chef. Besides, he says, as do they all, it's the dubbing that makes the show, and "Did you see the American version with William Shatner?, it's just not the same", and he goes on. It's warm, and we expect rain. The sheets are clean, my head hurts, I've been in bed since I changed the sheets straight from work. One of those days, those nights, where bed is the best place to be, watching motorbikes, the dirty Souhzou River in Shanghai, the peeling paint of a tenement house, the skating back and forth, and the fish, fried, steamed, sliced, paired with caviar, and chips, and rice, and the Challenger looks so insulted, the newly appointed Iron Chef ready to cry tears of joy. No jazz now, no falling asleep trying to figure it out, jazz, like a magic act, how do they do that?, can't even see those notes, not like Bach or Beethoven, no structure, it's free. Free. Cost of the War in Iraq
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