Eating hidden flesh,
Hurling until the blood rises to the skin.
Your mistake has cost you two days and two hundred pounds,
Its cost me twenty years without death.
Hidden amoncst beans and roots,
The screen commits a thousand sins.
Your mistake draws tears past the surface, and out,
My twenty years without death.
Five roll up ends already smoked before i rise,
Poor glue that once lived, such a strange cremation.
Clock clicking towards discomfort, real life,
Hoofs on my lips, bones in my lungs. The cancer is coming.
The parasites living in my intestine are still there, still guests and still living from my body. Still inducing the diarrhea, the vomiting and the swelling of my abdomen. Controlling if i am hungry or not, tired or not, sick or not, in the bathroom or not. Tiny organisms controlling parts of my being, for sure a percentage. Diagnosis was given almost two weeks ago, antibiotics issued but i feel this tremendous guilt to take the medication for a number of reasons.
Whenever i have had unexpected guests around for dinner i have always been accommodating. I would put down and extra plate and serve smaller portions to make sure there was enough food to go around, especially when people are hungry. I like to feel like i am a good host and i like to treat my guests well. There has never been a time where i have said, ” leave my house or i will kill you ”
Being a strict vegetarian/vegan i feel all life has the right to live, hence why i don’t eat animals or animal products. I despise animal cruelty and the worlds passion for chomping on flesh. It’s just un-ethical and potentially disastrous to the planet, especially with the great choice we have in the west. I also have a great respect for Jainism. A religion that believes in non-violence and a strict vegetarian diet. Violence resulting in harmful karma, a set back if one is to achieve nirvana.
“Have you started your medication” i hear. No i have not as i am still contemplating what is right and what is wrong. My little India friends still alive in my tummy and i must make a choice when they will die…..Its all a bit much. What to do??
I am not seriously ill. Yes i have waves of sickness and sometimes smell like death, hungry early morning, vomit early evening but are these reasons to kill my little buddies, my mini, fleshy illegal immigrants, the final trace of India left inside of me. Creatures that are stopping me from overindulging, turning me off alcohol, keeping me well under nine stone and really, doing very little harm. To abort or not to abort. That is the question.
The joy of chopping garlic, the smallest of slimy Indian cloves, crush and peel. My very own cooker in my first kitchen in eight months. The joy of washing plates in real detergent, not sand or a plastic bag. The pleasure of washing the most beautiful tomatoes, peppers, aubergines, arranging them in my rented fridge, in my rented kitchen with a look of the 1950’s.
The joy of skimming froth from boiling red lentils, frying onions and egg plants in olive oil, cooking bringing happiness in my very own space.
A rented apartment on the beach in Goa, amongst the palms and the pigs. Just us and the pigs and the palms. Local vegetable stalls and independent village stores, having the choice of whom to support, food one tenth the price of food in England.
The joy of drinking a glass of red wine, vino from a vineyard i visited in Nasik, on the porch, eating a pasta dish as the sun sets. No restaurants, no waiters, no tips and no getting ill. No curry.
Sinking back into my love for cooking and being domestic. My choice of music on the stereo, in my own little house for the final fortnight. Wine, pasta and the beach five minutes away. A perfect transition for returning home.
Caravans are synonymous with motorways. The sun i think is trying to break through the cloud, as we, John, Miss Nolen and myself drive through North Yorkshire.Them being directly in front followed by many miles of correctly measured tarmac leading to Liverpool, city of culture 2004. My first visit. Little lambs in fields. Fog, lambs and green. Wish i had a zoom lens to photograph this years crop of running little fury cute babies. Pre mint sauce, pre donna kebab’s, pre human shit.