I was cooking yesterday. Potatoes and mushrooms, eggplant and tofu. Lots of seasonings. Garlic! -lightly limed and goat-buttery roasted corn. I was drinking while cooking too, and prompted with something (an inquiry if I recall).
As is wont of most conversations: a definition. Seeking a quick-running, lime-rhymed ideal. Losing thought to the predicated transition. Sip and turn, finding mental hazards to fill the lost hustling of knives and pans.
"What does ethereal mean?"
Then a lapse. Many. Forgetting and cooking. Hustling back in front of counters and carefully corralling my desired flavors' cantankerous natures. It ended abruptly, I yearned again. For you. Let me hold you again. Let me that I may give you form. Another desire that comes and goes with a days pendulous pondering.
flick.flick
I have it! Ethereal is the transitory, indelible etchings upon the mind's yearning organs. It is the memory of breath reached during the first toughed-out morning of a long drawn drive. When you've raced against the sun and caught it at its game, remembering that for the next night, you will relinquish the lead. Ethereal is taking in the dew, the mist and humidity. Ethereal is being caught in the cold ground-hugging clouds of open fields. It is being faced by the proposition of mind: that the passing hours which whisked the chilling combines into the day's warm iridescence, are all that have ever been.
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