January 2022
A picture of a grandpa is taped onto our kitchen cabinet. Bit smaller than A4, bit above eye-height, quite dark of color and cut out of a magazine. On the left side of the picture, an elderly man holds a folded piece of bread. A white-clothed table filled with flat breads opposite of him. Every time I look at the picture, my eyes channel towards grandpa’s left hand: he carefully browses through the stack of breads as if they are the pages of his favorite book.
Food and fiction are slowly merging together, and I am extremely soft and susceptible for it. Under influence, half conscious, completely taken or just really hungry. What is happening? What is in the fridge? Water on the cover. Drunk on dialogue, bad wine, the poem I found on the internet or the lyrics of Magic Megan?
I continue the day with a minced understanding of where nutrition starts and where it ends. I hold The Complete Cosmicomics by Italo Calvino in front of me, pretending the pages are my breakfast. It is Thursday and I need to go to the store. After staring at the same line for several minutes, I return to real reading and note down the words that seem to sit well in my mouth. Words I haven’t tasted yet and want to slide into my shopping bag. I feel like a mild monster voraciously searching for fleshy language that satisfies all sorts of hunger.
