damp woolen clothes

More and more frequently I explore dreams of

damp woolen clothes  and wind tossed rain

at the  cold, mist-shrouded foothills,

of the Oregon Coast Mountains, covered with Douglas Fir , huge ferns, and moss

running north and south with craggy volcanic fingers

pointing west into the sea

damp cold clothes trying to keep the heat in from

walking along barren promenades,

rain swept-clean, taking errant sand back to the beach

no one walks in this weather

no flotsam to collect, green glass balls from foreign fishing nets long gone

all is clouds and windswept rain, obscuring the horizon

the tide is slack

but there are no clam diggers this morning

wading in the shallows , or surf fishermen,

in chest-waders struggling against the tides, or old men in lawn chairs

sitting at the high tide mark lines thrown far and stretched taught by the undertow

all not here today

empty streets and shuttered shops

a lie told in the winter

to hide the summer’s tide of gawkers and walkers,

and salt-water taffy eating mommas

struggling with children, trying to run free

a leash? Really? Do you think that restrains the inner struggle?

today the gulls sit irregularly on the beach

hunkered down faces into the wind

whites and grays with yellow beaks

the wind is too strong for them to whirl on the updrafts’

to strong to  fish for small meals in the shallows

obscured by wind-blown waves and sea foam

cold wind in my face, turning around walking backwards

Thinking about my thinking

I know this vision is too idyllic, fanciful.

But, the view of foggy craggy mountains and rain swept beaches

stands in stark contrast

to the view out my window

My doctors tell me

to watch what I eat

I do, I watch each morsel on my fork or in my spoon

From bowl to mouth first passing the nose

I never take my eyes off my food

Like a lover entranced

I take my meals in certain restaurants

Where my senses are overwhelmed

And my heart races in anticipation of gustatory bliss

Dribbles of savory fat

A multitude of sweet or salty crumbs

tablespoons of fragrant tangy sauce  

a soupcon of basil

a whiff of mint

a dollop of cookie dough

and always fragrances

of baking

of roasting

of garlic with pan seared meat and vegetables

in a pot of broth

waiting for onions…

my revelry ends and I think,

sadly,

the doctors meant something else

So I began to cook for myself

and soon l would make these wonderful experiences

for myself, and I did

I bought a new kitchen

And pots, pans, and cookbooks

knives and fancy dishes

I measured and counted pieces, calories, and memorized glycemics

I faithfully chanted “death to the whites”

whilst genuflecting in front of my new gas range

I am obedient to those who “practice” medicine

(how much practice do they need?)

But where did all these damn dishes come from