Sometimes I don’t know what I like. Sometimes I lose touch with what I want, more specifically. Sometimes I go along to get along; the evaluation mechanism that makes choice A over choice B just numbs itself out into a phantom limb and I don’t know — you pick. Things get stressful. And busy. It’s easier to ride on autopilot, to not think too hard, to take what comes along.
MFK Fisher, in How to Cook a Wolf,reminds me why it’s important to follow your hungers, whatever they may be.
There are too many of us, otherwise in proper focus, who feel an impatience for the demands of our bodies, and who try throughout our whole lives, none too successfully, to deafen ourselves to the voices of our various hungers. Some stuff the wax of religious solace in our ears. Others practice a Spartan if somewhat pretentious disinterest in the pleasures of the flesh, or pretend that if we do not admit our sensual delight in a ripe nectarine we are not guilty… of even that tiny lust! I believe one of the most dignified ways we are capable of, to assert and then reassert our dignity in the face of poverty and war’s fears and pains, is to nourish ourselves with all possible skill, delicacy, and ever-increasing enjoyment. And with our gastronomical growth will come, inevitably, knowledge and perception of a hundred other things, but mainly of ourselves. Then Fate, even tangled as it is with cold wars as well as hot, cannot harm us.
This weekend’s tiny lusts: breakfast for dinner, apple beer, long walks for cider and records, rummage-sale hunting, old love notes, hanging pictures on the wall, lying in bed after a hot shower with the covers piled on, new songs.