February 27, 2010
Waiting in Indian Restaurants
Here I am sitting and waiting, because this is what I do. I wait at the beginning of a century, and at the end of a long metaphor, because I have been a metaphor for so many years. It is easy to get confused, but when I remember for whom I am waiting, then there is no question. The only good questions here are about what they might wear, and how they will smell, because there has always been the smell of sandalwood and coffee at the beginning of every meeting. It is easier to wait in an Indian restaurant than anywhere else, because the smells here serve as a potent reminder.
For first meetings, there should always be food, and for the meetings in between beginnings and endings, also food. It is a comfort, and it is a metaphor that always continues to unfold in multiple directions, like the growth of a plant, whose roots are always much more complex than the fruit. Between the root and the fruit, there is infinite possibility for discovery. In between is a waiting of different kinds and different faces, but the waiting is always larger than the things that I count in my head in the morning when I wake up alone.
This morning I woke up wondering about them again, and it was an old story, and one that I don’t want to repeat, but I know I will. As long as there is desire, this story will be filled with doubts and jealousies that gather in the corners of the room, dust that wants to make me wonder if the things that are impossible to weigh are true. Waiting is a truth that has no weight, and longing is a story that has no ending, and in between there is only a long seven-course meal, where we remember everything that we are.
Filed by Herbert Jones at 11:10 am under Entertainment, Food, People
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