Delinquent Writer

I’ve been delinquent in my writings on here lately.It’s because i’ve been in thought, thinking, getting a bit angry, thinking some more and trying to realize how things plan out in my head, considering how those thoughts sound on paper, in word form, and realizing that they sound terrible.  Well, sometimes you have to speak your mind — and my mind is full.  I feel like things are churning, like I told V last night, it is like a big ball of mashed potatoes.

One of the thoughts I’ve had lately, revolving around ideas of capitalism, society, money, success, failure, and the lives that we lead.  This thought is that the older I get, the more socialist I become.  Maybe it’s the time in Europe, maybe it is the complete disregard for hype but I am becoming a true socialist.

This, combined with artisan food (stay with me here) has created a huge amount of ideas and streams of thought that are currently resting in my head, in my notebook and waiting to be released when I’m not feel so angry about these things.  Here is a small part of what I’ve been thinking lately:

Artisan products, especially food, are the result of local knowledge being transmitted to a new generation by the product itself as well as the process.  Authentic is an oxymoron, it’s authentic because it is true to history, place, producer and from extension, culture.

Modern ideas of sustainability, local, etc. are by products of a free market that encourages over-consumption. A return to the true price of a product, seasonality, and value in tradition are necessary to restore artisan products to a more valid form for our now-day society.

So Much Rain

Today London is a mess of wet. Of rain splattered buildings, of umbrellas broken in the wind, of shoes and socks that are not resistant to the penetrating dampness of the day’s moisture.  It is a day of wet, of rain of course, but also of wetness of the soul, of the mind.  It is damp beyond compare now, when one leaves his thoughts to the clouds to pick for him.  They are muddled and tied up into balls of puffiness that don’t allow anything to seep out of them except for the dampness and melancholy feelings of the damp, cold, springtime London day.