Sunday, September 9, 2012
Peruvian pears. They don't last, they must be eaten. They are either the quintessence of pear (like silk, like butter), or too much pear. Eating locally is not a thing we can choose to do. It is what we have to do. Whether we like it or not. Sometimes I think about how much we travel and what that means. Sometimes I think about how much we are products of our early environment, our culture of origin, which seems to whisper that the world should come to us. The remembered delights of what people call the first world are thrown into relief--they seem baroque, impossible, almost terrifying. The lived sensations of here are (literally) a cellular reeducation. I've noticed that there's a moment when you're learning a new language when that language seems cacophonous, dissonant--and that that is a tipping point before your brain expands, shivering and sliding into a new world. I eat the pears standing up, over the sink.