I Got You Flours

Every now and then I get into a literary mood and start narrating myself into the next great American novel, except that I never get farther than 2 or 3 paragraphs before I'm so distracted by my own habit of narrating that I descend into some sort of meta-meta-meta-meta analysis of my own brain and eventually stop because meta-meta-meta analysis is terribly depressing. Also, I write depressing stories because I hate happy endings, or I'm a sadist, or a masochist, or something. Anyway, when I'm at Hampshire and I fall into such a literary mood, and I'm able to be alone (which is essential for the Literary), I go and buy a vegan cookie and hole up somewhere to dramatize my life.

The first time I had a vegan cookie, I bought it as a snack before I got on a train because it was early and I was leaving Hampshire and I needed a snack. I was on my way to Thanksgiving and long train rides pretty much require you to be super-introspective plus I can write and not get sick (unlike in cars). So I wrote about my life and I nibbled on my vegan cookie and a firm association was made in my mind.

Another time, I was early for my Jew class and I bought a vegan cookie and sat in the airport lounge and started working on notes for my Roth-Comeau essay and I felt like I was capturing the picture-perfect college experience that I never live except for that half hour.

And tonight I watched Stranger Than Fiction and the girl in it is a baker and a radical and I really wanted her to bake vegan cookies because vegan cookies mean books and it's a movie about books and numbers and public transportation and if it had vegan cookies I would have known that it was My Movie but it didn't so I guess that's a disappointment.

I really really really want a vegan chocolate chip cookie.


P.S. I have a favorite story in the whole wide world and I am going to tell it to you now. By which I mean S Anski is going to tell you cause it's his story.
At the edge of the world stands a tall mountain, and on the mountain lies a great rock, and from the rock flows a clear spring. And at the other edge of the world, there is the heart of the world; for each thing in the world has a heart and the world as a whole has a great heart of its own. And the heart of the world gazes always at the clear spring and cannot have its fill of looking; and it longs and yearns and thirsts for the clear spring, but it cannot take ever the slightest step towards it. For as soon as the heart of the world stirs from its place, it loses sight of the mountain top with the clear spring; and if the heart of the world cannot see the clear spring even for a single instant, it loses its life. And at that very moment the world begins to die. And the clear spring has no time of its own, and it lives with the time that the heart of the world grants it. And the heart grants it only one day. And when the day wanes, the clear spring begins to sing to the heart of the world. And the heart of the world sings to the clear spring. And their singing spreads over the world and from it issue gleaming threads that reach to the hearts of all things in the world and from one heart to another. And there is a man of righteousness and grace who walks about over the world and gathers the gleaming threads from the hearts and out of them weaves time. And when he weaves an entire day, he gives it to the heart of the world, and the heart of the world gives it to the clear spring. And the spring lives yet another day.