An Introduction to Baking.

In the beginning, there was nothing.

This is a very unusual way to start anything, for of course we now know that in order to start anything of great worth, it is advised to start with at least something. At this moment of time, however, which just so happened to be one of the first moments of time, no one knew much about what would now seem like common sense. And thus, with such a lack of common sense it would seem, … woke up with the fanciful idea of baking a cake from scratch. What … woke up from we don’t exactly know, as he didn’t exactly fall asleep at any point before his waking up with the idea of baking a cake. All we know of this pivotal moment in time is that … happened to come into being at some point between there being nothing, and there being the idea of baking a cake from scratch. Some noted theoretical physicists even suggest that perhaps the idea to bake a cake from scratch was indeed the something that came from nothing. It was a very small idea, of course, but it is entirely possible that the Universe indeed came into being from the fanciful idea of baking a cake.

Before any baking would take place though, … decided that some stretches would be in order, as he’d had a very restless sleep, it would seem. What stretches does a being that is closest to non-being do, we are not too sure of, but it is suggested that these stretches took a rather long time, a few hundred thousand years at least. With the vague feeling of being watched, as indeed we are watching him right now, … muttered, “well you’d want to do some stretches too, you know, if you’d been cramped up inside nothingness for whoever knows how long”. The problem with estimating the amount of time … spent cramped up inside nothingness is the ‘nothingness’ part of the equation. How indeed do we know what parameters surround nothingness? In nothingness, and thus a non-entity, how can one be, or measure time, or even sleep restlessly? Perhaps … merely said he had been cramped just to draw our attention away from the stretches he, as the closest being to non-being, was doing so inadequately. In that case, the first lie had been told, and thus original sin now has a place on our timeline.

With the craving for baked goods still intact, … continued to expand his surroundings, because although he had not the slightest idea of how to bake a cake, and only the vaguest inkling of what a cake was and what things (or ingredients, we should offer up for future phrasing) should indeed go into such a cake, … had the notion that cake-baking was a very serious business, one which required a lot of space and a lot of separate ingredients and serious thinking. In thinking this … was quite right, and almost a directly quoting the opening paragraph of Heston Blumenthal’s ‘Introduction To Baking: A Very Serious Business Requiring A Lot of Space and Almost As Much Ingredients and Most Definitely Including Dry Ice.’  Which is of course, a coincidence.

… continued to stretch as he thought about how he was going to make this cake, and how long it would actually take. It is important to note (however late this piece of information may seem) that …’s name was indeed an ellipsis. As language of any form had not yet had time to develop, and only … and a few others to perpetuate and develop it, communication consisted of varying lengths of pauses, with …’s name being exactly the length of an ellipses, which he of all people thought it to be quite convenient. Having a conversation with anyone proved to be rather difficult, as the silences between pauses tended to blend together, and sounded very much as if everyone was rather drunk. This could have been the case, of course, as our knowledge of such early days is still limited, due to …’s hazy recollection.

In one of …’s longer pauses, or what could have been a Shakespearian monologue, the pigsty of expanding space that … had been residing in decided to protest. Either because …’s monologues were worse than Hamlet’s apathy, or just because the general conditions without Union presence were becoming unbearable, the gases and elements decided to group together and stage a campaign, one which different historical accounts give us two very different names for. Called “The birth of the first star” by scientists, it was also affectionately called “For Cake’s sake, stop the monologues” by the matter sharing …’s living space, but which still did cause the birth of the first star. This pleased a lot of people, who had all just read the first book of George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire and were now convinced that winter was indeed coming, and a star would provide adequate warmth for the long nights. (Contrary to popular opinion, George R.R. Martin’s book A Game of Thrones was not published in 1996, as in four years before the new millennium, but actually in the 1996^th minute-anniversary of the first star. Theoretical mathematicians now believe that with this speed of writing, the sixth book in the ASoIaF series, titled The Winds of Winter should be published in the year 2312, and A Song of Spring will not reach bookshelves until midway through a new dominant species’ reign on earth.)

… would have us believe that things went pretty quickly after the appearance of the first star. When we asked him about the progression of his cake making, we found in his recollections a tendency to trivialise certain events, such as the development of galaxies and galaxy clusters, the birth of our own star, Sol, and even the creation of Earth. If it weren’t for our faithful team of historians, scientists, experimental mathematicians, theoretical physicists, Facebook stalkers and general bullshit callers, … would have us believe that the Universe took an easy stroll from that first star into the pre-revolution kitchens of King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. However, for the sake of poetic licence, and to stop … from entering into one of Macbeth’s more woeful monologues, we allow him this historical inaccuracy.

18^th Century France provided an excellent opportunity for … to develop his baking skills. Unfortunately, being new to the kitchens and a foreigner, … was placed on cleaning duties, and smacked with some form of cooking utensil if he ever even approached the sugar or flour. In the year 1792, after working for years as kitchen hand, … finally had the chance to begin what had started so very long ago: the business of baking a cake from scratch. Alas, before he had his chance, the revolutionaries destroyed the monarchy and … was forced to flee into exile. After continuous attempts at baking since, and constant thwarting of …’s plans, it is entirely possible that (if the Universe did indeed come into being from the fanciful idea of baking a cake from scratch) if …’s baking plans ever actually happen, the Universe and all life in it will have achieved it’s meaning, and thus, having nothing better to do, collapse back into nothingness.

Radial Heptacorallia: An Exercise in Imperfection.

I

I find it beautiful how hands can hold water.

That night I went without sleep as I fought my way past a body in whose skin I’ve never felt comfortable

I sat in the shower, curled up against the tiles, eyes shut to keep the water out.

There are always battles to be fought, and whether I came out victorious, I’m not yet sure of.

The small victories say the most these days. The victory of sleeping through the night, of going another day without being paralysed by fear

The victory of being able to look at myself in the mirror and not resent my existence:

It’s enough. Some days.

II

Last night I drew a line in the sand, told the stars to stand that side and me over here.

‘Inspect me’, I told them, ‘tell me what it is that makes me different from you, because I just can’t get it.’

Instead they took my voice, my ability to speak. They told me that that was what made me different, and they burn with jealousy because of it.

The told me they can see though my hands, and that everything I touch feels like tequila burning silver down their throats.

I clapped my hands together, the painful ring of steel against steel, a swordfight of wills held deep within my palms

What a war that was.

III

In the morning I practised being smoke, my skin grew grey and I floated.

I begged to be inhaled yet tried to warn those lungs of my danger.

By lunchtime I was safe, was solid and whole.

I didn’t eat, you know, just blew fifty puffs on a white staff, begging it to give me my sight back

It gave me lungs to fly and when I told it that my breath couldn’t do that

He said ‘what else do you have a voice for?’

For office gossip and the ritual of morning coffee orders. Full cream, no sugar, double shot

Shot me twice in the heart to get it back beating

Songs over the desert as I drove myself alone to no one,

Lights beaming over nothing,

I told you I could be a star.

IV

I asked the salt of the sea how it began, and it showed me the oceans

Cut in two the radial symmetry of the anemone

And taught me that life grows outwards.

Cut me in two, I begged, still knowing that my flaws taxed life out of perfection.

Defined by a single structure, I wept as I became fragile, immobile under the weight of water

I sunk

Breathing in the life of the moons I’ve chased

Growing into an elliptical orbit around the stars.

You never said I could become more.

V

This afternoon I set my eyes in a glass of gin

Swallowed down after a week of being moved from table to fridge, freezer to pantry

In a room segmented by the shade of half drawn blinds.

I saw my stomach bloated, bit into the skin to shrink myself

Asking the shadows how small I would have to grow before I could know about symmetry.

The stars grew angry at my command and sent me out to the wild, where I drove past with silver lights in a car full of tequila and salt, anemone and feeling.

Uncondemned by my curiosity, I shaped myself into a question mark and asked why.

VI

I was sixth place in a race I could never win and I told the sky I’d sell my stomach to leave it.

I was trying to be Jesus in the desert with no food but Lucifer kept on asking me to dance

He’s telling me ‘Jesus! It’s okay to have an ass! It’s okay to eat food!’

But I don’t believe him.

Because the Jesus men told me about taught me my hips were the cause of evil,

My breasts were the temptation that Adam bit into

In the throws of love, I became sin.

Oh hide your body, girl! Hide how you were made, your soft skin will fail me!

I never asked to become this pillar of salt

So I turned this race into a war and buried the sky in the pit dug for the ungraceful dead.

VII

Tonight I sit in the bathtub, mixing stars and salt

Knowing everything and nothing of what I did

Breaking the seal of the ocean of blood I’ve been carrying with me.

The symmetry of my lungs taught me to fly but I sunk beneath the waves of my own undoing

Undoing the wars of ocean and sky in my hands

As I practised in smoke, in sand, in salt and in stars, finding myself in a mixture of them all

Wondering how much of each will buy me back my voice

As I stand across the line parting me from the sky.