Fancy meeting you here, in your bare feet with your hair tousled and your face slightly creased by sleep. I thought I was the only one who responded to the siren call of the taco just after midnight. They say it’s a terrible thing to eat in the middle of the night, but I find it most pleasurable. Must be the whiff of sin that hangs around the concept, hangups from childhood.
In reality, it’s perfectly rational for me to be eating, standing over the sink rather than dirtying a plate. My days wind up looking like the next best thing to Ouroboros sometimes–and I’m a night owl by nature. Breakfast often doesn’t happen til after most of you have eaten lunch. I prefer the first four or five hours of a workday to be unclouded by the fact that all the blood I’d like to use for cognition is involved in digestion.
Where was I? Oh, yes. Cold tacos in the dim butterlight of the lamp over the stove. Bare feet and thoughts suitable to that state of dress, that time of night. Thoughts as fragmented as these dependent clauses. Three-legged table thoughts, that float in and away as I munch with a great air of satisfaction.
Midnight Tacos. I imagine four or five figments, dress them, do their hair, change their sex, their ambitions, their baggage from childhood. Then I tug at the strings and make them musical–the Midnight Tacos, who are known for their incorporation of children’s musical instruments and Beach Boys-influenced Death Metal. They travel the world playing benefits for shelter kittens and clean water and women’s voting rights. They all have several PhD’s and are set to make their world a better place, one venue at a time. The World as Myth has additional members, now. I can see them, plain as day.
Somewhere, Jubal Harshaw lounges in a corner booth, surrounded by beautiful, intelligent women and wonders where his dinner is. Somewhere, Hemmingway stands at the bar in a place that should not be mistaken for Heaven, and argues with Niels Bohr about the nature of Imagination. Carl Sagan is playing chess with Democritus again, chin resting in his hand. He sees not the board before him, but some other figment in the distance of an inward gaze. Flash Gordon and Ghandi discuss what it means to be Good, and stretch their legs in the sun, which is not our sun, but remains cast at an angle that feels like September after dinner.
The Tacos were delicious, as only food eaten without distraction can be.