Familiarize yourself with the album “Who is William Onyeabor?”. Maybe the best CD I’ve bought since my first White Stripes album.
One of my earliest childhood memories is of churning butter at my kooky elementary school. We shook jars full off cream and maybe a little salt. Shook them like maracas, up down, up down, dancing to the beat. When we saw little granules of cream we were told to keep on going until it was thick like yellow vanilla ice cream. I felt nor here nor there about the finished product, slightly repelled by the blobby parts. Ni fu ni fa, as the nonsense saying goes, in Spanish. It sure wasn’t ice cream and neither of my parents wanted it on their baked potatoes.
There was plenty of it in Greece. It wasn’t as good as FAGE and it wasn’t as good as the blocks of feta that accompanied each meal. We would slice off crumbly pieces as if it were a loaf of bread. After Greek feta dinners we’d light the green coils for the mosquitos and walk through that incense smoke to the patio, where we sat on plastic chairs and smile at passing boys who whistled at us.
My dad put a glass down of it with every breakfast. I disliked it so much that I would chase it with the fresh squeezed juice from our porch oranges and it would curdle in my tummy.
A Dervish patchwork cloak from Iran.
Milkshake: dream kiss. Latte: first time at Starbucks. Lassi: mango, mango, mango. Cheese: goats, and their dangerous slit eyes, making rectangles out of me and oceans out of the hay fields.
a really handsome looking corn from New York