It was a winter day, one of those cold, gloomy days when the last thing you feel like doing is opening the front door and facing the inescapable chill. It was one of those moments when the mind comes into its own. Tacking the inspiration from the concentration techniques oriental philosophy is so fond of, it would be compelled to alleviate the perception of cold generated by the weather’s unrelentingly efforts. As a result, I felt my body gradually being enveloped by a soft, pleasant sensation of warmth at the almost tangible thought of a hot drink. There was no need to shut my eyes for a sequence of vivid images ran before them. My hands were clasped around a large, multicoloured mug, filled to the brim a dark velvety beverage, whose strong colours belied its soft albeit energetic contact with the palate and tongue. Wrapped in warmth borne by its taste, something akin to an embrace, this organ of taste became a formidable source as time ticked slowly on, capable of conveying heat a peasant sensation to the whole body using the mind as it vessel. I roused my self from those warm caresses. However, I began to thing that as harmonious journey go – venturing into one of the worlds encompassed by the numerous flavours of winter – this one had a piece missing. Hot drinks, especially chocolate, are loath to be drunk alone. They are only free to express all their potential when enjoyed in the company of others, during an engaging chat, seated huddled up on a sofa or on the floor on a thick rug, with feet swathed in a heavy warming socks, surrounded by soft fluffy cushions, perhaps hugging one to yourself. Their summer counterparts, not least a glass of a good wine, similarly crave the same circumstances to express their qualities, do they not? although the gentle wetting of the lips, sipping from the glass dancing between your hands, occurs in quite different surrounding and situations.
I was alone right then and I need something that would connect with the need to be enveloped by warmth, but whose flavours would also add a pungent pinch of cheer. Hence I gave in to the warming sensation that comes with being a couch potato and switched on the television. Not content, I sat down on the sofa with a large bowl brimming with oven-baked chips. My hope was that the tantalizing flavour of the chips would merge with the sensation of an enjoyable television programme, stimulating my sensory perception to the full. I was to be disappointed, because the images broadcast by the factory of unreality jarred with the fragrance of those small golden clouds of scrumptiousness. While my mouth indulged in the delight of a flavour fest, my eyes perceived the disgust of words, gestures and pictures. I switched off the television, put down the chips-laden bowl and decided to write a story inspired by a famous TV programme. The act of writing was to be my cure, even though at that point my needs leaned towards some creamy, energetic food that could purge the sourness I still tasted, giving me back the tingling sensation of good taste. What sprang to mind was some authentic handmade ice-cream. I abandoned the idea because I wanted to retain the taste of that unreal food so that I could put them down on paper, in the hope of restoring order to the confusion that the perceptions of culinary taste and distaste of my visual perception had aroused in me, blending in an unexpected and undesired union. As strange and as inappropriate as it my seem to unit taste bunds and external sensory perceptions of a different nature, even our facial gesticulation springs into action as soon as we taste the sparking vivacity of real flavours and those linked to the perceptions of our senses.
Take the eyelids, which gently close and remain shut for a while when, with practiced delicacy, the tongue pushes the harmony of soft, flavoursome food against the palate the face remains relaxed and smiling while the eyelids lift again, revealing to our eyes the reality of the flavours that the tongue harvests from our lips in a show, circular motion. Then we have the opposite scenario, the dumb show. An image of any kind, something of really bad taste though, appears before our eyes. Our eyelids close suddenly and stay firmly screwed shut, whist the face contorts to reveal clear lines that speak loudly of unwelcome flavours, and not just the kind that are received by the tongue in the form of food. I ceased my literary toils after a while. I decided to submit my work to the attention of the editors steering the vision programme from which I had taken my inspiration so that I might have it examined and also obtain some form of approval for a possible future publication.
About two years had passed since the day I sent off the envelope containing the hardcopy and covering letter to the editors of the programme my work was about, and I had yet to receive anything bar indifference. So I decided to send a fax an email in the hope that someone would have the decency to send me a reply of some kind, of any kind. I’d decided to give up, but then, one day, the images churned out by the television transformed my features into a mask of revulsion. My eyelids and the grimace of disgust spread over my face. At the same time, my mind was being permeated by that sour taste typical of adulterated food cook without the loving touch of an artist of good cuisine. Almost all the programmes broadcast, including the news, consisted of nothing but a succession of information and pictures portraying the shameless exploits of being forged from nothing and with no redeeming features, at the same time reporting on inane scuffles between strange characters.
Party to the quarrels were a series of individuals practically denying categorization who, with their expression typical of a person in the throws of madness, insulted each other with all the class and intelligence of a myriad of cells at an advanced stage of decomposition. I tried switching channels, but the scene remained unchanged. The mass of known and lesser-known faces, which were mixed and reshuffled in almost all the programmes to make way for what had become the rampant monopoly of the “usual suspect”, continued to take possession of each image. It was at point that my taste buds began their dance of intolerance confronted with the bitter taste of the ignorance that pretends to be something it isn’t. I wondered why all that vulgarity and lack of good taste got so much airtime and visibility whist I who had submitted the fruit of my labours – unworthy perhaps, though nonetheless a concrete thing – was not even deserving of a reply. After all, all I was asking was to have my work looked at. That bitter taste of those ill-gotten gains prompted me to write a new email to those oh-so and professional people I wrote the editorial staff as though it were a physical person since I had no contact with any of its components. Firmly about politely, and without any offence I expressed my resentment. I asked a two year wait entitled me to a reply and to have my work analysed, especially since I was neither a mythomaniac or an adolescent going through an identity crisis – I was simply a person without any friends in high places who had submitted a piece of work to certain individuals who were supposed to be well trained and experienced by virtue of the delicate job they old.
A few days after the email, while I was enjoying the embracing taste of some excellent milk chocolate, the phone rang. On the other end of the line was the head of the editorial staff, who launched verbal assault, accusing me of offending her with the words contained in my email. I endeavoured to explain that, after two years of indifference, a little resentment might not be unjustified. Much to my amazement, the kind of astonishment imbued with the sour taste of consternation, the courteous interlocutor proceeded to attack me with a vehemence and class rivalled only by that of a market stall holder touting for business, showing herself to be entirely unaware of my previous attempts to make contact. From the words shouted at random, I gathered that she was inviting me to send the manuscript again, should I still be interested in having it examined. I was tempted to answer her in the manner she doubtless deserved, but was stopped from doing so by that smoothly delicate, soothing and embracing taste of chocolate, which still coated my taste senses with a thin yet still effective film. In all probability, if the chocolate then provoking my taste buds had been of the more bitter, dark variety, with its aggressive, decisive flavour, the interlocutor would almost certainly have come-uppance in the form of a retort consistent with her manners. I sent the package with the typescript forthwith, attaching a parcel – a generous tray of with anyone on the editorial staff personally, and that I was merely miffed by the indifference continually perpetrated to detriment of those who have no “strings to pull”.
Another six month passed without a word. The television continued to broadcast the usual flood of nothingness and vulgarity at all costs, left, right and centre. My sense of good taste, a trusted companion in every decision taken, had had enough. That editor, who I had learnt headed up the staff of many of the programmes dominated by the recycled “moving cut-outs” raked up again, was due for a lessons in style and good taste. I lost no time. I went to an elegant florist and sent my editor friend a wonderful composition with a complimentary note attached. With a sarcastic flow of words, I intended to express my gratitude to the person who had successfully established herself as master chef, blessed with a delicate touch and almost supernatural knowledge of the secret ingredient for each dish. I also wanted to tell her how much I admired the extraordinary class with which she managed to dish up stews, precooked and frozen foods smacking of genetic engineering. I finished off by advising her, before taking action, to try the sincere taste of a handmade cake. Her senses of taste, in this case, would certainly have guided her towards the execution of a simple action, which would have relieved her of any further annoyance. She would have been embraced by the sincere sensation of the flavour of old-fashioned handmade cuisine. Cooks espousing this culinary doctrine are ended artists who entrust their art to an essential ingredient, a pinch of heart, to add the secret touch to their dishes. Enfolded in such sensory ecstasy, the satisfied editor would write a simple email in reply. All she had to do was write the message: “We are not interested in your proposal, goodbye”. Do you suppose the fortune cookie with the reply was ever delivered?
The above there is a Post for a contest to ELANCE
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Contest: What Does “The New Way To Work” Mean To You?
Name : achille fiorillo
Email : sos.scrittura@gmail.com
Elance Provider Handle : achi
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Racist, a word that scares pronounces, even more afraid of being called racist, so that to prove not to be, a person of black skin, we call color. Whites, mulattos, Indians, people of olive skin color, are not of color?


