Author name: Paul Edward

Journal 11.18.24

I stood outside. Gazing. I’d just closed the coop the chickens roosting on roof beams. The earth was cold and bare and smoke of oak hung in the air. And it was snowing: and I thought no that isn’t right it’s not supposed to snow. And I thought well it isn’t even cold enough for snow. A dark force swayed through tree limbs. And I thought there is something else in the darkness beyond evil I thought no it isn’t evil there. We call it evil why? Because we cannot see? There’s something else out there. And I watched it. And I thought I see snow but there is no snow. And I nodded and said aloud no snow. And I slid open the door and walked inside. And closed it on the darkness. And passed crackling embers and soft sounds reached me from the upstairs television a children’s movie: Moana. And she said He was a demigod of the land and sea. And I smiled watching my curly-haired rug rats mouth’s gone agape. Enthralled. And the house was warm with them and purred its quiet sounds my babies are safe they are safe they are safe and sleep came over their eyes safe to enter darkness for dreams my curly-haired goddesses of land and sea. And I can’t get to sleep and I can’t get to sleep and I can’t get to sleep Our father who art in heaven hallowed be thy name thy kingdom come thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us and lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil… and Hail mary full of grace the lord is with thee blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb jesus BOOM! and Mrs. Consilvio is coming through the overhead speaker into the fourth-grade classroom and I’m dressed in a white cotton collared shirt tucked into navy pressed belted shorts and white socks peak out above oxford uniform shoes and I hate it I hate it I hate it there and Glory be to the father and to the son and to the holy spirit as it was in the beginning is now and ever shall be world without end amen…

     And this is crazy. I don’t think about it often. I just work through it I just work through it. This is crazy. I’m assembling the wire shelving for the dehydrators and the sheet pan rack covered in zipper plastic for the fermentations and I have these big shiny new refrigerators with the bright lights and one of them is meant for hanging fish to age. Intensify the flavor. Increase the texture. And this is crazy what I’m doing since I’ve stopped and thought about it I’m not working through it I’m not working passed it I’m thinking about it yes yes I’m thinking about this restaurant that I’m opening and I can see it now this vision I’ve had for many many years—like a dream. I suppose like a dream. I inch closer to admitting a dream a dream! A dream? And I think this place makes no sense it’s not a restaurant it’s an art installation of food. This small place… I have so many big glass jars. And I’m terrified what am I going to do with them what am I going to do here what am I going to make what will I serve I have no idea but I think I have so many ideas and I will serve them yes I will serve my ideas and my thoughts and my gasping breaths and my moments of tiny children warm and when ideas turn to sleep that doesn’t come I’ll close my eyes and I’ll serve the rosary repeat repeat repeat prayer yes I’ll pray in meditation yes I’ll serve that I’ll serve prayers. And I think how crazy all this is the woman in the parking lot asked what kind of restaurant we were opening and I said the best restaurant in the world! and I was being facetious and she laughed. But I wasn’t being facetious and I smiled because I’d said it aloud because it’s crazy and one shouldn’t admit crazy things like that it’s crazy to try to be like that and it’s crazy to be like that and I wonder what the others thought when they were building their best restaurants in the world? when people didn’t understand when people asked aren’t you going to push people away with prices like that? and they responded yes I do hope so because this will never work if the people who were always going to dislike it come no it won’t work if we market it to the people who won’t enjoy it. It will work because we will tell the people who will enjoy it. And those people will come from near and those people will travel from far and those people will journey from wide. And I think yes yes it is crazy to open a place like this.

(Audio) Journal 11.5.24

Journal 10.30.24

And I do one thing and Time falls out beneath me. Holidays and birthdays go first then whole months float away into the stratosphere. I try to fight it. Caught in-between Earth and the Heavens. Earthly obligations the laundry the liquor-board the meetings the emails the training the ordering the job descriptions the costs the inventory the private events the calendar the calendar the children the chores but Time falls away from me and into the bay like an eroding cliff and there is my celestial being bodiless was Jesus man or God? There is a force at work sucking my flesh and bones. And it says shout from the rooftops and shout from the shores and shout from the high hills of dusty soy and I spit ash. Ascending. Turkey vultures and hawks gather on the land. And disperse, annoyed, as Eagle descends sharp and handsome. Yellow beak picking out ashen eyes. Steam rises off the land framed in blinding sun. Shroud of Turin. HIS FACE HIS FACE. And he says Touch me not; for I am not yet ascended to my Father: but go to my brethren, and say unto them, I ascend to my Father, and your Father, and to my God, and your God*. And all the earthly things are bound to it—shhhh shhhh settle down settle down reduced speed limit ahead little drunken sailor town Rock Hall. Country music plays. And hours later the earth quakes from the thunder bombs of Aberdeen. And the flame thrower scorches the pine wood. As I brush the ash away with ashen hands and ashen clothes and ashen face. I burn away the surface and fill the restaurant with what remains. Fire perfume. As my layers are burned off. Self-immolation. As the blackhole within me sucks me closer to my celestial being. Unbound and ascending into the exosphere. And the stars bright in all the darkness. Float or fade? Into oblivion.

*KJV St. John 20:17

10.29.24

It is 39 degrees and if I’d rather write in warmth I must build a fire in my shed. It’s not much of a choice anymore I don’t need to subdue the excitement of a first fire that I don’t need. Autumn’s first sweater on a seventy-eight degree day no no the hand doesn’t make wonders with the pen when the temperature has gotten into the 30’s. A stump trying to move ideas across the page no that won’t do so I’ll need to make a fire. But I don’t have the luxury of time these days like I used to so I rise thirty minutes earlier well before dawn to assemble the wood and saved paper. I make the fire and in making the fire—chopping of wood and splitting of kindling and gathering it into my arms and walking across the cold grass to the shed and placing it piece by piece into the cast iron stove—there is already warmth in the blood flowing through to the fingers. And the fire ignites the ideas. And as my shed warms the ideas warm with it and I’m off for an hour or so of meditation.

     And I’m thinking of yesterday the Japanese technique of charring wood: shou sugi ban. My wife had the feeling that going to the hardware store for pre-mixed wood stain… well it’s something like the soul would be uplifted if we chose a different way: Isn’t there something natural we could use—coffee grounds maybe? And I showed her a video of someone taking a torch to cedar and that was that. And she came by the restaurant early in the day to see a charred plank of pine flooring and a charred cedar wood beam and we put the first on the floor in the corner next to the painted wall and Phil and I held the beam to the ceiling while she pondered. And that was that and now for hours a day and in and out of a week there is the scent of burning cedar and pine. And after it’s charred we brush it and the color steadies and the black ash covers our hands and the day progresses and the ash covers our pants and shirts and hair and smudges our faces and we look like coal miners and I wonder if the Japanese craftsman the meticulous and measured man is also covered in ash and it’s tempting very tempting to bring the Japanese craftsmanship into the kitchen too like the many chefs who do making glazes with soy sauce and importing fish from Hokkaido and curing them in kombu. No I don’t think so. I must go deeper into this place and into the Time that has gotten away. The wood charring feels right the importing of fish feels wrong. For me. There’s an American way that I’m looking for and haven’t found. And why is it important to find it? I will spin in the chaos of Time without the order of Place.