6 - Mornings

We’re eating pancakes now, we’re eating them every day. There is no silent assumption of roles between us, we’re brothers, we both feign sleep until just past life threatening and we have likely each been awake for a while now, I know I have. I cook because his cakes are for shit. Anyway I just keep thinking they smell like bacon. They don’t. They have their own great smell and every morning their good.

Awake and eyes open now he doesn’t say anything. His mouth is open too. I wait for the thought to come from him, for him to tell me about a dream or beg reference or definition of some lost reality he was but the briefest visitor of. His eyes not sleepy but open, clear, contemplative. He has awoken without fatigue, I think this is what occupies my thoughts the most about his new ritual. He takes a cake and eats it nodding. I nod back, inside. He’s right, it looked like a good one when I made it, crispy edges, grease was popping before I poured the batter in, the water, the water I made it with did not smell. You can hide in little shit sciences like this now. It’s like a new kind of scenery for us. No long, listing glances towards beatific elevations, nice legs/tits, the ocean, babies laughing etcetera. It’s all about this hill-billy bullshit; the perfect amount of oil in the small steel pan and the right amount of water and cake powder or as he calls it Krusty. Feeling the time of the cooking because unless your fuckin with the direction the planet is facing with regards to sun et al, there is no time but day and night or the time these cakes need over the right height and color of flame with coal bed and breeze particulars. Its not like work though, I remember work and cooking cakes is nothing like it. This is a real and pure disappearing act like tying shoes with wire, sewing zippers onto canvas, washing cuts with spit and dirt. It may have been a compliment before, now we just agree. Nods in silence seen and acknowldged with the same silence. That and looking for water that doesn’t have a taste.