Something fresh. Hot. Like I left the oven on all night. Cooking only air. Making it up as I go along. Taste. Touch. Texture. Smell. Size. Portions. The pan that frames it and the blade the divines it into pieces. What a weird dish art is. What an interesting little endeavor, this particularly genius form of prayer. Creation. Try making it for yourself. That meal you loved in the restaurant. The show you like on TV. Wear your jersey and watch the World Series, but is it such a stretch to suggest you go out and play a game of catch? I do it with a pen in my hand, because I have yet to see my perspective appropriately represented in our culture. And I fully intend to do the dirty work myself. Boots on. Gloves back pocketed. Needle nose accompaniment. Multi-tool belt decoration. Fixed blade embracing my hip. Sheath savior saving me from fulfilling the role by skin. If what I do day to day came with a set of instructions, goddamn, I must have misplaced it a long time ago. I honestly probably started a fire with it, balled up and flame kissed before I even thought to read a word. And is that so absurd, to want to freestyle your lifestyle? It isn’t like I didn’t give the mainstream highway damn near eighteen years worth of consideration. I heard you all use the word education, but you just didn’t do enough to get me to distrust my eyes. My sense. My all inclusive mind. The path I’m going to walk will be mine. I will own it no matter how much I have to pay. So I intend to make the grade myself. Direction. Destination. Dynamics. Classrooms. Commitments. Concentrations. Make it up, all on your own, as you go along. Go see for yourself what a weird dish life is.