Sport 43: 2015
Le cooking show
In the morning, my son is sitting in my seat
with an open laptop, editing.
On the bench, all the kitchen equipment we own, widely used,
and on the table, tomato paste, flour, sugar, yeast,
and bits of greenery I cannot identify
without looking at the cooking show he has been filming
and which is, but of course, not yet released.
On the couch, his friend is sleeping with his feet
up in the air, one leg crossed over the other, and his face
positioned as if he fell asleep looking
straight up at the ceiling, possibly speaking,
listening, no doubt. I am pleased
to think of this industry
in our kitchen late at night.
I have my breakfast in silence
so as not to disturb my son, François,
or his friend sleeping, thinking
of the conference, wishing I did not have to.
I brush my new fringe off my face,
hoping for huge coverage of my theory,
if only everyone would receive it dazzled,
not with knives drawn. I am wishing, really, ‘If only
the eyes of everyone at the conference could be
on the other side of the ceiling.’
A roman cooking show
My son is, in the night, the spectacle of a filmmaker.
In the morning, he sits enthroned on my seat,
for it is plain his laptop gives him purchase of it.
And on the table, with the development of dough, flour, sugar, yeast,
still there is a mystery, yet to be released.
In the night, such a tangle of gazes and limbs—she
lying down on the sofa, his foot up in the air,
her face looking upwards, he falling
from her towards the ceiling.
I will make my dinner in silence, my son, so as not
to disrupt the friend or the sleeping,
thinking I will not give a reading.
This is not a new thing.
The ideal audience only dreams
the readings I am not giving in the waking world;
and they shall not err in their minds,
bathed, and glared at.
Shanghai cooking show
My son undertakes an overnight shooting in my kitchen.
The next morning, he is sitting on my seat
with his laptop open, editing.
On the bench, all of our own cooking equipment, not used,
and on the table, tomato sauce, sugar, vinegar,
corn starch, and soy sauce.
Do not watch the show.
This of course is not yet available.
On the sofa, his friend sleeping feet
in the air, one leg crossed over each other, face
positioned as he fell asleep looking
at our soaring ceiling.
I am pleased all this industry
took place in our kitchen late at night.
I take my breakfast in silence,
trying not to disturb my son, the editor,
or his friend, when I remember,
I did not give the lecture!
I had a new framework to propose
that would have helped, slightly.
I need a torchbearer for my theory,
who will not confuse or glare
at my audience, and who is not likely
to forget to deliver the lecture!