Today I'm making soup
Vegetables, chopped and staring at me from the fridge every time I open up.
Cook me. That's what they tell me.
But it's not what I hear.

I hear: 
You suck. You bought me, you had these grand plans. You were going to make the perfect sofrito, or rice & beans, or Southwestern-inspired chili Mac & cheese... but you didn't. And here I am getting old and slimy in your fridge. When did you buy this fridge? Is it time for a new one? What if it goes? What if it goes out when you least expect it? What if the hot water heater goes? You haven't changed that in a while? Time is ticking, Tommy. Time is ticking and here you are lamenting old vegetables... you had such intentions for us, Tommy. And we sit here, judging, mocking, reminding you how much you suck, Tommy.

I took each container, some baby gold potatoes, some San Marzano tomatoes, some smoked paprika because that is the spice of life, some Worcestershire sauce because it's fun to say, some soy sauce because I like to call it "I am" sauce, the sauce of existence, some salt (kosher), some pepper (grinded), a bay leaf (with the intention of removal), and a bit of oregano. 

I have some fresh basil in the fridge for later. At the 7.5-hour mark, I will immerse the blender and whip a creamy concoction. It's not the ambitious rice & beans, or Southwestern-inspired chili mac... but hey, what is?

On low for 8 hours...
...reminds me of when I worked a regular 9-to-5. On low for 8 hours. Everything was on low. Twenty years ago I pushed the ejector button on that lifestyle... but the programming, the PTSD of living in a late-stage-capitalist dystopia creates a somatic signature that rests in the firmware of each motor neuron... and every Sunday the faint echo of that big bang, the cosmic background radiation of that trauma sends a gravitational wave through my central nervous system, into my muscles, my joints, my bones. An energy with nowhere to go, it eddies and whirlpools in my shoulders, my eyes, my hands, my ears, my face, my chest...

Slow cooking on low for eight hours
If you slow-cook the same soup on low for 8 hours for 30 years, what will you end up with? A soup that takes over 20 years to cool to room temperature?

I'm a teacher now. No day is like the day before. I'm no longer on low for 8 hours. I suppose I could be... but wouldn't that defeat the purpose?

I became a teacher because the braising was making my meat fall off the bone.
I was tender... but gelatinous. The collagen bonds break into the College Inn broth, and you end up a salty mess. Bitter and burned out. 

¿Soy sauce, y tú?

This morning, I was mourning the end of the idyllic free time of an extended vacation.

“Winter break”—they give us a break so we don’t break.

Mourning the end of “free time”… but simultaneously learning that all time is “free” and none of it is free because time isn’t a thing, it’s a measurement, and I can use it however I choose. Richard Feynman came to me in a YouTube dream and told me that. And he should know.

Nobody is taking my time from me. He’d be quite disappointed with the haul. Not much to fence as I sit on the fence of the ticking second-hand. What is the resale value of time? Gently used. Pre-owned? Ha! Who owns the river? Do you own the water that flows past? Or the shore that moves in the opposite direction?

Time is money. Money is an illusion. Neither exists outside of a shared delusion.

We all wake up every morning and agree to play by a particular set of rules because we lost the instructions. Someone took the racecar and went home, leaving us with the thimble, Scotty dog, and iron. And we’re winging it past go on Mercury’s pewter boot, and it ain’t even Wednesday yet. ^{It’s miercoles we’re still alive!} _{The final straw on the camel’s back would be a dry hump in the middle of the week.}

I became a teacher because I got tired of being on low for 8 hours.

My time is mine. I use it how and where I choose. It flows by me, and sometimes I ride the current; other times I try to stand against the flow; other times I swim upstream against the rapids, to see if I can… but even when I swim against, I tack against the wind, the shore that was once teeming with activity is empty, or just a few lost souls looking for the same lost object, not sure who it belongs to when found.