[091]
03/01/2011 11:20 p.m.

Scraps:

We can’t have sex because you don’t have the CCR5-Δ32 gene. If you had the CCR5-Δ32 gene I would be more likely to have sex with you.



If she made babies they’d be pale like death and exhausted. They would drink wasabi and curry flavored breast milk and misunderstand crucial social cues.

She says “My uterus is the size of a grapefruit,” and a delicious image of mitosis bursts into view like caviar and spittle.

Full of antibiotics, all of the bacteria in the mouth die in squeaks and jitters and the result is a metallic bitterness like the aftermath of swallowing pennies – “Did you know,” she says to me she says, “That it already has a tongue?” It is tasting an affectionate amniotic fluid and growing as with clay, building and building in an offshoot.


Things I like:
Liminal situations.
Memristers.
Piezoelectricty.
L-Glutamate.
Soldering, circuit building, fig wasps.
Coral reef colonies, angler fish.
The pedagogue.
Pity-hate.
The gene inherited from the Black Plague.
Oxytocin.




Because of a switch in the brain he understands sound both as sound and as flavor. There is thus church music that tastes like tomato tortellini soup, and sex that quenches like melting ice.

This does not, however, work in reverse: ten-cent ramen noodles and cold soy sauce does not necessarily imply the first-Tuesday-of-the-month-test-siren, though it does the other way ‘round. As a result his meals feel colorless.

Every once in a while this girl calls him while she is with someone else, and leaves the phone to the side, and allows him to lap at her own experiences – to loll amongst derisive laughter or the coo of an offer accepted.
She does this during dinnertime especially. If she is alone, she will sing for him in terrible pitch and read portions of data sheets about Texas Instruments microchips, a spice to an otherwise dull consumption. She is compiling a lexicon of tastes in the hopes of building a taste-opera tailored specifically to him, a twelve course meal of crossed wires.