The Rice Cooker (Part I)
There is a rice cooker resting on an old oak table. (Put a few knots on the table’s surface and scatter a few grains of rice and some dried loose tea about about to give the scene character if you’d like). Sunlight washes in from a window and the scene rests in a pregnant silence.
And from the silence comes the sound of a click, and there is change.
Sound and steam arise, slow and cautious at first, life afraid to extend itself into the world, but with time confidence prevails. The steam becomes thicker, almost like dough, and its jet becomes a roaring volcano. Existence. Exploding presence and a potent desire to be. Relentless in this moment, a symbol of some powerful timeless potential present in all.
Suddenly, but without the element of shock or intrusion that one would expect, there is another click offered in response to the first (perhaps an echo?) The roar of the steam wanes, the scene slowly fades back into the inanimate, and then,again, there is nothing.
In this silent aftermath, from our disembodied perspective of a contemplator, one wonders if anything came out of all this passion. Well, you will never know, for no one ever came around to this particular cooker to see what was contained inside. Unexamined.
totorobaga 