FRIDGE RAID by Catherine Borra


(Background and mechanics)

There are random thoughts about the random state of affairs we are embedded in that we weave in and out or into each other: the political situation of the given country we happen to live in, the ones of other places that in some way are close to us, or that we hear about from the news, and the histories that can be researched, known, heard of and read about from different sources; we can relate personal narratives to narratives of other situations that are essentially distant, but then the inherent similarity of the plots makes one wonder if there aren’t but a few different plots available and the rest is variation on the same theme.

Considerations bridging these stories are added to the daily package of thoughts, that stem from encounters with different objects, all heavy with their own baggage of significance, their own histories and the ones they allude to. The fertile humus of the thinking animal’s brain provides a moist flower-bed for associations between stories at different latitudes of distance from our bodily standing point, and the ones pertaining to the various organic internal workings that are dealt with daily, part of the quest for the highest possible standards in our social hours, or simply for maintaining homeostasis.

In this kind of routine information processing, the data is sorted according to relevance, and it happens that even the most distant story can assume a very familiar face if it strikes the right chord. Britain pours over animal documentaries to recognize the polar aspects of human behaviour and find in pack mentality, for example, a suitable mirror.

An emotionally wet scene from the bus sends a call out to the place in the brain where that article about racism in South Africa is stored. By the end of the day, or the week, or the year there are millions of these broken chains of thought that float in the ether and probably latch onto each other like carbon chains. The mastery is in devising the appropriate contraption to capture some of these chains, to thread them together and grow them into one cohesive story, to plant them deep into the flower bed so that they develop into something that can bear fruit, rather than just looking at the seeds and wondering really, where did this all come from.

If the unity and cohesiveness of the story is a myth, at least it would be nice to have a bigger picture, with our faces printed on it, to utilize the resemblance.


Unaffected by the unspoken rules of social acceptance, babies publicly stuff the world into their mouths as a way to apprehend what is out there. This approach lingers on privately into adulthood, where stories have to be phagogitated: transference is an essential skill. Understanding comes from eating a portion of information until it lodges itself into one corner of the stomach, where it can be felt properly.

One needs to watch what food one eats because there is truly a lot of it and obesity is a rising problem in first world countries. The food of the world can’t be eaten all by one single person, and there is not enough for all. A well-balanced diet, where in a single small portion many of the nutrients that are required will be absorbed: the search for the key ingredient that can be spun out into all the information that is needed.

Trash literature and poor-quality information make you fat and from there it is a vicious cycle, movement is more difficult and those ideal ingredients are stacked in the fridge, which is an abyss away from the couch. What exactly is the light shining on?

Nutritious and cheap, the key to success if you are a food that wants to be eaten. The psychology behind you is murky, because as much as the fruit’s body is nutritious, the skin is unscarred by even a graze ā€“ as if you hadn’t a past. I may know your past but you are free from it and you look forward only, and this is unfamiliar. The future of your kind relies on consumption for proliferation. What is there in your afterlife? Continuation, transformation into liquid, and the mobility of it. In effect it is difficult to move as quickly and freely in the solid state. As a liquid, through dilution you can infiltrate the whole surface of the world, be at the same time in the water tank of a city office and in the pearls of sweat of the farmer that tends to your millions of solid clones, or in my computer screen. A blissful limbic state of complete selflessness and contemplation. You have completely alien dynamics, I have to eat you to spin out a story because I think in this way and see my life, even the unlived part, as a story, while you essentially are, in the Buddhist sense, within yourself, and you have no brain. Like a jellyfish. A useful alien. Our co-dependency is stratospheric because I live off your liquidity, yet I detect traits of xenophobia within myself as I’ve learned to mistrust those, like you, who see all and don’t do anything about it. But then you are a different beast, you’re not scared of extinction even if a strain of disease comes to mow all your plantations down because essentially you recognise yourself as liquid ā€“ be it water, money, sweat, urine, condensation, syrup. Like history that we turn to to learn things, but doesn’t really write herself. To humanise anything that is amorphous requires much more imagination. To think that we are composed by the same elements but they are organised so radically differently, and your transition from one form to another is so seamless, while ours are so hard and conscious. As you must be aware of my presence, since you also grow towards the light and respond to physical constraints, the feeling is that you perceive me exactly like you, and you’re probably right.

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