By Paul Ford
Bits of Food
(I'm working on a longer piece called "Food," to be accompanied by other longer pieces called "Shelter," "Clothing," "Sex,"
and "Work." You have to start somewhere. This is a section from its first draft.)
We ate. We ate from vending machines in North Campus, from Las Vegas Pizza on Church Avenue. We stood in line for the introduction
of the Croissanwich. From 1978 to 1986, four years until twelve, we swallowed ice cream and hoagies, sodas, cookies, pretzels,
Nip-chee crackers, Tasty-Klairs, and potato chips.
As we ate, my streets shrank. When I turned ten, we walked along Rosedale Avenue below the Francis Harvey Green Library. He
said, "Paul, remember when this was a mountain?" I told him I did. I was four years old, a slip of paper in a pullover shirt.
I lisped out, "I'm climbing up!" My father's rolling voice challenged: "Keep going! Run! Go! Run!" I scrabbled up the embankment,
little sneakers grasping the dirt, hands yanking the grass. At the top, ten seconds later, six steep and dangerous feet from
the sidewalk, I raised my hands in triumph. The valiant mountaineer, taller than my father by many inches and forty-five degrees.
Then it was time for a break and some soda.
But now I am ten and I've given up climbing. We head for the vending machines in the student center. Students smile at my
father. It is time to eat.
As we ate, my streets shrank. When I turned ten, we walked along Rosedale Avenue below the Francis Harvey Green Library. He
said, "Paul, remember when this was a mountain?" I told him I did. I was four years old, a slip of paper in a pullover shirt.
I lisped out, "I'm climbing up!" My father's rolling voice challenged: "Keep going! Run! Go! Run!" I scrabbled up the embankment,
little sneakers grasping the dirt, hands yanking the grass. At the top, ten seconds later, six steep and dangerous feet from
the sidewalk, I raised my hands in triumph. The valiant mountaineer, taller than my father by many inches and forty-five degrees.
Then it was time for a break and some soda.
But now I am ten and I've given up climbing. We head for the vending machines in the student center. Students smile at my
father. It is time to eat.
![[Top]](art/EndFleur_40x21.gif "Top")
PEEK
Ftrain.com is the website of Paul Ford and his pseudonyms. It is showing its age. I'm rewriting the code but it's taking some
time.
FACEBOOK
There is a Facebook group.
TWITTER
You will regret following me on Twitter here.
EMAIL
About the author: I've been running this website from 1997. For a living I write stories and essays, program computers, edit
things, and help people launch online publications. (LinkedIn). I wrote a novel. I was an editor at Harper's Magazine for five years; then I was a Contributing Editor; now I am a free agent. I was also on NPR's All Things Considered for a while. I still write for The Morning News, and some other places.
If you have any questions for me, I am very accessible by email. You can email me at ford@ftrain.com and ask me things and I will try to answer. Especially if you want to clarify something or write something critical. I am
glad to clarify things so that you can disagree more effectively.
POKE
Syndicate: RSS1.0, RSS2.0
Links: RSS1.0, RSS2.0
Contact
© 1974-2011 Paul Ford
Recent
@20, by Paul Ford.
Not any kind of eulogy, thanks. And no header image, either.
(October 15)
Recent Offsite Work: Code and Prose.
As a hobby I write.
(January 14)
Rotary Dial.
(August 21)
10 Timeframes.
(June 20)
Facebook and Instagram: When Your Favorite App Sells Out.
(April 10)
Why I Am Leaving the People of the Red Valley.
(April 7)
Welcome to the Company.
(September 21)
“Facebook and the Epiphanator: An End to Endings?”.
Forgot to tell you about this.
(July 20)
“The Age of Mechanical Reproduction”.
An essay for TheMorningNews.org.
(July 11)
Woods+.
People call me a lot and say: What is this new thing? You're a nerd. Explain it immediately.
(July 10)
Reading Tonight.
Reading!
(May 25)
Recorded Entertainment #2, by Paul Ford.
(May 18)
Recorded Entertainment #1, by Paul Ford.
(May 17)
Nanolaw with Daughter.
Why privacy mattered.
(May 16)
0h30m w/Photoshop, by Paul Ford.
It's immediately clear to me now that I'm writing again that I need to come up with some new forms in order to have fun here—so
that I can get a rhythm and know what I'm doing. One thing that works for me are time limits; pencils up, pencils down. So:
Fridays, write for 30 minutes; edit for 20 minutes max; and go whip up some images if necessary, like the big crappy hand
below that's all meaningful and evocative because it's retro and zoomed-in. Post it, and leave it alone. Can I do that every
Friday? Yes! Will I? Maybe! But I crave that simple continuity. For today, for absolutely no reason other than that it came
unbidden into my brain, the subject will be Photoshop. (Do we have a process? We have a process. It is 11:39 and...)
(May 13)
That Shaggy Feeling.
Soon, orphans.
(May 12)
Antilunchism, by Paul Ford.
Snack trams.
(May 11)
Tickler File Forever, by Paul Ford.
I'll have no one to blame but future me.
(May 10)
Time's Inverted Index, by Paul Ford.
(1) When robots write history we can get in trouble with our past selves. (2) Search-generated, "false" chrestomathies and
the historical fallacy.
(May 9)
Bantha Tracks.
(May 5)
