I'm not even sure when the last time I posted was. The weekend was pretty cool, I must say, but the last 4 or 5 days have come with a shifting and a sifting of ideals. You can't walk down the street around here without tripping over a soap maker so I have been spending a lot of time thinking about how to create a distinct brand. My pal, Hildy, and I made a trek to Spoutwood Farms in Glen Rock. We didn't get 100 ft inside the festival without seeing 3 soap vendors set up. It's not a bad thing, it's just food for thought. It was a great trip because we've been wanting to get down there and check it out. They host The Fairy Festival the first weekend in May and I considered getting a stand there but the cost is kinda, well, shocking, for the size of the place. However it is exactly the right demographic. But I think the tide on Shugified is turning slightly from the main event to more of a sideline. It's not going anywhere, but I think Shugified needs to come back to the basics from which it sprang...a sideline to my baking. It was inspired by my love of natural, real food and the decadence my baking has become known for. So it shall become a gift item sold in my bakery which, hopefully, will come to fruition quickly.
Yes, kids, I've finally relented and put the food business in motion. I've been fighting it tooth and nail. The last thing I wanted to worry about were the trappings of the food service business. But I've had my last gummy croissant and over baked cookie from local grocery store bakeries. It's time for The Kitchen Witch to step forward and show these shameful frozen and assembled pastry chop-shops what dessert is supposed to taste like. The thing is, I know how to cook, not how to run a business but I'll figure it out.
There are other things on my mind, strange things that I'm not sure everyone or anyone would understand. It comes from being a writer, I guess, or maybe writing is just how I know how to relate to the way my brain twitches and heaves. As I was laying in Hildy's guest room, my son safely tucked away with his aunt and cousins, I had one of those feeling I get when I think I need to start writing something down. It was the way the window looked, the way the light from the lamp outside sprayed out around the gap between the window and the pull shade, the way a factory somewhere in the distance droned on. It seemed familiar but I didn't know if it was a memory or not. I laid there looking at it, searching my brain, trying to pick up the resonance of the feeling. I know enough about my writing process to know that it is this feeling that will lead to a silent movie in my brain. Once that silent movie turns into a voice over, my voice narrating something about that movie, is when I know I need to start writing things down. That voice over sounds just like me but is far more eloquent than the voice I use to speak out loud. It's interesting when it happens that way, when there is no struggle, just words following a scene and a feeling. As I continued to lay there the silent movie never started only, stutters of snapshots, like someone quickly flipping through a photo album. I couldn't nail anything down. When I finally fell asleep my dreams were dark and industrial, with brick buildings an fire escapes dripping night air onto dark alley pavement. The dreams came in fits and sections as they are want to do. The only other very distinct thing I dreamt about was buying a house. It was a brick rancher but in all honesty the 'feeling' of the property was that of my old elementary school in Mastersonville. I bought this house yet the spirit of the previous owner flickered in and out. Sometimes he was there and sometimes he wasn't but I knew he was bad news. He put on a nice front but he was bad. I knew that one of his kids was considered 'kidnapped' but in the omniscient dream mind I knew he had killed his son. In one instance, when he had flickered back out and I was once again proprietor of the house, I started pulling up the poured-cement sidewalk and I found corpses and skeletons, dressed in rotting, shredded clothing in shallow graves beneath the sidewalk. Something about them reminded me of those horrible outdoor decorations of children with their backs to the street, as though they are on a perpetual time-out day and night. It was wicked and sickening and awful. I'm not sure where the dream came from....too much TV or too much Stephen King or something in my brain that needs to come out. I don't know. Well, I mean, I do know. I've never had a problem understanding what my dreams mean, the vividness of it, however, has left me unsettled.
And with that I shall bid you goodnight. Sweet dreams, my friends. (maniacal laugh)
Sara Smile
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