PIFA Street Fair
Photos by J.R. Blackwell
Evidence of the Baker
I don’t usually tell people that I’m a Prophet, whose words are writ in a holy book. It seems rude. But it’s also best not to deny these things, and sometimes, one must come out of the Prophet closet. I’m very minor Prophet, which is probably for the best, as I’ve heard about the things that are done to major Prophets, so I think it’s best to stay off the Prophet Radar. All the same, my words are in The Gospel of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, which is a very silly holy book, which makes good sense, as I am about 38% silly myself.
If we were to walk along the beach together, holding hands, and were to find at our feet a German chocolate cake, we would undoubtedly be surprised. Our shock at finding this seductive pastry results from the inborn knowledge that cake does not rise from the sands unbidden. A cake must have a baker. We understand that cakes do not simply appear randomly out of the void because of their form and complexity; if the frosting were removed, or the butter replaced with tuna salad, what we would have before us would not be the delicious concoction that we call cake. It would be burned, unfrosted tuna, and that would be disappointing. There had to be a Baker for our cake, and further, since it is a glistening, moist German chocolate cake, there must also be Germans.
For we all also know that, like cake, chocolate is not naturally occurring. Chocolate must be created by Germans, people who have alchemic power over the raw substance of cacao, thus to make it into the divine element we know as chocolate. The process of making chocolate is a mystical one, as any process that creates such a delicious product must undoubtedly be. The creators of chocolate are almost as complex as the chocolate itself, and tracing this line of logic, we begin to comprehend that chocolate makers (Germans) must also have a Baker. The majestic nature of chocolate clearly points to a mystical origin, and since the world is full of majesty, we suddenly understand that this Baker must also be a source of great spiritual power as well.
This world, which is infinitely more complex than cake, even if the cake is both German and chocolate, cannot occur out of chance: It must have a divine Baker. There are levels of form and purpose that will not rise without the intervention of a Baker, and the world is full of such mixed and layered forms. The most striking of these forms is that of a Pirate.
Nothing but the divine could have created such a glorious creature as the Pirate, let alone a ship full of Pirates! Pirates could only have been created by a divine Baker who, with His wisdom, applied levels of logic and organization to the completed life of all existence. A Pirate is made up of several distinct elements: his love for the sea, his fanciful attire, his endless search for booty, and his parrot. His love of the sea is complex, for, as he loves the lady of the sea, breaking her maidenhead with each thrust of his prow, he also scorns her, as she brings him storms and danger. A Pirate has fanciful costume; sashes and golden rings that could not have emerged from the void, but have a form and function made specifically for the body of the Pirate. His lustful search for booty borders on an obsession, an endless quest for the hidden island that rumors say contains a cursed treasure. It seems contradictory that a Pirate would search for cursed treasure, but that in itself is evidence of the divine plan of our Baker.
Even the parrot that sits perched on the Pirate’s shoulder is masterfully formed, a creature able to mimic the Pirate’s own words, lending an ominous weight to their meaning. Such a bird could not have been created from a process by which elements available in the primordial stew of a young earth experienced passing electrical currents that stimulated them to form a variety of molecules, including a self-replicating molecule, which, over time, produced varieties that competed with one another for resources, becoming ever more complex through competition and mutation, some of which developed strategies involving cooperation for an advantage in the replication process, an advantage that produced an interactive whole that could have developed limbs for movement, light-sensitive cells that eventually became eyes, and bright colorful feathers that would be used to attract mates and thus continue the process of replication originated in those basic self-replicating molecules of the primordial stew. No! That explanation is far too complex to be accurate, and moreover, I don’t understand it, so it must be wrong.
What I do understand is cake. Cake, especially German chocolate cake, is scrumptious and was made by a Baker. The theory of science speculates that at the creation of things, there was a Big Bang. Could we not see this as a Big Baking? What of the Baker? Who, at the beginning of time, baked all things, completed the mixing, and rolled out the world, giving it a warm center and a crispy crust? Who was this Baker, this elemental divinity who created the world? Our only explanation for this Baker is the Flying Spaghett i Monster, the creature that mystically baked the world into being. Holy men with the gift of sight are able to discern the teachings of the Flying Spaghetti Monster. These holy men are good guys, not above lending a ten-spot or buying a guy a beer. To say that they are wrong, that what they preach is not complete fact, is to say that they are evil liars, which I will not stand by and listen to you say about our holy men.
Scientists claim that the creation of the earth was something involving math or chemicals. I find math and the physical sciences to be irritating, and those scientists, none of whom have ever lent me a ten-spot, are stuck-up jerks who are blind to the truth of the Flying Spaghetti Monster. How many elephants had to die to make their ivory towers? Jerks.
Evidence of a Holy Baker is in our world, in cake and in chocolate. Scientists tell us that the world was a stew, when I think it is clearly a layered cake. They have the stew idea, and I have a theory that stands by cake. Who but the divine, who was actually there, could say which one of us is right? Cakes are made by mortal bakers, chocolate is divinely mixed by Germans, and Pirates are inexplicably complex. All these factors lead us to the conclusion that our world was created by the Flying Spaghetti Monster, who, in His wisdom, baked us all.
-J.R. Blackwell
(A reading from The Gospel of the Flying Spaghetti Monster)
I have been photographing food a lot recently. NO COMPLAINTS.
Photos by J.R. Blackwell
Every movement was slow, calculated, each to be a beautiful stance on it’s own. The crowd watched the slowness, entranced.
The Fountain at the PIFA Street Faire in Philadelphia
Photos by J.R. Blackwell
Cherry Blossom Festival Photocall in Philadelphia PA
Photos by J.R. Blackwell
Pho at Saigon Cuisine in West Philadelphia
Photos by J.R. Blackwell
My gorgeous, brilliant friends, Jessica and Ruth.
The Philadelphia Beard and Mustache Competition
Photos by J.R. Blackwell
The Geek Issue of Philadelphia Weekly
Cover photos by J.R. Blackwell
She Looks Desperate
Look at her in that short skirt, she looks desperate.
That is too short for the year that she was born, look at her, desperate to be loved, to make love, to live, to feel the touch of skin on skin, to laugh with someone else to feel their breath on her naked flesh, desperate, she must be, desperate to give, to take, to eat and drink and breathe, to joyfully pull on whatever clothes she wants, regardless of age or the rolls of flesh thick from summer ice cream and winter wines she so desperately consumes, like she only has limited time on this glorious, spinning globe, this precious earth, just a moment, before disease or violence takes her and all of us, desperate for one more meal, one more breath, one more word to say, which is always love.
She looks desperate now, desperate enough to give zero, yes, zero fucks about what anyone else thinks.
Waiting For An Invitation
Today I visited a restaurant where you make your own custom lunch by choosing all the ingredients you like on a little screen and then getting a little printout with your order. When they call the number on your printout - Voila! Custom Lunch.
Today, when I was waiting for my food, I saw a little scene play out that got me thinking about Asking for Things and the folly of Waiting For An Invitation.
Here’s the situation: you order at the little screens, but you pay at the cashier, who is this young woman in a hat who stands behind the register and (when not taking your money or handing you your custom lunch) sorts condiments.
When I was waiting for my lunch, she was sorting condiments. An old woman walked up and stood in the general vicinity of the cash register holding a receipt and some cash.
The young woman at the register sorted some condiments.
The old woman waited.
The young woman handed out some orders.
The old woman waited.
The young woman sorted some condiments.
Finally, the old woman, now furious, walked up to the counter and said “Have you dismissed all the cashiers?”
The young woman looked around “No?” she said.
“Because some of us are waiting to pay.” said the old woman.
“I’m right here!” said the young woman, and took her cash and receipt.
I watched that play out, and I thought, sure, maybe the younger woman could have spotted the older woman waiting in the busy cafe, maybe she should have invited her up to the counter, or asked her if she needed help.
But I also thought: how many of us are waiting to be invited? How many of us aren’t being helped just because we aren’t asking? How many of us are getting angrier at the world, at each other, because we aren’t getting what we want? How many people are waiting to help us, if only we would ask?
Having an invitation is a nice thing, a great thing. It makes one feel wanted, included. But maybe we shouldn’t wait to be invited, to ask, before asking ourselves. Maybe we must be the ones that do the inviting.
2/5 Friendships ➝ Science Bros
This is how I feel when I get a text from my husband.
(Source: fayhime)
In memory of Corvin Kerr Axelrod, my first-born son, my little bird.
My impossible boy.
Our baby only lived for a few hours, long enough for us to sing to him, hold him, and watch him fly away.
Exit: Positivity <— Negativity
Photo by J.R. Blackwell
