What is it that makes me?

I'm not from Wearside. And I'm not Jack. Yet I am Wearside Jack. What is it that makes me?

Olives. I cannot think of them without the Arabic word coming to mind. With emphasis: I cannot. That is simply unique; and olives, therefore, are unique. Eating them, one [i.e. I] is aware of imbibing goodness. Yet surely imbibing and mastication are bedfellows only in the most tenuously Amazonian of senses? Think for a moment, and it becomes obvious: the olive is the purest distillation of the life force - of the élan vital - and he who consumes the olive will never die.

Returning to our primary question, it seems that I am Wearside Jack not because I am, but because I was both flustered and flumoxed when imposed upon to enter some sort of identifier to proceed towards this curious goal to which a curious stranger had compelled my being to strive. That is: what is is the very first thing that comes into one's mind. Namely, I am an ostrich. Think - but not - never - too much.

Think.

Black Olives: The Anatomy of Joy

I've never really been one for the black olive in the general existential hum drum, but stick 'em on a pizza, I'll drink 'em like gravy. The red grape's like that too. Eat one? Well, naturally I will (it's a while since I have) but I'd rather have a white one. At least I think that's the case, as it's a while since I had a red one; I'm not really a one for fruit, truthfully. So, yes, wine anyway - red every time, without equivocation, except with certain cheeses, though I forget which. I don't tend to be a one for eating and drinking in the same three minute period, truthfully.

What to surmise? Well, there's a process, certainly. That would explain it. And it does explain it. Black, Green; Red, White. Something happens, and I like it.

Were they fruit, I expect I could love these walls.

Discuss.