Just Words

If I may be permitted to speak freely, which I suppose I can here if anywhere: what a pleasure it is to gossip. To praise those we adore or to commiserate over those who had subtly or not so subtly offended us. How much I have missed this simple albeit guilty pleasure. To feel that one is a part of a community and capable of liking and disliking and in the company of others who will listen and weigh and chime in. I have missed this. How wicked.

I am visiting my best friend in the whole wide world, here at her place in Buffalo. She is a busy little thing. I have only nice things to say about her and her strength. She is passionate about dance and candy making and the way sugar dissolves in water even though it is very sticky.

She sings the song that just played as another song plays on the Bing Crosby record. She is passionate about this corner of Buffalo, as we walk a few blocks to the store she gives me the grand tour. She doesn't like sushi (because of the seaweed) but we can't be perfect. Mostly though, I just feel good around her.

Often in my life, I feel like all I have is a few words. To exchange so many so freely, to dole them out haphazardly is a treat.

But when it comes to the proper words, the words I feel so deeply that I shiver with them. I have no way of getting them to her. My awe of her. My sincere support. My total loyalty.

She's all bustle & beauty. And even when I am nearby, I admire from afar.

Isn't friendship amazing? That any of us can keep in touch. That any of us care enough to. That only those few people can make you feel this way. That in a world full of people who pass you by as ordinary, only a few people walk by and then can't look away.

I would give her anything. I want to give her the proper words that strengthen her when she feels weak, and soften her when she feels too hard. But I am giving what I can.

I am giving her all of the words that come so easily when she is across from me. All of the words that I pinch out and stuff back like a miser so often. And it makes me want to be more friendly.

It makes me want more friends and at the same time it makes me want for nothing more than the few good friends I already have.

Bears

I feel a bit lately like I am coming around full circle.

The very first thing I "wrote" in this life I actually dictated to my mother because I couldn't write yet. It took me a while to learn the whole actual writing thing. Letters are too unpredictable, too illogical, I preferred phonics. I often felt betrayed by the language I had already grown to love.

The first thing I wrote was titled "I like bubblegum, my Dad likes watches". It was my attempt at the time to reconcile the already quite stormy relationship I had with my Dad. On the one hand I looked up to him.

He knew the stars, and built things (buildings, canoes, hot air balloons, tepees). He could snap his fingers, he could play the guitar, he could drive a car, he could tell the time, he could put me in check mate in two moves, and (wonder of all the wonders) he could whistle like no one else I'd ever heard (or have ever heard since).

On the other hand, he was a grouch. He didn't like to have fun. He didn't seem amazed at the things he could do at all. And what's more, he didn't seem amazed at the things I was learning to do. He didn't seem amazed with me. He was, in fact, downright angered by most of the things I did.

In the door he would come; I would be waiting there. A big hug ready just for him, a big smile on my cherubic little face. But he was angry.

I didn't understand my father's rage then, and I don't understand it now. But I tried to. I tried to be logical. I tried to figure out all the things I must be doing so wrong to incur his wrath. To anyone who doesn't think kids think through things more than many adults do: fuck you.

He's made plenty of excuses, and I've added several of my own, but I don't think either of us understands.

Yes, I wrote about he must be like the bear. He must not be really angry, he just wants something that I (as a bee) am clearly withholding from him. He just needs to eat. And of course I, as the bee, cannot help but get angry when he comes along demanding whatever it is he needs.

But the small offering ends in a sort of draw. A sort of, we both have our faults so let's compromise. An offer I don't remember ever getting in return.

No doubt I pulled the metaphor from Winnie the Pooh, or Yogi Bear. I learned to write through imitation, and yet was always credited with great imagination.

In life we don't choose how we are perceived. We can only try to understand and then move on. This is a lesson I am finally learning, all these years later.

Gingerbread Bees

A sweet Polish fairy tale: The Gingerbread Bees.

And now for the bitter:

Isn't it wonderful how we never recover?

Do me a favor. If you have a home, when you're home, later, avoiding your family, staring at the dog, and they ask you where you've been, please just don't say that you were out somewhere watching someone being clever, watching some smart-mouthed nobody work himself into some dumb-ass frenzy. Please say instead, when you don't say anything because no one asked you, that you saw someone who was trying. I choose the word with care. I'm trying. A trying man. A feeling thing, in a wordy body. Poor Thom's a-trying. Poor Thom is fucking cold. I imagine you people have some experience with the Elizabethans. Some experience with cold...

I may have plans anyway. So forget I said anything. Or imagined you at all. Forget I thought or felt anything...

But so that morning, the messy morning of the messy night, that morning on a walk through a meadow, the boy was attacked by bees. A nest had fallen onto the ground and he had kicked it by accident, his eyes shut because of the sun and maybe some other reason he had. Is it clear I love my little subject, and therefore don't pry too hard into his reasons, his empty head, his stupid little agenda on earth? Anyway, the bees. They swarmed into his eyes and mouth, stung him on every skinny surface. The boy did not, at first, make any sound. The poor thing did not understand. He thought, out in the meadow, that he had done something wrong. He thought that the pain was already in his body and was only coming out then to punish him, that the bees had only happened along later and were trying to help. His body was exploding in painful sores, which the bees were trying to salve, to soothe... Kind of beautiful, if you like that sort of thing. If you like the idea of a little boy desperately spreading stinging bees over his bleeding body. Desperately yelling "Help me, Bees, Help," and putting his little swollen hand into the hive for more.

We've all made similar mistakes. Mistaking the bee for the flower, giving our heart away to the first prick or bitch to come down the trickling river. Anyway, the boy crawled enough away, almost died, lay there until evening, neither crying nor laughing, a thing of nature, in pain among the crickets and frogs...

One night, picture it a winter night, one night in a park, walking off the day's food poisoning, he came upon some vomit, vomited, and then collapsed. He wondered, as he shivered on the freezing ground, covered in stomach fluid, saliva, and bile, if there might be, you know, more to life than this. Nearby, a brightly-lit skating rink. He lay there, in the slush, listening to Christmas music and chirping elegies to reindeer and snow. The shivers of his childhood came, then went, then returned redoubled and stopped. He got up and went over to the rink, leaned on the side. Families glided by. Couples. Call it the Christmas spirit, call it a coincidence, call it whatever you like, but, suddenly, in the bright light and beautiful music, he got sick and collapsed again.

You're a nice-looking crowd. I see we have some couples here tonight. And on came the animals, two by two. Good for you...

I know this wasn't much, but, let it be enough. Do. (Spoken normally and quietly,) Boo. (Brief pause.) Isn't it great to be alive?

-Excerpt from Will Eno's Thom Pain (Based On Nothing)

My husband and I saw this monologue, done exceedingly well, for our first date. If you ever get the chance to see it, do.

Part Three

The weekend after Thanksgiving we traveled down to Kansas, to visit my husband's family. His mother made it a delicious & delightful weekend. There is always comfort there. There are always woven-things and trees.

On top of all that my mother-in-law gave me some beautiful polish pottery! It reminds me of artichokes & Celtic magic. The design is called "rhine valley".

Now I've been reading Polish fairy tales, watching Lolek en Bolek, & admiring books. Not to mention baking meatballs in this beautiful dish & in general taking great joy in it.

The picture at the top reminds me of my mother-in-law. Thank you magic-weaver!

Chai

Perfect time of the year for Chai and for Tessa Rumsey:

Your Diamond Sutra

Once the mirage was endless--once the horizon was distant--once you arrived on the landscape and believed that without you the landscape would cease to exist the road is wide, straight, bright, crystal, and the sun is at the end of it--out of you, out of tune, radio moon transmitting winter to the naked maples outlined in snow, cold bandages for the abandoned, pale attempts to fill the hole--rowboat suspended above the blank meadow--you passed through the cathedral your soul was carried by sparrows--halo held up by air, field of rusting poppies but no stems appear, horse without a rider, breath without--lost world shimmering, a pot full of copper pennies--pressing close to you, as if you were cold, flying over the snow--one radiant coin placed upon each believer's tongue--what is the body, what have I done--dying to remember--your eyes in December--blue fish frozen inside such white and frozen ponds--where does the body go, where have you gone--(Later, in the death field, such black and poppy horses---) how will I find you when I become the dust?--but the sun--the sun--the sun is at the end of us.

-Tessa Rumsey

Honey

Cézanne The Irish lady can say, that to-day is every day. Caesar can say that every day is to-day and they say that every day is as they say. In this way we have a place to stay and he was not met because he was settled to stay. When I said settled I meant settled to stay. When I said settled to stay I meant settled to stay Saturday. In this way a mouth is a mouth. In this way if in as a mouth if in as a mouth where, if in as a mouth where and there. Believe they have water too. Believe they have that water too and blue when you see blue, is all blue precious too, is all that that is precious too is all that and they meant to absolve you. In this way Cézanne nearly did nearly in this way. Cézanne nearly did nearly did and nearly did. And was I surprised. Was I very surprised. Was I surprised. I was surprised and in that patient, are you patient when you find bees. Bees in a garden make a specialty of honey and so does honey. Honey and prayer. Honey and there. There where the grass can grow nearly four times yearly. -Gertrude Stein Consider trying on another blog: here or here. Afterthoughts: Neither honey nor bee for me. -Sappho From the fact that honey appears bitter to some and sweet to others Democritus argued that honey itself was neither sweet nor bitter, but Heraclitus said that it was both. -Sextus

Please do consider reading Anne Carson's Eros the Bittersweet.

Part Two

(Yeah, I know, Thanksgiving is really over and done with. But my story isn't. I suppose you could skip this post until next November, if you'd like.)

My Grandma Vera was an honorable guest at our humble apartment Thanksgiving Day. She was wearing a charming outfit complete with lariat necklace (like this only better).

She was bustled in for some Whole Foods coffee, which we have found to be delicious. Served in our Fuel mugs, which we have had for a few years and are full of fond memories of Mount Vernon, IA.

She was given the grand tour of our two bedroom apartment. And she seemed delighted. "Of course Hope would have a game room!" "Ah! There's my attempt at abstract art, which failed!" And my favorite comment of all: "Your apartment is so comfortable!" or "Their apartment is so them!"

My Grandma Vera really knows how to be a gracious guest, as much as she is usually the charming host. I adore her apartment, it changes subtly seasonally but it also has many things that never change. She obviously has put a lot of thought into the details, and a lot of herself.

To hear my Grandma Vera, the person I look up to when home decorating as in so many other areas, compliment my home... best feeling ever.

Bob and I both agreed, after she was whisked away by my parents, that the best compliment we could receive was that our apartment is comfortable. It is a common goal we share. That our apartment can be welcoming, even rejuvenating, possibly someday inspiring, but also very personal to us. To complete that balance of a safe haven with a balance of our personal expression. So that anyone can feel at home, but it is still definitely our home.

Bob and I had the best conversation about all this, and about other mutual dreams we had never before discussed for how our home would be decades down the line.

All the while my brother prepared the turkey at my parents house, and we were away from the stress of it all. Then we arrived just as it was coming out of the oven.

We contributed: stuffing, mashed potatoes (sticky), gravy, and Brussels sprouts. I think I won over a few more people with the Brussels sprouts, an under loved vegetable in my opinion.

I couldn't have asked for a better day!

Atmospheric Thanksgiving Part One

(One of my Grandma Vera's boxes, given to me with most of her collection)

It is one of those case of having too much to tell. Though Thanksgiving growing up was never much of a holiday for me, even up to graduation from college, it has become a day (or really a week) that I cherish. For the past several years I had the privilege of putting on Thanksgiving, and between the sticky potatoes and often-cold side dishes there have been some special treats and hearty laughs. This year, however, it was somewhat out of my hands.

It was a nice break, but I intend to take the reins again next year despite this success. I simply love putting on Thanksgiving. And here's why: I love creating environments of comfort and inspiration. Few holidays present such an opportunity for this type of environment, in fact I have a theory that Thanksgiving is really all about the harvest. We celebrate the comforts the last several seasons have left us with, which we hope will get us through the difficult winter come-what-may.

Really we had at least three different Thanksgivings this year, and I want to share a bit of each here. First, we visited my Grandma Vera's retirement home for a free Thanksgiving feast the Sunday before the big day.

My Grandma Vera was married 74 years ago on Thanksgiving. They had oyster stew, and then climbed into a car to drive across state to my Grandpa Elof's new job. Along the way the back of the car made a racket, but they assumed it was tin cans tied to the bumper. Actually it was their car falling apart, but they made it anyway.

When they arrived in town, the man my Grandpa Elof was to get the keys to their new apartment from was not there. The neighbors spotted them as "the newlyweds" and word traveled down the street as they yelled across from their windows. The man with the keys was discovered.

Unfortunately, Grandpa Elof died when I was a freshman in high school. I certainly wish he'd had more time. My Grandma still remembers him, still tells stories about things he would do or jokes he would like. She manages to include him somehow in everything. I have a lot of respect for both of them.

It became clear throughout the Sunday dinner that Grandma Vera had forgotten her invitation to Thursday's Thanksgiving and she was most happy to be reminded. To sweeten the deal my sister and I invited her to visit our apartments before the feast. At this point my Grandma Vera was glowing, which is always so beautiful to see.

She began to happily chat with us, which is rare since she is a bit shy and so are we. She discussed how fascinated she is with today's technology. She seemed particularly interested in our cell phones. She talked about how different things had been when she was born. Born into a sod house with no running water. I love it when she talks about her past, which she does more now that I have conveyed to her my genuine interest.

(Recently she showed me pictures of my great grandparents. I have my Great-Grandpa Charles Elof's nose!)

After the meal, my siblings had to leave. The rest of us played a jolly game of Pinochle. Games are another link I have to my Grandma Vera and Grandpa Elof. Gaming runs from that side of the family, though my Dad never likes to play games and didn't even when we were young. My Grandma is still quite cunning competition in Pinochle. Though, you can tell ever so slightly her memory is starting to give out around the edges.

All I could possibly hope for in life is that I live as long, as well, and as healthfully as she has.

The Gao Brothers Blow My Mind

"Miss Mao Trying to Poise Herself at the top of Lenin's Head".

The Gao brothers have an exhibit at the Kemper Museum, as well. They produce some of the most provocative art I have seen in a long while. As my husband, my brother, and I left the museum we all turned to each other and said, almost in unison, something positive about the exhibit. If you don't find something that makes you think or downright inspires you, then I'll give your time back.

For Now

I spent all of my blogging energy points on holiday letter writing today. Which is a shame, because it was an epic Thanksgiving-time, and I have several things to share. For today, I will start by suggesting you watch this video. Also visit the Kemper Museum of Contemporary Art in Kansas City, if you ever get the chance.

This isn't actually the video I saw there, an excerpt from that video can be found here. Unfortunately, I don't think the excerpt gives the actual video complete justice. I was fascinated to see a video as a display in a museum, with it's own little plaque and everything. It consisted mostly of various shots of a man playing an Argentinian tango on the accordion, and dancers. It was enchanting. Here's more information about that.

I couldn't help but be reminded of Anne Carson. A writer I pretty much adore all around.

Enjoy!

(Pictures taken by my husband at the entrance of the museum. Spider by Louise Bourgeois. Campiello del Remer by Chihuly.)

We Gathered in Spring

I am reading a beautiful copy of Don Quixote, as old as 1874. It came to me from Canada some months back. I haven't made much headway reading it from cover to cover, but I find that when I need for cheering up reading a passage or two does the trick. "We Gathered in Spring" by Midlake matched up pretty well with this particular passage, I felt. Also, for fun! Or, if you care for cartoons.

"Ah! what a sad state your worship's brains are in!" said Sancho. "Tell
me, senor, do you mean to travel all that way for nothing, and to let
slip and lose so rich and great a match as this where they give as a
portion a kingdom that in sober truth I have heard say is more than
twenty thousand leagues round about, and abounds with all things
necessary to support human life, and is bigger than Portugal and Castile
put together? Peace, for the love of God! Blush for what you have said,
and take my advice, and forgive me, and marry at once in the first
village where there is a curate; if not, here is our licentiate who will
do the business beautifully; remember, I am old enough to give advice,
and this I am giving comes pat to the purpose; for a sparrow in the hand
is better than a vulture on the wing, and he who has the good to his hand
and chooses the bad, that the good he complains of may not come to him."

"Look here, Sancho," said Don Quixote. "If thou art advising me to marry,
in order that immediately on slaying the giant I may become king, and be
able to confer favours on thee, and give thee what I have promised, let
me tell thee I shall be able very easily to satisfy thy desires without
marrying; for before going into battle I will make it a stipulation that,
if I come out of it victorious, even I do not marry, they shall give me a
portion portion of the kingdom, that I may bestow it upon whomsoever I
choose, and when they give it to me upon whom wouldst thou have me bestow
it but upon thee?"

"That is plain speaking," said Sancho; "but let your worship take care to
choose it on the seacoast, so that if I don't like the life, I may be
able to ship off my black vassals and deal with them as I have said;
don't mind going to see my lady Dulcinea now, but go and kill this giant
and let us finish off this business; for by God it strikes me it will be
one of great honour and great profit."

"I hold thou art in the right of it, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and I
will take thy advice as to accompanying the princess before going to see
Dulcinea; but I counsel thee not to say anything to any one, or to those
who are with us, about what we have considered and discussed, for as
Dulcinea is so decorous that she does not wish her thoughts to be known
it is not right that I or anyone for me should disclose them."

"Well then, if that be so," said Sancho, "how is it that your worship
makes all those you overcome by your arm go to present themselves before
my lady Dulcinea, this being the same thing as signing your name to it
that you love her and are her lover? And as those who go must perforce
kneel before her and say they come from your worship to submit themselves
to her, how can the thoughts of both of you be hid?"

"O, how silly and simple thou art!" said Don Quixote; "seest thou not,
Sancho, that this tends to her greater exaltation? For thou must know
that according to our way of thinking in chivalry, it is a high honour to
a lady to have many knights-errant in her service, whose thoughts never
go beyond serving her for her own sake, and who look for no other reward
for their great and true devotion than that she should be willing to
accept them as her knights."

"It is with that kind of love," said Sancho, "I have heard preachers say
we ought to love our Lord, for himself alone, without being moved by the
hope of glory or the fear of punishment; though for my part, I would
rather love and serve him for what he could do."

"The devil take thee for a clown!" said Don Quixote, "and what shrewd
things thou sayest at times! One would think thou hadst studied."

"In faith, then, I cannot even read."

Master Nicholas here called out to them to wait a while, as they wanted
to halt and drink at a little spring there was there. Don Quixote drew
up, not a little to the satisfaction of Sancho, for he was by this time
weary of telling so many lies, and in dread of his master catching him
tripping, for though he knew that Dulcinea was a peasant girl of El
Toboso, he had never seen her in all his life. Cardenio had now put on
the clothes which Dorothea was wearing when they found her, and though
they were not very good, they were far better than those he put off. They
dismounted together by the side of the spring, and with what the curate
had provided himself with at the inn they appeased, though not very well,
the keen appetite they all of them brought with them.

Reindeer Smorgasbord

Lately I have been smitten with all that is speckled, freckled, dotted, starry, or brindled. Therefore, I have decided to make deer my animal for the holiday season. (And, yes, this is in part about reclaiming a symbol that was stolen from me some years ago.) I know of nothing more magical than a flying deer.

Consider this from Midlake, or this from Amy Sol, or even that from Yumiko Kayukawa.

And if you're in the mood for a magical story: Japanese, Turkish, or Irish.

Or perhaps a Wordsworth poem involving the promise of flying deer & a misfortunate Ruth. Or one by William Butler Yeats, again about the Irish bard Oisin.

I'm only a teensy bit obsessed.

Great Blue Heron Takes Flight

Today I am missing nature. Today I am missing the birds.

The Great Blue

The wharf smells

of warm wood.

Thick Missouri laps

the wharf's rim.

We spy as

out of a sward

the blue heron kicks

off and flaps

away.

Or consider this great poem:

From the Shore

A lone gray bird,

Dim-dipping, far-flying,
Alone in the shadows and grandeurs and tumults
Of night and the sea
And the stars and storms.

Out over the darkness it wavers and hovers,
Out into the gloom it swings and batters,
Out into the wind and the rain and the vast,
Out into the pit of a great black world,
Where fogs are at battle, sky-driven, sea-blown,
Love of mist and rapture of flight,
Glories of chance and hazards of death
On its eager and palpitant wings.

Out into the deep of the great dark world,
Beyond the long borders where foam and drift
Of the sundering waves are lost and gone
On the tides that plunge and rear and crumble.

-Carl Sandburg

For other excellent bird poems you need look no further than this link. But as for me, it does feel like a Carl Sandburg day.

We Build Up the World's Great Cities

I come from a family of engineers, teachers, and lawyers. My Grandma was an artist, as well as a teacher. My Grandpa was instrumental in building up the sewer system in Lincoln. My Dad has been building things my entire life, most recently solar ovens, in addition to being a computer programmer. My sister is a Physics teacher and my brother wants to build roller coasters. I myself have long been aware that I desire hands on projects.

Revelation came to me recently through an unlikely source. A facebook quiz. It marked me as an architect, and after listening to its explanation I have to agree with it. I am an artist who builds works of art. I am a philosopher who constantly builds my world view.

This is why I am drawn to collage. This is why I am fascinated by that which defies structure. This is why I am a poet who thinks in terms of physical texture as she is writing (another recent revelation). Who builds her poems out of "connections" she finds in the world. And this is why, all of my daydreams involve a certain whole environment I am working toward rather than a specific position in society.

It also explains why I have been called the hub of my friend group. The one who chooses friends and creates environments.

In addition my long standing obsession with a world made of one substance. As a kid this was candy. More recently I have found inspiration in the Greek philosophers who sought to pinpoint the one substance that the entire world is made out of. My two favorite theories being fire and air by Anaximanes & Democritus.

What a lofty goal indeed to understand the structure of the whole universe. The quiz points out that many would see this as arrogant. For me, it is my calling. I feel it is my duty. Not that I think I will ever succeed, just that I feel we are meant to try.

I don't take a break. I am constantly building. I am constantly burrowing.

I'll leave you with this:

We Are the Music-Makers

We are the music-makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams. World-losers and world-forsakers, Upon whom the pale moon gleams; Yet we are the movers and shakers, Of the world forever, it seems. With wonderful deathless ditties We build up the world's great cities, And out of a fabulous story We fashion an empire's glory: One man with a dream, at pleasure, Shall go forth and conquer a crown; And three with a new song's measure Can trample an empire down. We, in the ages lying In the buried past of the earth, Built Nineveh with our sighing, And Babel itself with our mirth; And o'erthrew them with prophesying To the old of the new world's worth; For each age is a dream that is dying, Or one that is coming to birth. Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy

Dear Sky, My Love

Winter With the Gulf Stream

The boughs, the boughs are bare enough
But earth has never felt the snow.
Frost-furred our ivies are and rough

With bills of rime the brambles show.
The hoarse leaves crawl on hissing ground
Because the sighing wind is low.

But if the rain-blasts be unbound
And from dank feathers wring the drops
The clogged brook runs with choking sound

Kneading the mounded mire that stops
His channel under clammy coats
Of foliage fallen in the copse.

A simple passage of weak notes
Is all the winter bird dare try.
The bugle moon by daylight floats

So glassy white about the sky,
So like a berg of hyaline,
And pencilled blue so daintily,

I never saw her so divine.
But through black branches, rarely dressed
In scarves of silky hot and shine,

The webbed and the watery west
Where yonder crimson fireball sets
Looks laid for feasting and for rest.

I see long reefs of violets
In beryl-covered ferns so dim,
A gold-water Pactolus frets

It's brindled wharves and yellow brim,
The waxen colours weep and run,
And slendering to his burning rim

Into the flat blue mist the sun
Drops out and the day is done.

-Gerard Manley Hopkins

Love preparing to fly

He play'd his wings as though for flight;

They webb'd the sky with glassy light.

His body sway'd upon tiptoes,

Like a wind-perplexed rose;

In eddies of the wind he went

At last up the blue element.

-G.M. Hopkins

Mecca-Mart

This weekend my husband and I spent our first few hours at Trader Joe's.

It wasn't the most pleasant experience. I don't think the store is really set up to flow. I think it's set up to float around in. Aisles and stands are in general set up to make the place seem smaller than it is. All of this I heartily approve of, other than the fact the Omahans flocked this weekend to the newly opened store. It was a chaotic mess.

That aside. I plan to always go there before a party from now on, and occasionally supplement my groceries there. There were a number of treasures: cheap wine, cheapish goodies, & good cheese. Though admittedly not matching the selection of Whole Foods in any of these areas, and not being much, if at all, cheaper.

I must say, I enjoyed the general circus aesthetic of many of their products as well as their bags.

I am willing to give them another few chances. And like I said, I would be remiss not to stop by there before a party.

Sunday dinner consisted of wine and cheese and crackers and other goodies. Not healthy, but oh so decadent and indulgent. Also, a merry closeness before the workweek was upon us.

Comfort

To me, being comforted is not just about feeling pleasant. It's about regaining wellness, being strengthened. And indeed, a quick google search for the etymology of the word "comfort" reveals that there has long been this association.

This past week I felt successful. There is always that sneaking suspicion at such times that my best just isn't good enough. I am all too quick to listen to the naysayers at the expense of forgetting the outpouring of support.

But. This weekend. Snug in our burrow, & even out exploring in the snow and Trader Joe's. I realize that I am strong, that I have always been strong. I feel rejuvenated in the light of a man who is strong and noble. I feel honored that he has chosen me. I feel blessed in all things.

Midlake - Fortune

Looks like a day for a cup of tea. Looks like a day for a good book. It's a Jane Eyre type of day, though I'll probably wander elsewhere. ""Still indomitable was the reply -- "I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself."

And, if I'm honest, it looks like the day to bunker down in front of the tv at some point and watch cartoons.

I know I've been stuck on Stevens this week, but I connect so much with this line today: "Only the real can be unreal today, be hidden and alive."

I must confess that I see the gloominess of a day like today before I see the haunting beauty it surrounds me with.

I was given the cold shoulder yesterday, and was reminded that rejection hurts. That people are not always reasonable nor kind. That many people do not share my passion for getting to the bottom of things.

Because we really don't get much time. Because there is already too much pain in the world. I choose to face my fears. I choose to open up even though I am so scared of rejection. The outcome may have been poor, but I am still proud of myself.

More and more I am blessed with a well-centered inwardness that allows me to be outward. More and more I embrace Whitman and his sincerity. More and more I embrace Stevens and his revelation through obscurity.

(Midlake just gives me chills. Another song that really resonates with me today is their "The Courage of Others". But really I could just listen to all of their songs all day. Okay. I can't help it. Here's one more if you've the time.)

Coasters

I made some coasters! They actually took quite a bit longer than I imagined. Averaging a few hours each. I suppose I will set a better pace as I grow as a seamstress. But I do love layers. I do.

I hope I'm not the only one.

Through the Looking Glass

(Painting by Amy Sol)

I enjoyed the experience of yesterday's montage, and today led me to another. I found this song on another blog. I've been reading a beautiful copy of Alice's Adventures, etc. I quite enjoyed this passage:

`I don't know what you mean by "glory,"' Alice said.

Humpty Dumpty smiled contemptuously. `Of course you don't -- till I tell you. I meant "there's a nice knock-down argument for you!"'

`But "glory" doesn't mean "a nice knock-down argument,"' Alice objected.

`When I use a word,' Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone, `it means just what I choose it to mean -- neither more nor less.'

`The question is,' said Alice, `whether you can make words mean so many different things.'

`The question is,' said Humpty Dumpty, `which is to be master - - that's all.'

Alice was too much puzzled to say anything, so after a minute Humpty Dumpty began again. `They've a temper, some of them -- particularly verbs, they're the proudest -- adjectives you can do anything with, but not verbs -- however, I can manage the whole of them! Impenetrability! That's what I say!'

`Would you tell me, please,' said Alice `what that means?`

`Now you talk like a reasonable child,' said Humpty Dumpty, looking very much pleased. `I meant by "impenetrability" that we've had enough of that subject, and it would be just as well if you'd mention what you mean to do next, as I suppose you don't mean to stop here all the rest of your life.'

`That's a great deal to make one word mean,' Alice said in a thoughtful tone.

`When I make a word do a lot of work like that,' said Humpty Dumpty, `I always pay it extra.'

`Oh!' said Alice. She was too much puzzled to make any other remark.

`Ah, you should see `em come round me of a Saturday night,' Humpty Dumpty went on, wagging his head gravely from side to side: `for to get their wages, you know.'

(Alice didn't venture to ask what he paid them with; and so you see I can't tell you.)

Then I wrapped up my mini-adventure with a song I have long loved, as well as "A Golden Woman in a Silver Mirror" from my beloved Wallace Stevens.

Three Wishes

My husband and I had the good fortune, whilst in the cavernous Whole Foods, of stumbling upon Three Wishes. These Three Wishes come in the form of Three Wines: Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, & Chardonnay. Each of these Three Wines only cost Three Dollars. And each of those Three Dollars was spent on Three Hours of merriment. Hours, Dollars, Wines, Wishes. And I simply adore the dandelion graphic on the label.

While we are no wine experts, we found the wines pleasant and complex. The Cabernet was smoky and the Merlot was plummy and to be honest we haven't tried the Chardonnay yet but I'm jumping the gun and putting the good word in for it anyways. Because really, if you go out and buy it and you don't like it you've only wasted a whopping three dollars with tax.

Random Nightingale Montage

I heard this lovely song recently and then I was reading from my Wallace Stevens anthology and came upon this delightful poem:

AUTUMN REFRAIN

The skreak and skritter of evening gone
And grackles gone and sorrows of the sun,
The sorrows of sun, too, gone . . . the moon and moon,
The yellow moon of words about the nightingale
In measureless measures, not a bird for me
But the name of a bird and the name of a nameless air
I have never--shall never hear. And yet beneath

The stillness of everything gone, and being still,
Being and sitting still, something resides,
Some skreaking and skrittering residuum,
And grates these evasions of the nightingale
Though I have never--shall never hear that bird.
And the stillness is in the key, all of it is,
The stillness is all in the key of that desolate sound.

--WALLACE STEVENS

While I was obsessing over nightingales I decided to return to the Keats classic and then, since I have never heard a nightingale, I found a clip so that I could hear it for myself.

Some Salsa

How I make salsa. I cut up all the red and partially red tomatoes I have... saved from the frost by my parents in their own backyard. I dice up an onion, finally following proper technique that a good friend has spent years trying to steer me toward. I slice up three big handfuls of peppers also provided by my parents and their backyard. I add a dash of salt, a squirt of lemon juice, and (because I wasn't paying attention) a splash of white wine vinegar. Throw in a goodly amount of cilantro. Plenty of garlic powder, because unfortunately I discovered I really didn't have much garlic in my kitchen. Then I let it simmer for four hours.

The results? Sweet with a zing. Wonderful, almost smooth, texture. Backyard tomatoes grown in the sunshine and sweet rain always taste richer to me.

So grateful to the earth and my parents and all each has given me.

Maybe Being A Bum Isn't For Me

So. I thought that if my husband got a raise I would be relieved. Apparently though, in addition to making me very proud & happy for him, it made me feel even more frustrated with my level of contribution to our team. The job issue, which has of course long been plaguing me, came out with full force. I must admit that despite some renewed hope & focus on Friday, I spent much of the weekend wrangling some angst concerning the whole thing. And after talking it up and down with a few individuals, especially my devoted husband, I generated some ideas.

1) I intend to sale things on the internets. First of all things that I make with my own two hands. I thought about Etsy, but after a bit of research I learned that your profit margins are slimmer on Etsy than on Ebay & they do less advertisement for you. A post to come soon about that, complete with some samplings of what you might find there. Dear readers, if you need holiday presents do consider buying some of my fare. I promise I will only be making things I am truly inspired to make, not producing for money. So... I guess you're guaranteed a little extra love in every stitch.

Also, I enjoy me some antique stores. I have actually trained my eyes a bit and can spot me a deal. I am therefore considering buying items and reselling them for a profit. Why not profit off of one man's junk being a treasure, and the fact that I can see that? Probably more occasional and incidental, but also a way of making some pocket change.

I realize neither of these routes will produce much income, but they will be a pleasure as well as a business. Also, since I have many scraps already saved up through the years & past few months, the handmade things will admittedly bring in an essentially 100% profit, which is never a bad thing.

2) Volunteer work in the meantime is more readily available and can sometimes lead directly or indirectly to further and more profitable employment. Besides. When my main beef with not having a job is that I feel like I am no longer an active part of society, problem is solved. In many arenas volunteer work will actually contribute more to society than a paying job, not less. After all, the monks & nuns & even beach bums who I am truly trying to emulate are those who are active in society's improvement in a myriad of ways.

3) My job search has not been focused in a long while. It seems, when you really want a job like I do, that trying for any old thing would be the expressway there. However. I think focus brings better organization and for me makes for a more pleasant job search. It provides me with more feeling of incentive, to know what genre of jobs I am scanning for and working toward. But then... there are so many choices.

So. I am narrowing my search for the time being to stores that I can get behind. Antique stores I frequent, and small bookstores, and independent bakeries. That sort of thing. I prefer hands on work where I am directly involved with getting the product physically to the customer. I would feel working for whatever wage for a business I truly supported would be more in line with my feeling of wanting to live a life of simplicity and beauty. The problem with these sorts of businesses is that I have found they do hire more infrequently, and tend to hire people they already know outside of the business. But I am confident that if I keep trying something is bound to open up in the scheme of things.

4) I am really embracing my job as housewife. I sort of talked about this on Friday, but I have some more to add. After reviewing my budget-system yesterday with a fine-tooth approach, I discovered that I am a successful accountant. I make us feel like we are living in relative luxury with a few wise purchases and nights out a month, when really our spending money is ridiculously slim. You can thank the cost of having a place to live, and paying off our student debt, for that.

Not only that, but of course I am the one who knows when every single bill is due. Insures that we will have the money available at the given time. Gives notice that it is time to make a payment. And we pay all of our bills in full & ahead of schedule.

My husband and I agree that to have to control and think of all that at the same time as working a highly involved office job full time would be quite unpleasant. He also never has to worry about the house being clean, or what to have for dinner, or even planning ahead for the weekend. I manage to balance that with giving him plenty of say in what we do or eat, through steady but non-urgent communication. I am essentially his events-coordinator, personal chef, & personal accountant all rolled in one. He reminds me regularly that it is this relatively behind-the-scenes work that makes his success & his enjoyment of that success possible.

In addition, to go back to an earlier point, I think that the benefit of one person being the housewife/husband is that she/he serves as a steward out into general society. Doing social works, or even just keeping social wheels turning, provides the couple with an offshoot of life that often goes ignored.

So this last point sounds to me like a whole lot of boasting. But my point is that I need to embrace the good I am already doing and step it up a notch. I need to feel good about myself if I am ever going to be able to gain the confidence to step out and live up to my ideals.

All on a Friday Afternoon

Still feeling warm fuzzy from a Friday filled with cooking, writing, and all together feeling positive about the future. It set the scene for a nice weekend:

Five garlic cloves and red wine,

a black kitten pouncing on the chaise,

a crime show hums on.

Tarwe stands up

in old wine bottles.

And how the orange

of the butternut squash

can set off 52 pennants

of autumnal fabric.

If you fill this space with

rosemary and chuck roast

be ready for everything

to look brighter within.

Hang Loose

My husband, love of my life, has recently enjoyed some rather good news concerning his work situation. And it gets me thinking. When you are working for yourself nobody gives you a promotion; you have to promote your self.

We've talked things over, me and him. While I am not planning to stop my job search all together, I am planning on pursuing my main career for a while. Poetry. And if anyone thinks poetry is an easy job, or wants to tell me all about how a poet should also be a capitalist, I will definitely see that as more of a reflection of you than anything to do with my life.

It is not a decision that comes easily. I actually desire the sort of structure a job provides. The way you are constantly being reviewed and told whether you are doing well or not. And Lord knows, I love buying things with my own hard-earned cash, or ferreting that money away into my hoard. So it is not the easy decision for me, and it is not a set-in-stone type of decision, and it is by no means whatsoever a permanent decision. I may change my mind in a week or two.

But for now, I am through with being between jobs. The relatively lackadaisical approach is not for me. I am a hard worker. I know more people would recognize that if I brought in the dollars, but dollars or no I am working hard. And I intend to work harder. I've been doing well at my current entry-level job and it's time to step it up a notch.

The thing is, I realize it's not an either/or situation. I can get a second job later. I can completely ignore this job later. But sooner or later writing is my talent, and it would be a waste of life not to treat it as such.

So's I've got goals now. My own deadlines. My own production quotas. And maybe poetry won't bring in the bucks, but it is still a noble profession inside and out.

I am blessed right now with this opportunity. Looking for jobs has landed me nowhere but confused as to where I fit in. Which is not to say I am giving up on the end, I am just focusing elsewhere.

I am blessed because we really don't need the extra dollars at this juncture. I am young and I have an amazing husband. I am blessed to be allowed to devote hours upon hours every day to my craft. But I'll never devote those hours if I don't focus and take it seriously as my life's calling. My husband takes it seriously; he sees my potential.

I had the strength to admit to my parents last night that my main focus is not a job right now. And now I am a whole mess of conflicting emotions. I hate to disappoint them. I hate it. But since when did parents begin to want their children to make money rather than getting out there and living their dreams.

Sure we've got to have money in this society, but how much money we make is not at all reflective, in my own opinion, of how much we have contributed.

So I have a bit of a surfer, beach bum, hippie, monk, nun mentality. I think some people in this world need to be happy and peaceful and devote huge amounts of time to poetry. I don't think that necessarily excludes them, or me, from getting a job. But that does lead me to think that a job should not be the focus. That opportunities should be picked based off of how closely they fit into the fabric of my devotion not off of whatever I can get or whatever gets me the most money.

So there you go. I am a lazy bum. And I'm fine with that. I would rather I was accepted by you. But if I am not, I can handle that now. I want to live a life of simplicity and beauty, and unfortunately no job I have found, to date, lines up with that. I am also a house wife, and I am spoiled, and I am lucky. That's no reason to spurn that luck.

I'll admit. I don't know if I am making the "right" decision. That may account for the all-over-ness of this post. But I know I am not making a permanent choice. I am making a choice for today. I am living one day at a time.

The Banquet

I remember as a wee lass singing at the top of my lungs "I cannot come to the banquet..." And I always connected that to the idea of death. I don't want to go yet, Lord knows. I've got more to do. I've always got more to do. I've got big dreams.

But then I realized recently, with death weighing on my mind. I'm not really afraid of dying. I am afraid of not living. I am afraid of not making my mark, not leaving a legacy. I am afraid that all of my fears paralyze me from living my dreams.

But now. I can come to the banquet, and I am going to savor that banquet. I'm always talking about living for the day, to those around me who are afraid of the future or afraid of regret. Yet. I never let myself go. I take so few risks.

Lately I feel I have been opening up. I see that thread in my blog, but also in everything I've been up to lately. There's a new intensity to everything I do and feel. It is the upshot of being afraid of death. It is release.

At the same time I am remembering my roots. I am celebrating the ways that people before me left their mark. Everything from Lorca's poems, to my great-grandmother's dishes, to my great aunt's tablecloth, to some mugs with a mysterious past. I may not really know the people behind these objects, but in some small way they have made it into my life.

The way to prepare for the banquet, is to enjoy setting the table.

On the Roof

I am a bird on a roof. I have left the building. We are many of us birds. Many of us have left the building. Many of us do not fly. Many of us birds sit on the roof of a building. Maybe sometimes I wonder if my wings have been clipped. Maybe sometimes I know they've been. But then. It is possible sometimes to grow new wings.

I will not be on this roof forever. After I fly I will come back into the barn. I will fluff out my feathers and bury my head in my wing. After. For now. I like being a bird among many other birds on the roof of a building. We are a powerful sight to see. We are the birds between adventures. The adventure of inside, and the adventure of the sky.

Bent on Lorca

I couldn't resist. If you want to read the poem I pulled the lines for my new blog description from... Enjoy!