Irish Gumbo

Sculptress

2009-12-22T00:01:00.002-05:00

Hands just smaller than a deck of cards, and they could break stone, move mountains and uncover love where only ice used to dwell. She wiggles her fingers to melt glaciers. A curious sensation radiates from just under my breastbone, a blood-warm bow shock racing ahead of the calving bergs of my heart.

Her hands, those soft chisels, are running through the sand in front of us. She is giggling. The sound makes me laugh and swoon simultaneously. So absorbed in the task of finding sand dollars and crab shells, the artist is oblivious to the meltwater gathering in the corners of my eyes. Those hands. Beauty created and creator, like that Escher drawing of two hands opposed, each drawing the other.

I muse to myself: is she drawing my heart, filling the void I had carried so long like a geode that had never been opened? Or was she chiseling away the gray-white stone around it, long buried under calciferous strata of ossified love and life? Hope flares up, I wonder if the stone of my heart still carried a molten core. The warm waves pulse and multiply. She looks up at me and smiles.

Plate shift. The fault slips, the halves of my heart groan and scrape with the release of tectonic energy. The warmth in my chest threatens to overwhelm me. I laugh nervously fearing that if I do open my mouth, lava will pour forth rather than the words I really want to speak. I peer into pale blue diamond eyes as the sculptress holds up her treasure, a sand dollar worn smooth by the affections of countless eager children.

"Daddy, I found a shell!" Enthusiasm beams from an angel face that quickly turns its attentions back to the touch and explore display to find more shells. "Yes, you did, sweet pea!" I reply, watching those alabaster hands sift through the sand.

The hammer rises, an iron-grey blur landing with the sound of a bell on the head of the chisel. The stone splits wide, jagged halves falling away. The sculptress laughs, all soft chimes and sugar. Her hands cradle my new-born heart, gently brushing off the sand as she holds it up to the light.

I wipe the liquid prisms from my eyes, love warming in the hands of the sculptress.

Short Day, Long Dread

2009-12-21T00:01:00.010-05:00

The solstice crumbled the sky into fine white powder, and with that came the hot-blooded ones in search of sustenance. Alone in the cabin, Henry David felt his bowels turn to ice water and wondered if it was wolves or mountain lions come to get him.

He sniffed halfheartedly to hold back the slow tide of mucus seeping from his nostrils. He was tired, too tired to lift his left hand and wipe with the filthy rag clutched in blue fingers. His right hand lay in his lap. It was curled around the worn leather-encased tang of a enormous hunting knife. Henry David felt the knife was becoming a part of his body, living flesh melding with preserved skin and oiled metal. He was tremendously afraid to let go of the knife. It was the only weapon remaining.

Snow sandpapered against the log walls, little raspy demons daring Henry to come outside and play in the frozen waste they called home. Henry ignored them, as he had been doing since sunrise. He sat very still on the soot stained stump of a birch tree, the body of which had been burned on the rough stone pile passing as a fireplace at the rear of the cabin. Opposite the fireplace was a small door of rough hewn planks held in place by a timber and a precious few bits of ironwork. Henry smiled slightly as he recalled bartering some fox pelts for those black iron bolts, down in the small town at the head of the valley. Warmth, light and noise in abundance if one cared to put up with people. Which Henry David didn't, although his current predicament was perhaps swaying his opinion.

Henry swallowed hard as another loud rasp scraped along the planks of the door. There was a chuffing noise, and little puffs of snow like powdered sugar curled through the gaps about halfway up. The puffs ceased, and there was silence but for the sibilance of the wind. They were out there, he was sure of it now. He began to regret frying up the last of his bacon. He thought maybe the smell of it had caught their attention.

Or maybe, Henry sighed, it is me they smell. His gaze drifted torpidly to the rifle leaning against the wall beside the door. The barrel shone with the dull radiance of a blue pearl in the somnolent light filtering through the oilskin windowpane. Henry chuckled ruefully, thinking the gun was now no better than a walking stick. The last of the cartridges had been used up three days and a lifetime of storms ago. No longer was there the luxury of getting to town when he felt like it. The murderous snow and the four-legged hungers pacing around his cabin had seen to that.

Henry David swallowed another lump of fear, cold grease inching its way to his belly. If he didn't leave soon, try to make town, he would die here in the dank, dirty cold of the cabin. He couldn't leave, though, not with them out there.

Henry David sat still as a sphinx for twenty heartbeats, thirty, then forty. A rank odor was wafting through the door, the scent of filthy fur and hungry desperation. The planks bulged in slightly, the scratching of claws testing the frozen wood.

He gulped, tightening his grip on the knife. Forget the rifle, he muttered, forget all that, this here knife's all I got. So be it. There's only one way out of this mess.

Henry stood up and shuffled quietly to the door. The hungers on the other side grew quiet. Henry pictured their ears pricking up as they strained to hear him. I don't want to die like this, cold and alone, he said to himself as he silently unlatched the door, Time to go.

He took three steps back and raised the knife, still and calm, as the door swung slowly open.

End Result of Drinking Radioactive Beer

2009-12-15T00:01:00.003-05:00

Seen in the window of a gift "emporium" at the local Cathedral of Excess Consumerism*:

I suppose the only way it could be any better would be if it was "Stripper-Pole Mounted". In case you had no idea where to use this, I like the helpful suggestions of "DORM ROOMS" and "FRAT PARTIES" and "RIVER TRIPS". Oh, and "CAMP SITES"...because the only thing better than one drunk-ass idiot rolling down the hill towards the latrines is SIX drunk-ass idiots rolling down the hill towards the latrines.

Remember folks, it holds a twelve-pack, so buy in bulk.

*The local mall, in prime holiday shopping time. My little daughter was with me at the time. She's really smart and very observant. Fortunately she didn't see it. No way in hell I'd have been able to explain that to her. Wrong, so wrong...

My Barbaric Yawp

2009-12-10T00:01:00.002-05:00

Light the way, ye writers,
battle the grey imps of mundanity
whilst traveling on wheels of your creation
Raise high the hammer and shout:"I am the Wordsmith!"

Stoke your fires, heat your steel, ye troubled souls
Craft cupric lanterns, bronzed blades and arrowheads
Even horseshoes and chariot rims if need be,
Whatever carries your heart about the Universe

Bend the (s)words bright and true,
red-hot sigils of Vulcan hammered hard
to become beacons of Truth and Beauty
(of which Art is their intersection)

Forge dream-gates, the bookends of Janus
unlocked that your heart may unfold
and opening wide that your horses
leap free and loose upon the wor(l)d!

Argentine clang! clang! clang! of runic
hammers beating time of your quickening hearts
and voices ringing out from the page,
Challenging the sooty din of an indifferent world

Take the pen in hand, smooth your page,
ye who would craft their own Logos!
Release the hounds from within your heads,
go forth and pound the anvils of your keyboards!

Hiss

2009-12-05T00:01:00.004-05:00

Sitting alone in my living room, listening to the white noise of my cooling mind, I am seized by the notion that my skull may be filled with hydrogen. Hydrogen, in certain energy levels, is surprisingly noisy.

Back in the 1930's and '40's, a bunch of brainiacs discovered that our galaxy was making noise. In essence, the Milky Way has a radio frequency, a background hiss, that varies on a regular cycle but is always there. Astronomers refer to it as the "hydrogen line", to be found at 1420.4 megahertz on the cosmic radio dial. With the right equipment, you can tune into it. Which, it also occurred to me, is the same way with God. Unfortunately, I don't seem to have the right equipment. If I do I am just not seeing it.

The hiss of the Universe fills my brain and I close my eyes to focus more on hearing. The hiss, its always there, I know it. Most days it gets drowned out by the din and clatter of modern life. I sometimes think myself fortunate, that I don't have to listen to the background hiss of my mind. Tonight, I am reminded that I think that because it means I am being distracted from myself.

Sitting alone on the couch, with only the random scraping of buttons in the dryer to keep me company, the hiss comes back loud and clear. It reminds me of two things: loneliness and God. Might they be one and the same? Or is it really that God is just a magnificent solitude, free of the demands of body and mind?

Or is it, as I fear, a sign of an overwhelming emptiness within? This is why I read so much, think so much, rest not nearly enough. Sitting still and quiet allows too much of the Void to creep in and threatens to swallow me up. It reminds me that I am far, too far from nearly all of the people whom I truly love.

The background hiss of the galaxy: God whispering in my ear of too much time and distance.

I read once that a definition of Hell is to be eternally separated from God. I would expand on it in another way. Many have posited that "God is Love", and if this is true then another working definition of Hell is to be eternally separated from Love. This is undeniably tragic.

Another sip of ginger tea, I swish it around in my mouth on the way to swallowing. The bubbly squeaking of liquid around my teeth and gums drowns out the hiss, ever so briefly, but then it is on its way to my stomach, hopefully to be calmed, just as when mom would administer ginger ale to me when I fell ill in childhood.

Closing my eyes, the hydrogen line appears in my head, a bright silver arc stretched across the Milky Way of my brain. One endpoint caresses my heart, the other...the other disappears into the inky black of an interstellar night. The parallels with the arc of my heart are too strong to ignore, and I shiver. I may not be in Hell, but I am close enough to the walls to feel its presence.

There may be tremendous distance between my heart and God/Love, but I don't want to be eternally separated from either. Out there, in the hiss of my mind, I can sense the faint calls of both. The task left to me, then, is to open my heart and start walking.

The journey, my friends, must begin.

Moons of Jupiter, So Close...

2009-12-03T00:01:00.002-05:00

It was G-maw that made me want to be an astronaut. Not a "Going to the moon" type astronaut, mind you, I mean a full on balls-to-the-wall (or balls-to-the-bulkhead) strapped to God's own bottle rocket, out past the orbit of the Earth around the Sun kind of astronaut. I wanted to fly to Jupiter and poke it in the Great Red Spot. All because G-maw had a telescope...

I have a telescope myself. A new one, it was a gift. I asked for it because I used to have one when I was a younger Gumbo, but that one didn't survive my jaunt to college and subsequent moves from the nest to apartments to a house. My old one was a refractor, my new one is a reflector. Appropriate, because mainly that what it does and makes me do: reflect.

Which I do. A lot. It was about two weeks ago that I came home from work under a clear sky the color of bruises and wine, to notice a big, bright dot hanging out on the southerly side. I watched it as I sidled up the sidewalk to my back door. It didn't blink and neither did I. I recalled that it must be Jupiter, and that unlocked a flood of memories. I stood on the patio, hand on the doorknob, for a good ten minutes watching that golden speck. All the while images cascaded in sheets across my mind: National Geographic, G-maw and me, freezing nights outside all mixed up with blinking lights, dim lit rooms at night and the faint beep of machines keeping my hearts alive while I frantically scribbled in a notebook.

The Voyager probes flew past Jupiter in 1979, and the pictures they sent back were mental manna to an astronomy geek like me. G-maw had a subscription to National Geographic, which had some awesome spreads of Jupiter and a few of the moons. I remember seeing the Great Red Spot (and feeling awe) and volcanoes on Io (and being freaked out: sulfur dioxide "lava"!) and thinking Man, it would be awesome to go there. I had this fantasy of flying in a space capsule, me the Heroic Traveler, and planting a flag on Io under the glare of the Red Spot. I suppose the far-away alienness of the place seemed perfect for the shy loner that I was: better with things than with people. The cold, the dark and the distance didn't bother me. It only made me want to go there even more, to see awesome beauty and wondrous things never before touched by man, maybe only by the hands of God.

I shook my head and went inside. The telescope is just inside the door. I kept glancing at as I ate dinner, and decided to take it outside and try to see the moons of Jupiter. It was while trying to focus on the little bright dot, that the mystery crept in again. I looked up to see with my eyes and not the lens, and found myself on the frozen face of Io, staring into the glare of the angry red spot while tears streamed down my face. Epithets and insults rang deafeningly inside suit helmet as I violently waved my arms and screamed that this wasn't fair and no, you can't do this, no, no, no you can't bring me this far and show me so much great beauty and tell me its mineminemine only to take it away in a violent storm of desperate nights. NONONO it can't be not after all the blood and the tears and the needles and machines, constantly pricked in the heels and tubes shoved down their throats with diapers the size of a cocktail napkin and you even let me touch them, caress their fragile skin crinkling under the glare of the jaundice lamp you let me say daddy is here, my babies and he thinks you are the most beautiful things in the Universe...

...and the bubble popped, I came back to earth with a lump in my throat and images of tiny moons in my hands, fading with a burn as the cold black well of Night drained them of their lives. I had endured a long, hard trek to a place of indescribable pain and exquisite beauty. Seeing my son and daughter there in the NICU, I planted my flag on frozen ground and watched them fade into howling wilderness of an indifferent Universe.

Watching the little golden light slowly descend to the horizon, I could not help but think that I had indeed been to the moons of Jupiter. It was a shock and a gift, to travel so far expecting rock and ice, and instead finding flesh and blood...and my heart.

Miles Away From Here

2009-12-02T00:01:00.001-05:00

Seriously? I don't know what has gotten into me.

No, no...more like I don't know what hasn't gotten into me. Wait, I do know what hasn't gotten into me: inspiration. This is strange considering I am surrounded by inspiration.

You see, my mind has been pulled all over the place lately. Somehow I ended up being busier than ever with Real Life, and Real Life has a tendency to get all up in my grill. My brain feels like a big blob of mercury that has been smacked with a croquet mallet. You know what happens when you smash a ball of mercury? That's right, my lovelies, you get lots of tiny balls of mercury all over the place, and a big mess that is hard to clean up. Not to mention slightly toxic.

So I am sitting here, in a funk, listening to Miles Davis play "Generique" on the stereo. A recent discovery of mine, courtesy of a friend, that piece of music is quite possibly one of the best instrumentals I have ever heard. I'm far from an expert on jazz, but Miles kills on this track. Cool beyond words...

...and that, my friends, brings me to now. I sit here at the table, wishing the words would come to relieve the pressure in my head that has built up all day...I keep picking up a pen, but the story won't gel...

I may never play jazz, but that sound, that tone...the trumpet blows cool and sleek, and I lay down my pen. Better to not force the notes if the music ain't there, everyone will be able to tell. I envy Miles Davis, tonight. I bask in the brassy blueness seeping from the speakers, and give myself up to the ministrations of a master.

Sometimes, doing nothing is the best thing to do. The music will take care of itself.

Falling In Love With A Gun Street Girl, and Other Tragicalamities

2009-11-24T00:01:00.001-05:00

Every so often I get it into my head that I want to write songs. Or even just one song. This is not one of those times...and its all Tom Waits' fault. Unintentional, I know.

Falling James in the Tahoe mud
Stick around to tell us all the tale
He fell in love with a Gun Street girl and
Now he's dancing in the Birmingham jail
Dancing in the Birmingham jail

I love music, all sorts of music. I listen daily, I am getting on more artists' mailing lists, and I think I may be getting a Christmas card from iTunes. Sort of like the year I got a card from my mechanic, after I brought him a couple of boat payments worth of repairs in the space of about two months.

Took a 100 dollars off a Slaughterhouse Joe
Bought a bran' new Michigan 20 gauge
Got all liquored up on that roadhouse corn,
Blew a hole in the hood of a yellow corvette
Blew a hole in the hood of a yellow corvette

Clarification: Tom Waits alone is not entirely responsible for this dilemma of mine. Pearl also had a small but important part to play. In one of her delightful posts involving music (this one) she mentioned '16 Shells from a Thirty-Ought Six' by the aforementioned Mr. Waits.

Bought a second hand Nova from a Cuban Chinese
Dyed his hair in the bathroom of a Texaco
With a pawnshop radio, quarter past 4
Well he left Waukegan at the slammin' of the door
He left Waukegan at the slammin' of the door

The song I am quoting is not that song. However, '16 Shells' played a crucial part in getting me to "Gun Street Girl", which I am liberally quoting without permission, 'cause I like the song so damn much. It was after reading Pearl's post that I ventured over to iTunes to do a little research, and in the process I made a withdrawal from the memory bank. This withdrawal stirred up some things, it sure did.

Sitting in a sycamore in St. John's Wood
Soakin' day old bread in kerosene
He was blue as a robin's egg brown as a hog
Stayin' out of circulation till the dogs get tired
Stayin' out of circulation till the dogs get tired

When I saw the title to '16 Shells' on Pearl's playlist o' the day, I had a flashback to my days in college, listening to the school station ('WUVT' for anyone curious or keeping score) on my old turntable/cassette deck/stereo combo. It was a fairly low-tech number, tethered to a pair of Radio Shack speakers clad in that 'trying-hard-to-be-classy-but-uber-fake veneer' by skinny wires of the strip and clamp variety. It was outclassed by the block-rockin' stereos that many of my fellow dorm rats shoehorned into their rooms. Still, it was mine and it worked.

Shadow fixed the toilet with an old trombone
He never got up in the morning on a Saturday
Sittin' by the Erie with a bull whipped dog
Tellin' everyone he saw
They went thatta way
Tellin' everyone he saw
They went thatta way

The scene I was flashing on was early Friday or Saturday night, I think, and I was sitting in my dorm room wrestling with the eternal dilemma of laundry money or beer fund. Prepping for a night out was easy for me, because I was such a dork that my expectations were pretty low. I was listening to WUVT, I forget the name of the "show", but it was a pretty typical for a station trying hard to be hip and cool. To its credit, they aired a lot of what would now be called 'alternative', and some just plain bizarre. In short, it was perfect for me.

Now the rain's like gravel on an old tin roof
And the Burlington Northern's pullin' out of the world
With a head full of bourbon and a dream in the straw
And a Gun Street Girl was the cause of it all
A Gun Street girl was the cause of it all

It was then I heard Tom Waits for the very first time. It was a slow tempo song, that started out with what I thought was a banjo, accompanied by the rhythmic clank of a stick hitting a bottle, or soft blows on an anvil. Then Tom Waits started singing in that whiskey-soaked growl of his. I was transfixed. I hadn't heard anything quite like that, ever, and I was so caught up in it that I missed the DJ saying the name of the song. As it happened I heard another song sort of like it the next weekend and had the presence of mind to call the station and ask. the song was "16 Shells", which was on a different album than "Gun Street Girl". There were enough similarities in an aural sense that I figured that 16 Shells it must be. Funny, after that I forgot to track down the album and it slipped my mind for years and years, until the irrepressible Pearl brought it up in the post I mentioned earlier. Weird, how that works.

Riding in the shadow by the St. Joe Ridge
He heard the click clack tappin' of a blind man's cane
Pullin' into Baker on a New Year's Eve
With one eye on the pistol and the other on the door
With one eye on the pistol and the other on the door

So it was that when I went to look it up on iTunes, eager to hear some good stuff from my semi-misspent youth, I was quite surprised that it wasn't what I thought. I was confused, because I could still hear the song in my head, after all those years, and yet it didn't match. Chagrined and a little nostalgically melancholic, I riffled through the discography for a bit until I came across the title 'Gun Street Girl'. The sample played and I was immediately back in my room, 20+ years ago, feeling like a real hipster and looking like a dweeb and wishing I could play or sing something as cool as all that, even if not like Tom Waits. Why do I bring this up, you may ask? Because it was exhilarating and humbling at the same time and I had no idea at the time how a song like that would affect me so many years later...

Miss Charlotte took her satchel down to King Fish Row
And she smuggled in a bran' new pair of alligator shoes
With her fireman's raincoat and her long yellow hair, well
They tied her to a tree with a skinny millionaire
They tied her to a tree with a skinny millionaire

So it was, just this past Sunday, I was meditating on my so-called writing career, listening to some tunes and thinking big thoughts when the lyric bug bit me again. I like writing prose, but poetry and especially songwriting fascinate me. Similar ends, different methods, between writing a story and writing a song. My fingers and my brain were beginning to twitch as I thought back to some of the haiku and song snippets I had experimented with in my journals. "Some great stuff" I told myself, "I could do this" and I just as I reached for a pen, "Gun Street Girl" comes on the iPod. My train of thought immediately came to a screeching halt, as I sat there transfixed by the song and the gritty story it was telling. I drew my hand back from the pen, figuring songwriting would have to wait a little bit longer.

Tom Waits beat me to it, the glorious bastard. I'm in love with a Gun Street Girl, and I don't know how to tell her so.

I said, John, John he's long gone
Gone to Indiana
Ain't never coming home
I said John, John he's long gone
Gone to Indiana
Ain't never coming home
Bangin' on a table with an old tin cup
Sing I'll never kiss a Gun Street Girl again
I'll never kiss a Gun Street Girl again

GUN STREET GIRL

Okay, But What Kind of Meat?

2009-11-23T00:01:00.002-05:00

I went to a local museum last weekend with my Wee Lass, to attend a birthday party for two of her classmates. In the room reserved for the festivities, I saw this sign upon the wall:

Everyone is a specialist these days. I think I'll pick...baloney.

In other news, I have been selected for another award, for a Post-Of-The-Week honor from the one, the only, the lovely Comedy Goddess! Please stop by, drop some luv and let her know I sent you. Please. Plus, she has wine!

Running Lights

2009-11-21T00:01:00.002-05:00

Christ,my head hurts. Sleep or liquor I can’t tell.

I heardyour voice, or laugh, cupped by the waves and tossed into my ears. That dreamagain, waking up on the beach, cold and slick with dew. I’m never sure if I hadbeen drinking. It’s the only reason I can think of these days, that I wouldfall asleep on the beach. Then again, I’m never sure if I am really waking upor just dreaming I’m waking up. I sit up abruptly. The gray smear of thehorizon congeals into focus. My heart pounds in the usual manner as I strugglefor balance. I think the sun is coming up, or maybe just behind a drapery offog and mist. The salt-metal tang of the ocean fills my lungs.

Theremnants of the dream I was having, it was a party I think, or were we justsitting in your room listening to Jethro Tull, or Black Sabbath? Albums. I hadAqualung in my hands and you were pretending to play the flute. We alwaysthought if funny to hear a flute in a rock band.

Funnybut cool.

I laughweakly at the memory, then wince. I am clutching at the cold sand so hard thelittle fragments of shell and rock dig into my palms. It grounds me and thedream wisps vanish, blown out on the water by an offshore breeze. On thehorizon something moves, small pale spheres seeming to float over the mercurysea. They fade in an out as I blink slow as an iguana in a blizzard.

Thebeach is empty, not even a gull to keep me company. The sand is pristine in itswind-driven undulations. If the feet of others had touched it, the wind andwaves must have blotted out the prints long before I woke. The notion makes mesad, that I am alone. The tightness in my throat gets stuck while my muscleswork furiously to keep it from erupting in a full-on sob. All I hear is thehiss and grumble of the waves with the grass on the dunes in counterpoint. Ishake my head and make to stand.

Dizzinessnearly takes me to my knees. The world swirling in my head while I flap my armsfor balance. I surf a curl of nausea, chest and belly heaving in a struggle fordominance over the contents of my aching stomach. Peristalsis continues to workin the right direction and breakfast or dinner or who knows what I last atestays put. My head bobbles in the wind and the lights on the horizon flare alittle brighter, a little closer.

Or so Ithought. It was then that I heard your voice again, I swear to god it soundedlike it was coming from across the water and I rubbed my eyes and sonofabitchif those lights didn’t get brighter, turning red and green and sitting on topof the masts or poles or something and there it was the boat and it was headingfor the shore and jesus Christ on a pogo stick there you were and you werewaving and I yelled out your name and waved back grinning like a fool and myheart swelled up and I wanted to come welcome you back home so I startedrunning and running hard right for the boat because goddamnit it was comingback to the dock they were throwing out the ropes and it must have been a goodtrip because you held up this big mother of a tuna fish and I smiled becauseyou were back and I kept running to the boat and then you set the fish on deckand started shaking your head with that melancholy smile and the ropes weredrawn back in and I said no, no, don’t leave let me get on board I want to comefish with you like we did when we were kids and please just one more time andyou faintly called out “No, man, not now, I just wanted to let you know I’mokay and the fishing is excellent...” and then you waved and I came to acrashing halt falling on my knees and sobbing as the boat receded out into thesea.

It wasthen I came to and found myself on that sandbar, again. Soaking wet in water upto my waist with the salt of my tears mingling with the salt of the ocean. Iscreamed again, watching those lights hovering so far away on the horizon. Thewind swallowed up my puny mewlings, the lights disappeared over the rim of theworld. Swimming back to shore, I swore I heard you say “When its time, mybrother, when its time.” The beach is no proper bed, but I lay down in thegrit, my head cradled on seaweed, and dreamed of our youth.

Ballad of the Reluctant Road Warrior

2009-11-20T00:01:00.002-05:00

Turningto the door, eyes barely open

Steppingto the nacreous chill

Of athrice ordinary Thursday

Slowlysagging in the drizzle

Hewould curse if he could

But acage match with computer

And thephones, and another

Goddamnfritzy pen

Has robbedhim of the energy…

A slowwalk, in a sad rain

Is therefrain in his head

Courtesyof another man in black

Thatwears it, not thinks it

Not azombie, exactly, bluish fingers

Fumblingwith chill metal of keys

To pourinto a seat shaped too much

Likehis ass, which he thinks

Hasbeen kicked too much…

Startingthe car, a giant’s wind-up toy

Hegrins crookedly and thinks that

Whilehe would likely not buy a Jaguar

He surewould accept if it was offered

Shinymetal box on the asphalt river

Whereit always seems to be against the current

Demented,dazed salmon frantic for a lunatic sea

Hopingnot to crash, mangled, exhausted

Untilthe arrival home…

Guardrailsgleam, the oily hides of metallic

Serpentsacting as guides in the syrupy mist

Mist hecannot discern from the fog in his head

Brokenby the diabolical ruby glow of taillights

Taillights,unbroken smear of petrochemical blood…

Millioncurses, the swear jar full to bursting

Uponreaching home, coasting to a stop

To exitthe belly of the beast, watering eyes

Andfevered mind desperate for relief

Wondering,how many eons this will last.

A Friend of Mine Said "I Quit Smoking Cold Turkey..."

2009-11-18T03:01:00.058-05:00

"...and I said, 'Whaddya smoke now? Ham?'..."*

Badabing! Yes, ladies and gentlemen and indeterminates, I am a comedian! Sometimes...

You know, in my line of work, I regularly get accosted by idiots pretending to be savants**, people asking me patently stupid questions and the like. So it didn't surprise me when IB at Idiot's Stew ~~bugged the shit out of me~~ asked me very politely to lay up a guest post for his "Turkey Palooza" fest of all things Thanksgiving-ly bloggable. Having a soft spot in the Gumbo ticker for idiots, especially idiots as cool my bud Ian (an idiot who actually knows something, mind you), I immediately said ~~f#*k off moron~~ yes, I would be immensely pleased to be a part of such a ~~horrendous travesty~~ festive and heartwarming event in the blog-o-sphere. So my chilluns, go forth and visit Idiot's Stew for to read my humble contribution to the party.S tay awhile, rifle through his CD collection, steal some books...just don't touch the beer unless he says its okay...you'll enjoy the visit I'm sure!

*Yes, I ripped that off from Yakov Smirnoff. What? It's funny!

**Oddly enough, have not been accosted by any idiot savants.

And I just remembered to include the link. Ai yi yi...

Sorcery and Violence, Part 1

2009-11-16T00:01:00.003-05:00

The soursmell of man, and of death. Two entities Godl knew in ways painful andtriumphant.

Pinesap. Wood smoke. Ice. Cold granite. Heather and gorse. Mud. Scents foreign andfamiliar threaded kaleidoscopically through the nostrils of the jaguar as itmade its way through the forest. His mouth hung slightly agape, tongue pressingthe roof of its mouth when a particularly intriguing smell trailed on the wind.

Musclesrippling like blood or honey pouring from a bucket the jaguar ran at a steadypace, loping his way along the riverbank while trying to keep to theundergrowth. His legs ached from the unfamiliar exertion, but with each pawforward he relaxed into a rhythm etched in his bones. The terrain was alien,and it puzzled Godl. The motion was not. It was not so different from the huntof which he was the master. What he did not understand, as he had never reallyfelt it, not once in his old life in the jungle, was the fear. It wormed itsway into his lungs, riding on the faint reek of the Keeper and his kind, toslip into Godl’s blood.

Hisheart was cold. Godl growled sporadically, the sound of teeth sliding overbone, to try and shake it loose. When it would not, the jaguar curled his lipsand snarled. The reek…

TheKeeper swore a mile a minute, sweating even in the cooling air settling downthe slope and congealing over the lake. The machete in its heavy leatherscabbard banged against his left thigh. The strap was working its way loose,but he did not want to lose precious time by stopping to refasten it. Furthercompounding his irritation, the Weatherby Synthetic 30.06 was the first riflehe could get his hands on, but he had mistakenly grabbed an ammo belt stockedwith shotgun shells, not realizing the error until he had made it downhill tothe lake. All the cartridges he had were the ones in the magazine.

Thejaguar had a good head start. The Keeper was torn about running uphill andtracking the animal with the truck. He reckoned he might catch up to Godlbefore the animal could cross the ridgeline further south, but only if he ranlike hell. And dropped him with the first shot.

The Keeperdid some calculations in his head, checked the angle of the sun, and ranheadlong into the underbrush. He did not look back.

Theheron flew down the center of the river, mindful of the setting sun andincreasing altitude as he strained to keep up with the Keeper and his prey.Heron did not believe that the Keeper knew of his existence, but given theproclivity to violence and the awful weaponry the man carried, heron wanted totake no chances. He flapped his weary wings, tips caressing the icy water asgreen-gold eyes scanned the riverbank.

Godlwas there, Heron knew, he heard the faint crashing of trampled underbrush. Overthat, like distant thunderheads giving vent to displeasure of the gods, Heroncould hear the growls and snarls of the anxious jaguar. He veered slightly,taken off guard by the basso profundo vibrations emanating from the forest andunsettling his bowels. Heron swept upwards to better see where the jaguar mightbe heading. Up ahead, in the not too distant south, the forest thinned outsomewhat and the reptilian backbone of rock signaled the line of low peaks thatstood in the way.

Heronclacked his beak, circling and troubled, knowing that Godl was unaware. Belowhim, not far behind, the Keeper clumsily made his way along the faint trackleft behind by the big cat. A few spirals and a glance at the lowering sun, andHeron changed direction to head for a notch in the ridgeline.

Bloodwas in the air, Godl could smell it along with the cool metallic breeze thatwas inching its way through the trees. The scent made him hungry, reminding hisaching belly that he had not eaten the last consignment of meat the Keeper hadbrought. His stomach contracted around the memory of tapir and turtle eggs, thefamiliar squeal and struggle warming his veins. Godl curled his lips, squintinghis liquid gold eyes into the sunlight that was beginning to brighten the treeline up ahead.

A growl,the sound of magma shifting under rock…and Godl knew the next blood to stainthe earth would not be his own.

Breathing Mars, Chewing Neptune

2009-11-15T00:01:00.001-05:00

Thebeer slid down his throat, and Colin Hattrick wondered which might be worse:the dry vacuum of space or the liquid pressure of the ocean floor. Explosion orimplosion. Both could be pretty nasty ways to die, he thought, but how muchworse could it be than the searing cold radiating from inside the beach cottagebehind his back?

Notmuch, he allowed, raising the bottle up to the moonlight, because either way hecould die in silence. The silver of the moon cast a deep sepia stain across aface blurred by the neap tide of beer inside the glass. His arm grew suddenlyleaden and he slowly lowered the bottle down to the splintery deck railing.Below him on the sand, a gust of wind sparked a conversation amongst the beachgrass as the parched stalk nodded back and forth.

Colinlooked out over the pale waters off the cape. The nighttime sea flickered in argentinesemaphores under the influence of a gravid moon. Its fullness had brought Colinoutside with his telescope, which now had pride of place on the rusting shrubthat was the patio table. The table had been in the cottage from the first daythey had come for vacation, so many years ago. Colin smiled to remember whathis then new bride had said when they found it sinking into the sand underneaththe raised belly of the house. She had wanted to throw it away. He had takenpity on it, even going so far as to buy some naval jelly and Rustoleum at the littlegeneral store in town. She thought him a bit odd for wanting to spend vacationtime on what was essentially a housekeeping chore.

“What? A little rust removal, some freshpaint…” he remembered saying, “…goodas new!”

Sherolled her eyes and went in search of an umbrella and a sand bucket.

Thetable in his mind was akin to a friendly stray dog hanging around at the edgesand wanting for a kind soul to take it home. He cleaned it up, tightened some boltsand painted it gleaming white. It looked a newly launched ship, and he put iton the deck the next day. A new citronella candle and the coronation wascomplete. Over the years, the edges of the table began to blur under theaccretion of paint, white, always white. Colin felt a kinship with that table,realizing his own edges, his own outlines had begun to soften and fade withtime. He knew it with certainty. He no longer could tell where his feelingsended and his body began. Numbness had set in, the side effects of a love gonecold.

Anotherswallow of beer. Tilting his head back brought his watery eyes into focus onthe stars overhead. The outline of the telescope was a black cutout against thebackdrop of the moon, and his thoughts turned again to the cold. What’s it going to be, boy? That voicein his head again. Launch yourself intothe velvet blackness up there or dive into the black brine out past the strand?

RedMars winked at him from the left of the moon, taunting him with its impliedwarmth. The waves along the beach chuckled in inky curls laced with silverthread, and for a moment he thought he saw a huge, bearded face grinning athim. Colin shook his head hard, rubbing at his eyes. The face was no longerthere, Mars was an innocent red dot, and of the waves there was only a hiss ofliquid over sand. He leaned forward in his chair, suddenly desiring to searchthe sky for an answer, an omen, a hint of warmth to melt the shell slowlycrystallizing around his heart. The eyepiece of the telescope felt cool andslightly oily on his fingertips.

As hefocused the lens, the back door of the cottage squeaked open, the metallictwangy voice of unoiled hinges announcing a visitor. Colin felt no obligationto turn, judging from the precipitous drop in temperature that it was thestranger he had once known as a friend and lover.

“You coming in anytime soon?” she askedin a voice cool and shiny like an axe. His heart contracted into a ball of ice,blood rushing outwards and draining into the sea.

“Maybe…I don’t know…Yes, once I’m done…”his voice leaden to his ears, “…once Ihave found what I am looking for.”

He felther disapproval and annoyance boring into his back. Still, he stifled the urgeto get up and go inside, pretending to look through the telescope all thewhile. Eventually, the hinges croaked again as she lightly slammed the door asshe went inside. The light coming through the door blinked out abruptly,leaving Colin bathed only in the light of the moon. He sighed and wiped away atear.

Therewas a tinkling, a sound of shattered glass or ice, he thought he heard, andwondered if it was his heart.

She Hath Charms...

2009-11-12T00:01:00.002-05:00

...to Soothe The Savage Breast...

Doing a little disassociative websurfing and blogtrolling last evening and I rediscovered a gem I had let slip from my overworked and strung-out noggin. Treat yourself to some aural berries and cream and visit the lovely and talented Rachael at rachaelpachaelwasmyname. Check out the YouTube and songs links in the sidebar. There is also a link to her webpage for more good stuff.

She can sing, she can play, she's all that and a bag of chips. Drop her a line, tell her I sent you and treat your ears to a 'winterlude' of music.

Godl Slips

2009-11-10T00:01:00.001-05:00

Theheron could see Godl straining mightily, the chain a taut, heavy wire betweenthe blocky head and the post on the other end. The lanky bird ruffled his feathersanxiously, rocking on his spindly legs.

Thejaguar growled deeply. The muscles writhed like snakes wrapped in luxuriousspotted silk. The fur stood out except where it was matted in a grotesque crimsonmask, blood thick upon the head and neck of Godl. The leather collar was soakedand slick. Under the strain of Godl’s frantic tugging it was beginning to slipever so slowly over his head.

Tug.Chuff.Tug.Chuff.

Godlcoughed heavily as the collar worked its way across his throat. Just as itstarted to stick again, his ears registered the unmistakable sound of theKeeper’s truck grinding through the forest. He was coming back. Godl redoubledhis efforts, throwing up clods of earth as the obsidian daggers of his clawsdug into the cold dirt. He did not want to be caught yet again.

Theheron spread his wings, and watched through green-gold eyes.

Withthe suddenness of a flock of birds flushed from the underbrush by hunting dogs,the collar slid over Godl’s jaws with a wet popping sound. The collar shotacross the clearing to land against the thick steel post buried in the ground.Freed from the restraint, Godl tumbled backwards and slid a ways down the lowhill leading down to the lake. Coming to a stop in a tangle of thistles andblueberry bushes, the thick beast lay still, panting to catch his breath.

Up bythe clearing, the metallic roar of the Keeper’s truck grew louder,reverberating out over the lake. It would not be long before the Keeper wouldrealize his prize captive had escaped. Godl staggered to his paws, wobbling slowlybut gaining speed as he headed down slope towards the mineral blue coldness ofthe lake. There was some good cover there, and Godl instinctively turned to it.He began a slow, liquid run, all the while the stony tang of the mountain airfilling his lungs with purpose. His feline brain began shaking off the cakedmud of captivity, nostrils dilating and claws flexing. It was an alien soilunder his paws, but free. Free.

In theclearing, the air was suddenly silent as the Keeper cut the engine. Silence fora few heartbeats, then a loud fusillade of curses when he finally registeredthe empty collar. The heron saw the Keeper rush back to his truck, franticallypulling mysterious objects from the cab. He slung one across his back, and theoily glint of polished gunmetal flashed dully in the wan sunlight. The Keeperfollowed the paw prints and crushed stems down to the shore, loping swiftly butwith purpose.

Theheron had seen enough, and he lofted himself quietly into the air, circlingbehind the Keeper to head up along the shore, silent and unseen.

Road To Mare Tranquillitatis

2009-11-07T00:01:00.005-05:00

An invisible highway rushes on, and today your earthly remains will join the traffic. I remain land bound, too weak to follow and choking on the tears of shame. I will miss you.

When you left for good, it was to knowledge that I turned for comfort, as I often do. As if the tomes and the maps could bring you back, or make me understand why you had to leave. This time it was an effort doomed to failure, unless you count the sheer accumulation of data as success. Pardon my bitter laughter, but as much as I like a good, solid fact this time data may as well be vapor for as long as it lasted and as hard as it was to grasp.

The maps tell a very different story than the one I have written in my heart, the epic first recorded when you were born, and I followed, young lives becoming our Iliad and our Odyssey. The conceit I carry would make you laugh, of that I am certain. Maps. How do you map a surface that is restless and liquid? One that refuses to stand still?

The Spaniards “discovered” the Gulf Stream in the 16th century, using it as a highway for the ships carrying plundered gold from the Americas. Ben Franklin drew a map of the currents in the 18th century, all scratchy lines and sepia tones. Mr. Franklin’s map is in stark contrast to the digital satellite constructs I came across in my search, looking for that map of you. The bright colors writhed hallucinogenic across the screen and my eyes swam in my head. From tears or fatigue I do not know, but I smiled to think about old ink and Day-Glo posters and how these ends of the spectrum were the very essence of my memories of you.

Colonial powers used the mighty unseen power of the current as a road, and I cannot escape the comparison. This complex Ouroboros of upwellings and boundary conditions carrying life and salt over the swallowing vastness of the ocean is probably the perfect place for you now. The things you will see, at home with the fish and waves. I long to follow, but stand here on the shore, watching and waiting for courage which seems to have abandoned me.

Did you know the moon was full, five days ago? Of course you did, you have a spectacular vantage point I am sure. It was hypnotic and I spent some time staring at it through the naked branches of lonely trees as I walked through a chilly evening. The limpid breeze traced cool circles on my cheeks, lost in reverie. G-maw was there, too, telling me about the moon as we looked through her binoculars and the small telescope I used to have. She liked the moon, and could name some of the craters and seas. I still remember Copernicus and Tycho and Sea of Rains, their Latin names unfamiliar on my tongue. I stood still in the faint glow of streetlights as a memory surfaced, like Nessie in the murky loch of my mind. The big faintly blue smudge on the face of the moon, just right and up of center, that one is the Sea of Tranquility. It saddened me to think you may never have sailed those waters.

Speaking of waters today would have been your forty-sixth birthday, my brother, and it is today that your ashes will be cast upon the face of the Gulf Stream, by your beloved wife and in the presence of friends. I regret that I will not be there to see it, alone in my shame and timidity. Your loss weighs heavy on my mind and stayed my hand from making my way to join them. Know that I love you, my brother, and I hope that you forgive me my weakness.

Scientists say that the Gulf Stream carries the maximum amount of water in the fall, so it is fitting that you will be a passenger in this time of cold velocity. Brother, I bid you farewell, and pray that the current you loved to fish will carry you to your own Mare Tranquillitatis.

No Wonder There Is An Epidemic Of Brushfires and Children Smoking...

2009-11-06T01:00:00.002-05:00

I was going to light some candles, but couldn't find a responsible adult.

Lions Through The Crest

2009-11-02T01:00:00.005-05:00

We were lions once, long ago and far away.

That summer the golden-haired boys we were ran along a beach of white sugar tinged with caramel. My Big Brother striding the sand and talking to the girls as if he owned the ocean. My timid self hovered at the edges of the hormone clouds and thought my little island a grand place.

Grand, if it bothered one very little to be alone and feel apart from everyone, all the while wishing that somehow the courage could be found to kick open the candy store door and grab some sweetness.

I was much too polite to make a scene.

Big Bro always found a way to do it. To this day I’m still unsure how, because I never really saw it happen. He just seemed to know people, or know how to start talking to them. On the beach, or at parties he would be chatting people up as if the introductions had been made long before. It was a skill I envied deeply. He made friends; I made time until he could make some friends for me. I resented it, sometimes, but was too grateful for the attention I did receive to bite the hand that fed me.

Can humans do what prophets say?

And if I die before I learn to speak

Can money pay for all the days I lived awake but half asleep?

That summer I was awkward and chubby. Like an overgrown penguin without the cuteness. I tagged along with Big Bro because I wanted to be a part of things, I wanted to have a life, get a girlfriend. I wanted to drink beer in the sun and pretend I was all that. Bag of chips, optional, because I ate too much as it was anyway.

Big Bro let me go with minimal fuss. I thought maybe he was taking pity on me. Behind the mask lay a sensitive kid who felt bad that his little brother was possessed of weapons grade dorkiness. He never said it and I never asked. The truth probably would have shamed me into hiding in my room twice as much as I did. I was living my life half-asleep, soporific under the effects of shyness I had not the courage to overcome.

It was at the beach that really started feeling the effects of oncoming puberty. All those pretty girls, tanned and curvy gulls flocking around my brother and his friends. Problem was, I failed to understand it. To me, it was like a perpetual state of that near-sick, that awful whirling dizziness when you can’t decide if you are going to puke or just need to lie down. I solved the problem by avoiding the groups, hovering on the edges and hoping for a glance or a word. Of course, I rarely did get one. Not surprising when most times it happened I shied like a nervous foal, floundering in the sand and pretending sudden interest in the beach glass and seashells. I usually ended up in the surf, even though the opaque emerald sea always worried me. Sharks and jellyfish were never far from my mind.

A life is time, they teach you growing up

A million years before the fall

In the water I was generally alone and felt little of the social pressure I did on land. I bobbed around, a human shipping container overboard in heavy seas. I never had a boogie board or a jet ski or even a wetsuit. My version of body surfing resembled a semi-svelte log tumbling over in the waves and smacking into the sand. There was no grace.

Eventually, I created my own peculiar ocean sport, which consisted of standing in near chest-deep water and waiting for a wave to break at just the right time. I crouched and pushed off from the bottom to launch myself through the face of the curl. Timed appropriately, I could ride the face a little and then burst out the other side in an cold jade rainbow of spray. For brief seconds I could be weightless and hovering over the water, no awkwardness, just grace. I was blessed with a slice of time free of the bonds of gravity and teenage angst.

My brother, he body surfed like a pro.

You ride the waves and don't ask where they go

That summer I rode the waves as much as I could. Jumping through breakers burned off some nervous energy. Eventually, I could get back to land with enough courage to work my way into some conversations, usually with my brother’s words “this is my little brother…” at which point the older, pretty girls my brother knew would usually would say “Aww…”. From the outside I suppose I looked like a goofy puppy. The chick magnet guys on the make bring to the park to get the attention of the ladies. Of course, I was so desperate and so much of a goober I never saw the leash. All I knew was the pleasure of being scratched under the chin by curves in bikinis smelling of coconuts and beer. In other words, heaven on earth.

You swim like lions through the crest

And bathe yourself in zebra flesh

That summer I had no clue that my Big Brother needed me just as much as I needed him. He needed a shield, a cattle catcher to help ward off collisions between his overloaded mind and the social pressures bearing down on him. He needed that shift in attention sometime, I know, because maintaining the façade of the Cool and Collected is exhausting. Jokes, beer and weird thoughts only get you so far before you have to retreat and let someone else be in the light. He was cool, he was The Shit, but every now and then, he coaxed me onstage so he could take a break from being the construct people expected him to be.

That summer, we swam the crest and the zebra flesh between our teeth was nothing less than life itself, a clandestine gift from one brother to another. I throw back my head to roar, and his voice echoes back to me. He may have been the heart of the pride, now and again, but he wanted me to be a lion, too.

Italicized lyrics are from “Standing Outside A Broken Phone Booth With Money In My Hand” by Primitive Radio Gods. My plane took off from Baltimore, but hasn’t landed on Bourbon Street…

Yellow Sky Blues and the Panic

2009-10-28T01:00:00.002-04:00

Man looks up on a yellow sky

and the rain turns to rust in his eye

Rumours of his health are lies

Old England is dying

It wasn’t too different than any other Monday, but these days I can’t take that for granted…

The sunrise was grey through the blinds, weak and oyster. Sleep the night before was just this side of being okay, which for me is saying a lot. Sleep. An exotic locale that looks good in the brochures, but getting the money to travel is a different story. I shook it off, as I am wont to do and bootstrapped myself into another day.

His clothes are a dirty shade of blue

and his ancient shoes worn through

He steals from me and he lies to you

Old England is dying

I count my blessings when I get to see my daughter in the mornings, now. It is brief interludes of sanity preservation in between fits and starts of trying to ignore the pressure of self-dissatisfaction on one side and corporate obeisance on the other. No matter if she is trying my patience on chatting on about how she prefers her Cheerios without milk. The princess speaks, and I strain to listen, ignoring the sick betrayal of my workaday mind.

Still he sings an empire song

Still he keeps his navy strong

and sticks his flag where it ill belongs

Old England is dying

I’m numb to a lot of the commute, or getting that way I hope. Occasionally the old me rears his big noggin and barks out a curse at the stupids on the road, blind weak anger at the absurdity of sitting in traffic on the roads supposedly designed to make transit easier. It just doesn’t make sense sometimes. Well, most of the time. Aside from my daughter’s voice, music is one the few things in the world today that I take refuge in, find some space to breathe.

"You're asking what makes me sigh now

what it is makes me shudder so"

Well, I just freeze in the wind

and I'm numb from the pummeling of the snow

that falls from high in yellow skies…

There was a bit of a yellow sky that Monday, but not the kind of yellow that Mike Scott would be singing about later. I didn’t really think much about the difference when I sat down at my desk. Computer on, headphones alighting on my ears. The gnawing in my gut fluttered a bit, as if I had swallowed a sleepy bat. My hands trembled slightly as another workday began. Press the keys, and no one needs to know but me.

…where the well loved flag of England flies
where homes are warm and mothers sigh
where comedians laugh and babies cry
where criminals are televised, politicians fraternize
journalists are dignified and everyone is civilized
and children stare with heroin eyes
heroin eyes, heroin eyes
Old England !

The iPod was on shuffle, which seems is my modus operandi in the present. I’ve tried listening to albums in entirety, or groups of songs by the same artist, but…it wearies my ears, I have no way to explain why it just does. Too much, I guess, and it pushes me into impatience. A signal it may be of the diffracted and diffuse nature of my thoughts, a grayware cloud that won’t condense into rain. Until that Monday, when I had my first (near) panic attack in months. I say “near” because I’ve had some full-on panic attacks and the awfulness of those is unmistakable in its rapaciousness. This was not the same, but close. A half-brother to the real bastard itself. The memories it stirred up were unpleasant enough that I had no desire to repeat it.

Evening has fallen

The swans are singing

The last of sunday's bells is ringing

The wind in the trees is sighing

and old England is dying

I sat there, blinking, stunned, sweating and wondering what just happened. I think no one noticed the sudden bolt upright posture, the rapid breathing, the confused blinking as I tried to figure out what was happening. For once, I was glad of cubicle walls. It gave me a chance to recover gracefully. I tried not to think about the cause. On the drive home, it finally dawned on me, and I felt stupid and ashamed.

I know Mike Scott was singing about a different kind of empire when the Waterboys played in my headphones, the fading and troubled England that had lost its way when that song was written. But when I heard the lyrics Monday morning, I started thinking of the empire that used to be me, and how my borders have shrunken and my flag is flying low. I was overwhelmed by the fractures in my earth, and the losses incurred, and how it came to be.

*Lyrics used w/o permission, from “Old England” by The Waterboys. The version I’m diggin’ these days is a live take off of ‘The Best of The Waterboys, ’81-‘90’. I hope Mike Scott will forgive my impertinence, but that line about ‘rust in his eye’…damn, I wish I’d written that.

I Don't Like To Brag, But...

2009-10-27T01:00:00.005-04:00

...I've been awardified! The Queen of Spice, Angie at GUMBO WRITER, so very kindly and graciously bestowed upon me the cheeky award you see above. I am humbled and honored to be in such good company. Wonderful, marvelous and just what I needed after a particularly hectic and stressful day.

Which I may blog about. After I've had a cocktail...

Ripples

2009-10-26T01:00:00.008-04:00

On those days when you feel swept away...

...and you can't tell if you are the leaf...

...or the ripples all around you...

...just remember, something is holding you up...

Even if you can't see it.

Love, pure and clear.

A good day shout out for my friend The Mister. Show him some love, y'all.

On Not Being Russian

2009-10-23T01:00:00.003-04:00

I must not be Russian, because I lost my ‘pov’.

Arrggh. It is a bad joke, I know, but it leapt to the fore of my consciousness when I sat down to tap out my thoughts this day. It was another play on words among the thousands that have branded my hide with the mark of ‘dork’, almost from day one of me being able to speak English.

I fear it to be true. I am afraid I have no ‘point-of-view’. POV has escaped me. Sigh.

This mildly disheartening epiphany blossomed in my po’ lil’ head bone as I dallied in the upper reaches of the blogosphere, skimming on the currents, drafts and vortices that the lovely Interwebs offers to them that cares to read. I was dipping into some of my favorite blogs, catching up on reading, and just generally digging the flow of information.

The more I read, the more I sensed a somewhat common thread to many of the blogs oozing across the screen: themes. Many of them have a theme, even if unstated. By theme I mean that core set of ideas, guiding principles or vibe that gives them a digital “fingerprint”. The subjects vary, but in most and certainly in the best, I can recognize the voice of the author. Sort of like listening to music by U2 or Bob Dylan, or reading a book by John Thorne or Cormac McCarthy. I dig that sort of thing.

I’m not so sure it diggeth me. I was on and off of Irish Gumbo a few times in my travels, and it slowly dawned on me that I wasn’t getting that same sense on my own blog. I mean, I know what to expect, because I write the spooge that ends up getting posted. But I would be hard pressed to describe to someone who had never read this blog, what it is that defines it. What’s the hook? Humor? Sex? A fresh take on cruciferous vegetables (“…consider the broccoli rabe, the surly cousin to good ol’ broccoli…”)? I think maybe a better analogy is, how would I pitch this blog, if it were a book proposal? What is it that is the “voice”?

I find it mildly upsetting that I don’t seem to know.

There are so many fine folks out there who can do so many things so well, so much better than I that I often feel like I’m looking through the window of the bakery. Every so often, the door opens up and a pleased customer rushes out, baguettes tucked under the arm. I stand there swathed in the yeasty goodness that is the aroma of fresh baked bread. The door shuts, my hand is too slow to hold it open, and I am left wondering how I will ever bake my own.

Some Things Will Never Be Finished

2009-10-22T01:00:00.002-04:00

My China Syndrome

2009-10-20T01:00:00.011-04:00

One day last month, Wee Lass and I sat at the dining table with paint, paper and brushes under the light of the banker’s lamp. The paints are all watercolors, some tubes of which I bought years ago with the intention of teaching myself to paint.

I know it was because of the beauty of the colors I had seen that I wanted to paint. I was fascinated and enraptured then, and still am now, by the shades and tones and hues I saw in paintings. I bought some books about the subject, for the pictures alone.

I fell in love with Ultramarine. Viridian. Cobalt. Purple Lake. Cadmium Yellow. So pretty…

All this before I realized just how much practice it takes to get good at watercolor painting. A few small starts, and then I was distracted by the rest of the pretty, shiny things that constitute Life. The paints languished in a drawer for a long time, with me occasionally taking them out of the bag and just looking at the labels.

One of the pretty shiny things that came along was my Wee Lass. The care and feeding of such a lovely flower put a lot of leisurely activities on hold, certainly in the case of learning to paint. Still, I could never bring myself to throw or give them away. The tubes of paint and the little plastic trays I bought, along with a small number of brushes just held too much sway over my imagination.

So it has been a great pleasure and wonderful surprise to see that Wee Lass has an interest in drawing and painting. She is fascinated with markers and colored pencils (a big stash I have left from my student days), and loves to scribble and color. She was very excited to find out about the paints. We even have a ritual that must be followed: Both trays on the table, each little bin anointed with a small amount of every color. Multiple pads at the ready, each of which must have at least one page daubed with most, if not all, of the available colors.

That particular day Wee Lass was on a “flower” kick. Me, I was seized with the notion of Chinese calligraphy. Yet another subject I knew almost nothing about, yet felt compelled to try. Not unlike my fascination with Chinese cooking. Are you sensing a theme here? So we set to, her with the bright colors and broad swathes, me trying to play ancient scholar with a bamboo brush and a small puddle of ultramarine paint. Wee Lass dove in with gusto, eventually producing what I found to be a quite fetching little “flowertree”:

Tres bon, oui? For some reason I really liked what she had painted, and she did as well. Simple, unpolished but exuberant and glee-inducing. We both had a big smile once she was finished.

While she was doing that, I was sweating the details on a Chinese character, taken at random from the glossary of a Chinese cookbook on my shelf. It is the character for ‘raw’ (sheng), and I picked it by opening the book and sticking out a finger, and that is where it landed. Good thing, too, as it also appeared to be one of the simpler characters to emulate.

Simple it may have looked, but simple it was not to actually paint. Over and over and over I swiped at the paper trying desperately as elegant as the picture in the book. Wee Lass even looked over and quizzically asked, “Daddy, why are you doing the same thing again? Draw something pretty!” Gee, thanks, kiddo. I told her it was because I liked the shape and the color. It took me quite a few tries to get something approaching what I had seen:

Honestly, I didn’t even realize it was the best of the bunch until I set the pages aside to dry. Professional it may not be, but I gasped in surprise and satisfaction. I double checked the book, and sure enough, it was a reasonable facsimile. I felt that illumination of experience blossom in my head. For a brief instant, I was there.

Making these letters does not make me Chinese, and watching my daughter paint out of sheer joy will not make me five years old again. What those things can do, however, is take me outside of myself, and for a few moments I was able to see the world through a different set of lenses. The view was fresh, new and exciting.

I am Chinese, I am young, if only through paper, paint and the joyful mind of a beautiful little girl. I am blessed.