I am pretty much done with the kitchen for now. That unruly pantry is going to have to wait.
As I move through the season with greater awareness I am beginning to mourn the loss of two friendships I had thought would remain unchanged for life.
Because I have moved so often since leaving home for college, I've had many relationships that downshifted by circumstance. There was nothing personal about it and I know I can pick up the phone or drop a line anytime and we could get together and reconnect meaningfully. Or, that if I ever moved back to wherever it was that our friendship had initially blossomed, that social time together would naturally pick up.
But, there's more truth here.
I have also deeply offended/upset three girls/women in my past, enough so that they each chose to cut off all ties with me in one fell swoop. The first time I was 19, the second time I was 22, the third time I was 34.
And now, at 44, I fear it is happening again. Phone calls and e-mails unreturned. For weeks. And months. Two different friends. Really good friends.
I know relationships are dynamic. It can't all be me, though when I am the common denominator it's hard not to blame some mysterious (to me) flaw in myself. I think there might be something I can learn by delving back into the women and ADD readings. If I ever manage to get back to it.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Alabanza
Alabanza: In Praise of Local 100
by Martín Espada
for the 43 members of Hotel Employees and Restaurant Employees Local l00, working at the Windows on the World restaurant, who lost their lives in the attack on the World Trade Center
Alabanza. Praise the cook with a shaven head
and a tattoo on his shoulder that said Oye,
a blue-eyed Puerto Rican with people from Fajardo,
the harbor of pirates centuries ago.
Praise the lighthouse in Fajardo, candle
glimmering white to worship the dark saint of the sea.
Alabanza. Praise the cook’s yellow Pirates cap
worn in the name of Roberto Clemente, his plane
that flamed into the ocean loaded with cans for Nicaragua,
for all the mouths chewing the ash of earthquakes.
Alabanza. Praise the kitchen radio, dial clicked
even before the dial on the oven, so that music and Spanish
rose before bread. Praise the bread. Alabanza.
Praise Manhattan from a hundred and seven flights up,
like Atlantis glimpsed through the windows of an ancient aquarium.
Praise the great windows where immigrants from the kitchen
could squint and almost see their world, hear the chant of nations:
Ecuador, México, Republica Dominicana,
Haiti, Yemen, Ghana, Bangladesh.
Alabanza. Praise the kitchen in the morning,
where the gas burned blue on every stove
and exhaust fans fired their diminutive propellers,
hands cracked eggs with quick thumbs
or sliced open cartons to build an altar of cans.
Alabanza. Praise the busboy’s music, the chime-chime
of his dishes and silverware in the tub.
Alabanza. Praise the dish-dog, the dishwasher
who worked that morning because another dishwasher
could not stop coughing, or because he needed overtime
to pile the sacks of rice and beans for a family
floating away on some Caribbean island plagued by frogs.
Alabanza. Praise the waitress who heard the radio in the kitchen
and sang to herself about a man gone. Alabanza.
After the thunder wilder than thunder,
after the shudder deep in the glass of the great windows,
after the radio stopped singing like a tree full of terrified frogs,
after night burst the dam of day and flooded the kitchen,
for a time the stoves glowed in darkness like the lighthouse in Fajardo,
like a cook’s soul. Soul I say, even if the dead cannot tell us
about the bristles of God’s beard because God has no face,
soul I say, to name the smoke-beings flung in constellations
across the night sky of this city and cities to come.
Alabanza I say, even if God has no face.
Alabanza. When the war began, from Manhattan and Kabul
two constellations of smoke rose and drifted to each other,
mingling in icy air, and one said with an Afghan tongue:
Teach me to dance. We have no music here.
And the other said with a Spanish tongue:
I will teach you. Music is all we have.
by Martín Espada
for the 43 members of Hotel Employees and Restaurant Employees Local l00, working at the Windows on the World restaurant, who lost their lives in the attack on the World Trade Center
Alabanza. Praise the cook with a shaven head
and a tattoo on his shoulder that said Oye,
a blue-eyed Puerto Rican with people from Fajardo,
the harbor of pirates centuries ago.
Praise the lighthouse in Fajardo, candle
glimmering white to worship the dark saint of the sea.
Alabanza. Praise the cook’s yellow Pirates cap
worn in the name of Roberto Clemente, his plane
that flamed into the ocean loaded with cans for Nicaragua,
for all the mouths chewing the ash of earthquakes.
Alabanza. Praise the kitchen radio, dial clicked
even before the dial on the oven, so that music and Spanish
rose before bread. Praise the bread. Alabanza.
Praise Manhattan from a hundred and seven flights up,
like Atlantis glimpsed through the windows of an ancient aquarium.
Praise the great windows where immigrants from the kitchen
could squint and almost see their world, hear the chant of nations:
Ecuador, México, Republica Dominicana,
Haiti, Yemen, Ghana, Bangladesh.
Alabanza. Praise the kitchen in the morning,
where the gas burned blue on every stove
and exhaust fans fired their diminutive propellers,
hands cracked eggs with quick thumbs
or sliced open cartons to build an altar of cans.
Alabanza. Praise the busboy’s music, the chime-chime
of his dishes and silverware in the tub.
Alabanza. Praise the dish-dog, the dishwasher
who worked that morning because another dishwasher
could not stop coughing, or because he needed overtime
to pile the sacks of rice and beans for a family
floating away on some Caribbean island plagued by frogs.
Alabanza. Praise the waitress who heard the radio in the kitchen
and sang to herself about a man gone. Alabanza.
After the thunder wilder than thunder,
after the shudder deep in the glass of the great windows,
after the radio stopped singing like a tree full of terrified frogs,
after night burst the dam of day and flooded the kitchen,
for a time the stoves glowed in darkness like the lighthouse in Fajardo,
like a cook’s soul. Soul I say, even if the dead cannot tell us
about the bristles of God’s beard because God has no face,
soul I say, to name the smoke-beings flung in constellations
across the night sky of this city and cities to come.
Alabanza I say, even if God has no face.
Alabanza. When the war began, from Manhattan and Kabul
two constellations of smoke rose and drifted to each other,
mingling in icy air, and one said with an Afghan tongue:
Teach me to dance. We have no music here.
And the other said with a Spanish tongue:
I will teach you. Music is all we have.
Jumbling my genres
My Cinderella morning soaking and scrubbing and sweeping in the kitchen was interrupted by this song I hadn't listened to in a long while. Unable to resist humming a few bars of "some day my prince will come..."
Led by the lung
I'm feeling it. A nearly overwhelming sense of lonesomeness. Being open to feeling this way? The ultimate in non-attachment. Clinging to the feeling feels like survival itself.
Despite not practicing regularly and not taking part in hands on treatment I am able to take semi-conscious baby steps to keep afloat and moving forward. Barely perceptible, but they are happening.
Circadian rhythm is returning, at least in the morning. That time is quiet around here. I am starting to take walks by myself.
It's hard to feel lonely, or egotistical, when I'm out with Mother Nature. (She dropped a bug in my hair as I jumped off my perch in a grounding and encouraging tree...bitch :-)
Despite not practicing regularly and not taking part in hands on treatment I am able to take semi-conscious baby steps to keep afloat and moving forward. Barely perceptible, but they are happening.
Circadian rhythm is returning, at least in the morning. That time is quiet around here. I am starting to take walks by myself.
It's hard to feel lonely, or egotistical, when I'm out with Mother Nature. (She dropped a bug in my hair as I jumped off my perch in a grounding and encouraging tree...bitch :-)
Friday, September 10, 2010
Fire
For now, a favorite and wondrous moment from a day full of such moments. Their cabin is so special, so them, and they've been there less than a month. They have worked incredibly hard and the fruits of their labor are amazing.
This place is so great it has me thinking more vigorously about my adult life long dream of retiring to a cottage on the edge of woods overlooking the ocean.
The fire has been stoked.
Daytrip
image pulled from web.
P.S. I've been sleeping like hell. I miss Dr. Vinny's treatments!
Thursday, September 09, 2010
Five element theory
I couldn't resist the image.
A big loving shout out to Kelly who stepped up and into the void left by Vinny.
I was feeling crappy upon crappy after releasing some emotional baggage of the super vulnerable type.
Talking and listening to Kelly, who promptly mentioned that we are entering into (read the link it's interesting!) Lung Season (associated emotion: grief; represented on this chart by Kyle :-), helped me to push through the gulping sobs kind of tears and more clearly understand what I was feeling.
We're so socialized to think that it is others who cause us grief. But, truly our experiences of grief are our own.
I'm owning my grief and feeling again, so in tune with the Universe through TCM. Full of gratitude to have people that care about me and see me to hold my hand as I figure things out, one muddy step at a time.
Morning walk
It wasn't a conscious decision not to take my camera. The moment that I most wished I'd had it was coming upon these words on the sidewalk on the way to the park:
"My B-day is on Tuesday."
Mostly, I think that if I had had it, I wouldn't now have my vivid images running on the screen behind my eyes.
Have you ever walked through a gaggle of Canadian geese? I swear I felt the waves of their ESP. A pliant wall of thick non-sound as they gently parted just wide enough to let me through. Otherworldly. Very cool.
The first time the woman and I passed on the pavement which circles the park, I got a smile and "good morning" through her big ass headphones I think she may have seen my mouth form my words of greeting. But on subsequent passings she didn't make eye contact. I think I learned something about jogging protocol.
Walking outside, being in the natural world, gets you to stop thinking so much. It forces you out of your head. Not completely, and not that thinking is a bad thing. But, thinking a lot all the time suppresses creativity. Fresh air has this wonderful way of invigorating and calming.
"My B-day is on Tuesday."
Mostly, I think that if I had had it, I wouldn't now have my vivid images running on the screen behind my eyes.
Have you ever walked through a gaggle of Canadian geese? I swear I felt the waves of their ESP. A pliant wall of thick non-sound as they gently parted just wide enough to let me through. Otherworldly. Very cool.
The first time the woman and I passed on the pavement which circles the park, I got a smile and "good morning" through her big ass headphones I think she may have seen my mouth form my words of greeting. But on subsequent passings she didn't make eye contact. I think I learned something about jogging protocol.
Walking outside, being in the natural world, gets you to stop thinking so much. It forces you out of your head. Not completely, and not that thinking is a bad thing. But, thinking a lot all the time suppresses creativity. Fresh air has this wonderful way of invigorating and calming.
For the love of books
from Turn Of The Century.
Have I mentioned this site already? People post visual ephemera from around the turn of the last century. Thanks to Shannon for turning me on to it.
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
Louis C.K.
I just finished watching the last two episodes of the first season of Louis C.K. on FX. I hope there's a second season. He is thoughtful and funny. A 40-something divorced dad of two girls making sense of life and letting us in on the good, bad and ugly with humor, but also, compassion. I love art that makes me cry because I'm laughing so hard one minute and because I am so moved, the next.
Apartment story
"Hold ourselves together with our arms around the stereo for hours..." (Seeing them in a couple of weeks...excitement growing :-)
Grounding
There is something special about riding a train. The kids and I love this one. It's a small train you board in the zoo, but the track wends its way along the edge of a reservoir, in woods.
The soft green forest floor, the sunbeams coursing down through the leaves, the water serene through the passing trunks, the rhythmic clatter of the train on the track, the breeze picking up the promising hint of brisk my soul has been craving, the soft back of my firstborn's thoughtful head...all of it grounding grounding grounding.
I would need it.
On the drive home from the zoo Sag told me that most of his friends don't know "how sensitive and really scared I am all the time".
1) I am so thankful my kids are such self-aware and articulate beings.
2) I truly don't think he is sensitive and scared "all the time". He is a child who feels what he does, when he does, very strongly. (Sound familiar?)
3) I hope to respond to this communiqué as best as I can over the next while. I have a feeling that things won't smooth out till he turns 9 just before Thanksgiving. In many child development and educational philosophies, 9 is a pivotal age. My baby won't be my baby anymore in some respects once this is over. The growth is amazing and not without its aches.
Apple of my nose
Macouns are in the house. The box was left in the entryway overnight and I am enjoying the aromatherapy as I type.
We are visiting sister and bil's new-to-them Catskills cabin on Friday. I'd had in mind to bake a peach pie, but now I'm thinking apple.
Cap handed in his tenure stuff yesterday. Now we wait for a decision which will come sometime in December.
In the meantime, today perhaps a NBTS (not back to school) zoo meet-up, tonight common meal, tomorrow park day, Friday a cabin in the woods, Saturday an evening in the city.
Next Monday? Our own NBTS at home.
Fall? It's bringing it.
Tuesday, September 07, 2010
The sound of the sun
Eleanor's companion, Paul, just linked to a cool poetry website on Facebook. I found this poem via their "Poem A Day" feed.
The Sound of the Sun
by George Bradley
It makes one all right, though you hadn’t thought of it,
A sound like the sound of the sky on fire, like Armageddon,
Whistling and crackling, the explosions of sunlight booming
As the huge mass of gas rages into the emptiness around it.
It isn’t a sound you are often aware of, though the light speeds
To us in seconds, each dawn leaping easily across a chasm
Of space that swallows the sound of that sphere, but
If you listen closely some morning, when the sun swells
Over the horizon and the world is still and still asleep,
You might hear it, a faint noise so far inside your mind
That it must come from somewhere, from light rushing to darkness,
Energy burning towards entropy, towards a peaceful solution,
Burning brilliantly, spontaneously, in the middle of nowhere,
And you, too, must make a sound that is somewhat like it,
Though that, of course, you have no way of hearing at all.
The Sound of the Sun
by George Bradley
It makes one all right, though you hadn’t thought of it,
A sound like the sound of the sky on fire, like Armageddon,
Whistling and crackling, the explosions of sunlight booming
As the huge mass of gas rages into the emptiness around it.
It isn’t a sound you are often aware of, though the light speeds
To us in seconds, each dawn leaping easily across a chasm
Of space that swallows the sound of that sphere, but
If you listen closely some morning, when the sun swells
Over the horizon and the world is still and still asleep,
You might hear it, a faint noise so far inside your mind
That it must come from somewhere, from light rushing to darkness,
Energy burning towards entropy, towards a peaceful solution,
Burning brilliantly, spontaneously, in the middle of nowhere,
And you, too, must make a sound that is somewhat like it,
Though that, of course, you have no way of hearing at all.
Brandi Carlile
Check her out, she's a lovely talent. I love her voice and how she uses it.
I've been contemplating taking an online break, which I do from time to time. But, I am way too plugged in for that right now :-) Yes, there is an argument for doing it precisely for that reason, but, well, I'm a-gonna go with the flow for a bit while longer.
I've been contemplating taking an online break, which I do from time to time. But, I am way too plugged in for that right now :-) Yes, there is an argument for doing it precisely for that reason, but, well, I'm a-gonna go with the flow for a bit while longer.
Big time (sensuality)
The gays posted about Björk today. It's a concise interesting read and truth be told, I flipped for that cover shot.
They linked to this video which I cannot recall ever seeing. Watching Björk I smile and laugh. I think she might be a 3 too.
Oh, and P.S. : being in a bad mood when decluttering makes for much easier, rampant tossing of items into the garbage bag!
They linked to this video which I cannot recall ever seeing. Watching Björk I smile and laugh. I think she might be a 3 too.
Oh, and P.S. : being in a bad mood when decluttering makes for much easier, rampant tossing of items into the garbage bag!
Spiraling back
I'm feeling a bit better. The slope, gentle as it may be, is upward.
Then, I feel a sudden compression. Whole body. Head down, tailbone up, ears in, shoulders in, hips in. Blood starting to pound as veins narrow and tighten. Everything becoming a wall, and because I can't get very far from Star Wars raising these boys, for some comic relief, the image of the gang in the trash compactor comes to mind.
Pressure. My brain gasps, my heart skips a beat.
Then, I remember my childhood recurring nightmare. Walking along a driven snow white picket fence, entering a house that contains a bloody, wet, red organ, pumping and pumping. It's a heart with vines of veins so dark they appear black.
The house is dark as a moonless night and the heart is so very red.
It's grotesque. The sight is deafening.
Then, I feel a sudden compression. Whole body. Head down, tailbone up, ears in, shoulders in, hips in. Blood starting to pound as veins narrow and tighten. Everything becoming a wall, and because I can't get very far from Star Wars raising these boys, for some comic relief, the image of the gang in the trash compactor comes to mind.
Pressure. My brain gasps, my heart skips a beat.
Then, I remember my childhood recurring nightmare. Walking along a driven snow white picket fence, entering a house that contains a bloody, wet, red organ, pumping and pumping. It's a heart with vines of veins so dark they appear black.
The house is dark as a moonless night and the heart is so very red.
It's grotesque. The sight is deafening.
The end of history
I feel your sorrow chasing tomorrow
There is no distance in your absence
If you call the monsters they will appear
Like I disappear
Blackout
There is resistance behind enemy lines
There goes the hatred bursting through the fabric
If you call the monsters they will appear
Like I disappear
Blackout
You are here
You are here
You are here
A song by Fionn Regan. No good video clip so just lyrics today. Wish sound could be shared as easily as images in this world wide web of ours.
Monday, September 06, 2010
Blue
My healer had a serious health crisis and has been out of commission for over a month now. I think I thought he was invincible. Because I still can't quite get my head around the fact that he almost died.
It seems totally unreal.
During this time, the effects of my repro hormonal spikes and drops have been intense and hard.
I first thought it was a coincidence. As I approach menopause (I think? I hope?), things have gone unpredictably loopy from time to time and I chalked it up to that.
Then, I thought that the tough intensity was explained by my tuning into the 'disturbance in the Force', if you will, in my energetic connection with my healer.
Now, I am thinking that not getting my weekly tune-ups, combined with the dwindling of my Chinese herbal intake, Chinese tea consumption, and Qigong practice, are all increasing the power of the vortex sucking me down.
'Cause baby, I feel blue.
And hazily dazed.
Barely tethered in the ether.
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