Revealed & Concealed.

It was the last days of ArtPrize 2010 and I was at the UICA standing in front of a giant, once-white mural with the raised word CONFESS in the center. To my left was a group of loud, unruly teenagers (do they come any other way?) leaping from their tiptoes and riding each others' shoulders to find a blank spot on the canvas to write their confessions. Ugh. Stupid kids. What kind of profound disclosures could they possibly have had?

I had one, though. So I blocked their nonsense with a force field of serenity and focused on finding an exclusive patch of emptiness on which I would divulge my secret. Once spotted, I knelt on the floor and printed out 19 words.

And I’m not telling you or anyone else what it said. ;&

Confess, by David Schofield.

  

To Your Health.

I regularly attend, and pay for, a special kind of torture known as Full Mighty Boot Camp. I do this not because I’m a sadist, but because, for the first time in my life, my butt cheeks have a hint of shape to them  and no longer resemble the two flattened end pieces of a loaf of Wonder Bread. 

Tonight, while gripping a fitness ball between my ankles and pointing my toes to the ceiling AND doing a full sit-up ALL while my instructor’s iPod was stuck looping my most hated song on her playlist (which features childlike voices chanting: higher and higher and higher) I thought am I in hell?

And then I sneezed, which is incredibly risky if you’re in such a vulnerable  position and have also consumed 13 grams of fiber for breakfast. I am happy to report that my vise-like gluteus maximi girded like they’ve never done before and my dignity was saved. 

But that’s not what this is about. 

After the sneeze, my instructor said, “Bless you.” And, continuing to exhibit good manners, I said, “Thank you.”

When class was over, a friend asked me what I do about the whole “bless you” thing, given my known aversions. She’s of a similar mindset, but continues to give blessings out of politeness. Even though she’s not into it. And I continue to thank people who give blessings, even though I’m not into it and also don’t reciprocate. She doesn’t like feeling false to her beliefs because she does it, and I don’t like that I seem rude because I don’t. 

After a good discussion about other cultures’ ways of responding to a sneeze, we settled on ¡Salud!

I’ll be testing it out starting tomorrow. To (I hope) the mystification of my coworkers.

PS: The hated song is Passion Pit’s Little Secrets. Fuck those assholes.

Culture Club.

A friend and I were chatting online the other night—mostly trading excitement over my trip to Dubai. He is from Gaza, Palestine and, as part of an internship, taught one of my Arabic language classes. During our exchange, he told me, "If I was not born Arabic, I would want to be Arabic." And I thought...Oh! That’s interesting...

I’ve often felt thankful that I was born in a first-world country that’s not war torn, to parents who wanted me and were well prepared to care for me. As compared to a host of unthinkable alternatives. But I don’t know that I’ve ever felt particularly attached to being American. I certainly don’t feel superior to other nationalities.

So I asked another friend, who immigrated here about 10 years ago, “If you weren’t born Bosnian, would you want to be Bosnian?”

This turned into a provocative, albeit somewhat circular discussion that resulted in her answering, “Yes.”

What we concluded is that the answer can't be qualified by circumstances or conditions. And it also shouldn't be dismissed because of how nonsensical the question is. (Because if you weren't born what you are, how would you know what the other is? Suspend, please.)

I believe, as do the others I've spoken with about this, that this feeling, this solidarity that exists among other nationalities comes from a more evident, recognizable culture and commonality of values. In short, they are more...homogeneous?

So I am an American, but I am not proud or un-proud to be. I just am. I don't identify with my neighbors on the subjects of religion, or politics, or social issues, or traditions—and I know they don't with me, or necessarily with their neighbors either. We are connected only by where we live, it seems.

I am curious... does anyone beg to differ?

Oh, but I am proud that I can still rock an American flag halter top on the 4th of July!

  

Please Pass the Grief Bacon.

Yesterday, a friend of mine made a public faux pas by suggesting that I might come in contact with the Dalai Lama while on my trip to Dubai. And, additionally, I might return with a suitcase filled with karma. Right continent, wrong dogma, I’m afraid.

I’ll grant that he likely mistook Dubai for Mumbai (still quite a distance from the mountains of New Delhi, though we could let that slide), but, nonetheless, it put me in the awkward position of how, exactly, to reply to his remark. Pointing out the mistake seemed both haughty and over-critical. Glossing over it could suggest that I also believe I might have a guru encounter. And not responding at all to well wishes is just rude. (Who over-thinks everything? I do!)

About half an hour later, I had what I thought was the perfect response. I would simply say: Masha’Allah. It’s not exactly (or at all if taken literally) how this Arabic word is supposed to work, but I thought it might do and I immediately felt relieved. I’m sure my friend immediately felt confused.*

We can all make note of the enormous dromedary in the room, which is that I have no business, given my religious views, saying that god will or has willed anything. Yes, I know. Insincerity worries aside, it is nice to have words that express the indefinable.

And, on that note, here are some more charming foreign words that have no direct equivalent in English. Enjoy! 

*In hindsight, had I written Inshallah, instead, it would have actually made some sense. As in, "Yes, it is possible for me to meet the Dalai Lama—if god wills it!" Oh, to have l’espirit de l’escalier! 

Spiritualized.

As a non-believer, my Sunday mornings are never (really, I couldn’t even conjure up a rarely) spent in the house of any lord. Instead, I while away my hours with the holy trinity of pajamas, bacon, and coffee. I might turn on the radio and listen to jazz, or, every so often, tune in to Meet the Press.

But this morning was different, because I really wanted to see a piece on the You Are Beautiful project that would be airing during Oprah’s Super Soul Sunday. OK, to be honest, I can’t quite believe I just typed that. I don’t have anything against Oprah, but, as I said, I am a non-believer, and that extends to the media-created gods as well.

So here I am watching this Oprah show, which is actually being simulcast on Facebook. The featured guest, Panache Desai, is not my draw, but since I don’t know when my main attraction will make an appearance, my plan is to just wait through it.

I know the name Panache Desai because I have a friend who follows him. But, with much respect to her, I have viewed him, and other gurus of his ilk, with a dubious eye. There is so much blathering, self-help rhetoric being retched on us by so many that I can’t help but feel a bit suspicious. 

So, at first, I multi-task, keeping my ears alert for a change in vocal or musical modulations. But then I start to get pulled in. The words, the ideas, the revelations all start to peck at my callous, skeptic’s exterior. And they made a big enough hole that a little light shined in on my soul.

Turns out that the core of his message is about what I try to preach to myself: that if I make love my religion, I’ll live a blessed life. (I'm a work in progress, friends.)

Oh, and the You Are Beautiful spot was no more than two minutes. But really the perfect complement and capstone to a positive and uplifting segment. Huh, kind of like I went to church this morning...

Nah.    

I Dreamt About You Last Night.

I'm thinking about how I can earn one of those Godlike Genius awards. Because forget any other named award on earth. Is there really anything better than being dubbed a godlike genius? Doubtful.

I just learned that Johnny Marr will soon be fitted with this crown of honor by the mag NME. I've never heard of them, probably because my finger isn't anywhere near the pulsating vein of pop culture. But cheers to them for getting me to say aloud, "Who is this NME?...Oh, haha, NME...Nice."

So I've been sitting here for the last half hour trying to decide what's my favorite Smiths song. This is impossible. So the best I can do is the one that had the most impact on me. The one that I listened to over and over while locked in my room as a teenager, long after guests had arrived for Thanksgiving dinner and now I was just being rude. That was this one:

 (for the record, I always thought he was saying shag me on the patio. I'll take it now, indeed.)

A Step in a New Direction.

I let the eight-month mark of my year-long writing experiment pass without a mention, I guess mostly because I've had what's next more on my mind lately. I'm pretty sure now that I will defunct (<hmmm, can I verb this word?) this blog when my sentence is up and move forward. I know I can't go back to Shoe Stalking, in part because, I'll admit, I did occasionally buy new shoes just to give me something new to write about. Like these,  these, and these. True story. Those were mostly toward the end, though, when my desperation for new material was much like having a baby to try to save a doomed marriage. Well, at least my poor decisions harmed only the extra floor space in our house!

I do have a plan for my next blog theme, but I'm not ready to share it with the world yet. I can tell you that it will have nothing to do with me this time. And that's kind of exciting. For me.

While I ponder this, take a look at these delicious shoes I bought during lunch:

I promise, I did not buy them to give me a subject for today. But I may have convinced myself that I will need them during my upcoming visit to the desert. This is, of course, not true. I mean the part about needing them. For anything. 

No More Discourse Remorse...

As a writer (and a paid writer at that), I am supposed to be far superior at communication than the average person. But, I haven't necessarily worked to perfect my craft because I want people to understand me better. It's a consequence if I'm trying really hard to make a point, but I'd just as soon be ambiguous and strange—because that's where all the fun is to be had.

But even when I'm not deliberately being clever, there are infinite occasions to completely botch my message. And, really, there is only so much an emoticon can do. Thank goodness 8 New Punctuation Marks We Desperately Need have been created. And you can actually download them! .I am truly grateful!.

No Lifeboat Needed.

Back when Ben & I lived in the small house, we used to sit around our tiny living room and ruminate on the perfect desert island music collection. I was thinking about that today, and realizing that if I were stranded on a desolate land mass with my record player and the five albums I'd picked in say, 1985, I would probably serve myself up to the sharks without a fight. Same goes for other moments in my life. The five year span of 1996-2001 was a bit of an aural Armageddon, and while I still hold a place in my heart for my bohemian days, I'm not sure I'd want to be left with only my 1989-1991 picks either.

But I think I can find a high point from each semi-era and create a set I could feast on day in and day out. Chronologically speaking:

Teens:
Duran Duran's self titled. This one had a merciless battle with Rio, but the raw, dreamy, art house version of the band dropped their tightly produced, Vivienne Westwood affording version of themselves like a feather. This is my favorite:

Early 20s:
Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young's Deja Vu. Something happened, eh? Yeah, I found my people. And I found myself. And floral skirts. And Birkenstocks. And incense. And un-permed hair. Other picks were Neil Young's Harvest and the Grateful Dead's American Beauty. But this is the one, and this is the song:

Late 20s:
A lot happened over this time. I was thrift shopping, costume making, and figuring out what the hell was next. Experiments like Dead Can Dance and The Chieftains were fueling my aspirations, but Squirrel Nut Zippers Hot is responsible for actually changing my life. Oh, yes:

Mid 30s:
Forgetting that the years leading up happened at all, I cleansed myself and emerged from the flames of ultra-lounge with a new-found ear for the guitar. Interpol and Bloc Party got their fair share of air-strumming in my undies, but it was Arcade Fire's Funeral that, for lack of appropriate words, murdered me. I have never once not cried when hearing this song. Did it tonight. Damn them:

Late 30s:
Herbie Hancock's Headhunters. For anyone who thinks of Rock It when you hear his name, you have no idea. Exactly 10 years prior he was conductor of a psychedelic train headed straight into the center of the earth. Um, yeah:

I'm not ready to define the current times, so, for now, I'll just hang out under the palm trees and eat coconuts.

Oh, You Know.

I was prompted the other day to make a list of 10 things I should have learned by now. I flitted through high school; fumbled through college; functioned in numerous jobs that have each, in their own special way, doled out varying degrees of enlightenment; and I have created and destroyed a multitude of relationships. I should have learned a great deal by now. Of course, the operative word here is should, which seems to imply: should have, but haven’t.

1. Each day requires a minimum of two meals. Three is ideal; five is too many. Regardless of the number, planning ahead for them makes life infinitely easier.
2. Eating more that you burn off will make you fat. And if your pants no longer fit, it is not because they all mysteriously shrunk in the dryer.
3. Adequate sleep makes you a better person; too little sleep makes even you not want to be around you.
4. There are few acts of impulse that return favorable results. Many will culminate in a room filled with shoes.
5. No matter what you do, there are always consequences.
6. For unknown reasons, your situation always looks/feels different in the morning. Sometimes you just have to wait for it.
7. Alcohol truly is the cause of and solution to all life’s problems. Thanks for that, Homer Simpson.
8. Your parents aren’t always right. Just as you have always suspected.
9. No matter how valid your evidence, or how persuasive your argument, you rarely, if ever, can change another person's mind.
10. Trying to be perfect takes the fun out of life.

No Vegetables Were Harmed in the Making of This Meal.

So, do you have leftovers from last night? Good! We do, too.

My master plan for tonight’s dinner meant a lunchtime errand to The Pita House to pick up a couple of their plain pitas (because store-bought pita bread might be the saddest thing ever). While there, I also grabbed a box of za’atar and braved placing my incredibly simple, but somehow always eyebrow lowering, then eyebrow raising, lunch order. That is, the Fried Chicago Cheese Wrap with seasoning only, no vegetables. Don’t judge...trust me, it’s delicious, as will be this recipe for...

Morachos

What you need:

2 - 10” diameter rounds of fresh pita bread
Olive oil
Za’atar (you can buy a box that will last you until the second coming of Allah, or, more reasonably, make your own.)
Leftover Moraco meat
About 2 oz. of feta cheese
About 4 oz. of shredded Monterey Jack or other mild white cheese

What to do:

Preheat oven to 350º

The least time consuming way to do this also happens to be a little messy, so best to roll up your sleeves.

Take each pita round and brush both sides with olive oil. Then, insert a knife into the outer fold of one of the pitas and cut around the edge. You will have two rounds. Repeat with the second one. Stack all four on top of each other and cut into medium-sized wedges.

Arrange all the wedges, oil side up, on a baking sheet. Sprinkle evenly with za’atar, as much or as little as you want. Bake for about 10 minutes until slightly crisp, then remove from the oven and cool slightly.

Layer the pita chips with meat and both cheeses, and bake until shredded cheese is melted. Cut into sections and serve. Make note to self to buy gym membership tomorrow.

Yeah, maybe a veggie next time. If only for color variation...

Tacos a Go-Go.

The last several fusion-type taco recipes I've created have been so exceedingly successful that I've decided that they might just be my thing. Today I'm trying a variation that I feel pretty confident about, given that they are based on a Moroccan stew that I've been making for years. Get ready to try some...

Moracos

Here's what you need:

2½ pounds of London broil, trimmed of fat and cut into large pieces
Olive oil
Sea salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste
1 medium onion, finely chopped
3 garlic cloves, minced
1 tablespoon of garam masala
1 tablespoon of paprika
1 teaspoon of ground cumin
¼  teaspoon of cayenne pepper
½ cup of dry red wine
½ cup of dry sherry
1 cup of beef broth
1 can of petite diced tomatoes, pulsed once in the blender (don't purée them)
⅓ cup of golden raisins, chopped

And if you want a topping:

1 cup of romaine lettuce, finely chopped
1 medium pickling cucumber shredded
3-4 sprigs of fresh thyme, stems removed and leaves chopped
A couple of squeezes of fresh lemon
A couple of pinches of ground sumac

Here's what to do:

Preheat oven to 350°.

Drizzle a little olive oil in a medium skillet, then add the beef. Sprinkle with salt and pepper and sauté until browned. Transfer meat to a Dutch oven, leaving drippings in the skillet.

Add a little extra oil, if needed, then stir in onion and garlic and sauté until brown. Add the spices and stir on medium-low heat until fragrant. Add the tomatoes, wine, sherry, broth, and raisins. Stir to blend, then simmer for about one minute. Remove from heat and pour the mixture over the beef.

Bake with the lid on until beef is tender, about 2½-3 hours. When it's done, transfer the beef to a separate dish and, when it's cooled, shred it with two forks. Add salt, if needed. Spoon enough reserved sauce into the shredded beef to moisten it and stir to combine. Reheat before serving on warm flour tortillas.

For the topping, mix all ingredients together and keep cold until ready to serve.

 

Doesn't Bug Me.

We are currently cohabitating with a couple of boxelder bugs. Quite possibly more, but at least two.

We normally only see these creatures in the fall when they collect on the outside of our windows with a very Amityville-like presence, though they are more likely looking for a welcoming space to overwinter than signaling forthcoming ill will. These two must have gotten over-excited by our brief warm spell, exited hibernation, and are now stuck with us—at least for another month or so.

Last night, while reclining on the couch, one of them started creeping toward me. And I thought: if this were a spider, or heaven forbid, a cockroach, I would be on Jupiter right now. But I didn't leap or shriek or lunge for a tissue. I had to wonder why, and, after a thoughtful discussion with Ben, concluded that it all comes down to speed.

OK, so you've read this far (maybe), and you're wondering if I'm going to make a point. Not really, sorry.

Boxelders get to chill with us because they're slow. That's all I've got.  

 

Love Yourself.

I got started a little early on rule-following for being 44. Yesterday, I made a decision to let go of a friend, someone I care about, who stopped being a friend to me. I could have done nothing; just left it in its dormant state. But I felt like I needed to take a deliberate step. To make a statement (just to me, I guess) that loving myself matters more. To acknowledge that loving myself means, in part, not chasing friendships that seem to no longer exist and feeling hurt in the process.

Did I do the right thing? It doesn’t feel great right now. But it didn’t feel great before, either. In time, it might, though.

Why write about this? For one, to exorcize some of the darkness from my mind. Also, to underscore the importance of self love. (I know one of my readers who just snickered. Shhhh, you!) No matter what relationships we have, there’s only one that will be with us at the end: the one we have with ourselves. So we must be kind. And that kindness takes many forms.

That's all.

A Labor of Love?

The other night, while I was writing about my NYC umbrella photos, I pulled out the brushed aluminum renderings of them that I had printed to show at an art exhibit a couple of years ago. As I sorted through them, I thought: who was this person? She who was so inspired. So moved to act. Where did the courage to step out of my norm come from? The boldness to represent myself as an artist when I was (am) really not? And then, more seriously, I thought: wait, where is that person now?

I might have spotted her today: talking in mixed tones and occasionally too loudly, with arms flailing and fingertips fluttering—all a bit spastically, to tell the truth.

Why the maniacal behavior? Well, I’m kind of excited. Because I have an idea.

I have long mourned the ineptitude of The Dirty Show to satisfy my hunger for eroticism. Keep your dog collars, your rubber onesies, your pierced appendages out of my face: I want to be innuendoed to a fever pitch. And if no one is going to do it for me, I suppose I’ll have to do it myself.

This afternoon I had my first real conversation with a friend about my idea: to create an erotic art show here in Grand Rapids in the image of my fantasy. Sensual paintings, conceptual photography, seductive music, provocative video, alluring dance, passionate poetry, and...that about covers it, I guess.

Am I a curator? No. Have I ever organized an event of this magnitude? Or a public event of any kind for that matter? No, no. Is it really possible for me to make this happen? Don’t know. But after a little collaboration with a selection of people who might share my vision... Maybe.

While I start drawing out my elaborate scheme, you might find these snippets from Alain de Botton's "How to Think More About Sex" to be, um, stimulating. Mentally speaking, of course. 

Tough Love.

Today’s connection to love has to do with loving the coming year. Loving what I do, loving what I feel, loving who I will become. It’s based on a writing by Susan Sontag as she was turning 20 years younger than I will be very shortly. (There are a few overlaps because she was right. Or right on for me.) 

Rules + Duties for Being 44:

1. Sit and stand up straight.
2. Stop worrying & caring about people who don’t worry & care about you.
3. Write every day, but don’t necessarily share it with the world.
4. Write something amazing. Something you do want to share with the world.
5. Re-learn basic algebra, geometry, and statistics; try to find pleasure in it.
6. Eat/consume more purposefully.
7. Make that bikini you bought last summer work hard.
8. Press your inner pause button. Frequently.
9. Break the rules. Shirk the duties. As needed.  

This are my rules and duties. What are yours?

What's Not to Love?

I had one of those first-world problem kind of days. It boiled down to waking up feeling unrested and then encountering various forms of unrest over the next 10 or so hours. I tried to imagine how I would keep up my theme of love, until I tried to count at least five things I loved about this day. I can do this.

1. I love the fact that I am repeatedly, OK chronically, OK terminally, late for work (like 20 minutes to a half hour) and nobody gives a damn. This is probably because I'm awesome.
2. I love that my husband makes me coffee every morning, even though he stopped drinking it six moths ago. He makes excellent coffee. I do not. 
3. I love Pinback's Blue Screen Life and that it serenaded me on both my to and from commute. Here's probably my favorite song from it:
   
   
   
   
4. I love that my dance instructor is scheduling a Bollywood/Belly Dancing party around my extended vacation. I would hate to miss it, and I am happy that she would hate that I not be there.
5. I love the drive-thru guy at Adobe In & Out. His look tells me that this isn't his first choice in employment and that the hairnet probably brings him down a little bit, but he is always always always super-kind to me. I go there all the time because they are five blocks from my house and their food is spectacular: fast, but not fast food. I love this also.
6. Extra Credit: I love that I've been listening to Omar Faruk Tekbilek's Rare Elements as I've been writing this post and have felt inspired to lift my hands from the keyboard on more than one occasion to bust out a shoulder shimmy or an in-chair hip wiggle. Oh, and that I couldn't decide which song to share until I found this one. Yes, this one for sure:
   
   

  

A Change of Heart.

In the spirit of St. Valentine’s Day, I’ve decided to keep writing about love for a few more days. I don’t generally fall victim to overly-commercialized holidays that are little more than excuses to consume, but this is LOVE we’re talking about. I like love.

To start, I’m thinking about the compound adjective I used to describe the Michiganders who voted in favor of that proposal in 2004 to limit others’ civil rights. Should I have called them hate-filled? I sat on it for a long time yesterday trying to find a different way to say it, but every other word I tried didn’t have the same impact. Or the feeling that I was feeling.

But what if I’m wrong? What if their motivation comes not from a place of malevolence, but a sincere belief that what they’re doing is right? It’s easy to project our anger and frustration on those we don’t agree with—and assign them to a category of lesser individuals whose opinions have no merit because they don’t align with ours. It’s really easy for me.

But, I forgot: I am supposed to be opening my heart this year. And then there's that other mention I made about how pointless bickering never leads to more understanding and more positive outcomes. Right.

So, instead of flinging hurtful words that alienate the people who I hope will take a second look at their beliefs and behaviors and start to respond from a place of love instead of rigid dogma, I need to bring that love myself. Right? Right.

 

I Vote for Love.

I have never been punched, so I can’t say I really know what it feels like. But, I remember in 2004, when the Michigan election results were broadcast and we learned that 59% of our hate-filled neighbors deliberately got in their cars, drove to a polling station, and voted for a proposal to specifically limit the rights of their fellow human beings. That felt like a fist in my gut. I felt ill. And, more, stupefied. And, even more, ashamed to be known as a resident of this state.

But there is hope. And there is also momentum that’s been gaining as more states opt for inclusion, for parity, and, for heaven’s sake, common decency.

I just learned of an organization called Tolerance, Equality, and Awareness Movement (TEAM) who are collecting signatures and raising funds for a campaign to legalize same-sex marriage in Michigan in 2014, while also overturning the 2004 ban.

It’s time. It’s way past time. Michigan: let’s do something we can be proud of, OK?

~a Public Service Announcement from me to you~

When in Rome

When visiting other cities, it is only polite to try their local offering. And, so, our overnight in Grand Haven started with a view of the sunset at the Lake Michigan pier.

At Old Boy's Brewery in neighboring Spring Lake, I ordered the mulled wine, because when this rarity is on the menu, one must partake. By the time my second round--a pumpkin ale--arrived the live soloist started her performance. Her playlist included Indigo Girls, Bonnie Raitt, and an oldie by Patti Smith. Warm fuzzies for the year 1990 wrapped around my shoulders.

We moved on to Odd Sides Ales and sampled more of the local flavor. As we got ready to leave, a duo of musicians was setting up in the corner.

Back at our lakefront B&B, the fireplace is roaring. It's a good night in West Michigan.

That'll Do.

Those of you who have come to expect healthy recipes from me may want to shield your eyes, or, better yet, leave this page right now. Because, tonight, Ben and I aren't just going to eat our feelings, we're going to feast on them.

Between two slices of ciabatta, the events of this lousy week will do battle with caramelized onions, bacon, and horseradish-infused farmhouse cheese (made from the milk of spectacularly-happy, free-range, grass-fed, Lakeview, Michigan cows, I'm told).

I suspect that delicious will triumph over distress and all will be right in our world very soon. How can it not be?

Behold: The BLCheese. (The L is silent, by the way.)

Dispossessed, Reprised.

A few years ago, I count backward now and can confirm that it was 2010, I was in New York City for a conference. It was mid-May and the weather was unpredictable, as it always is in spring. Or, more accurately, as it always is always.

I was on my own in the city and ventured out in a wild and gusty rain storm to feed myself dinner. I had stepped no more than 100 feet from my hotel when I encountered the first. I noticed it, but dismissed it. Until I saw the second only a couple of strides later. And then I returned to the initial specimen and began to document.

 

In my five-block walk, I came upon one after another and another and another. These objects, so carelessly discarded by their users, spoke to me. The begged me to capture their abandonment. And so I did. In the dim light of dusk, with the camera on my smartphone.

They told me that our relevance on this earth is fleeting. And, that if it matters to us, we must not bend to stronger wills, shatter under pressure, sag when we are defeated, or, most importantly, maybe, allow ourselves to be so easily forgotten.

Or maybe they are just a bunch of broken umbrellas.

Just Wondering.

I want to go back a couple of nights…back to that statement I made about us being animals. I guess because, as I reflect, I’m not sure what I was meaning by it. It was the first answer that popped into my head, it sounded right, and it put a nice period on an unfinished, unconcluded thought. Despite my claims of a conclusion.

I think sometimes we are so instinctual and, yet, also so highly conditioned that we express ourselves in ways that are, on the one hand, natural and, on the other hand, calculated to elicit a response. Maybe these actions are so tightly woven that we are incapable of defining or identifying their boundaries.

I guess what I’m wondering is (regardless of whether or not this question seamlessly follows the last statement): has social networking heightened our neediness? Did we always require this much attention, this much adoration, this much empathy, this much reassurance, this much reciprocity, this much CONVERSATION?

Hmmm.

Ode to a Calico.

Your name came from a favorite movie.
I doted on you, but you still poo-pooed me.
Despite the nips, and swats, and growls.
My love for you never went afoul.
Today, you went into an eternal sleep.
And that really sucked.
~the end~

Goodbye Mrs. Pye...

It's Complicated.

On the emotional theme park ride that is my life, there are moments of anticipatory, creaking ascent, gut-turning plummets, and sudden pivots in mood. Fairly equal amounts of uncontrolled howling and giggling, as well as an occasional bout of vomiting, are all marks on the course.

This morning I was having one of those feelings of exhilaration: a sense that I am making sense, that what I am doing is doing it for me, that the work I’ve been working on is working. 

That is, I was having an “I’m Awesome” moment. I felt compelled to shout about it on facebook, but within about half an hour, one of my friends accused me of vaugebooking.

On seeing such a forward allegation, the blood half-drained from my head and I felt chilled and slightly mortified. No, no, no...I thought. I am not that person.

Here’s the thing: I could be in denial about all this. Except that…

You know what? I just deleted the shockingly pointless paragraph that was coming next. I realize that our online dystopia is abundant with sociological, psychological, philosophical, theoretical, behavioral  implications that transcend my comprehension. I conclude: we are animals. 

  

Oh, Kale Yes!

I've been suspicious of kale as an edible since the summer of 1990 when I worked as a waitress at Big Boy and we used this leafy green to camouflage the ice in our salad bar. At the end of the night, the case was emptied and any of the leftover garnish that wasn't completely covered in salad dressing, cottage cheese, or tomato guts was saved aside to be reused the next day, and the next day, and the next day if we really pushed it. Gross.

But kale is supposed to be quite high in nutrients and such, so I've decided to give it a try. I've also been guiltily eying a nearly full container of Israeli couscous that's been neglected in the pantry for far too long. It's a bit risky to try to make this pair work together, but I have a plan and I think it's going to be grand.

Here's what you need for:

North African Spicy Kale Stew

1 tablespoon of coriander seeds
1½ teaspoons of cumin seeds
1½ teaspoons of caraway seeds
1 teaspoon of black peppercorns
4 long dried chiles, stemmed, de-seeded, and broken into pieces
Olive oil
1 small onion, chopped
3 cloves of garlic, minced
3 cups of water
2 cups of vegetable broth
½ a bunch of kale, rinsed, de-stemmed and de-spined, and torn into pieces
1 large bay leaf
1 small sweet potato, peeled and cut into small cubes
4-5 mini purple potatoes, peeled and cut into small cubes
1 teaspoon of Aleppo pepper
1-2 teaspoons of kosher salt, to taste
1 can of chick peas, rinsed
¾ cup of Israeli couscous, par cooked for about 4 minutes in a separate pot, drained, and rinsed
The juice of one lemon

Here's what to do:

Put the first 5 ingredients in a spice mill and blend until ground well. In a large pot with a drizzle of olive oil in the bottom, sauté the onion and garlic for several minutes, then stir in the spice mixture. Continue cooking until onions are cooked through and spices are fragrant.

Add the water, broth, kale, bay leaf, and potatoes and cook for about 15 minutes. Potatoes should still be firm and kale should be cooked down.

Stir in Aleppo pepper, salt, chick peas, par-boiled couscous, and lemon juice. Simmer on medium for about 10 more minutes until couscous is firm, but no longer crunchy. Discard the bay leaf and serve.

Oooh, I love how the potatoes match my dress. Why, yes, I think I will have a taste!

PS: It turned out divine. And quite different from anything I've made previously. It's super spicy, and has layers of different textures and flavors. Try it. Try it. Try it!

That's the Signpost Up Ahead.

I have what I believe to be a very efficient way of handling my oral hygiene. Whereas I would otherwise be staring out the window doing nothing while my conditioner soaks in (except contemplating the complexities of life, potentially) I use this dormant shower time to brush my teeth.

Not only do I never show up anywhere with a glob of toothpaste front and center, I also suspect that in layering multiple tasks I will eventually earn extra time to spend the future.This makes sense, right?

The entire process has become so perfunctory that it scarcely requires thought: I complete the minty scrubbing, pull the shower curtain aside, and fling my toothbrush into the sink. After I've dried, I return it to the holder. Every day without fail. For years this has been going on.

Until yesterday. My flung object was not in the sink. Or on the counter. Or, gasp, on the floor behind the toilet. Or in the trash. Or, it seems, any place in this dimension.

It is clear to me now my toothbrush has earned that extra time in the future, but because I have dawdled at some other point in my days and weeks, it is simply there waiting for me to catch up.
  

Yesterday: The Surreal Edition.

I am curled up, ever so comfortable under my leopard-skin rug. As our hostile exterior conditions dictate, my companion is on high alert. Its tail lashes out from beneath our cover, swirling until it picks up a signal: what’s that? A citizen is in need?

I leap from my sanctuary and pull a nubby purple sweater over my unitard—it’s much too frigid to venture out in just my super-hero's guise alone, even with my cape wrapped around my shoulders.

Fighting against a swarm of bloodless, globular assailants, I trudge forward. They hurl themselves at me, burning my flesh as they disintegrate on contact. I brandish my unwieldy weapon, ensnarling my attackers in its fine barbs.

I locate my ward and hastily drag him to my time travel machine. We’ve little time left…he must not…be late…for work!