Revival of the Fittest.

On a fashion note, neon is enjoying a bit of a renaissance, and I can’t stop myself from basking in it. Under the rules, I am technically forbidden, as they state that if you wore it the first time, you are not allowed to wear it when it comes back in style. 

Under my rules, however, you get a second chance if the first time you didn’t wear it well. Considering it was 1985 and I was 16, and I honestly didn’t do anything well (or wisely) at that age, it’s safe to assume I can grant myself another shot.

Here it goes:

 

The shoes were the first purchase and the shorts followed shortly after. I will probably wear them together, even though that’s a whole ‘nother infraction…  

Word.

In 1993 I was completing my evolution from beaded-haired, floral-skirted, bare-footed bohemian to beret-wearing, espresso-sipping, deep-thought-having hipster. I was hanging out daily at this coffee house that played everything from big band to be-bop and discovering that I genuinely liked jazz. But I was way too cool to ever ask who the musician was when I heard a song come on that I was particularly drawn to. On top of my own stubborn pretentiousness, this was also still the pre-information age. So, it took me several years until I was able to define the artists and styles I liked and actually build a strong collection.

One of my earliest acquisitions was a box set called The Beat Generation—a pricey little purchase for me at the time, inspired by a live performance of Allen Ginsberg I’d just seen at Fountain Street Church. (He recited some works self-accompanied by a lap organ—it was extraordinary.) 

The 3-CD collection was a comprehensive capsule of the beat movement, and included interviews, spoken word poetry, and a representative selection of the hippest of hip jazz tunes. Among them were a couple of tracks by the resonant-voiced, profound-minded Ken Nordine. 

Years later, I’d almost forgotten Mr. Nordine, until a music-loving friend sent me a CD of his called Colors for my birthday. He assumed he would speak to me. He was right.

Fake it until you make it.

When I left suburbs north of Detroit to go to college in West Michigan, I was OK to say goodbye to the big city. My hometown was exploding with growth, and the busy-ness and traffic and overall sprawl were more of a nuisance to me than anything to get excited about. I liked the change of pace and quietude of living amid wooded ravines to my east and cornfields in every other direction. 

Though I don’t come from Detroit proper, many of my best childhood memories happened there: live jazz on the weekends at Hart Plaza, the rise of the People Mover, concerts at Joe Louis…

It wasn’t until I’d been away for quite a long time that I truly appreciated it. And started to miss it. But by then it had fallen down. Hard. Driving through the city would make my heart ache. I would fantasize about moving back and being part of its rebirth. (I still do, honestly.)

Though that isn’t a practical option for me right now, I can at least live vicariously through Brian Kelly Photography’s Detroit Portraits Project. You can read about it from the beginning here. 

I just received in the mail the portrait I was promised in exchange for helping back the project: 

The project, including my pic, #15, is documented here.

I chose this one because it represents to me in one hand desolation and in the other, albeit artificial, the illumination of hope. 

Like it was yesterday...

Behind the television,
Where books collected dust,
A treasure hid amid the shelves
That piqued my interest.

Between the cabinet and the wall,
My youthful frame I’d squeeze,

And find within that tiny space

A place to drop my knees…

To search for a container;

The object I desired.

Or those that were within it,

Of which I was inspired.

I’d clutch the roughly-textured box,
And peer at its contents.
Inside, from small to large was tucked
A row of elephants.

Neatly carved and smooth to touch,
Each one a mystery.
Their fragrance crept inside my nose,
Intoxicating me.

I’d visit them from time to time,

Throughout my childhood.

These creatures hewn so carefully,

In musky Sandalwood.

I need an editor.

It’s 11:06 and I’m torn. I’ve just finished writing a post that I fear will be considered offensive or insensitive or just plain shallow. I don’t want or mean it to be any of those things; only an honest telling of my learning experience. I’ve read it over and again. I just don’t know. And so…

Good night.

Where is my mind?

Today, for the first time since I started this challenge, I thought: good lord, what have I gotten myself into? I’m sure there will be many more days like this in the next 342, but today is different. It isn’t so much that I have nothing to say, it’s that I have no brain from which to beg an idea.

It seems the consequences for spot removal are dire: the prescription that finally cured my pestilent rash has left me mentally destitute. The side effects I am experiencing are common to this drug, but no less distressing. 

My mind is much like a set of malfunctioning automatic doors that open and close repeatedly. If it’s quick about it, a thought may escape through the narrow closure, but then finds itself stranded on the other side. Its other, less adept counterparts are too sluggish to make the leap, and, thus, the cheese stands alone.   

Bitterly alone.

Oh, crap.

I made a special trip across town yesterday to Mediterranean Island, an International grocery that carries goods that reach far beyond its name’s boasted region. I was positive that I would find fava beans there and I did. I also came across sparingly marked bags of Ethiopian coffee beans that were obviously packaged in house. The beans were a pale, grayish-green and I wondered for a moment if they were the ones I’d heard about that were pooped out of monkeys. Without a second thought, I tossed a package in my basket. 

When I got home, I did the kind of research that probably should have preceded my purchase, and discovered that whatever this recollection I’d had about spent coffee beans was, it was barely clinging to reality. The pooped out berries in question are of Asian origin, not African. They are not processed by monkeys, but by civets. They are not $5 a pound, but around $160. I’m not saying I wanted what I bought to be them; all of this was just the coinciding of an adventurous purchase and a random memory that I wanted to get to the bottom of.      

So, this morning, I decided to give my feces-free beans a try. I put them in the grinder, pressed the button, and nearly deafened myself with the sound that came out of it. I could have ground gravel more easily. At this point it dawned on me that a very important adjective was missing from the package’s label. They were raw. This should have been obvious to me by their lack of brownness, but really I just thought they were prepared differently. Really. 

This was definitely a bit of an airhead moment for me, but, in my defense, part of what I enjoy about experimenting with foods from different countries and cultures is the suspension of expectations. Had I thought it completely through at the store, I probably wouldn’t have bought these coffee beans. And I wouldn’t have learned today how to roast them myself. On the grill no less!