Wednesday, September 1, 2010
More than Fuel
Many times our sustenance stems from a half-assed mish-mash quickly thrown together in some sort of pot, pan, or standard kitchen-issue vessel. This rather flippant attitude towards food preparation is not only disrespectful, but more importantly, shoves our connections to the meal to the back burner (pun intended). Cooking food well demonstrates respect for the ingredients, for the consumers, and for the people preparing the meal.
Something had to die so that we may eat, and therefore, live. The flora and fauna of the world are continually sacrificed for our sake, and even though it is the natural order of things, respect for these plants and animals appears to be lacking in the final culinary equation. Perhaps we are appalled to think too precisely about where our food comes from. After all, it is easier to avoid thinking too much about food origins when the majority of our ingredients come entombed in some sort of shrink wrap. Ultimately, it isn’t the exalted meat producers that get sacrificed for our dinner plate. The salads and grains (yes, I’m talking to the vegetarians out there) were once living growing plants. By preparing the very best salads and breads, we are respecting these mighty morsels.
Interestingly, the care and attention given to the ingredients has a way of transferring itself to the person consuming the meal. Chain-O-Rama restaurant meals are not made with love, care, or much attention. The meals most Americans consume are formulaic and fraught with ennui. We deserve better than this damnit! There is a distinct reason why grandma’s cooking always tastes so wonderful – For God’s sake, she is Grandma.
Last of all, how does cooking well manifest esteem within the cook? When one goes into the kitchen and starts gathering ingredients, there is inherently a certain level of self-esteem that follows her into that room. Meticulously chopping, slicing, and sautéing require a person to have some sort of regard for the food he or she is about to prepare, not to mention some awareness so as not to lose pieces of digits. Fixing a meal to the best of one’s ability (not just major holiday feasts) calls for some self-worth. Granted, there may be fear involved, but look at it this way; many courageous cooks have had many culinary catastrophes, and have walked away relatively unscathed (oven/oil burns not withstanding).
In closing, a little dirt in the diet is a good thing, and if one has to lift a lowly inch worm from her lettuce leaf, it only means the meal is real. Cooking food well spotlights respect for our food, love for our fellow dinner companions, and a sense of self-worth that cannot be obtained in a drive-thru.
Something had to die so that we may eat, and therefore, live. The flora and fauna of the world are continually sacrificed for our sake, and even though it is the natural order of things, respect for these plants and animals appears to be lacking in the final culinary equation. Perhaps we are appalled to think too precisely about where our food comes from. After all, it is easier to avoid thinking too much about food origins when the majority of our ingredients come entombed in some sort of shrink wrap. Ultimately, it isn’t the exalted meat producers that get sacrificed for our dinner plate. The salads and grains (yes, I’m talking to the vegetarians out there) were once living growing plants. By preparing the very best salads and breads, we are respecting these mighty morsels.
Interestingly, the care and attention given to the ingredients has a way of transferring itself to the person consuming the meal. Chain-O-Rama restaurant meals are not made with love, care, or much attention. The meals most Americans consume are formulaic and fraught with ennui. We deserve better than this damnit! There is a distinct reason why grandma’s cooking always tastes so wonderful – For God’s sake, she is Grandma.
Last of all, how does cooking well manifest esteem within the cook? When one goes into the kitchen and starts gathering ingredients, there is inherently a certain level of self-esteem that follows her into that room. Meticulously chopping, slicing, and sautéing require a person to have some sort of regard for the food he or she is about to prepare, not to mention some awareness so as not to lose pieces of digits. Fixing a meal to the best of one’s ability (not just major holiday feasts) calls for some self-worth. Granted, there may be fear involved, but look at it this way; many courageous cooks have had many culinary catastrophes, and have walked away relatively unscathed (oven/oil burns not withstanding).
In closing, a little dirt in the diet is a good thing, and if one has to lift a lowly inch worm from her lettuce leaf, it only means the meal is real. Cooking food well spotlights respect for our food, love for our fellow dinner companions, and a sense of self-worth that cannot be obtained in a drive-thru.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
These Trees Were Illegally Cut
These Trees Were Illegally Cut
(A sign seen on I-94)
Stealing trees just sounds odd-
Imagine a gang of tree thieves
Arriving in big black Fords,
Hanging onto axes and saws
The way they would hold their wives.
They stole you.
This is the hour the ground exhales
Veils of fog,
Enveloping the remaining willows
(leftovers)
And unfurling its ragged edges to melt
The interstate into submission.
Then there’s me
And my clumsy car
Tapping out a tune with Vixen-colored fingernails
(the best damn steering wheel drummer to ever live).
So here I am again –
Me holding your hand without you knowing it –
And thinking about those grown men
(arbor whores)
Defiling themselves in the pre-dawn.
They were the ones who took you away from me.
Made you join them in their secret work.
Made you leave me in the middle of the night with
Something swirling and unborn inside of me.
Made you disappear.
Bags and suitcases rustling in the trunk
Made me
Realize –
It’s raining again –
Off and on for four days now –
Half-expect to meet Noah around the bend.
Almost opened my mouth to speak, but
Riding in my passenger seat is my
Brand new purse
(still clean)
Already heavy with burden.
(A sign seen on I-94)
Stealing trees just sounds odd-
Imagine a gang of tree thieves
Arriving in big black Fords,
Hanging onto axes and saws
The way they would hold their wives.
They stole you.
This is the hour the ground exhales
Veils of fog,
Enveloping the remaining willows
(leftovers)
And unfurling its ragged edges to melt
The interstate into submission.
Then there’s me
And my clumsy car
Tapping out a tune with Vixen-colored fingernails
(the best damn steering wheel drummer to ever live).
So here I am again –
Me holding your hand without you knowing it –
And thinking about those grown men
(arbor whores)
Defiling themselves in the pre-dawn.
They were the ones who took you away from me.
Made you join them in their secret work.
Made you leave me in the middle of the night with
Something swirling and unborn inside of me.
Made you disappear.
Bags and suitcases rustling in the trunk
Made me
Realize –
It’s raining again –
Off and on for four days now –
Half-expect to meet Noah around the bend.
Almost opened my mouth to speak, but
Riding in my passenger seat is my
Brand new purse
(still clean)
Already heavy with burden.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
The Green Robe
It took folds of forest green
terry cloth swallowing me
one limb at a time to make me
into a mouse – warm and weak
against my giant.
The shield is one shade lighter
than the forest at midnight and
one shade darker than the sky
before a storm, and as that peculiar
sky breaks apart
over our heads
with me,
unified as confetti,
looking at you the way raindrops
dripping off of lips look so delicious.
It can absorb
the droplets left over
on the small of my back
where I can never get the towel to reach.
It takes away
some little bits of sin every time and
morphs it into little pixels
like the potting soil in the living room –
ground into each fiber –
woven into the Berber like it belongs there.
Tossing it to the hamper as one
might toss a crutch after the cast comes off –
I can’t comprehend – because the day
you pulled your robe around me you
stirred the internal and it became
my emerald everything.
terry cloth swallowing me
one limb at a time to make me
into a mouse – warm and weak
against my giant.
The shield is one shade lighter
than the forest at midnight and
one shade darker than the sky
before a storm, and as that peculiar
sky breaks apart
over our heads
with me,
unified as confetti,
looking at you the way raindrops
dripping off of lips look so delicious.
It can absorb
the droplets left over
on the small of my back
where I can never get the towel to reach.
It takes away
some little bits of sin every time and
morphs it into little pixels
like the potting soil in the living room –
ground into each fiber –
woven into the Berber like it belongs there.
Tossing it to the hamper as one
might toss a crutch after the cast comes off –
I can’t comprehend – because the day
you pulled your robe around me you
stirred the internal and it became
my emerald everything.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Rush
Danced through mazes of people to
get here – to you. A spot on the floor forgotten
by geography and curious explorers.
Some speech spilled out of our mouths
only to fall to the floor and receive
the soles of those left over for the next song.
Pleasantries really, that first dance – an exchange
of the mutual – an awkward mosaic composed in
the colors of initial blush.
How the floor pulsated through the toes up
and up
out the top of the head – a river of signals
synthesized rushing to a grand receiver in space.
And I embraced the apparent deterioration of
my muscles – now thin invisible supports for
my limbs like translucent spaghetti straps to a
twentysomething’s dress.
We stood as if only a divine cue
could crash down and smother us
in understanding – something solid to hold onto.
And the touch –
was like spatterings of sizzling fat flung up
and down the spine.
Music gave permission to continue
from the freeze frame of first fear.
So, self-control held hands with shy
and slid down my leg leaving pools
to pummel with rhythm.
A mass of dancers so close
created a swarm sound that could deafen
the most leaden ear. Music ceased to matter –
lulled backward in panting patterns lost on
me and you – two of the confused.
An elixir of musk – sweat – shampoo hovering
between nausea and euphoria – each one a
personal con artist to my nerve cells.
I’m falling –
and to stop moving would hurt too much.
get here – to you. A spot on the floor forgotten
by geography and curious explorers.
Some speech spilled out of our mouths
only to fall to the floor and receive
the soles of those left over for the next song.
Pleasantries really, that first dance – an exchange
of the mutual – an awkward mosaic composed in
the colors of initial blush.
How the floor pulsated through the toes up
and up
out the top of the head – a river of signals
synthesized rushing to a grand receiver in space.
And I embraced the apparent deterioration of
my muscles – now thin invisible supports for
my limbs like translucent spaghetti straps to a
twentysomething’s dress.
We stood as if only a divine cue
could crash down and smother us
in understanding – something solid to hold onto.
And the touch –
was like spatterings of sizzling fat flung up
and down the spine.
Music gave permission to continue
from the freeze frame of first fear.
So, self-control held hands with shy
and slid down my leg leaving pools
to pummel with rhythm.
A mass of dancers so close
created a swarm sound that could deafen
the most leaden ear. Music ceased to matter –
lulled backward in panting patterns lost on
me and you – two of the confused.
An elixir of musk – sweat – shampoo hovering
between nausea and euphoria – each one a
personal con artist to my nerve cells.
I’m falling –
and to stop moving would hurt too much.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Eggs n' Grits
It’s a ritual really; my many mornings spent in perfecting parboiled eggs and getting grits to assemble into a creamy congregation. I cannot recall when this breakfast practice first began; but, as I continued to crack the first attempts at parboiled eggs, I’m sure the events leading up to it were runny and slimy. Honestly, aren’t most of our comfort food creations born from some slimy times?
For a brief time, while focusing on the yolks, I came to understand this as purely protein, and not as a chicken’s child. Also, there came the realization that some people would never share this meal with me simply because they had not made this crucial division. I can respect that. However, I can’t help but feel like they may be missing out on one of the world’s best combos.
Grits get a bad image instantly due to their unfortunate name. While laughing in the face of convention, I make mine into explicitly gritty, creamy goodness. Distractions have led to stiff grits, and soupy mixtures that couldn’t pass for pig slop. Ah yes, the splendor of trial and error is a terrifyingly beautiful thing. Only experience has taught me to balance the butter and swirl the yellow yolk ribbons into such a divine dish.
Perhaps in the future I will add some snippets of bacon or maybe some crumbles of crunchiness in no particular form. I have found my comfort food, and I eat from a bowl full of potential.
For a brief time, while focusing on the yolks, I came to understand this as purely protein, and not as a chicken’s child. Also, there came the realization that some people would never share this meal with me simply because they had not made this crucial division. I can respect that. However, I can’t help but feel like they may be missing out on one of the world’s best combos.
Grits get a bad image instantly due to their unfortunate name. While laughing in the face of convention, I make mine into explicitly gritty, creamy goodness. Distractions have led to stiff grits, and soupy mixtures that couldn’t pass for pig slop. Ah yes, the splendor of trial and error is a terrifyingly beautiful thing. Only experience has taught me to balance the butter and swirl the yellow yolk ribbons into such a divine dish.
Perhaps in the future I will add some snippets of bacon or maybe some crumbles of crunchiness in no particular form. I have found my comfort food, and I eat from a bowl full of potential.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Earth Warmth
Geothermal games
Excavate the OPEC oil
Or we die trying.
Desert mirrors hold
A clandestine candlelight
Our solar complex.
Uranium house
Utopia on the edge
Us, a nucleus.
Turbines turn in wind
Cut the wings off the falcon
Fearless and flightless.
Now we wonder why
Our new wind wizardry writhes
In old ideas.
Excavate the OPEC oil
Or we die trying.
Desert mirrors hold
A clandestine candlelight
Our solar complex.
Uranium house
Utopia on the edge
Us, a nucleus.
Turbines turn in wind
Cut the wings off the falcon
Fearless and flightless.
Now we wonder why
Our new wind wizardry writhes
In old ideas.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Dyngus Day: A Non-Polish Perspective
Dyngus Day is for everyone; no matter the national heritage or culture. On Easter Monday everyone gets to be Polish and enjoy some of the craziest festivities ever witnessed in the small city of South Bend, Indiana. Much like St. Patrick’s Day (where everyone turns Irish), Dyngus Day requires massive intake of (preferably Polish) beer and a rather sickly sweet liqueur known as jezynowka (a blackberry brandy). This brandy should come with a warning label telling the drinker that, depending on how much of said product is consumed; one could seriously regret turning Polish for the day.
In addition to the alcoholic beverages, there is some very delicious food that generally goes along with the day. Obviously, the main food star would be the Polish sausage (pronounced: Saaasaaaage – think Chicago accent). Usually, this wonderful tubular meat is served with a slice of bread and a hard boiled egg (it is the day after Easter after all). If things are going well, then there may be a full Polish spread involved. This feast usually consists of sausage, chicken, noodles, mashed potatoes, green beans, sweet/sour cabbage, and perhaps a pierogi or two, or ten. Generally, it is widely accepted (if not flat out encouraged) to hold your sausage sandwich in one hand while holding a beer in the other. All of this food coordination is also compounded by the fact that everyone is dancing as well.
This brings me to my last, and most important, aspect of Dyngus Day; the music and polka dancing. One is not expected to know how to polka during this event, but believe me when I say that if the urge doesn’t strike, then it’s time to check the pulse. Our Dyngus Day celebration plays to the soundtrack of classic and more modern polka music. Those who do know the fine art of polka dancing are an absolute joy to watch and, even with the beer flowing in rivers, the skill and stamina to keep up with these elders is beyond what many of us can handle.
In short, don’t miss out on this little known holiday. The party starts at 7:00 am (yes, you read that correctly), and I highly suggest getting to the site that early. The polka starts around 7:30-8:00am – the sausage is served all day long, and well, the beer and brandy flows when the music starts…yes, that means alcohol for breakfast! Tell me, what’s not to like about Dyngus Day?
In addition to the alcoholic beverages, there is some very delicious food that generally goes along with the day. Obviously, the main food star would be the Polish sausage (pronounced: Saaasaaaage – think Chicago accent). Usually, this wonderful tubular meat is served with a slice of bread and a hard boiled egg (it is the day after Easter after all). If things are going well, then there may be a full Polish spread involved. This feast usually consists of sausage, chicken, noodles, mashed potatoes, green beans, sweet/sour cabbage, and perhaps a pierogi or two, or ten. Generally, it is widely accepted (if not flat out encouraged) to hold your sausage sandwich in one hand while holding a beer in the other. All of this food coordination is also compounded by the fact that everyone is dancing as well.
This brings me to my last, and most important, aspect of Dyngus Day; the music and polka dancing. One is not expected to know how to polka during this event, but believe me when I say that if the urge doesn’t strike, then it’s time to check the pulse. Our Dyngus Day celebration plays to the soundtrack of classic and more modern polka music. Those who do know the fine art of polka dancing are an absolute joy to watch and, even with the beer flowing in rivers, the skill and stamina to keep up with these elders is beyond what many of us can handle.
In short, don’t miss out on this little known holiday. The party starts at 7:00 am (yes, you read that correctly), and I highly suggest getting to the site that early. The polka starts around 7:30-8:00am – the sausage is served all day long, and well, the beer and brandy flows when the music starts…yes, that means alcohol for breakfast! Tell me, what’s not to like about Dyngus Day?
Monday, February 22, 2010
Owl Muse
It seems perfectly natural that my chosen muse (the esteemed owl) should represent misfortune on one side of the world and wisdom/prosperity on the other. While visiting Greece (home of the “wise” Athenian owl), I was told that I was very fortunate to be able to see and hear owls in my backyard here in Michigan. Apparently, most of the owls in Greece are gone; and, to see one means luck is sure to follow. Well, I’m still waiting for that luck to kick in, but I can share my opposite adventure while I wait.
I have a very good Vietnamese friend here in my hometown who is fully aware of my many idiosyncrasies. The day I showed up in his shop wearing my brand new silver owl pendant, he looked as if I had personally bit the heads off of several rodents and regurgitated the pellets on his floor. Most people thought my owl necklace was pretty (or at least unique, I get that comment a lot), but my buddy looked horrified. Seriously, I’m not out to offend people with my accessories (most of the time) so I had to know why he vehemently opposed my feathered décor. Simply put, he informed me that owls/birds of prey are considered unlucky and denote death in his culture. Removing the aberrant creature from around my neck, I told him about my Grecian experience and that the opposite holds true there. Interestingly, he did not seem impressed with this information, and after much cajoling; he accepted my fascination with these strange birds.
Recently, I heard the familiar hoots outside my window in that weird hour between late night and pre- dawn. Lying in bed, in a semi-dream state, it occurred to me that their calls were sending the small hairs on my arms to stand up straight, while at the same time I smiled knowing that I was one auspicious woman to hear these sounds in first place.
I have a very good Vietnamese friend here in my hometown who is fully aware of my many idiosyncrasies. The day I showed up in his shop wearing my brand new silver owl pendant, he looked as if I had personally bit the heads off of several rodents and regurgitated the pellets on his floor. Most people thought my owl necklace was pretty (or at least unique, I get that comment a lot), but my buddy looked horrified. Seriously, I’m not out to offend people with my accessories (most of the time) so I had to know why he vehemently opposed my feathered décor. Simply put, he informed me that owls/birds of prey are considered unlucky and denote death in his culture. Removing the aberrant creature from around my neck, I told him about my Grecian experience and that the opposite holds true there. Interestingly, he did not seem impressed with this information, and after much cajoling; he accepted my fascination with these strange birds.
Recently, I heard the familiar hoots outside my window in that weird hour between late night and pre- dawn. Lying in bed, in a semi-dream state, it occurred to me that their calls were sending the small hairs on my arms to stand up straight, while at the same time I smiled knowing that I was one auspicious woman to hear these sounds in first place.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Null and Void
My synonym search turned up the following words and phrases: Not valid, without value, effect, consequence, or significance, lacking, nonexistent, and being or amounting to zero. It seems to me that nothingness is sure loaded with a lot of something-ness. As I seek to annul my first marriage, I am confronted with this overwhelming urge to reaffirm my history rather than reject it. Granted, those were not the most wonderful five years of my life, but they did exist. That union served a multitude of lessons on (slightly tarnished) silver platters, and to deny this section of my life would be likened to lying for religious purposes. I just can’t bring myself to go there.
Annulment is a soft sounding word for a very rock hard action; invalidating a marriage. I am about to declare my first marriage null and void and this takes some getting used to. I mean, wasn’t the divorce enough? Doesn’t the Almighty already know the circumstances leading up to and right after the great divide? Apparently, documentation is required for us humble humans to just make sure everything is kosher. This leaves me feeling amazingly empty. I want to take credit for the milestones in my own life, for better or worse, in sickness and health, and for richer and poorer (pardon the horrid puns). My life experiences and personal history help make me the matchless and beautifully appalling person I am today.
As of right now, my intentions are to continue with this odd marital rewind. Why? Well, first of all, it occurred to me (along about question 32 of the brain-numbing and heartbreaking marital resume) that church law and civil law are two very different animals and should be kept far apart from one another, but I digress. Basically, I am divorcing my ex-husband spiritually now and not just civilly. Also, the church is declaring my first marriage invalid, not me as a person. I still exist; I am just a little louder now. The most important reason, however, for this little blip on my path of enlightenment is relatively simple. I am in love, and that should explain everything.
Annulment is a soft sounding word for a very rock hard action; invalidating a marriage. I am about to declare my first marriage null and void and this takes some getting used to. I mean, wasn’t the divorce enough? Doesn’t the Almighty already know the circumstances leading up to and right after the great divide? Apparently, documentation is required for us humble humans to just make sure everything is kosher. This leaves me feeling amazingly empty. I want to take credit for the milestones in my own life, for better or worse, in sickness and health, and for richer and poorer (pardon the horrid puns). My life experiences and personal history help make me the matchless and beautifully appalling person I am today.
As of right now, my intentions are to continue with this odd marital rewind. Why? Well, first of all, it occurred to me (along about question 32 of the brain-numbing and heartbreaking marital resume) that church law and civil law are two very different animals and should be kept far apart from one another, but I digress. Basically, I am divorcing my ex-husband spiritually now and not just civilly. Also, the church is declaring my first marriage invalid, not me as a person. I still exist; I am just a little louder now. The most important reason, however, for this little blip on my path of enlightenment is relatively simple. I am in love, and that should explain everything.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
War Paint
Consciously, I know I am not going to war every morning I dip my magic wand into that tiny tube of ink-like goop and transform my eyelashes into little wisps of facial art. Of course, I understand that there won’t be any ceremonial dances or feasts that require special body markings and chants to go along with them today (tomorrow is always another story). Knowing this, I still maintain that this ritual of morning cosmetic prep work is essential to my daily well-being.
I’m positive there’s some quaint psychobabble out there to explain this “painting” habit; however, I detest such babble and much prefer to explore these things on my own. Remember the joy of opening up a new box of Crayola crayons? All of the beautiful colors (especially if it was a 64 count box) and the smell of fresh wax contained in such pristine points awaiting an artist’s hand. Anticipation of creation can be a very seductive feeling and, for the most part, this how I feel whenever I open one of my Lancôme palettes of pleasure. Perhaps crayons on paper doesn’t quite capture the feeling like perfectly executed liquid liner and lacquered lips, but I’m willing to bet I’m not the only one gets this rather juvenile enjoyment from applying makeup.
Smoky eyes, cat eyes, and (when I need a serious boost) high definition color block eyes are just a few of the masks I’ve mastered over the years. Like an old companion, my cosmetics have followed me through a variety of stages. There was the creamy matte lipstick stage, the purple eye shadow stage, the eyelashes painted in colors not found in nature stage, and my personal favorite; liner and shadow smudged so heavily that I looked like I slept in it for days. Somehow I felt that this last stage gave off the impression that my evenings were so exciting that I wound up in bed without a care in the world, much less taking the time for a freshly cleansed face. Well, that’s what I thought anyway.
War paint may not properly describe the affection I have toward my cosmetic case (who am I kidding; it’s more like a cosmetic closet in the bathroom). Sometimes it’s necessary to paint my face in order to face enemies like ex-spouses, ex-boyfriends, and ex-friends. Luckily, these situations do not serve as the foundation for my air-brush foundation. Rather, my affinity for makeup comes from the fact that it makes me feel put together and confident. And, if by some chance I’m feeling tribal and particularly bad-ass, I may just leave the house bare faced and free.
I’m positive there’s some quaint psychobabble out there to explain this “painting” habit; however, I detest such babble and much prefer to explore these things on my own. Remember the joy of opening up a new box of Crayola crayons? All of the beautiful colors (especially if it was a 64 count box) and the smell of fresh wax contained in such pristine points awaiting an artist’s hand. Anticipation of creation can be a very seductive feeling and, for the most part, this how I feel whenever I open one of my Lancôme palettes of pleasure. Perhaps crayons on paper doesn’t quite capture the feeling like perfectly executed liquid liner and lacquered lips, but I’m willing to bet I’m not the only one gets this rather juvenile enjoyment from applying makeup.
Smoky eyes, cat eyes, and (when I need a serious boost) high definition color block eyes are just a few of the masks I’ve mastered over the years. Like an old companion, my cosmetics have followed me through a variety of stages. There was the creamy matte lipstick stage, the purple eye shadow stage, the eyelashes painted in colors not found in nature stage, and my personal favorite; liner and shadow smudged so heavily that I looked like I slept in it for days. Somehow I felt that this last stage gave off the impression that my evenings were so exciting that I wound up in bed without a care in the world, much less taking the time for a freshly cleansed face. Well, that’s what I thought anyway.
War paint may not properly describe the affection I have toward my cosmetic case (who am I kidding; it’s more like a cosmetic closet in the bathroom). Sometimes it’s necessary to paint my face in order to face enemies like ex-spouses, ex-boyfriends, and ex-friends. Luckily, these situations do not serve as the foundation for my air-brush foundation. Rather, my affinity for makeup comes from the fact that it makes me feel put together and confident. And, if by some chance I’m feeling tribal and particularly bad-ass, I may just leave the house bare faced and free.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Observing Understudy
This is the fifth hour and the studio is veiled
In a film of sweaty stench as
Dancing goes on alone.
The pencil point turns are becoming blunt,
The shoulders droop like eyes after lullabies,
And there is wrongness in the body.
Stopping at the sound of
A whispering door,
Staring at the other arrivals in active assessment,
A dark chocolate bittersweet taste creeps into
The mouth as the understudy watches
A ballerina lose her balance.
In a film of sweaty stench as
Dancing goes on alone.
The pencil point turns are becoming blunt,
The shoulders droop like eyes after lullabies,
And there is wrongness in the body.
Stopping at the sound of
A whispering door,
Staring at the other arrivals in active assessment,
A dark chocolate bittersweet taste creeps into
The mouth as the understudy watches
A ballerina lose her balance.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Shoe Shopper or Predator?
I swoon (yes, I actually swoon) over shoes. It’s bad. According to some very intrepid friends of mine, my eyes glaze over in delight, my breathing becomes quickened, and on some occasions, my skin flushes. One may think I’ve had some sort of sexual encounter the moment my perfectly shod foot hits the shoe salon. Perhaps equating shoes to sex isn’t so far-fetched after all. There’s the thrill of the hunt, the fitting period (to see if things will be kosher between shoe and foot), and most importantly, the final assessment. Can I feel good about this transaction? Will I be able to walk tall or will I crumple because the bunions got the best of me.
There have been many attempts at explaining this phenomena to the people who cannot possibly fathom such a connection (usually they’re men, but I happen to know there are a few women out there who are happy with 2 or 3 pairs). While the thought of such a paltry amount of shoes makes me shudder, I want to make sure I am not coming across as some sort of Imelda Marcos wannabe. Rather, it’s more important to clarify this seemingly insane union between a woman and her footwear.
Everyone knows by now (I hope) what a good feeling it is to get a brand new pair of tennis shoes. Aside from being clean and supportive, they unwittingly offer possibilities to their new owner. For a brief moment we can run a little faster or jump a little higher. These possibilities exist across the whole spectrum of shoe designs. The potential held in my ballet slippers was practically palpable to everyone in a little run down dance shop in Kalamazoo, where pastel pink wasn’t just a color, but a way of life. My first pair of Havaianas flip flops led me to dream about living out my last days on Greek beaches surrounded by sunlight, music, and ex-pats. And, the pure elation derived from the fitting and purchasing of my first pair of Gucci pumps still makes me smile even though it’s been a healthy six years ago.
While I believe promise and possibilities are at the core of the shoe obsession, I also feel that the answer is quite simply that feet don’t change sizes very often. The rest of my body lets me down in the size department. I can’t even rely on my midsection to be the same one day to the next, much less one year to the next. Ah, but even if I’m more bloated than the guy who finished off his fourth plate of Polish buffet, at least I’ve got my trusty pumps, boots, jewel-encrusted sandals to make me feel capable, sophisticated, and less gassy.
So, to all future shoe salespeople (and naysayers) I may encounter I say this: Let me (and others like me) daydream. It’s not just shoe shopping; I’m trying on possibilities and sometimes, when I crave inspiration, all I have to do is look down.
There have been many attempts at explaining this phenomena to the people who cannot possibly fathom such a connection (usually they’re men, but I happen to know there are a few women out there who are happy with 2 or 3 pairs). While the thought of such a paltry amount of shoes makes me shudder, I want to make sure I am not coming across as some sort of Imelda Marcos wannabe. Rather, it’s more important to clarify this seemingly insane union between a woman and her footwear.
Everyone knows by now (I hope) what a good feeling it is to get a brand new pair of tennis shoes. Aside from being clean and supportive, they unwittingly offer possibilities to their new owner. For a brief moment we can run a little faster or jump a little higher. These possibilities exist across the whole spectrum of shoe designs. The potential held in my ballet slippers was practically palpable to everyone in a little run down dance shop in Kalamazoo, where pastel pink wasn’t just a color, but a way of life. My first pair of Havaianas flip flops led me to dream about living out my last days on Greek beaches surrounded by sunlight, music, and ex-pats. And, the pure elation derived from the fitting and purchasing of my first pair of Gucci pumps still makes me smile even though it’s been a healthy six years ago.
While I believe promise and possibilities are at the core of the shoe obsession, I also feel that the answer is quite simply that feet don’t change sizes very often. The rest of my body lets me down in the size department. I can’t even rely on my midsection to be the same one day to the next, much less one year to the next. Ah, but even if I’m more bloated than the guy who finished off his fourth plate of Polish buffet, at least I’ve got my trusty pumps, boots, jewel-encrusted sandals to make me feel capable, sophisticated, and less gassy.
So, to all future shoe salespeople (and naysayers) I may encounter I say this: Let me (and others like me) daydream. It’s not just shoe shopping; I’m trying on possibilities and sometimes, when I crave inspiration, all I have to do is look down.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Anti-Climax
If there was one day out of the whole year that could be described as a complete and utter letdown, then December 31st fits the bill. New Year’s Eve has been a sore spot with me since the time I was able to comprehend calendars and the gut-wrenching passing of time. Early on, the stroke of midnight on that evening promised magical things, but never delivered on those promises. As a child, and even a large portion of my adulthood, I believed there was a lot riding on that night time countdown in the dead of winter. After all, countdowns by their very nature lead to anticipation of something (usually) big or important. Marathons start, dynamite detonates, hell, even the space shuttle launches after a countdown. So, why, after several years with Dick Clark, did absolutely NOTHING happen once the ball dropped?
Please do not confuse my disappointment with sorrow. I’ve had a few wonderful New Year’s Eve moments. Playing games and drinking into the early hours of the New Year, well, I cannot really find fault with that. I’m all for celebrating anything and everything, and bringing in the New Year sounds as good as any other excuse to throw a party. In addition to the parties, I suppose New Year’s Eve serves another distinct purpose. There is something deeply satisfying (compulsive, perhaps a better word choice) about ticking off another year in the ever-present internal time keeping psyche. Our linear progression of time is like a security blanket of sorts. We can flip the calendar to the next scenic landscape/puppy dog/Dilbert and feel some kind of cosmic stability.
Maybe this is what the whole New York/New Year’s Eve mess is all about; cheering on our man-made relationship to time? Could be. Then again, why do it only once a year? The excitement, joy, and anticipation felt on the eve of December 31st should really be felt every evening. And, if that isn’t possible (realistically who feels anything but dread most days of November) then can someone please send me the sparks, fairy dust, and magic for New Year’s Eve. Actually, better make it for next year…I’m going to bed.
Please do not confuse my disappointment with sorrow. I’ve had a few wonderful New Year’s Eve moments. Playing games and drinking into the early hours of the New Year, well, I cannot really find fault with that. I’m all for celebrating anything and everything, and bringing in the New Year sounds as good as any other excuse to throw a party. In addition to the parties, I suppose New Year’s Eve serves another distinct purpose. There is something deeply satisfying (compulsive, perhaps a better word choice) about ticking off another year in the ever-present internal time keeping psyche. Our linear progression of time is like a security blanket of sorts. We can flip the calendar to the next scenic landscape/puppy dog/Dilbert and feel some kind of cosmic stability.
Maybe this is what the whole New York/New Year’s Eve mess is all about; cheering on our man-made relationship to time? Could be. Then again, why do it only once a year? The excitement, joy, and anticipation felt on the eve of December 31st should really be felt every evening. And, if that isn’t possible (realistically who feels anything but dread most days of November) then can someone please send me the sparks, fairy dust, and magic for New Year’s Eve. Actually, better make it for next year…I’m going to bed.
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