I neatly folded some harina masa into my stockings, and this left the commission bewildered. And what was the name of that ridiculous song I enjoyed so. What I'm trying to say is that I never liked the Simpsons as much as you guys did! I'm a friend in the end, and the word 'testicles' is both an ice-breaker and a powerful punchline word. Those are the two, these are the two, them's the two. Lisa and Bart. Lisa double-peeled the fleshy beans while naked and amidst the exotic jungle animals. They were quiet but very, very aware. Demarcus and the pinstriped haircut kid, staring at the canvas. "It's a Gauguin, and it's not for kids." (I would check with the MPAA on that one - last I checked...PG...[shrug]).
The commission laughed heartily and the bald man in the back with the South African accent dropped a few coins on the ground. Everyone laughed some more, and I kept folding the corn meal. Lisa kept parboiling and peeling those dreaded, fleshy beans. Bart cried at night, when the pencils were down, when graphing calculators recharged. Antonio fell on the Tampa ice, and when he looked up at the sky, he felt America. The America from that song about the fruited plains and the multitudinous bounty of wheat.
This is a back-loaded endeavor said the man indicted in the automobile manslaughter lawsuit. You are a suit, Thrill, and that's ironic, sure, but it's more than that. You're a whore. Lisa's no ho! Bart! I went to this new city the other night, and I noticed some sweet nothings. I caressed them on their legs; between me, my love of carnal pleasures, my hands, and Her sweet nothings, were some tamale-ass stockings like you can't believe! And that's what happens down under when I'm involved.
Through a small hole in all of this (it had been cut by an Italian-American craftsman), I saw a birthmark on a butt cheek, but that went out of focus quite, and I mean, very, quickly, and in the distance I resumed my quest. In a distant era, beyond major chords, where brass isn't a factor, a faction, or another word for testicles, there are tightly-pulled lines. And on that banjo he played a fishing ditty, and it went something like this:
To all the rocks and stones who delight in my hunger
I don't care, I'm a fisherman proper
You're a wild salmon robber
I'll have my way with you.
I slapped everyone all at once, and in doing so, irritated lots of people I didn't know and never had a problem with. This is the method. This is the mathematical method. Step one, oh shit! You fell down the abyss! There was an abyss so close to step one and look what you did. I suppose you're still falling, it's an abyss for god's sake. I made some eggs, they were gritty, and I slathered them all over my pool table. Picture a pool table with corn-ass grit felt, pale yellow because I used inexpensive eggs dropped down a conveyor belt that screams its anthem:
So this isn't my day, but what is?
There are the stinky ovulating gatekeepers
But the shop is a Catholic shop, and Master believes.
So nothing slides on Sundays. Just my icy steel, weeping pysche.
There are insects, and there are parties. There are green hues, and there is a war with guns and bullets and heat. Do you know what's involved in refueling a fighter jet in mid-air? They do it. They do it, you need a cable. I fear for our collective organs. And then the typo came. The typo was bent over like a desperate twenty-something on an anonymous Friday night when the monotony of the city got to her like a hurricane gets to all the marine animals. And it cmae hard. Like the second-hand starting a run from the summit. I whirled around and picked up some sand. And I uh...picked up a glob of it, it was sandy. I whirled around like an Olympian discus-thrower, and I showered like a decrepit man - and the acid stung - it climbed and slithered through my skin. I felt the temporary pain; I felt my rationale.
I know these two dudes, god I wish I had a story about a time they made a corn joke, but the bottom line is that corns don't happen to them. This is a different era and there just aren't advertisements like that anymore. There are products, there are white, porcelain plates and they know no owner. Misplace me. Mommy I'm lost. There are quiet fish and loud fish and tiny fish and big-ass cornbread jalapeño dunkers and I'm gonna turn myself in, once and for all - spill my GUTS! "You should come too!" one dude said to the other dude! There was a knock and the units filed in. There was a sinister man keeping track of everything in the corner with a clipboard and some banana chips. It's always...always about nutrition. Ain't it Thrill? You suit. I'm bitter, and you don't want to see me up-close, Lisa. "Go ahead!" she said.
But I had to save you. Your altitude was distressing. Terminal velocity is reached very quickly when you fall into an abyss. I jumped into the abyss, singing the Song of the Abyss:
Roll and throw and lift and listen
I'm the captain's whip, the seamstress' zipper
Can you feel my depth or hear my whisper?
We're headed down to the Maker's lair
Wheels and apples - laws and globes
Expose your bare neck, chest, and bones
Your fancy moves aren't your own.
You've scaled and froze and wiggled around
So trace back brother! Swim back, friend!
They'll find you one day!
Rotting far down, fancy clothes on bones
Filleted and poached for dinner!
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Changing Guards
In consideration of an edifice's verticality, that is, its upright girders, one needs context. So we provide this measure, at once, below. References are provided in short fragments - specifically - if unsophisticated.
Throughout its history, my street has maintained relative anonymity. And for that reason it believes in the Lamb. For that very reason, it elaborates upon weighty matters in brief gasps and short strokes. It is the attention-deprived nervous system of city streets. It can not deliver packages of increasing complexity or increasing volume. My street has fulfilled the promise of streets federated upon the fleshy underside of the Manhattan island, and has done so with quiet dignity despite its short stride, ambiguous pronunciation, and deepening paracitification.
You may recall that during the last few years [exposition of statistical trend]. I mean, isn't that a kicker? Big smile. Frantic chuckle fishing, frantic code red code blue the worst color code alarm. Nothing? So it's passed. I seek to describe the rigid cell wall in uncertain terms: it's over. It's over. Continuity is no longer an option, I doubt ordinary chemical treatments can help in this matter. There are two hard outer crusts between us, and I learned of these conditions bathed in a golden light at an uneasy altitude atop the city.
So the throne awaits. The lofty throne that has been occupied so many times before. From this perch, a panorama of the ages surfaces awkwardly against the walls. You can see the breaks in the wallpaper. You can tell that the architect was unable to acquire certain permits. So walk up to the throne. Stumble up, this is a public monument, after all. This is a split-second recalculation, an unthinking audible, a fiery near-disaster. There is an inscription but I'm too lazy to read it. So I stumbled down. I rolled off like a statistic in a mime show. We cornered in together, but agreed on something at once: [secret opinion on the Anglo-Saxon linguistic arsenal]. The train was packed, so we wedged. We ruined a world we weren't always part of - no I'm not thirsty.
Throughout its history, my street has maintained relative anonymity. And for that reason it believes in the Lamb. For that very reason, it elaborates upon weighty matters in brief gasps and short strokes. It is the attention-deprived nervous system of city streets. It can not deliver packages of increasing complexity or increasing volume. My street has fulfilled the promise of streets federated upon the fleshy underside of the Manhattan island, and has done so with quiet dignity despite its short stride, ambiguous pronunciation, and deepening paracitification.
You may recall that during the last few years [exposition of statistical trend]. I mean, isn't that a kicker? Big smile. Frantic chuckle fishing, frantic code red code blue the worst color code alarm. Nothing? So it's passed. I seek to describe the rigid cell wall in uncertain terms: it's over. It's over. Continuity is no longer an option, I doubt ordinary chemical treatments can help in this matter. There are two hard outer crusts between us, and I learned of these conditions bathed in a golden light at an uneasy altitude atop the city.
So the throne awaits. The lofty throne that has been occupied so many times before. From this perch, a panorama of the ages surfaces awkwardly against the walls. You can see the breaks in the wallpaper. You can tell that the architect was unable to acquire certain permits. So walk up to the throne. Stumble up, this is a public monument, after all. This is a split-second recalculation, an unthinking audible, a fiery near-disaster. There is an inscription but I'm too lazy to read it. So I stumbled down. I rolled off like a statistic in a mime show. We cornered in together, but agreed on something at once: [secret opinion on the Anglo-Saxon linguistic arsenal]. The train was packed, so we wedged. We ruined a world we weren't always part of - no I'm not thirsty.
Monday, December 1, 2008
It's Grand Really
Stunning in its Understatement
I actually watched this video for the entire 4:06. I can't tell you, I just, I - what would POSSESS someone to post this! I mean it's useful. Please imagine for a second the person behind the camera. They stood over a bowl of clams, one of nature's most inanimate living objects, for FOUR MINUTES. Arresting.
Inspired by the best linguine white clam sauce I've ever tasted (prepared by the Golden Goddess, she of Legend fame), I give you my recipe for spaghetti and Manila clams. As a soup fiend, I love it when my sauces collect at the bottom of the bowl and wait for me to finish the pasta before I tuck in for a delicious, passionate, saucy finale. Slurping sauce off a fork for ten minutes is the reason I love food, and in turn, life.
This is not linguine white clam sauce, the Italian-American standby. That's a simple recipe too, but I would use bigger, littleneck clams for that. Whereas linguine white clam sauce is most delicious with each component cranked to 11 (garlic, clam juice, cheese, parseley, butter, olive oil), my spaghetti Manila clams relies on a more delicate harmony of flavors.
The idea with this dish is to let each component impart its freshness onto the just-undercooked spaghetti (which I prefer to linguine because it's lighter). I leave the clam shells right in the bowl because I want the essences of the clam juices to mix with the pasta as much as possible. I use tiny pieces of crispy diced bacon and hope that they find their way to some nook in the clam, because everytime you eat cured pork meat and shellfish in the same bite, a baby stops crying.
z911spaghettiManilaclams
Serves 4 as a first course
Serves 2 if you're a close friend of mine
1 lb. Manila clams (2 or 3 dozen), scrubbed under cold water
6 strips of bacon, trimmed of fat and diced
1/2 lb. good spaghetti (like DeCecco), split in half lengthwise
2 cloves garlic, 1 razor-thinly sliced, the other cut in half
small baguette, cut into half inch slices
extra virgin olive oil
parseley, chopped
red pepper flakes
1. Fill pot with water, salt aggressively, transfer to stove on high heat
2. Bring water to a boil, drop in the pasta, stir immediately.
3. Pour a glug or five of olive oil into a saute pan and heat slowly, drop in the garlic halves. Just as they turn golden, throw the bacon in the pan. Bring the heat up slowly so the bacon crisps up. Remove the garlic.
4. Lightly dunk both sides of the baguette pieces in the garlic/bacon oil, place in a broiler pan or some tin foil and broil/toast until crispy.
5. Meanwhile, in the saute pan, introduce the clams and the thinly-sliced garlic. Splash the pan with a some pasta water to coat the surface of the pan, or, if you're so inclined, use white wine here. Cover the pan so the steam circulates and cooks the clams' muscles into submission (causing them to open).
6. Once the pasta is about two minutes shy of recommended cooking time, transfer it to the saute pan using tongs. You definitely want some of the pasta water to hit the clam juice/bacon/garlic/olive oil mixture. Cover the saute pan again and cook for a minute more.
7. Take a crostini piece and place one in each serving bowl.
8. Add a pinch of red pepper flakes and a pinch of parseley to the pasta and clams, and mix well. Serve the pasta over the top of each crostini, making sure you portion out the sauce evenly.
Notes and Tasty Substitutions
You can definitely purchase premade crostini or croutons at any supermarket. They'll work fine. To that point, if you don't add enough of the pasta water to the oil mixture, you won't get enough liquid to soak the bread and make it taste delicious. At the same time, if you drown everything in salty water the subtlety of the clam juices and garlic/bacon oil will be lost. You're going for a greyish solution with globs of olive oil to coat the bottom of your saute pan. I would top the dish with a quick drizzle of olive oil.
In my mind, Manila clams are the poor man's cockles. I get my Manila clams on Grand Street for about $3.99/lb. That means you can easily pull this dish off for under $10.
Cockles are these vibrant, symmetrical, uniform little clams. If you can find and afford cockles, more power to ya.
Substitute pancetta for bacon? Definitely. In general pancetta has a more subdued flavor, and the theme of this dish is to remove knock-you-over-the-head-ingredients.
I actually watched this video for the entire 4:06. I can't tell you, I just, I - what would POSSESS someone to post this! I mean it's useful. Please imagine for a second the person behind the camera. They stood over a bowl of clams, one of nature's most inanimate living objects, for FOUR MINUTES. Arresting.
Inspired by the best linguine white clam sauce I've ever tasted (prepared by the Golden Goddess, she of Legend fame), I give you my recipe for spaghetti and Manila clams. As a soup fiend, I love it when my sauces collect at the bottom of the bowl and wait for me to finish the pasta before I tuck in for a delicious, passionate, saucy finale. Slurping sauce off a fork for ten minutes is the reason I love food, and in turn, life.
This is not linguine white clam sauce, the Italian-American standby. That's a simple recipe too, but I would use bigger, littleneck clams for that. Whereas linguine white clam sauce is most delicious with each component cranked to 11 (garlic, clam juice, cheese, parseley, butter, olive oil), my spaghetti Manila clams relies on a more delicate harmony of flavors.
The idea with this dish is to let each component impart its freshness onto the just-undercooked spaghetti (which I prefer to linguine because it's lighter). I leave the clam shells right in the bowl because I want the essences of the clam juices to mix with the pasta as much as possible. I use tiny pieces of crispy diced bacon and hope that they find their way to some nook in the clam, because everytime you eat cured pork meat and shellfish in the same bite, a baby stops crying.
z911spaghettiManilaclams
Serves 4 as a first course
Serves 2 if you're a close friend of mine
1 lb. Manila clams (2 or 3 dozen), scrubbed under cold water
6 strips of bacon, trimmed of fat and diced
1/2 lb. good spaghetti (like DeCecco), split in half lengthwise
2 cloves garlic, 1 razor-thinly sliced, the other cut in half
small baguette, cut into half inch slices
extra virgin olive oil
parseley, chopped
red pepper flakes
1. Fill pot with water, salt aggressively, transfer to stove on high heat
2. Bring water to a boil, drop in the pasta, stir immediately.
3. Pour a glug or five of olive oil into a saute pan and heat slowly, drop in the garlic halves. Just as they turn golden, throw the bacon in the pan. Bring the heat up slowly so the bacon crisps up. Remove the garlic.
4. Lightly dunk both sides of the baguette pieces in the garlic/bacon oil, place in a broiler pan or some tin foil and broil/toast until crispy.
5. Meanwhile, in the saute pan, introduce the clams and the thinly-sliced garlic. Splash the pan with a some pasta water to coat the surface of the pan, or, if you're so inclined, use white wine here. Cover the pan so the steam circulates and cooks the clams' muscles into submission (causing them to open).
6. Once the pasta is about two minutes shy of recommended cooking time, transfer it to the saute pan using tongs. You definitely want some of the pasta water to hit the clam juice/bacon/garlic/olive oil mixture. Cover the saute pan again and cook for a minute more.
7. Take a crostini piece and place one in each serving bowl.
8. Add a pinch of red pepper flakes and a pinch of parseley to the pasta and clams, and mix well. Serve the pasta over the top of each crostini, making sure you portion out the sauce evenly.
Notes and Tasty Substitutions
You can definitely purchase premade crostini or croutons at any supermarket. They'll work fine. To that point, if you don't add enough of the pasta water to the oil mixture, you won't get enough liquid to soak the bread and make it taste delicious. At the same time, if you drown everything in salty water the subtlety of the clam juices and garlic/bacon oil will be lost. You're going for a greyish solution with globs of olive oil to coat the bottom of your saute pan. I would top the dish with a quick drizzle of olive oil.
In my mind, Manila clams are the poor man's cockles. I get my Manila clams on Grand Street for about $3.99/lb. That means you can easily pull this dish off for under $10.
Cockles are these vibrant, symmetrical, uniform little clams. If you can find and afford cockles, more power to ya.
Substitute pancetta for bacon? Definitely. In general pancetta has a more subdued flavor, and the theme of this dish is to remove knock-you-over-the-head-ingredients.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Winter Wind
Would you say it's more ethno- or anthro-, Missy?
Frankly, it's more anthro.
Two friends marched towards a clearing in the woods. They were three or four thousand feet above sea level, and the lack of precision was getting to both of them. In statistical parlance, Nick was a 3SD kind of guy. Steven, a 2SD. They both enjoyed the outdoors in precisely these circumstances: accompanied and armed. Once they reached the clearing, they each allowed themselves a romantic turn at the vista.
Nick imagined a moment when the terrain had all its flora skinned bare, exposing the game to unfettered glassing and gravity. He imagined deep red soil and a fiery seat at the base of the upper stratosphere, watching comets and satellites rush past him. In the distance stood tiny marking stations and plush red curtains. He lept off the clearing, holding his shotgun with both hands, cushioned by the Protagonist Buoyancy Clause. He landed back among trees, standing in the front seat of a vintage old Buick. He hopped beside the muscle. The sky swirled around him like highway headlights in a thousand anonymous photos. Only this wasn't some lame bridge shot. It wasn't some deep last chance. Nick's mind cycled through it all, and took it all in: the smell of things that don't really have a smell like "this night," and he heard the "symphony" of creature noises harmonized by Missy's gradually softening sighs. He'd rather this than anything else.
Steven rolled down the clearing onto a mattress of dried leaves. When he looked up, the sky flashed dusk and the stars at him. He raised his arms above his head and clutched his shotgun in his right hand. Maybe the river flowed past him. He spotted a doe at about fifty yards among the brush and gently set his weapon on the ground. He crept towards her. She sensed him. He took a knife from his ankle holster. She heard it being unsheathed. A chipmunk stammered, "You, you don't have the guts to use that." A fox ran up a tree and caught Steve's attention. As he followed the fox up the tree he caught a glimpse of a highway sign. He must've been standing on the county line. She turned and looked right at him. He froze. They both ran towards the shotgun, he swinging his knife, she bobbing her white tail. He got to the spot about twenty seconds after her, and she had run past it, oblivious. He scoped her back side as she fled, and fired off a shot. Her right hind shank exploded and her momentum tore her rib and crown roasts.
Then the two friends followed the ridge line farther up to a designated glassing area. They reached it and glassed the landscape. Nick tweaked the focus but still couldn't see anything. Steve's binoculars had better technology. He glassed from left to right, looking for anything moving, but he also saw nothing. "It stayed hot too long again this summer." "Yeah."
Later that day they marched home with nothing to show for all their hiking, glassing, and good decisions. Nick hung up his mountain coat, Steven opened a bottle. They sat at a wooden table and said something like...
"What do you think of her Nick?"
"She's great buddy you know I like her."
"I know I know just checkin'."
"I'm in it. I'm really in it."
"Oh yeah?"
"I really am, and I'm thinking about really going for it."
"You should if you think it's right."
"I don't care whether or not it's right you know?"
"You'll never know if you don't try it."
"I hate that saying, it's so vacuous."
"Yeah."
Nick asked Steven for a pour, he obliged. They sat there thinking about her for a second. Their rifles rest against some cold stone formation in the cabin's living room. Nick remembered the best way to protect against the cold, the heat, and a variety of other things vaguely removed from instinct. Steven got off first. He thought about his accounting, his career, and his education.
"What do you think of Vitaly?"
"Ah I don't know the guy does what he wants. He's a little unhinged."
"I guess, but he's made a lot for himself, and he's honest enough."
"There's nothing wrong with it, but to each his own, you know?"
"I hate that saying, Nick. Why don't you just explain your judgment instead of admitting that you're judging someone and you're too tight-assed and afraid to say it out loud? How long have we been friends?"
"Allright. I respect that. I think Vitaly is a hard-working guy who knows what he wants and knows how to get it."
"Yeah."
"You know the truth of it, Steve, you know my tight ass can't wrap itself around something so risky."
"Then keep your mouth shut about Vitaly, and anyone else that doesn't meet your outdated standards."
They looked at each other for a second and then both clicked their recliners back. Nick looked out the great room's window and out at the imminent twilight. He thought he saw something moving in the distance. Then it got a bit closer and he confirmed it. It was a deer. Steven saw it too. They followed it across the landscape. Steven's parents had hung some knit quotations on the wall above the window before the ceiling. They said stuff like, "It takes hands to build a house, but only hearts can build a home." Nick thought of something to give it a little edge, but either couldn't say it out loud or couldn't come up with anything clever enough.
Nick looked up at the vaulted ceiling, the crossbeams and the logs' symmetry, "Listen man you're right about Vitaly I shouldn't say anything, and you're right about that retarded saying, it's a total cop-out."
"Ah whatever I'm just pissed about Teresa as usual."
"What's going on with that?"
"Same as always: nothing, and then blips of gold-plated nothing."
"Bullshit man. She's not worth your energy."
"Ah! But who is, Nick? When do you just go for it? You know?"
"Yeah I'm having trouble with that myself."
"You're fine just go for it, you already said you're in it."
"I don't know. I don't want to be left standing out there naked and all alone."
"Seriously, you say go for it with Teresa but what do I even say? It's a complete dead end at this point."
"I think you need a kamikaze mission, I do that now and then."
"What's that?"
"Just, go all out recklessly."
"You've never done that, Nick."
Night fell, the lights in the cabin completely obscured the outside. It was a scene - the two of them, wrapped in blankets, Nick's off-white, Steven's navy blue, sitting in recliners looking up at the ceiling and the beams. Joke. Their boots had dried over by the front door over the cheery "Welcome Home" mat.
"Yeah. I've never done it. Never had the probability of success where I need it."
Frankly, it's more anthro.
Two friends marched towards a clearing in the woods. They were three or four thousand feet above sea level, and the lack of precision was getting to both of them. In statistical parlance, Nick was a 3SD kind of guy. Steven, a 2SD. They both enjoyed the outdoors in precisely these circumstances: accompanied and armed. Once they reached the clearing, they each allowed themselves a romantic turn at the vista.
Nick imagined a moment when the terrain had all its flora skinned bare, exposing the game to unfettered glassing and gravity. He imagined deep red soil and a fiery seat at the base of the upper stratosphere, watching comets and satellites rush past him. In the distance stood tiny marking stations and plush red curtains. He lept off the clearing, holding his shotgun with both hands, cushioned by the Protagonist Buoyancy Clause. He landed back among trees, standing in the front seat of a vintage old Buick. He hopped beside the muscle. The sky swirled around him like highway headlights in a thousand anonymous photos. Only this wasn't some lame bridge shot. It wasn't some deep last chance. Nick's mind cycled through it all, and took it all in: the smell of things that don't really have a smell like "this night," and he heard the "symphony" of creature noises harmonized by Missy's gradually softening sighs. He'd rather this than anything else.
Steven rolled down the clearing onto a mattress of dried leaves. When he looked up, the sky flashed dusk and the stars at him. He raised his arms above his head and clutched his shotgun in his right hand. Maybe the river flowed past him. He spotted a doe at about fifty yards among the brush and gently set his weapon on the ground. He crept towards her. She sensed him. He took a knife from his ankle holster. She heard it being unsheathed. A chipmunk stammered, "You, you don't have the guts to use that." A fox ran up a tree and caught Steve's attention. As he followed the fox up the tree he caught a glimpse of a highway sign. He must've been standing on the county line. She turned and looked right at him. He froze. They both ran towards the shotgun, he swinging his knife, she bobbing her white tail. He got to the spot about twenty seconds after her, and she had run past it, oblivious. He scoped her back side as she fled, and fired off a shot. Her right hind shank exploded and her momentum tore her rib and crown roasts.
Then the two friends followed the ridge line farther up to a designated glassing area. They reached it and glassed the landscape. Nick tweaked the focus but still couldn't see anything. Steve's binoculars had better technology. He glassed from left to right, looking for anything moving, but he also saw nothing. "It stayed hot too long again this summer." "Yeah."
Later that day they marched home with nothing to show for all their hiking, glassing, and good decisions. Nick hung up his mountain coat, Steven opened a bottle. They sat at a wooden table and said something like...
"What do you think of her Nick?"
"She's great buddy you know I like her."
"I know I know just checkin'."
"I'm in it. I'm really in it."
"Oh yeah?"
"I really am, and I'm thinking about really going for it."
"You should if you think it's right."
"I don't care whether or not it's right you know?"
"You'll never know if you don't try it."
"I hate that saying, it's so vacuous."
"Yeah."
Nick asked Steven for a pour, he obliged. They sat there thinking about her for a second. Their rifles rest against some cold stone formation in the cabin's living room. Nick remembered the best way to protect against the cold, the heat, and a variety of other things vaguely removed from instinct. Steven got off first. He thought about his accounting, his career, and his education.
"What do you think of Vitaly?"
"Ah I don't know the guy does what he wants. He's a little unhinged."
"I guess, but he's made a lot for himself, and he's honest enough."
"There's nothing wrong with it, but to each his own, you know?"
"I hate that saying, Nick. Why don't you just explain your judgment instead of admitting that you're judging someone and you're too tight-assed and afraid to say it out loud? How long have we been friends?"
"Allright. I respect that. I think Vitaly is a hard-working guy who knows what he wants and knows how to get it."
"Yeah."
"You know the truth of it, Steve, you know my tight ass can't wrap itself around something so risky."
"Then keep your mouth shut about Vitaly, and anyone else that doesn't meet your outdated standards."
They looked at each other for a second and then both clicked their recliners back. Nick looked out the great room's window and out at the imminent twilight. He thought he saw something moving in the distance. Then it got a bit closer and he confirmed it. It was a deer. Steven saw it too. They followed it across the landscape. Steven's parents had hung some knit quotations on the wall above the window before the ceiling. They said stuff like, "It takes hands to build a house, but only hearts can build a home." Nick thought of something to give it a little edge, but either couldn't say it out loud or couldn't come up with anything clever enough.
Nick looked up at the vaulted ceiling, the crossbeams and the logs' symmetry, "Listen man you're right about Vitaly I shouldn't say anything, and you're right about that retarded saying, it's a total cop-out."
"Ah whatever I'm just pissed about Teresa as usual."
"What's going on with that?"
"Same as always: nothing, and then blips of gold-plated nothing."
"Bullshit man. She's not worth your energy."
"Ah! But who is, Nick? When do you just go for it? You know?"
"Yeah I'm having trouble with that myself."
"You're fine just go for it, you already said you're in it."
"I don't know. I don't want to be left standing out there naked and all alone."
"Seriously, you say go for it with Teresa but what do I even say? It's a complete dead end at this point."
"I think you need a kamikaze mission, I do that now and then."
"What's that?"
"Just, go all out recklessly."
"You've never done that, Nick."
Night fell, the lights in the cabin completely obscured the outside. It was a scene - the two of them, wrapped in blankets, Nick's off-white, Steven's navy blue, sitting in recliners looking up at the ceiling and the beams. Joke. Their boots had dried over by the front door over the cheery "Welcome Home" mat.
"Yeah. I've never done it. Never had the probability of success where I need it."
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Half Purple, Half Black & White
Next time we goin' east side. East side. I heard. I'm gettin' squeezed she said, I mean...he said...to her, and she didn't really get it. Well, that's what she gets - he said. Later on, when the candle ran out but the track had plenty left, I left - cuz I was gettin' squeezed from both sides. And each time, I turned to my side - tried to create a little friction, you feel me? I asked. She rubbed my side - tried to create a little friction. She asked, did you hear me? I heard. Next time, east side.
I really am gettin' squeezed though...it's tough to get up. Mornings are hard. Evenings ain't much better. Two sides meet, get the job done. In a manner of speech, of childish dreams obliterated, the side of my head - tryin' to create a little friction - is my heart made of stone? Hand me a saw, it'll get the job done.
So there I was hangin' tight on the handles beside the open sliding doors. A pill dropped from my mouth and fell 18,000 feet onto the desert floor. Against everything I knew, I thought about jumping. The thought, crossed my mind, it took a while. It came in from my left ear actually, and it juked for a while. And for a while, I stood there bracing myself with both arms outstretched - no intention of jumping.
I really am gettin' squeezed though...it's tough to get up. Mornings are hard. Evenings ain't much better. Two sides meet, get the job done. In a manner of speech, of childish dreams obliterated, the side of my head - tryin' to create a little friction - is my heart made of stone? Hand me a saw, it'll get the job done.
So there I was hangin' tight on the handles beside the open sliding doors. A pill dropped from my mouth and fell 18,000 feet onto the desert floor. Against everything I knew, I thought about jumping. The thought, crossed my mind, it took a while. It came in from my left ear actually, and it juked for a while. And for a while, I stood there bracing myself with both arms outstretched - no intention of jumping.
Friday, October 24, 2008
From Whitestone Road
Santa Anna's guilt leather black beard mausoleum.
Brothers' town pocket dragged'n'bound forgotten trust.
Oklahoma baby bridge yellow painting hanging.
Your mother's cuffs slip fall slowly beneath pipes.
Friends seeping dream under Angie Beck neck pain.
Reading olive frustration tomorrow account low.
Payment canyon carrot stars above the campsite.
Mesquite road abbreviation tearful lake fire.
Santa Anna's golden hair, a campfire backpack ridge.
Brother carefully limns; watched forever.
Oklahoma museum tickets airport architecture.
Your mom's quiet march through the church.
Friendly exchanges for now slip, chuckle, pop.
Reading peacefully until a thought rises.
Payment unnecessary she told me, kneeling.
Mesquite brush can't light up - no moon.
Santa Anna, like the morning's last dream (for once!).
Brother like the blood we share, bones and clothes.
Oklahoma at night stirs us up - twists and churns.
Your mom wore a pin to the demonstration.
Friendly bets about the depressing occasion.
Reading stopped and the pig's snout crumbled.
Pay as you play but play all you want.
Mesquite highway burial, the lights and the bridge, the snares and the sounds after. The ghosts in the breeze held tight against the wind. Two figures moved up the line and the moon stayed behind the one cloud in the sky, and I thought to my brother, "how did we end up here?" And he thought back, "we're standing still." So I addressed the situation 42 Whitestone Road: "ha-d'ya mean it cheerp?" I had never heard this accent before so I had to ask for another swig of it. "Kai get anoffer?" and kind of raised my bottom lip a touch. "Ayyh"
Sigh, of course, I couldn't hear anything over the roar of the CHP choppers. I know, I should've given you that information up front. Sometimes I get all clandestine on ya. Oooh, shady like a how-does it sound? I stood quietly because I wanted the moment to last. I expected it would - "much obliged" I muttered, "much obliged." I thought of these things and I thought how weird stuff feels.
Something's so easy about the oldern days. It's as if they weighed so little and there were no hardships, right Peter P.? I missed that decade and now the days are porky messes, spooky bass notes all the way down in the scales at the end of the piano where I let my cousin sit and see the crumbs under the keys, and inside: God's light. Inside: it was cold but verdant, the opposite of temperature, colored green and alluding unequivocally to Fridays when I wore shorts out in the blustery evening air. These precautions are for you own good, everyone yelled. Everyone's always yelling and if they're not than I am on the inside.
"Me and Frankie, livin' and drinkin', nothin' feels better than blood on blood.
Takin' turns dancin' with Maria, as the band played Night of the Johnstown Flood."
Brothers' town pocket dragged'n'bound forgotten trust.
Oklahoma baby bridge yellow painting hanging.
Your mother's cuffs slip fall slowly beneath pipes.
Friends seeping dream under Angie Beck neck pain.
Reading olive frustration tomorrow account low.
Payment canyon carrot stars above the campsite.
Mesquite road abbreviation tearful lake fire.
Santa Anna's golden hair, a campfire backpack ridge.
Brother carefully limns; watched forever.
Oklahoma museum tickets airport architecture.
Your mom's quiet march through the church.
Friendly exchanges for now slip, chuckle, pop.
Reading peacefully until a thought rises.
Payment unnecessary she told me, kneeling.
Mesquite brush can't light up - no moon.
Santa Anna, like the morning's last dream (for once!).
Brother like the blood we share, bones and clothes.
Oklahoma at night stirs us up - twists and churns.
Your mom wore a pin to the demonstration.
Friendly bets about the depressing occasion.
Reading stopped and the pig's snout crumbled.
Pay as you play but play all you want.
Mesquite highway burial, the lights and the bridge, the snares and the sounds after. The ghosts in the breeze held tight against the wind. Two figures moved up the line and the moon stayed behind the one cloud in the sky, and I thought to my brother, "how did we end up here?" And he thought back, "we're standing still." So I addressed the situation 42 Whitestone Road: "ha-d'ya mean it cheerp?" I had never heard this accent before so I had to ask for another swig of it. "Kai get anoffer?" and kind of raised my bottom lip a touch. "Ayyh"
Sigh, of course, I couldn't hear anything over the roar of the CHP choppers. I know, I should've given you that information up front. Sometimes I get all clandestine on ya. Oooh, shady like a how-does it sound? I stood quietly because I wanted the moment to last. I expected it would - "much obliged" I muttered, "much obliged." I thought of these things and I thought how weird stuff feels.
Something's so easy about the oldern days. It's as if they weighed so little and there were no hardships, right Peter P.? I missed that decade and now the days are porky messes, spooky bass notes all the way down in the scales at the end of the piano where I let my cousin sit and see the crumbs under the keys, and inside: God's light. Inside: it was cold but verdant, the opposite of temperature, colored green and alluding unequivocally to Fridays when I wore shorts out in the blustery evening air. These precautions are for you own good, everyone yelled. Everyone's always yelling and if they're not than I am on the inside.
"Me and Frankie, livin' and drinkin', nothin' feels better than blood on blood.
Takin' turns dancin' with Maria, as the band played Night of the Johnstown Flood."
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
No Flowers
I would like the cross-section of a piece of Sicilian Easter pie, taganu d'aragona, as a tattoo on my arm, and I'd like to have a stained old piece of parchment paper with the recipe. When I make mini-quartered ones to test it out next spring, I'm going to substitute a (slightly) more common sheep's milk cheese, like caciocavallo. I'm sure I'll make the meatballs too tough, so I'll try not to. I'm probably going to use ditali instead of rigatoni because I'd rather fall from a green awning on a quaint little cobblestone sidestreet trying to fix a gutter. The ice from the winter made it that way, screamed an old aunt. Everyone rushed around holding towels. Rosa knocked over a wooden chair as she lunged for a box of bandages. A few jars of lentils spilled out onto the floor. One of them fell off the table and shattered. All the men tried to straighten me out on the ground, it made sense I guess.
I had broken my neck though, so in some ways bandages and a makeshift gurney really didn't help. All the blood from my heart gushed into places blood doesn't belong in the human neck because a couple vertebrae had punctured a major artery and tore half a dozen muscles and fat tissue. I coughed and squirmed unconsciously, and my blood started to trickle onto the street. At first it filed dutifully around each stone in the recessed paths that outline each stone. After a few seconds the blood poured over onto the (mostly) smooth surface of the cobblestones. I have B negative blood, and I don't recall but I don't think blood type affects the color of blood, it's probably all the oxyhemoglobularization and whatnot.
My brain let me think of a few things as I lay there about to die. For one, it let me think about the situation, which I quickly accessed as quite bad. Under less severe circumstances, I think the pain and the realization would've knocked me out or caused me to lose control of my bladder. But this was a difficult time. I had about twenty seconds of thoughts before I passed. As I mentioned, I spent the first twelve seconds panicking about all the blood and the frantic people and the feeling of complete detachment from everything below my chin. In retrospect it was foolish to spend 60% of the rest of my life worrying about dying. I mean I think 10-15% would've been a more reasonable portion.
That way, I could've used nine whole seconds thinking about [my most basic pleasures: soup, egg sandwiches, listening to loud music, gingerbread lattes, relaxing with [the golden girl of my dreams], etc.]. Then! I could've used about three seconds to think about things I've never done, like climb Mt. Everest, watch Star Wars, figure out why people believe that soccer is fun, or take a picture with Bruce/Rafa/Jamie/Dave.
I don't really know how the last five seconds would play out. I don't think you can plan that. My guess would be that I'd think something idiotic like, "hey I never gave so and so a chance." Or, "Rosa is so stupid what is that stupid towel going to do my backbone is sticking out of my shoulder." Or, "Dear God, please send me to heaven even though I [the big sins]."
I'm a big fan of "what went on while" another event happened. I guess it's a little ironic. That presupposes that I would've described something like, ahem, then the blood trickled down the small street in the direction of the coast, where [XX] and [XY] embraced serenely.
I should take this out now. It's almost ready.
I had broken my neck though, so in some ways bandages and a makeshift gurney really didn't help. All the blood from my heart gushed into places blood doesn't belong in the human neck because a couple vertebrae had punctured a major artery and tore half a dozen muscles and fat tissue. I coughed and squirmed unconsciously, and my blood started to trickle onto the street. At first it filed dutifully around each stone in the recessed paths that outline each stone. After a few seconds the blood poured over onto the (mostly) smooth surface of the cobblestones. I have B negative blood, and I don't recall but I don't think blood type affects the color of blood, it's probably all the oxyhemoglobularization and whatnot.
My brain let me think of a few things as I lay there about to die. For one, it let me think about the situation, which I quickly accessed as quite bad. Under less severe circumstances, I think the pain and the realization would've knocked me out or caused me to lose control of my bladder. But this was a difficult time. I had about twenty seconds of thoughts before I passed. As I mentioned, I spent the first twelve seconds panicking about all the blood and the frantic people and the feeling of complete detachment from everything below my chin. In retrospect it was foolish to spend 60% of the rest of my life worrying about dying. I mean I think 10-15% would've been a more reasonable portion.
That way, I could've used nine whole seconds thinking about [my most basic pleasures: soup, egg sandwiches, listening to loud music, gingerbread lattes, relaxing with [the golden girl of my dreams], etc.]. Then! I could've used about three seconds to think about things I've never done, like climb Mt. Everest, watch Star Wars, figure out why people believe that soccer is fun, or take a picture with Bruce/Rafa/Jamie/Dave.
I don't really know how the last five seconds would play out. I don't think you can plan that. My guess would be that I'd think something idiotic like, "hey I never gave so and so a chance." Or, "Rosa is so stupid what is that stupid towel going to do my backbone is sticking out of my shoulder." Or, "Dear God, please send me to heaven even though I [the big sins]."
I'm a big fan of "what went on while" another event happened. I guess it's a little ironic. That presupposes that I would've described something like, ahem, then the blood trickled down the small street in the direction of the coast, where [XX] and [XY] embraced serenely.
I should take this out now. It's almost ready.
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