4th of July Eats

White wine sangria with peaches, pears and strawberries, recipe from Scott's Food Blog.



A perfectly peeled hard-boiled egg for potato salad. I was very proud of myself.



The most addictive salt n pepper pistachios ever. Thank you Cost-co.



Our strawberries were ripe, maybe a little too ripe, but still good. The downside of being in season.

Little Baby Cherry Tomatoes

Two Meals

Quesadilla with sauteed onion, olive, and corn with salsa. Nicely plated.


Breadcrumb battered chicken breast with sauteed onions and garlic alongside spinach spaghetti with feta.

Adventures in Yeast

My attempt to make french bread last night was a hideous disaster, and a marvelous learning experience, producing completely inedible bread. You could beat someone with the results this morning.

Part 1: Yeasty Beginnings

I dissolved the dry active yeast in warm water. The package said that the water should be between 110 and 115 degrees. I didn't have a thermometer, so I guessed that should be below boiling (130-140? deg F) but hotter than the hot springs I sat in a few weeks ago (102 deg), so I figured I shouldn't be able to keep my finger in it for very long.

The yeast package said you heat water, dissolve yeast, let sit, and in 5 minutes, watch the yeast get bubbly. I may have seen a few bubbles, but my pot looked like miso soup. I read in a book later that a pinch of sugar often helps this process. Not sure of how many bubbles I should see I decided to keep going.

Part 2: Doughing What You Knead

I mixed the yeast into some bread flour and salt, then slowly mixed in the rest of the bread flour. While I made something of a mess on the counter, this is in my hypotheses, the only part of the baking that I got right. I got my dough ball out of the bowl, and kneaded the bread for about 10 minutes on the counter. Using the Test Kitchen instructions of pressing down with the heels of my hands and then turning and folding the dough, I got quite a rhythm down. This was the fun part. My dough ball even looked like the picture.



Part 3: A-Rising Discontent

Then it was time to put my happy little dough ball in a greased bowl, cover, and let rise, preferably in a warm place. I put it in the oven, but I found out later you're supposed to heat the oven to 200 deg and then turn off the oven, and then place said happy little dough ball in conducive rising chamber. My dough was hanging out in a drafty garage.

Part 4: Shape n' Rise

After hanging out in the oven for an hour and a half, my dough ball was bigger but definitely not double in size. I read that you are supposed to poke it with your finger and the dough should refill the indent at a moderate pace. My dough filled in, but slowly. Hope did not seem lost. I shaped the bread into a loaf and let it sit to rise again. 40 minutes later, no change. This was evidence that the yeast definitely wasn't working. At this point, I was tired, and I knew my bread was fucked. I decided to cook it anyway.

Part 5: Heating

Yes folks, I broke the pan. How do you break a pan? I'm not sure, but it definitely happened. I didn't think my bread was that heavy, or my oven that hot, but the baking stone cracked in half after 15 minutes of cooking.



Finished Product:

While my bread resembled a loaf shape, and had some nice golden brown spots on it, the interior bread was so dense that butter slid right off when I had a sample piece. It was heavy, leaden, and completely unrisen. My yeast was oppressed, not given the right conditions to grow. Surprisingly, although the texture was all wrong, my hot sample was relatively good tasting. This morning, it wouldn't have even made good croûtons. It reminded me of when you bake flour and water to build a replica of the Alamo for a fourth grade history project.





Regardless, I was kind of proud of my bread bat.

Borscht

What a big fucking mess. I had beet juice everywhere. It spilled over the pot, sprayed out from the grater. I kept finding little red renegade pieces of beet on the kitchen floor. Both of my hands have a tinge of magenta all over the palms. No pictures of the mess, but hopefully pictures of the meal to follow.

Batting Zero

Sometimes it's really hard to stay on the horse . . .

Pasta Fagiole

My attempt at making pasta fagiole.

The successful doctoring of leftover tomato soup

I took a recipe from Epicurious.com that contained a good number of the leftover ingredients that were left in my fridge.

My ingredient list

1/2 box creamy tomato soup
1 cup chicken broth
1 can water (2 cups)
1 can stewed tomatoes (with juice, undrained)

5 celery stalks, chopped
1/2 red onion, chopped
2 carrots, chopped
2 garlic cloves, crushed

1 tsp sugar
1/4 tsp black pepper
1 tsp salt
1 pinch oregano
1 pinch saffron
1/4 tsp red pepper flakes

Approximately 1/2 cup white rice.

I sauteed the vegetables with the red pepper flakes and garlic until they were softened and started to brown. In went the tomato soup, stewed tomatoes (with juice) water, broth, and remaining spices. That simmered for 20 minutes, and then I put in the rice, and let it simmer for 20 more minutes.

What resulted was a tasty tomato, rice and veggie stew. The red pepper flakes and saffron added a nice heat. Would have been better with bread and meat, but it was definitely a successful salvage of leftovers!

Beautiful Breakfast Quiche

My sister made this beautiful quiche for breakfast. Yum.

Kitties

Today, I really wanted to get a kitty. These are the three I wanted to bring home today. Their names are Natasha, Bubba, and Kaely. Natasha is 9 years old, and I love her smushed face. Bubba was listed as an all around good natured gentlemen, and Kaely is half manx and has no tail! I love nubbie kitties.

Black Opal Raspberry Licorice

Oh my god. This is some good licorice. Soft, ultra-sweet, with a face puckering artificial strawberry taste. I'm really crazy about the size and texture of each piece, thick and chewy without being sticky.

Koolickles

I am not really a fan of dill pickles, even the fresh ones from the deli. I sort of like them on sandwiches, and I like sweet relish, but when I heard about the phenomenon of Koolickes, pickles soaked in kool-aid, I immediately wanted to try one. Apparently it's a really popular thing in the South. People sell them in liquor stores.

it's cold at work. brrr.

The cuties have fallen

Dicator Cuties

Freelines

nice lyrics i heard on the radio today

The old already know the reason
So do the sad hotels
That too much is for a short while
And is still not enough
And is only once
Protect me in evil
Everywhere protect
The grace of your heart.

Still protect
The grace of my heart
Now and for when
Still protect
The grace of my heart
Now and for when
Of you beside me

so very nice to see you again honey . . .

This Is Just to Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

-- W. C. W.

Personalized Love Bird Mugs

Exactly the sort of item I would sell at my store.

Lamb Shepherd's Pie

1 lb ground lamb
1 tsp thyme
1 tsp worshtescher (sp?)
1/2 cup onions
2 chopped garlic cloves
1 can stewed tomatoes partially drained.
2-4 cups green beans
cheese for topping
1 box instant au gratin potatoes

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Cook lamb with thyme and worshtescher, plus onions and garlic. Cook until meat is no longer pink. Boil water to blanch the green beans. Blanch beans and drain. Start potatoes according to box directions. Remove lamb and onions with slotted spoon and place in casserole dish. Top with can of stewed tomatoes, and then green beans. Mix together. Pour potatoes over the top. Sprinkle cheese on top. Bake for 25-30 minutes.

Mushroom Turkey Burgers

I made turkey burgers last Tuesday. I put some mushrooms, and a shallot in the food processor, and mixed it into the turkey meat. It made the burgers meatier. I really like it, and would definitely do it again.

Spanish Rice

I discovered the greatness of making your own spanish rice after I read something about MSG. I freaked out for a little while, and tried to avoid it whereever I could. I eventually calmed down about it realzing that if I didn't eat MSG, I would never eat another Cool Ranch Dorito.

I made some of the boxed versions in the past. I used to use the Mahatma brand (which does have MSG), and then after my MSG freakout, I tried the Near East Brand that also makes couscous, and rice pilaf. I think I may have even tried the Uncle Ben's version, but I don't really remember.

I looked up how to make it on the internet, and tried a few different recipes. After a little trial and error, and a few modifications, this is the rice that I make.


Spanish Rice

This recipe can easily be doubled if you double the onion, chili powder, salt, water, and broth (and rice of course :)

1 tblsp olive oil
1/2 an onion chopped
1 garlic clove, minced
1 cup rice (brown or white)
1 can stewed tomatoes
1/2 tsp chili powder
pinch of oregano
1/2 tsp salt
1 cup water (2 cups if you are using brown rice)
1 cup chicken or vegetable broth
*optional 1/2 cup of frozen corn/peas/carrots for color

In a large skillet, heat the olive oil over medium/high heat and add the rice. Add the onion and garlic. Cook onion/rice mixture, stirring frequently, about 4 minutes until the onions are softened and translucent. The rice will start to brown a little.

Add all of the other ingredients and stir. Bring to a simmer, and lower the heat. Cook 25 minutes or until the liquid has burned off (it may take longer for brown rice) to your desired moisture level. My sister likes the rice to get burned on the bottom, but the rice can be really good too when it's a little more moist and squishy too, depending on your mood.

Enjoy with sour cream and guacamole.

My Modified Chicken Adobo

Chicken Adobo Ingredients:

2 lb. chicken thighs, skins removed, cut off the bone into pieces

1/4 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup light or dark soy sauce
3 1/4" slices of fresh ginger
3 cloves of garlic, crushed and skins removed
1/4 cup rice vinegar
32 oz chicken stock to cover
1 bay leaf

Serves 2 to 3 people

Method:

Don't forget to start the rice! Put all ingredients into a large pot, bring to the boil and then reduce heat to simmer until chicken is tender (approx. 1 hour)

Remove the chicken with a slotted spoon, and put it in a saute pan with a little olive oil. Saute on high heat until chicken is crispy. About 5 minutes. I like the "burny flavor." Serve chicken with white rice, and pour the sauce over both.

food i made plus a musical note

polenta and vegetable bake. tasted like lasagna. a lot of eggplant.

never got around to making a salad with the fuyu persimmons. they sure are pretty though.

i baked a batch of cookies. i made two pots of coffee.

salmon salad with white beans last sunday.

plus, shankar jaikikshan's title music from merchant ivory's film bombay talkie caught my attention from the darjeeling limited.

To Do.

Breakfast: Part 2

This is the greatest thing ever.

Asparagus

18th century poet Charles Lamb thought that the vegetable inspired gentle thoughts, while Aristotle thought that it caused erections.

Locked Out

I locked myself out of the house on Saturday. A little turn of the old doorknob on our front door exiled me outside of the house with dog in tow. I sat with friends and waited for our locksmith to arrive. When the locksmith arrived, I couldn't believe the plumber butt that he displayed. It was like it was out of a movie or a sitcom that our handyman should have such a preference for low waisted pants, and not wearing underwear.

Sunday morning I awoke, and I felt like I had to make up for my $150 mistake. I scrubbed the sink, the toilet, vacumned the carpets, swept the floor, emptied the catbox, and did a load of laundry. I paid $150 to get in the house; I was going to make sure I stayed in it for awhile and took some measure to make it the best house possible.

Oyster Shooter

my first oyster shooter. spicy, salty, and slimy as it slipped down my throat. a little burn and then it was gone. in the shotglass: jalapeno infused vodka, cocktail sauce, a dash of Tabasco and of course a raw oyster.

bubble bubble pearl milk tea

i enjoyed a most delicious coconut green milk tea with pearls today. bubble tea is so refreshing on a hot day. It's always oh so satisfying to punch the oversized straw through the cellophane and hear the subtle "pop", so much so that I don't really want the bubble tea unless they have the machine that seals the plastic cup closed.

Wikipedia has this to say about it:

"The original bubble tea consisted of a hot Taiwanese black tea, tapioca pearls, condensed milk, and honey.

These tapioca pearls are made mostly of tapioca starch, which comes from the tapioca, or bitter-cassava plant. In other parts of the world, the bitter-cassava plant may be called manioca or yuca. Cassava is native to South America, and was introduced to Asia in the 1800s. The balls are prepared by boiling for 25 minutes, until they are cooked thoroughly but have not lost pliancy, then cooled for 25 minutes. After cooking they last about 7 hours. The pearls have little taste, and are usually soaked in sugar or honey solutions.

There are two shops that claim to be the first creator of Bubble Tea. One is Liu Han Chie who worked in Chun Shui Tang teahouse Taichung City, Taiwan in the early 1980s, and experimented with cold milk tea by adding fruit, syrup, candied yams, and tapioca balls. Although the drink was not popular at first, a Japanese television show generated interest among businessmen. The drink became well-known in most parts of East and Southeast Asia during the 1990s.

An alternative origin is the Hanlin Teahouse in Tainan City, Taiwan, owned by Tu Tsong He Hanlin Bubble tea is made by adding traditional white fenyuan which have an appearance of pearls, supposedly resulting in the so-called "pearl tea." Shortly after, Hanlin changed the white fenyuan to the black, as it is today.

"Bubble Tea" in Chinese actually refers to a modern method of beverage preparation: to efficiently and homogenously mix various ingredients in these drinks (e.g., sugar, powdered milk, tea, and ice), drink makers often shake the tea up as bartenders do with cocktails. Thusly prepared, a layer of foam forms on the surface, and any tea so prepared can be called bubble tea.

good things

1. coffee
2. butter
3. lemons

I am now a real office worker . . .

because I purchased this.

existential loneliness at the dryer

most of the time i am okay with my single status. I definitely have those moments where i feel this melancolic haze about what things could be like, but i've been maturing and realizing that my life is as good as it will ever be, so dwelling on how things could be better is a waste of time.

but then i have these ridiculous moments where i don't want to feel so alone. pulling my laundry out of the dryer today, it hit. what do i expect? someone to clean the lint out of the lint trap with me, each of us holding a plastic edge, while my other hand reaches out to wipe away the sheet of linty fibers.

i realize fully that this is ridiculous.

most classicly, it's the waking up each morning that i find the toughest. i have no problem coming home to an empty bed, but waking up inside of one is more frightening. i roll over each morning to a vacant slot with an unused pillow next to it. the delight and/or regularity of having someone there is something i have never really been able to get used to.

so much so that I have much difficulty in the past sleeping next to someone. i get insomnia, that usually fuels my love sickness, and makes me loopy as can be.

George oppen talks about the moment of awakening quite extensively in his poetry. it is the moment that light hits our eyes that we realized that we exist. we see something that proves that we are expereincing, that we are alive. maybe what i long for is to see a mirror image, a male image that reminds me that I exist. that i am not just a floating entity. Is this what true love is able to prove to us? That we exist, quite simply, alongside of each other. Proximity becomes comforting, even though we experience alone. Why is romantic love different?

I don't mean this in a way that being with a man would as the cliche goes "fill the void" inside of me, but I do desire to feel presence of a certain masculine variety. Presence, being present . . . engagement.

I watched a man on the bus yesterday methodically change his text message to someone that I presume was a girlfriend. He slowly made the message he was sending to her less and less engaged. It went from something like "let's meet here at this time" to "lemme know" (let me was spelled just like that) . . . text messaging is the best thing that ever happened to boys.

the desire for presence is such a female desire, and the desire for casual freedom such a masculine one. i resent feeling like such a cliche.

motion

i'm in one of those places again where everything seems up in the air. i have no idea what will happen next. i don't know what I want out of my life. i don't know what i want to be. I believe this is commonly referred to these days as "the quarter life crisis." i am excited by the thought of the opportunities ahead of me for self improvement.

on a similar note, my opinions are more clear cut these days. i assume i am on the path to a higher level of self assurance.

going with the flow is simultaneously not acceptable, and my only option. i guess what i mean is that i am open to whatever fate has to offer me, but i am aware of the fact that I am in control when i believe that it is taking me somewhere i don't want to go.

These names only mean something to you

Vocabulary.
my vocabulary against your vocabulary. everytime i have to communicate with someone, (and sometimes even with myself), I run up against this conflict.

Each person seems to have their own set of meaning that they are woking within.

a new computer

a new haircut

I've been trying to clean and minimize these days. It feels wonderful. A few weeks ago I recycled some old cassette tapes, this week I have a bag full of books that I'm going to donate. I put stray paperwork in it's filed home, and spare blankets in their place in the basement. Less weight, more clarity, I hope. The comic books are on the agenda, and there's a bag of old shoes sitting at home to go out too.

Like the roasted body of an animal, you and I, we consumed each delicate bite. We picked off all the meaty morsels, and chewed them over. We revisited the flavors of the passion we shared. I picked, you picked, we both chewed on the fat, fed ourselves on the meat.

The carcass is left, the flavor is still in my mouth, and sadly darling, there is no more to eat.

I still want to chew off your shoulder. I want to give you my arms and my calves.

The fading sets in even further, but I remember fondly . . .

Your Catfish Friend
by Richard Brautigan

If I were to live my life
in catfish forms
in scaffolds of skin and whiskers
at the bottom of a pond
and you were to come by
one evening
when the moon was shining
down into my dark home
and stand there at the edge
of my affection
and think, "It's beautiful
here by this pond. I wish
somebody loved me,"
I'd love you and be your catfish
friend and drive such lonely
thoughts from your mind
and suddenly you would be
at peace,
and ask yourself, "I wonder
if there are any catfish
in this pond? It seems like
a perfect place for them."

Dear Anonymous Commenter to My Blog

Hello,

I have turned my comments back on. I trust that you will not abuse the feature. I understand your good intentions, but I was displeased that you used my real name in my blog. I do not want it posted.

I was unsettled by the nature of your comments, especially after the second poem you left for me (both poems I have removed from the blog). Your sentiments were of an overly reverant nature. Your fascination with me is largely constructed. You do not know me as a person.

I have no idea who you are. I have read the posts you made to your blog, the blog that you linked to in one of your posts, and have now deleted.

If you would like to commment on my blog, please be transparent about your identity.

Best,

A Thursday in the ER . . .

I saw my doctor last thursday morning. I had to drink tons of water and wait forty minutes to give him a sample. He wrote me a prescription, and sent me to the ER.

By the time my sister drove me to the emergency room, I was in serious pain. My bladder was visibly distended. The previous two days, urination had required ample time, the sound of a faucet running, and some reading material, usually the back of a hairspray bottle to distract me and relax me enough to let it flow. It was hard to walk into the ER.

They gave me my robe, and showed me the hospital room where I would be waiting for my doctor. It was more like an operating room with a huge light over my head. I had peed once on my way in, and the pain returned. It was excruciating.

I talked to at least 3 doctors reviewing my story, my theories of what was causing my affliction. They told me it wasn't a normal bladder infection, that I should be going a lot, not retaining.

They did a bladder scan: 967 ml. It was obvious I needed to be drained.

They took my blood, and I waited. It was cold and I was feeling overwhelmed. The nurse returned, and put in a foley catheter. I didn't notice an immediate release in pressure, but within 5 minutes, my only discomfort was the presence of the catheter. I drained steadily for quite awhile. I hade 1500 ml inside me, more than a liter!! That's more than a carafe of wine.

They sent me home with a leg bag, and instructions to see a uroligist. Thank goodness my sister was there with me. Not the way I expected things to be. I thought I was going to get prescribed antibiotics at the first doctor's office, and go to work, go to yoga in the evening, but I was at home with a catheter.

Lucky Breaks

So I won a television from Lucky Magazine. It's a 20" LCD screen. At first I thought it was spam, but curiosity got the better of me. I did remember entering for it. . . and it was real. Arrived on my doorstep last week. A pretty nice tv too.

I had no idea what to do with it. I have a small room, and it would require me to buy a dvd player. I also already have a tv/dvd set up, one of those all in one combo units. I decided to give it to my parents. They can use as a big computer monitor. My dad will be proud of my gold bar syndrome . . . runs in the family.

busride from hell

oh my god, what a day.

i hightailed it to south station to get on an earlier bus, and they put me on a bus leaving in 15 minutes. I rolled my luggage over and quickly bought some water and gum.

On the way, I had to get out off the t train a stop early because my transfer station didn't have an elevator down to the platform. I went above ground and walked.

Back to the fung wah bus. I get on at 1:30. We begin the ride to New York.

The cell phone reception in connecticutt is awful. The bus is cold, and I curl up to sleep. While I sleep, the sun comes out and melts the cookie I put in my pocket. The bus stopped at a mcdonald's to let us pee, and i look down to see what looks like a poop stain on my hand. i looked down further to see the chocolate from my melted cookie overflowing out of my hoodie. ewww.

back on the bus. we are in traffic for nearly 3 hours getting into manhattan.

got off on the lower east side at 8:30. Missed my chance to reprint my e-ticket, and missed the connecting bus that i was supposed to get onto philly at 8pm. I walk the wrong way down canal st.

i've got a lot on my mind.

the chinatown bus station is crazy. things are poorly labeled, people are yelling at me to get on their bus.

i accidentally almost got on a bus to dc.

thank god i asked. i hit my head putting my luggage into the cargo on the right bus.

Once i'm on my philly bus, there was a beeping up front, so i moved to the back, and when the bus was moving, it sounded like clattering floorboards. I feared for my life. i had visions of the frame shifting while we were on the highway.

the people in front of me have their ipods on loud. i can hear their music "it's raining men, halleleujah"

whoa. close to midnight i arrived in philly. . .

There are always more rocks to smoke on

I smoked a cigarette naked on a rock 8700 ft above sea level. In light of this, everything is okay . . .

California was in front of me, and Nevada behind me.

The high-altitude winds blew through my crotch when I took off my pants, cooling the sweat from the hike up to the peak.

A raised column of rock made the perfect seat for my tush. I had a hard time getting my cigarette lit, but once it was I sucked in the smoke as if it was the air my life depended upon.

I stretched my arms up, and the sun crawled towards late afternoon.

This was a non-sexual moment, pure in its intentions. Just a moment to be in tune with my mind, with the scene before me.

Cigarettes

I have this sort of odd obsession with pictures of people smoking. The photos are always so meditative, so ethereal, so lovely. I don't care about it perpetuating a negative habit. I have a flickr feed on my browser homepage that shows me different photos each morning. This is my favorite from today.

Candles flickered on every round table throughout the bar. The man at the piano swung his long hair backward, and emphatically played John Lennon's "Imagine," in an almost ragtime fashion. He began to sing. Cars passed regularly in the background, subtle white noise. Dusk settled.

hidden photo

i dropped my library book the other day, and a hidden photo fell out onto the corner of stanyan and frederick. It's a photo of an older dark haired man with a pot belly in a pair of carharts. He's sitting in a truck against a southwest seat cover. The photo is taken by the person in the driver's seat. He is looking at the photographer in the corner of his eye.

I will scan it later.

Mein Holga

Green Paper Package

I received a long awaited package today, but when I saw how it had been packaged, the wait was entirely worth it.

Scissors for Lefty

My new favorite local band.

Sartorial Joy / Object Appreciation

"No ideas but in things" -- William Carlos Williams

There are those sartorial moments, when something clicks.

In viewing the object, I can see how someone has strived to make a very small moment of my life more involved, more elaborated upon.

It is the perfect mustard yellow handbag, the thrift store scarf that warms your body, and completes your reflection.

One could argue that there is more poetry in a bucket than a high heeled shoe, but that need not diminish the joy one receives from a proper item of clothing--something that fits so well, that enhances one's presence without overwhelming the viewer.

This is the poetry of design.

The message conveyed may be about status, but an item whose poetry rings truer will convey a message of utility, beauty and possibility. The craftsman understands this.

And of course this appreciation expands outside of sartorial items, a warm ceramic mug that fits into the palm, a new camera arriving in the mail packaged in green paper and tied up with string, or a new song that one hears offering displacement and pleasure (the idea as an object).

We appreciate these items, and they enhance our lives. Unfortunately, the object can only provide so much. Objects cannot love us back.

Although sometimes, we love an object so much that the love we pour into it bounces back onto us. The pursuit of interests is never to be discontinued. Objects are indelibly tied to our efforts, our emotions, and our lives.

Objects are carriers.

My horoscope today

Optimism and buoyancy
This influence assures a day of good feelings, peace and harmony with others. But you should try to use its energy to accomplish something good and useful for yourself. The temptation is to enjoy the good feelings and let the day slip by without paying any special attention. The enthusiasm, optimism and buoyancy associated with this influence will enable you to project energies into the environment that will help your affairs work out as you want. This may appear to be luck, but it is not really. Consciously or unconsciously, in your daily routine you operate with great understanding of the overall patterns, and you act with more foresight and consideration than usual. If you do benefit from "dumb luck," it is a consequence of something you have done in the recent past.

The interpretation above is for your transit selected for today:Sun Trine Jupiter

activity period from 19 February 2007 to 21 February 2007.

We hadn't spoken in weeks. I ran into Jon at a coffee shop concert; he looked disheveled, untucked mismatched shirt and unshaven stubble. I thought maybe he'd been distraught. We chatted awkwardly. He invited me to his friends house in rural Oregon for the weekend--people were coming out for something of a two day party in the woods.

Secretly, I was thrilled. He'd kiss me in the woods. I was hopeful from the moment that I received the invite.

Lisa, an aquaintance, drove me and her boyfriend in her black suv through the oregon woods to the lakeside house. We arrived early, before Jon. There was a giant trampoline set out in the front yard. We all took turns jumping. Lisa's boyfriend, well sauced, got on the trampoline, jumped around for awhile and fell on his arm, spraining it. Lisa left and took him to the hospital.

I knew the host, Blane, only vaguely. Blane was a wiry looking kid with messy hair and a lazy eye. He was constantly unshaven. Lisa was gone, and it was awkward out in the forest with Blane's friends, a bunch of mal-adjusted townies. Dusk settled, and Jon arrived with some of my classmates. The car rumbled close to the house, and I felt eager to start enjoying myself. They filtered in and Jon walked in, dressed tightly in black, with a giggling happy girl looming near him. I knew immediately. Why did he invite me out to the forest to be presented with this new and unhappy fact? My heart sunk--I couldn't leave.

Lisa returned with her boyfriend, his arm in a sling. The group sat around on the porch drinking Pabst and laughing for a few hours. My classmates teased Jon about his new girlfriend. "Jonny's got a girrrllfriend." Jon sat next to her, and I pretended to look happy. Blane told everyone to come out front.

Blane had constructed a huge pyre, largely composed out of his old paintings, along with pieces of broken furniture, and 2 x 4's. He doused the pyre in gasoline and lit it on fire. He rolled a wheelbarrel out in front of the growing fire. With a shovel, he launched large scoops of sawdust onto the pyre. The flames mushroom clouded into the sky.

What was I watching?

After the sawdust was gone, the crowd filtered back towards the house. I confronted Jon. He stood on the porch facing out from the house. His tall, thin frame illuminated. "Why did you invite me out here to see you and your new girlfriend?"

"I just thought it would be okay."

I don't remember the rest of our conversation. Time passed slowly that night.

I hid out in Blane's guest room, a room separated from the house, with windows on all four sides. I crawled up in Blane's sleeping bag, and cried. I wept in the little one room for quite awhile. Blane came in and tried to console me. He put his arms around me and leaned in for a kiss. I would learn later that Blaine had a history of "kissing crying girls."

I left the tiny room and rejoined the party. The lights inside the house were bright. Alcohol had settled in on the guests. 2 girls and a boy were standing with their arms around each other, taking turns kissing in the triangle.

Blane burst out of the house, throwing his blankets onto the ground. Yelling, screaming, he picked up a guitar and smashed it on the ground. A girl that he wanted was in his bed with someone else. We all just watched as he destroyd the guitar.

I walked along the perimeter of the estate along the wooden fence, and ran into Gunther, one of Jon's old friends. I pretended to be french. My act was shoddy, and he quickly got bored, but he was drunk enough to believe me for a moment.

I went out near the firepit, and listened to people talk. The scene was more innocuous. Jon and his girlfriend were gone. It was very late and I had to try to sleep.

I went into the house and found a place on the floor. There was a loft bedroom in the middle of the huge living room. My place on the floor was right underneath the loft. I knew that Jon and his girlfriend were sleeping there. I tried to sleep. Occasionally, I would hear little kissing and sucking noises come down from the loft. Dawn was lifting.

I got up again, and went to the firepit. Joe was still awake. We talked about books. He was a good conversation in contrast to the insanity of the evening.

The morning dawned, and the group went about making breakfast for the 15 or so people that were there. It took forever. I wanted to leave soo badly. No one could confirm for me when they were leaving.

The sun was high in the sky. Blane turned on music. I remember the Strokes "This Is It" and Elliott Smith drifting through the large living room and onto the deck. Jon used to tell me that he hated pop music like that. I resented the music in that moment.

Finally Lisa said she was leaving. We all got in the Black SUV and we started to head out the driveway. The car lurched--flat tire--unbelievable. We all got of the car. It took a while for Lisa to figure out how to unscrew the spare from the bottom of the car. While Lisa and her boyfriend were fiddlling with getting the wheel out from under the car, I stood and watched. I brushed my hand against the back of my head and felt a sting--a bee sting. I went back inside the house for a bandaid.

The car was ready to go. The drive seemed very long, and I remember walking slowly back into my house. I went upstairs and lay down on the bed without taking the covers off.

Breakfast

I love breakfast. It's a wonderful beginning to any great day. It's a time for communication, contemplation, and appreciation. I love eggs. I love toast. I love coffee. These are all inspiring objects to me. I dream about breakfast all day.

Nostalgia

I think back to my past relationships with rose colored glasses. This perspective isn't totally unrealistic though. I'm able to appreciate my past separated from my old pain. The memories are sweet. I can listen to records associated with old boyfriends without having to skip tracks.

This isn't to say that I am free from sad thoughts, but certain individuals have transformed from something to pine over to something that I fondly remember.

Patience

My ability to be patient is high right now.

Man on the train

My favorite passenger got on the L taraval bus today. I don't know who he is. I never talk to him. He is an older business man, maybe in his mid-40's, but he's so handsome to me. I admire him from afar.

And he looks just like someone I slept with in the past. He has salt and pepper hair, big brow bones, and a diminutive chin. He is tall, scrawny, and his lean stature makes the bones in his face very prominent.

I want to kiss his cheeks, nibble on his ears, and run my hands in his hair. It's utterly innappropriate. My far out fantasties have us exit the train to find a hotel, or just a park bench where I would make out with him in a shameful fury. Until now, I'll just admire the veins and bones in his hands while he refolds the paper to read the comics.

My dream from this morning.

In the dream, I am trying to sleep in my twin bed with my co-workers and Sam. Sam and I lay next to each other. We chatted pillow talk and giggled next to each other's heat. It is a soft warm girly feeling that I am having in the dream.

Later, Sam and I are watching television, clutching thighs and laughing. He turns his head to me and puts his hand over his mouth. He whispers, "I love you"

I am taken aback and surprised to hear such words come out of his mouth. Sam wouldn't ever say such a thing to me. I safely reply "I care about you very much and if you ever need me, I'm there for you." It was a happy feeling.

Flash forward in the dream. I discover that in my sleep I have I sent an email titled "Hot Chocolate" to him. There is an Olsen Twin on the television (You think I would know at this point that it is a dream). I am horrified with the content of the email. I think the email recounted my dream and was sent to the real life Sam. At this point, I am lucidly dreaming, afraid that the real world has discoverd my fantasies.

I remember this dream feeling particularly like one I had in high school about a boy named Nicholas Holsopple. Utter fufillment followed by tragedy, a faster and more sublime version than that in real life.

Handsome

The meaning of handsome. What constitutes rugged male beauty? not from a romance novel perspective, but from a loving female perspective. What makes the mystique of attraction for me?

Merriam Webster says this:

handsome
One entry found for handsome.
Main Entry: hand·some
Pronunciation: 'han(t)-s&m
Function: adjective
Inflected Form(s): hand·som·er; -est
Etymology: Middle English handsom easy to manipulate
1 chiefly dialect : APPROPRIATE, SUITABLE
2 : moderately large : SIZABLE
3 : marked by skill or cleverness : ADROIT
4 : marked by graciousness or generosity : LIBERAL
5 : having a pleasing and usually impressive or dignified appearance
synonym see BEAUTIFUL
- hand·some·ly adverb
- hand·some·ness noun

so that would be sizable, clever, gracious, and both pleasing, and dignified in appearance.

i love the word handsome. i much prefer it to beautiful. it's so much more of a solid word.

active examples for me are

romain duris
gael garcia bernal

for me handsome is a smoky quality. i am driven to extremes by dark hair and radiant skin.

here are visual examples.

The lovely Romain Duris, the rugged Peter Krause, the big eyes and imposing jaws of Gael Garcia Bernal.

But beyond imposing bone structures and large eyeballs, something else makes a man rugged, makes a man attractive.

Obviously, this is attitude. It is not utterly composed of confidence. Aloof is too cold of a word.

It's a distinctive attitude that makes the difference. I fall for distinctive personalities.

This would be why someone like Jonathan Richman or David Byrne rises to the same ranks as the above mentioned pretty boys.

Attitude makes imperfect features into platonic features. All of a sudden Owen Wilson's crooked nose is perfect.

Flawed and therefore perfect. We don't want the objects of our attraction to be too perfect. Being too perfect would be an even greater flaw than any literal flaws. We want the objects of our attraction to be ideal, but always human.

Writing About Love

It's much easier to write about love in hindsight. We are unsafe in speaking about the present and the future. Decisions can be made about the past to little effect.

I often question the ethics of what I consider writing publicly. I've written things, reconsidered, and then destroyed/deleted the entry. Would the person this is about be hurt if they read it? Would they ever find it? How will it affect me if I were to discuss this material with the persons involved?

One encounters the same problems in writing auto-biographically about anyone close to them whether it be family, friends, co-workers, or lovers. When one gives writing to an audience one expects an effect, even if it is only a subtle reaction on the part of the author.

I want to write honestly and openly, but matters of harm often prevent me from being truly honest. When I say harm, I include the possible harm I may do to myself in publicizing my opinions, the decisions I may make in the text that I might regret later.

Dear Love

I'm giving up on you for now.

Love,
Me

Self-Respect and Selection

I've been meaning to make a post for a really long time. I've been thinking a lot about the meaning of self-love and self respect. There is a beautiful essay by Joan Didion I read a few weeks ago on the topic. The power of the idea we have of ourselves in affecting our behavior and perspective.
It's a hard thing to carry. Sometimes, it just happens. One has a firm idea of who they are, and little regret alongside of it. Sometimes, it is a struggle.

I've also been thinking about the process of selection. Selection as a service. I am sure this relates to love in some way. Our ability to love. Most immediatley, our available energy to love is given to selection, and the process of selection can be a loving one. It all boils down to choices.

Choosing to love ourselves. Choosing what parts of ourselves to love, and those parts that we choose to ignore to make it easier to love what we have embraced.

I wanted to read books yesterday

This was a good sign. This represented a desire outside of my loneliness. This showed me having focus and interest. I was pleased. The weather was beautiful.

Books on the agenda:

1. Joan Didion - A Year of Magical Thinking
2. Jonathan Safran Foer - Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close
3. Zadie Smith - On Beauty
4. Joan Didion - Whatever book "Goodbye to All That" was excerpted from
5. Something by Paul Auster
6. On Bullshit
7. . . .

Deft reflections

"In a world where God died a hundred years ago and computers, not oracles, predict the future, romantic fatalism veers dangerously toward mysticism."

"Through romantic fatalism, we avoid the unthinkable that the need to love is always prior to our love for anyone in particular."

-- Alain de Boton, On Love

Love means

taking away the safety net.

You Cannot Wrestle a Dove

I lost my wallet that day. Stressed out and irritated, I rode my bike from my friend Taya's house on one end of SE Portland to a party I'd been invited to on the other side of Southeast.
At the party, I saw Jon from far away noting two things: He was beautiful, and two, he looked like trouble. A boy so pretty that you knew immediately you could either never have him, or that if you had him, he would break your heart.
Tight pants, thick brown sweepy hair, and giant pink lips aching to be flicked with a pinky finger.
We were introduced, "This is Jon."
"I hate you."
"Why do you hate me?"
"I just do."

Dear God, he was flirting with me.

A concert later, a party later, we twisted warmly together. So sweet, tender, and naive. So much wanting to feel and experience love, I hurled myself into the possibility. I was smitten without hope.

After three weeks, I become high strung wondering what was happening. I tried to discuss the matter with him. I only wanted a little assurance as in "hey, I dig you too, and let's keep hanging out," but later that night, Jon said it,

"I love you."

I was lying on top of him when he said it, and he had whispered it in my ear. It was like someone cut a slit in his face where his mouth was, and this little bird flew out. It was caught in the room. Neither of us knew what to do with it as it flew back and forth, hitting the walls. I wanted it to be good, so I caught it, and decided to keep it. It was the first time I believed in it.

I don't know what he was trying to do then. I wanted those words LATER. I think he wanted to latch onto the idea of loving someone just as much as I did. Use those three words to solve all problems. He wanted to experiment with loving me, and being the innocent, naive girl that I was (and mostly still am), I went along for the ride, hoping it meant so much more than it ever did.

Obviously, the shiny luster faded, our youthful vigor faded towards one another. Chalked up to infatuation, desire, and lust. One could even say puppy love, but this experience still hurts me to remember. It was the first time I believed, and I ended being shown as nothing but a pure fool.

Re-Statement of Romance by Wallace Stevens

Re-Statement of Romance

The night knows nothing of the chants of the night
It is what it is as I am what I am
And in perceiving this I best perceive myself

And you. Only we two may interchange
Each in the other what each has to give.
Only we two are one, not you and night,

Nor night and I, but you and I, alone
So much alone, so deeply by ourselves,
So far beyond the casual solitudes

That night is only the background of our selves,
Supremely true each to its separate self
In the pale light that each upon the other throws.

Love Over Time, Love makes History, History makes Love

In the middle ages before the era of courtly love, love was conceived of as a relationship shared between man (or woman) and god, a strictly religious endeavor. This can be seen in the Shewings of Julian of Norvich, and the Book of Margory Kempe. Two texts that depict women in LOVE with God, seeing god as their husbands, going into ecstatic states akin to sexual orgasm over their feelings.

At this point sex between human men and women was often referred to "the debt of mariage." A chore to be performed with your spouse, but not something that would inspire emotion or affectation. I can see this a trickled down perspective from the greeks who found love between men as a sensitive, visceral experience, but love between men and women as generally more focused on procreation.

With the dawn of the Renaissance, the notion of courtly love evolved, thereby creating what we generally think of when the terms love and romance are tossed around. The term originating obviously from the idea of "courting," the wooing of young royal women that would occur in the courtyards of royal palaces, and exagerrated in the sonnets of Shakespeare. Courtly love, (exemplified in Chaucer's Troilus and Criseyde) portrayed heterosexual mating as a vehicle to transcend our earthly experience, and bring our consciosnesses closer to God.

The courtly notion of romance, characterized by fay passive women, being wooed by charismatic and clever gentleman remained. In the 18th and 19th century, parlor culture arose in Western society. Groups of women and men would gather in the salon or parlor of homes, and socialize. Seen most vividly in the novels of Jane Austen. In these novels, women dominate the enclosed sphere of the home, and men enter into their space causing change. Women await the attentions and power of men as lynchpins toward action. Women are the static bodies, and men are the kinetic ones. Balance and happiness achieved through union of the two extremes.

I'm not making a point but trying to explore the movement. I'm sure that many of these points have already been documented especially in Foucault's "History of Sexuality."

The victorian era also saw an increased focused on emotional and sexual repression, valorizing stoicism and celibacy. I need to do some more reading as to discern the origin of this movement. Obvious influences are Christian puritanism, but it can't possibly be that simple.

I have to get back to work but I hope to write more on this later.

First Humiliation

It was the first time I stayed the night at his house. I was 17. He was 19. He lived with his mother.
We had been fooling around in his bed, and it was late. We settled in for bed. He got up to go to the bathroom. He went for the door to the hallway naked. "Wait," I said, "Aren't your going to put some clothes on? Your mother might come out into the hall?"
"I'll be fine," he insisted, and he exited the room. I heard him go into the bathroom, and sure enough as he left the bathroom, I heard his mother come out of her room. "Andy, The noise from your room, it sounds like static. I can't sleep. Can you try to be more quiet. What?! Put some clothes on!"
I wanted to die. I clutched the covers and curled into the fetal position. I was mortified. The noise was obviously the bed, and his mother just saw him standing buck naked in her hallway with a girl in his room.
Andy returned to the bedroom, and got into bed. I could barely look at him. I was so embarrased. He tried to be affectionate with me, and I refused, not budging from my curled position. My refusal upset him very much, and he started to cry. He was like "What's the big deal?" My humiliation made me insensitive and resentful towards him. I wouldn't be touched, and his weeping did little to soften my feeling toward him. I wish I could have disappeared in that moment.

Goo

"I love David Lynch." That was the first thing we allowed each other to say. We didn't want to throw the phrase around. We agreed to resist saying the simple three word phrase of infamy. We talked on the phone everyday, for hours. I was 15, and had been messaged by Matt after he read my poems and stories in an "ezine" that I had uploaded into a "zine forum" on AOL SPIN online. My zine was called either "Oddball" or "Peculiar." I can't remember which.
Matt introduced me to Jack Kerouac. We read the poems that we wrote back and forth to each other; his poems were abstract, symbolic, and laden with pop culture figures, and possessed a rhythm I envied, and my poems were always more sincere and heartfelt. 2 hours at a time talking about the cure, and sex. We were always discussing our sexual habits although neither of us had ever seen one another, being burgeoning horny adolescents. We were dependable voices on the other end of the line.
"I love David Lynch" transformed into "Goo"(a la Sonic Youth, no connection to any form of baby talk. We were mixing our love of pop culture with the affection we felt in conversation). The phrase was shortened for ease, and "Goo" had a better punch to the tongue. Our previous phrase of affection was too cumbersome, and ridiculous to say. I don't remember when it happened, but one day it hit and there was no more need for code words anymore. It was the first time I heard the phrase "I love you" from a boy. I think I've heard it from 5 boys, and I can only count 2 circumstances where I felt it has mattered in retrospect. My long telephone conversations with Matt are definitely one of the two.

Gum Traders

I followed him around at lunch time. He wore a bright puffy winter coat, and we would sit outside the cafeteria, eating tater tots from a paper cup, and pizza wrapped in a plastic bag, steam condensing on the inside. I liked to hear him talk and stare into his black curly hair, note his smooth skin and wide features. Of course, in 7th grade, I didn't think about it that way at all.
I'd call him on the phone. He'd tell me about science fiction stories late at night. I'd lie on the floor with ear glued to phone in the dark in my parent's or sister's room on school nights. We talked about Nirvana, and our favorite books, our ideal mates.
We were "rockers." With such a title interests included: our collection of band t-shirts, our cassette tape collections, our distaste for that which was not rock, and a new found identity in being outside and different than everyone else in our jr. high, digging the latest hip hop jams on the radio. Our friends wrote "Rap is Crap" on their backpacks in white out.
The rockers found their lunchtime home in the middle of the athletic field. We stood in a circle talking non-sense. We believed that we didn't care what people thought of us. We were rockers. People thought he was crazy, and that I was a lesbian, because of my short hair.
We wanted to show everyone how much we didn't care. One day, we decided to trade gum to show our disregard for germs. We started by spitting it into one another's mouth, aiming from afar. Within minutes, the gap between us closed, and with our friends chanting, egging him on, "Do it! Kiss her!" our lips met, my first french kiss. We pushed the gum back and forth in one another's mouth with our tongues. His mouth and tongue were broad, and I remember the motion seemed to happen so naturally.

Firsts

The month of April will be a month of firsts on my blog, a series of posts about first experiences. For all of us who feel that we are at the beginning.

So what is the first first? Do I start with physical contact, the first time a hand was slid underneath clothing, or infatuation, the first time that dominos fell in the mind to trigger those marquis flashing lights that "Yes! I am attracted to this person," or most traditionally kissing, the first time two lips met to feel the heat of the other person's lips and the strange wetness of another's mouth, like slugs groping in the dark?

encouraging accquiesence and discouraging struggle

For me there is always a huge dark line between that which I know is real, and how I feel towards the veritable elements of my life.

Knowing and feeling on a most base level, and their split. I want to accquiess to the boundaries of what is real, in lieu of struggling with the way that I feel. My wants and desires are not logical, not in tune with reality.

I want to take care of everyone. I know that I can't.

The spaces between reality, and desire, are where emotions originate.