Wednesday, April 23, 2014

oh man. oh man.


it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles

(frank o'hara)
It never gets easier. It shouldn't. We should hunger for something more from life. From ourselves.

Every day, you should ask yourself, how have I impacted my soul? How have I grown?
More often than not, I am surrounded by people who instead ask themselves, How much money have I made, and how much more can I get?

Mistakes get harder to make.
We don't want to fall. We don't want to fail.


John McPhee in the Paris Review-

INTERVIEWER
I suppose one of the hard things for a young writer is to learn that there’s no obvious path. 
MCPHEE
There is no path. If you go to dental school, you’re a dentist when you’re done. For the young writer, it’s like seeing islands in a river and there’s all this stuff you can get into—where do you go? It can be a mistake to get too great a job at first; that can turn around and stultify you. At the age of, say, twenty-one, you’re in a very good position to make mistakes. Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four—each time the mistakes become a little more costly. You don’t want to be making these mistakes when you’re forty-five. But the thing is, in steering around all those islands, and finding currents to go around them, they’re all relevant. 
fine. admittedly, i might have just consumed a dozen cookies for dinner.
and the equivalent of a carafe of mango rooibos tea.

i can hear my heart beating against my shoulder blades. as in, the back of my torso.

spin, spin sugar.


today's lunch.

 honey marinated salmon.

4 salmon filets (about 6oz each)
1 tablespoon honey
2 teaspoons tamari or soy sauce
1 teaspoon olive oil
1/4 teaspoon black pepper (i was liberal with this)

i always have trouble with honey and coconut oil. i clumsily melt it into the mixture.

anyway. i mixed the last four ingredients in a quart-sized ziploc bag.
marinated salmon inside for about 15-20 minutes.

i cheated and made a bit more marinade with the honey i had left.

i let the saucepan heat up on medium up. sprayed it down pretty well with some olive oil.

placed the filets on the skin side. i drizzled the extra marinade on top.
cooked 5 minutes. pressed down on the tops with a spatula so that the edges browned evenly. sort of.
repeated on the other side. kind of winged it, since there was a smaller filet, i let that cook for a short period of time.

i committed the cook's crime of eating while standing up.

i read some Shantaram.

i found this great spice store in the east village. i could have stayed there forever.
there were bags of cardamom, coriander, cumin, teas of all kinds,

the guy at the checkout register was this young-looking indian guy with long hair. he said hi to me as i was finishing, and chatted with me (in his distinctly American accent). this older indian guy came into the store and started mumbling something in another language, and i smiled patiently as the checkout guy seemed to respond.
checkout guy looked and me and shrugged, "Don't worry. I don't understand a thing he's saying either." And grinned.
i think he was joking. but i couldn't really be sure.
i laughed and said that i feel like i never understand what people are saying, no matter what language they are speaking.
we talked a bit more about language.


--
two weeks ago when we were in new orleans for french quarter festival, i rediscovered the virtue of apples.
i'm kind of a banana girl, and my mom says it's because i'm lazy. i don't like to wash fruit.
every morning, our hotel would have green apples sitting in a basket in the lobby. the apples basically kept me from going insane from hunger while we "looked" for places to eat (which usually means wandering around for 2 hours).

my refrigerator probably now contains a lot of curb-rose's-hunger fruit. including about 2 dozen apples. i think it's working out well.




Tuesday, April 22, 2014

april drizzle. 
windows open. 
haven't felt like going dancing, and as B said the other night, "if you have even a sliver of doubt about going, you won't have fun"
ain't that the truth. 
chamomile and lavender instead, and some eileen myles. 

“Literature is love. I think it went like this: drawings in the cave, sounds in the cave, songs in the cave, songs about us. Later, stories about us. Part of what we always did was have sex and fight about it and break each other’s hearts. I guess there’s other kinds of love too. Great friendships. Working together. But poetry and novels are lists of our devotions. We love the feel of making the marks as the feelings are rising and falling. Living in literature and love is the best thing there is. You’re always home.” 
- Eileen Myles




breakfast. 

1/4 cup almond milk, unsweetened 
1 tbsp chia seeds, whole
1 soy yogurt (I used silk strawberry)

mix vigorously in a jar and place in the fridge overnight.

wake up.

top with fruit (I used bananas and strawberries).

if desired, shake an ample amount of cinnamon on each bite.

watch the sun appear between the buildings.

Sunday, April 20, 2014

weekend notes:

- spontaneity may breed a bit of carelessness (read: no cutting utensils, no sleeping pads, lack of matches?)  but it sure does allow for creativity (read: bite your potatoes in pieces and spit them back out into foil, son)
- with a bit of patience, some ingredients thrown in foil cooked over a fire can be damn good. especially after a whopping party bag of chex mix for appetizer
- waterfall treks are always worth it
- give thanks for the sunlight. give thanks for the sunlight. give thanks for the sunlight.
- cold builds character. i'm still waiting for my character to build, but there you have it.
- the beginning of spring can look a lot like autumn
- look at the bareness of trees in a different light- the lack of foliage gives way to the sun streaming through
- with most uphills, there will be a downhill. take your time.

“Hurt is a part of life. To be honest, I think hurt is a part of happiness, that our definition of happiness has gotten very narrow lately, very nervous, a little afraid of this brawling, fabulous, unpredictable world.”

 Julian Gough, Juno & Juliet

(coincidentally a book about twins)

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Leave the dishes.
Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator
and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.
Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster.
Throw the cracked bowl out and don’t patch the cup.
Don’t patch anything. Don’t mend. Buy safety pins.
Don’t even sew on a button.
Let the wind have its way, then the earth
that invades as dust and then the dead
foaming up in gray rolls underneath the couch.
Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome.
Don’t keep all the pieces of the puzzles
or the doll’s tiny shoes in pairs, don’t worry
who uses whose toothbrush or if anything
matches, at all.
Except one word to another. Or a thought.
Pursue the authentic — decide first
what is authentic,
then go after it with all your heart.
Your heart, that place
you don’t even think of cleaning out.
That closet stuffed with savage mementos.
Don’t sort the paper clips from screws from saved baby teeth
or worry if we’re all eating cereal for dinner
again. Don’t answer the telephone, ever,
or weep over anything at all that breaks.
Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartons
in the refrigerator. Accept new forms of life
and talk to the dead
who drift in though the screened windows, who collect
patiently on the tops of food jars and books.
Recycle the mail, don’t read it, don’t read anything
except what destroys
the insulation between yourself and your experience
or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters
this ruse you call necessity.

— Louise Erdrich, from Original Fire: Advice To Myself

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

I am listening to the ice against the window, in the middle of April.
Snow is illuminated beneath the street lamps.

Earlier, I was walking in it.
The wind blew ice in between my eyelashes.
Thinking about how one possibility was that I could feel cold and wet,
but think of all the other feelings I'd miss.

And so I broke into a run, and reveled in it.


--


Consider the Hands that Write This Letter (via poets.org)

  by Aracelis Girmay
         after Marina Wilson

Consider the hands
that write this letter.

Left palm pressed flat against paper,
as we have done before, over my heart,

in peace or reverence to the sea,
some beautiful thing

I saw once, felt once: snow falling
like rice flung from the giants’ wedding,

or strangest of strange birds. & consider, then,
the right hand, & how it is a fist,

within which a sharpened utensil,
similar to the way I’ve held a spade,

the horse’s reins, loping, the very fists
I’ve seen from roads through Limay & EstelĂ­.

For years, I have come to sit this way:
one hand open, one hand closed,

like a farmer who puts down seeds & gathers up;
food will come from that farming.

Or, yes, it is like the way I’ve danced
with my left hand opened around a shoulder,

my right hand closed inside
of another hand. & how I pray,

I pray for this to be my way: sweet
work alluded to in the body’s position to its paper:

left hand, right hand
like an open eye, an eye closed:

one hand flat against the trapdoor,
the other hand knocking, knocking.