plum syrup is worthy of myth and legend
March 30, 2005 | Filed Under ordinary | Leave a Comment
cloudy and breezy, the grass has turned green and a tree outside the bedroom window has red fingernails blooming a springtime. the trash cans blow across the sidewalk, half a roll one way, another half the other way.
we zoo’d yesterday. after naps and noodles and donning hooded sweatshirts we drove through the gray to see horribly large cockroaches (eating bananas) and bats(napping) and snakes(twisting together).
terribly, it was mating day at the zoo. for the african native creatures, anyhow. enormous porcupines. nonchalant lions. mystifying.
my darling ernie brought a gift to me after work yesterday. he knows what to do. he brought home the wondrously delightful book by moby and kelly tisdale. this vegan trip called “teany book” is full of “stories, food, romance cartoons and of course, tea.” the thing is funny, happy and deliciously photographed. i want to eat or drink everything pictured.
here are some excerpts for you to enjoy and obsess over so that the one you love the most can go on out and buy it for you yourself.
about the chamomile and lemongrass hair rinse:
“do you ever take a shower and don’t want to wash your hair (because you don’t want it to be ‘fluffy’, so you just rinse it but feel like you should be putting something it it? this is the stuff to put in it.”
about the avocado, beet, and mango, salad with blood orange tea vinaigrette (aka the dish of bliss):
“why is this dish the dish of bliss? can you think of a better way to describe a salad that is savory, sweet, crunchy, mushy, fresh, filling and really pretty?”
about the chocolate and green tea pudding:
“like all drug addictions, an addiction to chocolate is something that builds over time, wherein you always need a stronger quality and larger quantity of the drug in order to satisfy your addiction.”
on the book itself:
“it’s a book about teany. it has tea and food and tea robots and a fake history of teany on the lower east side and lots of strange and interesting stories and anecdotes and cartoons and even some romance.”
the kitchen windows are propped open. henry washed spiderman and fingers and bowls in the kitchen sink while i washed the floor as jude followed me around on the floor, pulling himself up to my back, laughing at me.
obsessively i clean the house. when the sunshine comes to visit i want the house to be clean and shiny.
the bevel on the mirror of my dresser makes a rainbow, something to do with the glass of the windows, the mirror, the light. it was late morning and the boys were falling asleep in my bed, quietly, tapping each other, pulling hands and hair, drifting off on silver clouds of sleep while i watched the rainbow flicker in acentric swirling circles.
the angel up on the tombstone
March 27, 2005 | Filed Under ordinary | Leave a Comment
weather-wise we’ve a fitting easter – the day starting out a little sad, a little gray, a stillness. and then the bursting forth of blue and sun, sparking sudden. something joyous.
some keith:
hear the bells ringing
they’re singing that you can be born again
hear the bells ringing
they’re singing Christ is risen from the dead
the angel up on the tombstone
said he has risen, just as he said
quickly now, go tell his disciples
that Jesus Christ is no longer dead
joy to the word, he has risen, hallelujah
he’s risen, hallelujah
he’s risen, hallelujah
hear the bells ringing
they’re singing that you can be healed right now
hear the bells ringing, they’re singing
Christ, he will reveal it now
the angels, they all surround us
and they are ministering Jesus’ power
quickly now, reach out and receive it
for this could be your glorious hour
joy to the world, he has risen, hallelujah
he’s risen, hallelujah
he’s risen, hallelujah, hallelujah
the angel up on the tombstone
said he has risen, just as he said
quickly now, go tell his disciples
that Jesus Christ is no longer dead
joy to the world, he has risen, hallelujah
he’s risen, hallelujah
he’s risen, hallelujah
hallelujah
ours the cross, the grave, the skies
March 26, 2005 | Filed Under ordinary | Leave a Comment
o death, where is thy sting?
o grave, where is thy victory?
the sting of death is sin;
and the strength of sin is the law.
but thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory
through our Lord Jesus Christ. i cor. 15:55-57
happy easter, one and all.
i turn my collar to the cold and damp
March 25, 2005 | Filed Under ordinary | Leave a Comment
soggy and puddled. we search for puddles on the walk home from grandmamas. jude peeks down through his hood as henry whacks the cloudy water with sticks, one in each hand, a steady slapping beat. my pants are spattered and students are coming so i herd them on. it’s cold and i think about black coffee and the swirl of cream in a cloud. the spin and tap of my spoon. the first hot sip.
along the mossy sidewalk the uneven bricks make great gullys of water, small rivers on which we send twigs sailing, miniature oceans splashed with a rogue wave caused by boots and sticks and pieces of brick.
it’s spring, the time for sog puddle walks, for yellow raincoats and green umbrellas.
and we’ll have another walker soon. jude pulls him up at the couch and walks his way back and forth up and down along side of it. he uses one hand to hold himself up at the couch and the other to reach out to grab at things, at henry, at me. he bounces on his soft white feet and laughs. henry laughs. i secretly cry. what will i do with two boys running around as fast as their legs can carry them? the walking is the beginning of the end. running, skipping, dancing. and then what? i saw a fresh baby today and gasped at the recollection of how quickly jude has become a mover, a baby dancer walker.
henry’s hair. it curls in the watery day. he sleeps it into a fuzz. he moves it around with inexperienced fingers. when it is wet it slips down in a long golden strand past his neck, between his shoulder blades. so glorious. call him samson if you must, he’ll not have a haircut for years to come. one can only get away with such craziness of the hair for a very short time. let it be.
something springy:
`This has been a wonderful day!’ said he, as the Rat shoved off and took to the sculls again. `Do you know, I`ve never been in a boat before in all my life.’
`What?’ cried the Rat, open-mouthed: `Never been in a–you never–well I–what have you been doing, then?’
`Is it so nice as all that?’ asked the Mole shyly, though he was quite prepared to believe it as he leant back in his seat and surveyed the cushions, the oars, the rowlocks, and all the fascinating fittings, and felt the boat sway lightly under him.
`Nice? It’s the ONLY thing,’ said the Water Rat solemnly, as he leant forward for his stroke. `Believe me, my young friend, there is NOTHING–absolute nothing–half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats. Simply messing,’ he went on dreamily: `messing–about–in–boats; messing—-’
`Look ahead, Rat!’ cried the Mole suddenly.
It was too late. The boat struck the bank full tilt. The dreamer, the joyous oarsman, lay on his back at the bottom of the boat, his heels in the air.
`–about in boats–or WITH boats,’ the Rat went on composedly, picking himself up with a pleasant laugh. `In or out of ‘em, it doesn’t matter. Nothing seems really to matter, that’s the charm of it. Whether you get away, or whether you don’t; whether you arrive at your destination or whether you reach somewhere else, or whether you never get anywhere at all, you’re always busy, and you never do anything in particular; and when you’ve done it there’s always something else to do, and you can do it if you like, but you’d much better not. Look here! If you’ve really nothing else on hand this morning, supposing we drop down the river together, and have a long day of it?’
The Mole waggled his toes from sheer happiness, spread his chest with a sigh of full contentment, and leaned back blissfully into the soft cushions. `WHAT a day I’m having!’ he said. `Let us start at once!’ – the wind in the willows, k. grahame
’s’ is for snow-storm
March 22, 2005 | Filed Under ordinary | 2 Comments
tell me this isn’t so, this isn’t snow.
it’s soaring down, not floating, aggressively beating down everything in sight.
and worse yet, it’s sticking.
the woman was herding her small-jacketed husband across the parking lot. she shoved her purse under her arm and waved at him to hurry through the rain that smelled of snow. he pushed the cart, one old hand grasping the handle, the other balancing two shiny-and-new yellow garden hoses which were perched atop four enormous bags of potting soil. he slid down the wet, uneven pavement, pulling up his pants as he followed his spring-stepping woman.
the latest photography of henry greene.
’s’ is for snow-storm
March 22, 2005 | Filed Under ordinary | Leave a Comment
tell me this isn’t so, this isn’t snow.
it’s soaring down, not floating, aggressively beating down everything in sight.
and worse yet, it’s sticking.
the woman was herding her small-jacketed husband across the parking lot. she shoved her purse under her arm and waved at him to hurry through the rain that smelled of snow. he pushed the cart, one old hand grasping the handle, the other balancing two shiny-and-new yellow garden hoses which were perched atop four enormous bags of potting soil. he slid down the wet, uneven pavement, pulling up his pants as he followed his spring-stepping woman.
the latest photography of henry greene.
fog’s rolling in on the east river bank
March 21, 2005 | Filed Under ordinary | 5 Comments
i’m ready to run. i want to wake up early (earlier than the larks that sleep warm and golden beside me, anyway) and run circles on the track at the park. to slip down at the first crack of light, listening to my shoes clunk along the pavement, past the baseball diamond, the enormous peeling white tree, that bend in the path where the stench of the rotten creek is strong, the curve beneath new trees that smell like summer camp and fire fly fire, the parking lot, the pavilion, the playground, the bathrooms, the drinking fountain.
it’s definitely time to run again. nothing outrageously unattractive about the state of this body. she merely looks like the melting winter, white, soft in too many places. and she feels slow. slow and sleepy. she doesn’t look forward to the screaming of her lungs and the pinch of her side.
my children cuddle up to me and squeeze the fat of my stomach. they poke their flags of ownership into my navel. they knead the skin as though they’re working for bread, constant, from side to side, squeezing and poking and twiddling.
instead, i want their fingers to mindlessly climb the stairs of my protruding rib cage, their curly heads to rest quietly on the firm mattress of my stomach.
perhaps they love the soft swells of my belly because they first found life inside it, underneath it, a dark red world of water and heartbeats, the muffled rise and fall of my voice, ernie’s voice, music, felicity.
henry pushes out his stomach and says he loves his “big tummy.” he washes it in circles with green soap in the shower.
tonight he greeted my mother with a hug and a “grandmamma, i love you. and i love your big tummy.”
every afternoon we tiptoe across the cold floor of the sun-porch to open the back door, the only screen that stayed on the house through the winter. the chimes that i meant to bring inside still hang outside the door, over the patio, under the tree nearest to the house. we can hear their cheerful greeting while we’re still in the bowels of the house. the sun shines and the room is bright and we squint (and sometimes sneeze) when we come down the dark stairs from the shady kitchen to the sun-filled porch.
henry spilled a new bottle of bubble solution on the tile of the porch and slid around for half an hour with a towel “cleaning it up.”
the cold air of pre-spring, air that smells and looks warmer than it is, deceives me and i prop doors with step stools and windows with cans in an effort to send something fresh swirling through this sleeping house. the house is old and has storm windows that are changed from glass to screen in the green of spring, from screen to glass when the sky stays gray and everything else turns from yellow to red to brown to black. the windows and removable pieces are numbered with corresponding round brass buttons flush with the wood. ingenious and wonderful.
tonight the house is dark and creaking. the kitchen is a pile of dishes and smells of onions and curry. the men of the house snore in their sleep, not turning or tossing. the heat has been turned back to make way for better weather. my feet and nose are cold, yet stubborn. we four will stay warm as we pile up together under quilt and blanket, slipping into socks and sweaters come morning, come coffee and raisins and bread with new peanut butter.
fog’s rolling in on the east river bank
March 21, 2005 | Filed Under ordinary | Leave a Comment
i’m ready to run. i want to wake up early (earlier than the larks that sleep warm and golden beside me, anyway) and run circles on the track at the park. to slip down at the first crack of light, listening to my shoes clunk along the pavement, past the baseball diamond, the enormous peeling white tree, that bend in the path where the stench of the rotten creek is strong, the curve beneath new trees that smell like summer camp and fire fly fire, the parking lot, the pavilion, the playground, the bathrooms, the drinking fountain.
it’s definitely time to run again. nothing outrageously unattractive about the state of this body. she merely looks like the melting winter, white, soft in too many places. and she feels slow. slow and sleepy. she doesn’t look forward to the screaming of her lungs and the pinch of her side.
my children cuddle up to me and squeeze the fat of my stomach. they poke their flags of ownership into my navel. they knead the skin as though they’re working for bread, constant, from side to side, squeezing and poking and twiddling.
instead, i want their fingers to mindlessly climb the stairs of my protruding rib cage, their curly heads to rest quietly on the firm mattress of my stomach.
perhaps they love the soft swells of my belly because they first found life inside it, underneath it, a dark red world of water and heartbeats, the muffled rise and fall of my voice, ernie’s voice, music, felicity.
henry pushes out his stomach and says he loves his “big tummy.” he washes it in circles with green soap in the shower.
tonight he greeted my mother with a hug and a “grandmamma, i love you. and i love your big tummy.”
every afternoon we tiptoe across the cold floor of the sun-porch to open the back door, the only screen that stayed on the house through the winter. the chimes that i meant to bring inside still hang outside the door, over the patio, under the tree nearest to the house. we can hear their cheerful greeting while we’re still in the bowels of the house. the sun shines and the room is bright and we squint (and sometimes sneeze) when we come down the dark stairs from the shady kitchen to the sun-filled porch.
henry spilled a new bottle of bubble solution on the tile of the porch and slid around for half an hour with a towel “cleaning it up.”
the cold air of pre-spring, air that smells and looks warmer than it is, deceives me and i prop doors with step stools and windows with cans in an effort to send something fresh swirling through this sleeping house. the house is old and has storm windows that are changed from glass to screen in the green of spring, from screen to glass when the sky stays gray and everything else turns from yellow to red to brown to black. the windows and removable pieces are numbered with corresponding round brass buttons flush with the wood. ingenious and wonderful.
tonight the house is dark and creaking. the kitchen is a pile of dishes and smells of onions and curry. the men of the house snore in their sleep, not turning or tossing. the heat has been turned back to make way for better weather. my feet and nose are cold, yet stubborn. we four will stay warm as we pile up together under quilt and blanket, slipping into socks and sweaters come morning, come coffee and raisins and bread with new peanut butter.
“don’t cry about it.”
March 18, 2005 | Filed Under ordinary | 9 Comments
yesterday, st. patrick’s day, was ernie’s birthday. grandma thought he was lying about his age. the brothers and father and husband ate humongous pieces of carrot cake (ernie’s pick, of course) frosted high with shiny cream cheese frosting. henry poked his and asked for an apple. grandma had two mid-sized pieces, which means she ate more than anyone else.
before the cake ernie and i heard the technology savvy yet near tone deaf group, the westwind brass. the people who hosted the concert were celebrating fifty years of local concerts featuring crowd-pleasing classical music and light jazz. toward the end of the music a woman loudly hissed/shouted, “i can’t find my house keys!” the woman behind us snorted her cigarette laugh at the tuba player’s jokes about multiple divorces. as we went out the door we were given twix bars with “fifty years of community concerts!” stickers taped to them. we were two of the eight or nine people in the building under thirty years of age. i felt bad that when this generation of community concert lovers and goers dies the community concert will die with them. unless we can do something about it.
which raised an interesting question between ernie and me as we booked it through the grass to the car, in the car through the town, to get back to cake and sleeping jude and red faced, pajama-ed busy henry. when you go to classical or jazz concerts in big cities most of the audience are young people, twenties to forties. perhaps there are not as many eighty year old pink haired ladies in big cities. when a music teacher’s sphere of influence is limited to a thirty minutes lesson in a week, a listening assignment here and there, recitals, etc., how can this music teacher pass on a zeal for something other than mainstream, radio station music? not to cast a slur on any other listening interests, or to say that everything else is somehow a lesser form of music, but to say, how can we pass on a spark of music that’s not chintzy or sleazy? for instance, jazz that’s really jazz, not just people pretending to produce jazz.
i could see last night why people shut their ears to classical music, why they find it blase. the musicians themselves played the old music apologetically. the tuba player said that all of bach’s music was somber, serious, the result of composing in dark churches. i was sick to my stomach. the tanned, note-cracking trumpeter said, “now, it’s time for the jazz!” which may not have been so bad if they had been incredible jazz musicians. if the musicians themselves are mediocre at best and hand out apologies for the music they’re playing, how can they expect the audience to feel about it? no wonder the community concert will die with the ancient, permed, large-bottomed women passing out twix bars and clicking their tongues against their dentured teeth.
we have a tradition in my family to stretch a birthday into multiple days of celebration. we had pizza and presents on wednesday night with my parents. on the actual birthday we had the concert and cake. and tonight my parents are taking us out and we’re going to stuff our faces with meat. sick.
my mom knocked on the door yesterday morning with a handful of these:
we’ve been spending the last few days dirtying ourselves, fingernails, cheeks and knees, under sunshine and tree branch. and the house is starting to look like the pit-stop it’s become. i feel like dusting and organizing and vacuuming and folding and spritzing with windex. but, more so, i feel like rolling around in the grass.
“don’t cry about it.”
March 18, 2005 | Filed Under ordinary | Leave a Comment
yesterday, st. patrick’s day, was ernie’s birthday. grandma thought he was lying about his age. the brothers and father and husband ate humongous pieces of carrot cake (ernie’s pick, of course) frosted high with shiny cream cheese frosting. henry poked his and asked for an apple. grandma had two mid-sized pieces, which means she ate more than anyone else.
before the cake ernie and i heard the technology savvy yet near tone deaf group, the westwind brass. the people who hosted the concert were celebrating fifty years of local concerts featuring crowd-pleasing classical music and light jazz. toward the end of the music a woman loudly hissed/shouted, “i can’t find my house keys!” the woman behind us snorted her cigarette laugh at the tuba player’s jokes about multiple divorces. as we went out the door we were given twix bars with “fifty years of community concerts!” stickers taped to them. we were two of the eight or nine people in the building under thirty years of age. i felt bad that when this generation of community concert lovers and goers dies the community concert will die with them. unless we can do something about it.
which raised an interesting question between ernie and me as we booked it through the grass to the car, in the car through the town, to get back to cake and sleeping jude and red faced, pajama-ed busy henry. when you go to classical or jazz concerts in big cities most of the audience are young people, twenties to forties. perhaps there are not as many eighty year old pink haired ladies in big cities. when a music teacher’s sphere of influence is limited to a thirty minutes lesson in a week, a listening assignment here and there, recitals, etc., how can this music teacher pass on a zeal for something other than mainstream, radio station music? not to cast a slur on any other listening interests, or to say that everything else is somehow a lesser form of music, but to say, how can we pass on a spark of music that’s not chintzy or sleazy? for instance, jazz that’s really jazz, not just people pretending to produce jazz.
i could see last night why people shut their ears to classical music, why they find it blase. the musicians themselves played the old music apologetically. the tuba player said that all of bach’s music was somber, serious, the result of composing in dark churches. i was sick to my stomach. the tanned, note-cracking trumpeter said, “now, it’s time for the jazz!” which may not have been so bad if they had been incredible jazz musicians. if the musicians themselves are mediocre at best and hand out apologies for the music they’re playing, how can they expect the audience to feel about it? no wonder the community concert will die with the ancient, permed, large-bottomed women passing out twix bars and clicking their tongues against their dentured teeth.
we have a tradition in my family to stretch a birthday into multiple days of celebration. we had pizza and presents on wednesday night with my parents. on the actual birthday we had the concert and cake. and tonight my parents are taking us out and we’re going to stuff our faces with meat. sick.
my mom knocked on the door yesterday morning with a handful of these:
we’ve been spending the last few days dirtying ourselves, fingernails, cheeks and knees, under sunshine and tree branch. and the house is starting to look like the pit-stop it’s become. i feel like dusting and organizing and vacuuming and folding and spritzing with windex. but, more so, i feel like rolling around in the grass.