Bread & Butter

1.7.12 jpgs

2012-01-07T14:18:00.000-08:00

4 series

2012-01-06T12:50:00.000-08:00

walkabout #1_8.11.2011

2011-12-13T14:33:00.000-08:00

A jpg of the corner of 14th and Noe in my neighborhood. Note the fluffy trees that line both sides of Noe Street between Duboce Ave and Market St., making it beautiful to walk along.

Here is a small corner market at the corner of 14th and Noe. They make good sandwiches & sell bottled water and pomegranates, which are in season if I am not mistaken.

A mural on the walls of McKinley elementary school, on Divisadero St. and 14th St. The word "Respect" there mirrors a tattoo on the back of the bald head of a character in Nicolas Winding Refn's film Pusher.

A staircase in the neighborhood off of Roosevelt Way that I did not know existed. That is why I love it so much. Duboce triangle is full of such surprises.

I made this jpg on the fly, by instinct. I think what caught my eye, in hindsight, was the similarities between these three buildings.

A view looking south to the intersection of Castro St. and Market St. I like the Muni bus cut in half there, and the homes in the distant haze.

Here is a special effect jpg of a few forms off of Market Street, above Castro. Turn the corner and walk a block down to the post office.

Dog scene in front of Bi-Rite, on 18th street near Guererro St. The owner of these two pooches appeared right after and shot me a puzzled glance. I felt a touch of impropriety, though I am no dog papparazzi. I do like them, though.


A cafe on Folsom St. near 17th St. that we'd like to check out.

Camera blues

2011-10-14T14:25:00.000-07:00

I am looking out at the view through our back window here on Walter. The morning sun reflects very brightly off of the white wood panelled wall of the apartment left of ours, prompting me to squint my eyes. The inter web claims that today will be the warmest day of the week, so I have decided to take advantage of this warmth and make four rounds of country sourdough bread. I mixed the leaven late last night, and and now wait for it to rise and increase in bulk by twenty percent. This process was supposed to happen overnight, but sadly, it did not. I know not why. Every time I try and make the leaven overnight, I encounter the same situation, and so I invariably have to coax rising by setting it out in direct morning sunlight, or by warming it in a proof box. Once the ambient temperature reaches eighty degrees, the leaven suddenly comes to life and does its thing. From the look of things, I may have to resort to this method once again. According to the book, the leaven should rise with the room temperature at sixty five degrees. I'm quite sure this room was at least that, but still, no activity. The problem with having to manually encourage the leaven is that it takes time, usually several hours. A delay in the baking process typically means postponing or pushing back other activities planned for the afternoon. It also results in a late evening baking period. Swimming, for instance, may be pushed into tomorrow. Shopping for a camera to replace Julie's Nikon dSLR, which was so rudely stolen from our apartment early Monday afternoon.

     I left the apartment at about one in the afternoon to buy produce at Rainbow market, a co-op about ten minutes away by bicycle. The main need was unbleached and whole wheat bread flour. I also picked up Stumptown coffee, walnuts, raisins, bananas, a red pepper, salsa, Good Belly juice, butter, milk, and eggs. As is my modus when in Rainbow, I freely wandered about the market, investigating kitchen wares, snack foods, kombucha. I was in no rush. Fair trade coffee beans sold in bulk attracted my interest. I did not know they sold these beans. I nuzzled the dark espresso roast bin, dragging deeply. The smell filled my nose with its strong, earthy, coffeehouse richness. My mind pondered the decision to change beans, a very weighty and serious decision in San Francisco. Riddled with political landmines indeed. I had already passed over Sightglass for Stumptown. An actual double passover would have set a coffee buying precedent and raised many a brow. Ultimately, I skipped it. Instead, I grabbed several post cards and headed for the register. Popcorn. I forgot popcorn, I informed the cashier. She responded with words that I had trouble understanding, as she spoke so softly. I believe she said that she'd wait while I run to grab the popcorn, but i didn't want to gum up the works and decided to pay for the popcorn separately. This took more time. I was taking my time that afternoon because I knew that my backpack would be burdensome and was not looking forward to the ride back to the apartment. The minor graded hills become tiresome when weighed down by twenty to thirty pounds of bulky foodstuff.
   I rode back to Walter Street, and after setting my backpack on the sidewalk I stored my bike down in the basement corridor. At the front door, I noticed something peculiar: a corner of my black Adidas windbreaker was wedged between the door and the door jamb, right below the top lock. I also saw a crack on the door edge several inches below the top lock. This was peculiar. I don't remember closing the door on the jacket when I left. And what is the deal with that crack, was that always there? Never noticed this before. Unusual. I proceeded to unlock the door, starting with the bottom door knob first, followed by the top key lock. Typically, when I turn the key to the top lock, the door opens with a slight push of the foot below. But now the door refused to open and seemed wedged shut. I tried once more before putting my shoulder into the effort. With the added force, the door opened. That was very strange, I thought to myself. I feel like I just broke into my own apartment.
     Looking down at the door as I entered, I saw that the wood around the bottom lock was split and splintering away. Now that is Alarming. Once I stepped inside the apartment, I saw that the two top drawers of the built in hutch on the right wall were pulled out. Did I leave those open? Nish, nish. I turned into the living room and entered our bedroom. I discovered of Julie's makeup pouches on the floor with its contents spilled out. Top drawers were pulled out with contents disturbed. My hats thrown to the floor, along with an empty leather wallet that I had just bought. I looked and saw that the forty six dollars that was on my bedside table was gone. It can't be. Turning back toward the living room, I saw that the Nikon camera bag was sitting on the couch, open and empty. But camera was on the kitchen table, I knew, and I quickly stepped over to the hallway entrance to have a clear view down the hall. I saw what I already knew. The camera was gone. Stolen. The truth hit me. We've been burgled.
     The first time I had ever been robbed, I was in junior high school. I had worked a paper route for the San Gabriel Valley Tribune delivering newspapers to front doors with backhand and forehand paper throws. I dragged myself out of bed before sunrise on week-ends and after school on weekdays. I braved inclement weather, a vicious black dog, and several mean German shepherds that would chase me down the block and make me scream for my mother on numerous occasions. With time and routine, I had managed to save enough money to make the first major individual purchase of my teenage life: A bright blue Schwinn beach cruiser. My dream was to have foot pegs on the front axle and impress the local girls so they'd take rides on my handlebars over to the Thrifty on the corner for thirty five cent double cylindrical scoops of ice cream. That was the dream. So I bought the bike, and felt very proud of myself.
     I was also excited about the newfound mobility I would be enjoying, and one week-end my brother and I decided to bike to watch a double feature at the local cinema a few miles away. We didn't have a proper lock and improvised with our dog's chain leash. This will be strong enough to keep our bikes safe. My brother had just bought a bmx bike as well. The movies were Excalibur and Clash of the Titans, summer popcorn flicks we were both thrilled about seeing. We rode to the theater and locked our bikes to a nearby pole, catching sight of a few local boys our age admiring our new rides. We felt like knights. We saw the movies. Chain mail, armor, swordplay, wizardry, flying horses. All made lasting impressions on our boyhood imaginations. After the movie, we walked out into bright sunlight and to our utter dismay found a snipped dog chain on the ground where our shiny new bikes once were locked. I don't remember how we got home. I do remember my father being astonishingly furious that I had lost a bike that he did not even pay for. I was so hurt that I decided to run away. I stormed out and walked and walked, for hours and hours, until my thoughts and my hunger forced me to turn back.
     There have been other times since then where I've been victimized by thieves, be it due to my own folly or not. I had my wallet stolen from a locker at Twenty Four Hour fitness center on Van Ness and Post a few years back. I was confident that the inexpensive, low security combination lock that was essentially begging to be broken into was strong enough to safeguard my things. I had bought that wallet in Barcelona ten years ago. It was well made, black leather with brown on the edges-the perfect size. Nine dollars in it. A pity. I miss that wallet. On another occasion, I lost a bike at the same fitness center. It was locked right outside the front entrance one evening, and I found my U lock in shards after a long three hour workout. The bike was bought used on Craigslist, and wasn't the greatest. It still sucked to lose it, to be victimized by a crook that you never see and have no way of capturing red handed. When I lived on Funston in the Richmond district, I lost two mountain bikes at once. Both were Craigslist purchases, one a low model Specialized, the other a beautiful blue high end Trek 6000 that a fellow sold for a song at $185.
     I rushed out like a madman when it appeared on the list, and when I bought it felt that I had somehow beat the System, stuck it to the Man. In truth, I was just buying a used bike from a dude who needed quick cash, his back somehow up against it. Not my business. I cherished that bike, however, and rode it all over Marin headlands on warm summer days, feeling happy and strong. So when I woke up one morning to learn that the garage door had malfunctioned and opened in the night, resulting in the loss of another blue bike, I understandably did not feel happy of myself. I felt sad and disheartened mainly because I believed that loss could have been avoided. I knew that the garage door had been acting up beforehand, so if I had been more prudent, I would have at least locked my bikes to a garage beam or post. Even so, to this day, I still do not lock my bike to an immovable part of the structure here at Walter. It sits down in the corridor below me, my unbreakable Kryptonite NY U-lock dangling heavily from it's handlebar.
     The most physically traumatic theft happened back during my five year east coast sojourn when I was living in a sketchy part of Washington, DC. I was on my way back from a show at the Corcoran art school where my photographer friend David Estes had pictures up. I had had more than a few free glasses of wine, and was still quite a bit tipsy when I stepped off the bus and began walking the four or five blocks to the apartment. Night had already fallen, and so the street was shadowy and dimly lit. I was also oblivious to the sounds in my immediate surroundings due to the Walkman headphones I had decided to listen to while walking. If I had not been wearing those headphones, I may have heard the sneaky mugger who crept up behind me, grabbed me by the neck and yanked me backward into an alley. The sudden backward force made me lose my balance, which was already impaired due to the wine, making it easy for my assailant to drag me into the alley. Just give me your wallet, he quietly said into my ear, his forearms locking more tightly around my neck.    I gave him my blue nylon Velcro surfer wallet. Nine dollars and a California driver's license. I did not know what else he was carrying and did not want to take a chance on my life. He released me, and vanished down the alley. My headphones hung jankily from my head. I stood up, straightened out the earpieces, and walked the rest of the way home. I remember the song playing in my head when I was mugged that night. Against All Odds, by Phil Collins. Whenever I hear that song, however, it does not evoke memories of the mugging, oddly enough. Senior Prom. Memories of being seventeen and wearing a tuxedo with tails for the first time ever.
     Blue colored things seem to be stolen from me a fair amount of the time in my life. Two blue bikes, a blue wallet. Well, three things isn't exactly much. I'm fairly certain I've lost more than three. Blue jeans, perhaps. Blue pens, blue socks. A blue hat, blue keys. We didn't lose anything blue last Monday. We lost something blue green, though, and made of silk. My Japanese robe was stolen. That's as personal as they got with me. Julie, on the other hand, lost her Macbook pro laptop filled with music and memories from university. This loss left her in tears. For obvious reasons, it was much more upsetting than losing the Nikon, which can always be replaced. The laptop was invaluable, and a great loss. My robe, though not so invaluable, was in its own way an acute loss. I had felt lucky when I bought it in Kyoto at a flea market beside a Buddhist shrine. I remember seeing it on a table piled high with silk robes, and when I held it up, I gazed at its color and design. It was a beautiful robe, one that stood out among the rest. I asked for the price, and couldn't believe my ears. European tourists hovered behind my shoulder, hoping that I'd set it back into the pile. I didn't. I should have worn this robe more regularly, instead of hiding it away so much in my closet, a dragon hoarding his golden treasure. Japanese robe, laptop, forty six dollars, Nikon camera, Forever stamps. I just remembered that I've lost a camera in the past, my father's Canon AE1. It was not actually stolen, though. I forgot it on a seat riding the metro subway in DC. As the train rolled away from the station, I realized my mistake.
   Our thief had pushed this big computer monitor forward and downward in order to get to the rear compartments of this desk. That's where they found the stamps. Why stamps? It's troubling to think that a criminal had either stood or sat right here where I now sit, that they had walked into our bedroom, our living room, down our hallway to get back here. The thief snatched the camera from atop the dining table behind me, the laptop from the leather satchel under the desk on my left. An utterly unwanted visitor, one whose physical features and even gender I will never know. I catch myself saying "he" or "him." The thief is in fact an un-gendered wraith, a kind of "It" person, a wicked succubus. It was shadow that violently forced its way into our world, picking and choosing from our possessions what it coveted. A silk robe, a camera, a Macbook, cash, Forever stamps.
     We don't even know if the thief was alone or with an accomplice. We don't know if the thief had watched me depart for the market, hiding stealthily behind a wall or tree or car until I had rolled away before storming the door with three hard and forceful shoves. We were foolishly under the impression that there was nothing to worry about in this neighborhood. We did not even question it, or wonder about the strength of the door locks, the vulnerability of the front windows, the back windows. The fact that our door is concealed from the street by a set of stairs, making attempts at forced entry difficult to witness from the street sidewalks. We chose a quiet, quaint single block street in centrally located Duboce triangle, a hub within striking range of downtown, the Haights, NOPA, the Mission, and the Castro. The attraction of regular sunlight, pretty apartment buildings, pedestrian friendly tree lined streets, and a dog park. San Francisco style romance, in other words. Safety was the furthest thing from my mind.
     I wonder what would have happened if I had been home. I wonder what would have happened if the robber had still been in the apartment when I returned. The thought did not occur to me until ten minutes after I had realized we had been robbed, until I started hearing unusual noises. He may still be here. I did not check either the closet or the bathroom. It never occurred to me. That's when I grabbed the cast iron frying pan. It is funny, in hindsight, seeing me lurking about my own apartment, heavy cast iron held aloft, not without difficulty, ready to ring a crook's bell, clean the succubus' clock. Laughable. At the moment, I was hella freaking out. It was most likely my freaked out nerves that interpreted normal sounds as acutely suspicious. Those first few moments after discovering the burglary injected I don't know how much adrenaline into my system, undoubtedly. I was on nerves until after the police left, most certainly. If the burglar had still be in the apartment, I don't know what I would have done.
     My body would have gone instantly into crisis mode, and for fear of the unknown element of whether a gun or even a knife was present, would have tried escape, then dialed nine one one as soon as humanly possible. Several of Julie's friends have actually been in their apartment, encountering crooks face to face. One friend was in Madrid when a thief stole his way in. Thinking quickly, she scared him off by speaking in a gruff, husky male voice and demanding he leave immediately. It worked. Another entered and caught a glimpse of the thief fleeing through the back door. A third friend engaged in a conversation with the crook, for I have no idea how long. What does one discuss with the crook out to take your possessions? Is there a negotiation? Persuasive language in an attempt to dissuade criminal activity? It's unimaginable to me. I'm glad I didn't have to deal with that situation, and hope to never have to.
   I have been thinking about the robbery of our Walter Street apartment all week. Although I've been told by the cops that this street never experiences much criminal activity, it has permanently altered the way I see and understand the neighborhood. Duboce triangle is indeed a lovely and romantic part of town, centrally located and in its essence iconic of San Francisco. It is also part of a big American city, complete with a very real and often violent criminal underbelly. It was a mistake to be so naive, and with my track record I should have known better and peppered my wonder with the prudence of past misfortune. That does not in any way nullify the heinousness of the crime or the culpability of the wicked succubus who committed it. The law is the law, and protects private property in this country. It is a sad fact that certain people in this world covet the possessions of others, and will break through front doors in broad daylight to steal them away. And it is discouraging to think that covetousness is as old as history itself. Cameras, laptops, silk robes, Jeffersons, Forever stamps. We all have our stories, every one of us. We've all been victimized, violated, taken from. It doesn't happen only over there, in that part of the city, to that person, as the cops claim. It can happen under my feet, where we stand, where we sit, writing blogs. Right. Here.

Rye bread

2011-10-07T11:48:00.000-07:00

I made Scandinavian soda bread yesterday, and here are a few jpgs based on the round. This type of bread features a few curious ingredients. Guinness stout, for one. There is also dark corn syrup, which you can see being heated with some grams of unsalted butter in the jpg above. Rye flour I like to bake bread with and cannot give you a why explanation. The reason may have to do with an associatan with lembas, the magical seeming food of Middle Earth, and that in turn evokes in my mind a dot link to manna, heaven's food during the Moses era. Desert grain. It does not seem like a particularly cherished bread in the Americas, because of it's strong rye flavor, I suspect. Though my minds tells me that those who do indeed love to hold a pint of the black in one hand and a hot and steaming German bratwurst in the other, would utterly adore this bread. My mind suggests it to me in certain terms being the least of one's worries.

Now other substances exist in this bread. Unbleached bread flour, unsalted butter, salt, water, yeast. The amount of time taken in order to make this bread has absolutely no connection to its ingredients. I did have to set my stopwatch more than a couple of times. I did have to make a proof box out of my oven. The climate cools in October, and summer has ended, a person tells me. What better time to make Scandinavian soda bread. For the matter of the bread, the crust, as it is described, is very soft. Imagine a wet sponge, then imagine a soft wet sponge, additionally. This morning, I cut a thick slice off of the bottom round and toasted it. Light setting. The surface still burned. Butter balled up when I tried to spread a pat over the toast. It does not toast well. Then I tried Nutella, spreading a thin layer of this richness over the second slice. I had sliced the slice in half. That proved much smoother going. The rye married well with the Nutella.

I dropped Babette's Feast into the Netflix queue this morning, next after Meek's Cutoff. This statement, I have a feeling, aptly explains my, to me, mysterious act of adding this jpg below, an image of boiled and salted overripe string beans, into a blog covering, among other things, Scandinavian soda bread.

Buzzed

2011-09-27T12:46:00.000-07:00

A rather large bumblebee buzzed its way into the apartment today, along with a small band of other normal flies. The buzz of its wings fills the room and my ears. It has not landed. The flies clear a flight path for the more dominant bee. It must feel so lost and unable to find its way back into the sunny openness of today's clear blue sky. I think it thinks there is no escape. The structure of the apartment must be perplexing the bumblebee.

Wait, I heard a pause in the buzz. The bee has landed. O wait, I hear the buzzing again. The bee has taken flight. I like bee. It is refreshing to have a daytime funemployment insect visitor. It landed again! It buzzes again. This incessant buzzing is salting my game! The bumblebee funemployment visitor has worn out my ears and its welcome. Time to escort bee out the door. Goodbye, buzzing bumblebee.

German Bratwurst do's and don'ts

2011-09-27T12:23:00.000-07:00

On my way home from Europe earlier this month, I had a one hour layover at Frankfurt airport. I was hungry when I walked off the plane, so I immediately went searching for food. Right outside the gate, I looked up and to my great joy saw a German sausage stand. I thought that would be perfect to have a sausage and a beer in Germany, since I was technically in Germany, so I bought this one pictured above. I know it generally looks strange and comical to Americans to see a dog served up in this way, with a bun that seems much too small for the size of the dog. We are used to our buns being the same size as the weiner. The Swedes serve their "korvs" as the Germans do, but with a longer, thinner sausage, and an even more meager bun. It really looks cartoonish. But both forms suited me just fine coming off of a long flight. So after buying the above sausage, a went to the ketchup dispenser and pressed down its pump, thinking that the ketchup stream would be slow and easy.

To my utter dismay, the ketchup shot out like water from a garden hose set on jet, and splattered all over my hand as well as on the dog. Unacceptable. Totally unacceptable, I thought. Why in the world would you need that kind of pressure for dispensing ketchup? I turned on my heels and walked to the nearest seat, shaking my head and really questioning the legendary German rationality praised by philosophers of old. I sat down and commenced eating my bludgeoned dog. After a few bites (in which I took in all dog and no bread, mind you), I looked over to my left and noticed a woman sitting and eating the same kind of sausage. She looked calm, reserved, and respectably dressed. I believe she was German. I watched her eat her dog. In one hand, wrapped in a napkin, she held just the sausage, and in the other hand she held just the bread. On a plate before her I saw a serving of ketchup and a serving of mustard. She first dipped the end of her sausage into the ketchup followed by the mustard, bit into it, then lifted the bread up and bit into that. Dual hand usage. All very neat and clean. All utterly rational.

The fellow who bogarted my tax shelter

2011-09-26T12:45:00.000-07:00

I shot this JPG this morning through the western window of Walter Street-the window facing the street. You can see a pile of donations on the curbside along with a kick stood kid size bicycle. A computer tower, a cast iron fajita pan, two plastic garbage bags, one filled with old clothes and the other filled with old kitchen items. Also, a deflated soccer ball that I am certain can no longer hold air. The old clothes were once worn by myself, and the used kitchen items were once used by both myself and Julie. The bicycle, on the other hand, is owned by the a stranger who, it turns out, came along through Walter Street to bogart all of the donated items that he thought was of value for himself. Through no timing of my own, I was able to see him do this and to take JPGs of the said bogarting.

Who is this man? Why is he a stranger? What will he do with all the stuff he's bogarting on Walter Street? I watch him through our western facing window. I stand in the shadow of our black out drapes, watching him quietly, thoughtlessly. I watch events unfold. What I know is that I do not know this man. What I know is that he was born of mother. What is know is not what I am thinking about, however, as I watch him return to grab my bag of donations. I was thinking about all of the pants and shirts that I had stuffed into that bag. I had to choose each article from among the rest of my clothes hanging in the closet. The oldest were the ones to go, of course, and I thought about how long I had owned each one, where and when I had first purchased them, the time I had spent in them, the life I had lived. Memories, really. Each article of owned clothing has shared a certain segment of my life, holds a specific amount of my own personal history in its thread and weave. If I were to take each pant, shirt, jacket, sock, belt, t-shirt, boxer short, set it before me and think about each one, I would be able to lay out a map out my adult life in cloth form. I wonder what kind of pattern that would create.

I don't think this fellow has any idea what individual history he bogarts with that white plastic bag he so nonchalantly picked off the curb and wheeled away with. Or does he? Does he know more than that? He could be someone who understands himself as a salvager of forgotten memories, someone who trades lives in the same way that people trade cards, or hats, or ferns. I don't know him. But even with that, I like to think that he is taking the History of Roland in that white plastic garbage bag and reincarnating it into another perhaps higher, more exalted state of existence. I like to think that the lives my frayed and holy pants and shirts will soon be revived on the backs of kings.

three plain colors

2011-08-11T20:38:00.000-07:00

I was riding up Fulton Street on the sidewalk when I turned and saw these three apartment buildings on the left side of the street. They caught my attention because, I think, of the colors with which they were painted. I don't know why. My eye took a little bit of its pleasure from looking at them, like Pantone color swatches, standing beside one another. Providing mutual support, in a way. Keeping each other's structure intact, the colors true and defined. I don't really know what colors they are. The gray of the sky influences both the seen color and the way my camera records the light being reflected off of the objects. Yet I dismounted, set my bike against a wall, walked a few steps to center the composition, and made the picture. I like looking at the buildings together. They are so plain and undistinguished, the middle one in particular, realizing that towns like Tijuana of maybe towns in Cuba may also have apartment buildings very similar to this one. I don't really know, to be honest.
If you take a stroll or bike into certain neighborhoods here - the Richmond district, the Sunset district, for example, or near the sea - you might see that buildings like these three, with facades lacking in flourish or ornamentation, are quite common, even more common than, say, Victorians like those found around Alamo square. Or those found on our Walter Street, even. They are so square and uninteresting there on Fulton Street. I'm surprised by my interest, that I chose to dismount and compose and photograph them. These three friends of different colors standing together, keeping each other company, leaning on each other, day after cloudy summer day.

Dough boy

2011-08-10T12:44:00.000-07:00

I bought this big blue bowl for two dollars on Page Street between Scott and Divisadero, specifically for dough mixing and rising. I've used it several times now since discovering it, and it has been magnificent. Here I have made a jpeg where the bowl cradles a ball of pizza dough. Julie and I are visiting the Sueys and the new boy Hunter Harvey this afternoon. Pizza seems right for the occasion. I'm rising this dough, above, in order to make two rounds of about one foot in diameter. It is not yet clear what they will be topped with. Ideas are smoked mozzarella, pepperonis, mushroom, ground pork knots, and tomato sauce. The possibility of introducing shrimp ceviche has surfaced as well, for we have here at least three lemons that have been previously zested for dressings.

There they are. I often and always wonder what to do with them. I should stick googly eyes on them and punt them into Duboce dog park half a block from my front door. If anyone knows what to do with a trio of zested lemons, it's a pampered urban maltipoo and his friends pug and sheba inu.

I have taken the recipe for my dough from Alice's magnificent book The Art of Simple Food. Alice is my niggie. I think this book is magnificent and recommend it to the earth. Come two pm, the dough exits the refrigerator and gets set on a table to warm to room temperature, two hours, before shaping into flat discs one foot in diameter. Here is a jpeg of an orchid bud in our sun room. The bud is opening:

Find below also three jpegs of our resident ferns. We joined the local fern kick only recently. Neighbors in the surrounding Victorians I suspect joined this kick long ago. We are just now discovering the simple beauty of the local fern. These three fern came from Cole Hardware store, in Cole Valley. Aside from ferns, this store vends portable grills and screws of various shapes, sizes, and metals. Do not forget to think of them after your next Ikea run.

Sunnyside Street

2011-06-02T10:42:00.000-07:00

Is it the second, or third, day of my unemployment? Sit quietly, try to remember. It has been a mysterious week. [Moving forward] A puzzling week-not because I have a puzzle of objectivity set before me and am unable to solve it. I am within the puzzle, suddenly. So early this week, on the first of a month, in a morning on the sixth floor of a glass and steel pediment, before a crackerjack woman bejewelled in as seen pure precious metals, whose pauses are emptying, stretched out in time, enigmatic, with silence that is not eloquent, not morose. I did not blink, and then at once see that I am in Caracas, or atop Mt. Apu, or in a Polanski film, or in a buried coffin. My objective view did not change. I blinked, observed the formalities set down neatly on a table, signed, signed, initialed, signed. She rose and led me down a naked hall to the elevator, would not shake my hand I had a cold, and I was swallowed up and descending. The world remained the same, continued with its day, and that Roland continued with it. I shall never discover what will become of him. Puzzle entered. Puzzle has made his bed in my apartment today while I wasn't looking, while I turn pages on the sinking couch, my toes pawing the threads of our woven oval rug. I am five again, but i my little hands this church organ has been broken into much more than five thousand pieces. It's pipes are played in pillow buns, the breath shallow, even, inaudible.

2 June 2011

2011-06-01T16:16:00.000-07:00

The view through windows of our apartment on Walter St. facing the cottage out back. I like this view.

Morning tea in my favorite mug that was made by my cousin Lester in Chicago.

Oil

2011-02-11T09:04:00.000-08:00

Here is very useful information for those who deep fry with cooking oil. Wonder what to do with all that used oil and grease? Recycle it, it's a radical act, dude! >>

http://sfwater.org/detail.cfm/MC_ID/17/MSC_ID/401/MTO_ID/NULL/C_ID/4894

Adobo

2011-01-11T20:01:00.000-08:00

Simmering chicken adobo at the moment. I'm trying a new recipe pulled from the nytimes website article about a restaurant in Brooklyn that makes it with coconut milk and hot peppers. 1 cup of coconut milk, to be exact, and a chili called bird's eye that I've never heard of before. I'm interested. The recipe as well asks that I use 12 whole garlic cloves. Now I've seen an entire stinking rose used in a pork adobo with great success. To use this amount in chicken adobo will indeed be an adventure. Heat from chili is another novelty that I'm mildly skeptical about, yet willing to try. Instead of 3 chilis, however, I opted to add 1 chili, and chose a serrano. I'll have to do some investigating about this bird's eye chili. Perhaps this type of pepper in found in Pacific island nations like the Philippines, for instance. It's all going to be a big surprise.

The chicken is cooked and appears to be a success. I have taken the pieces out of the pot and am not cooking down the sauce in order to thicken it into a creamy gravy. I think this may take about 20 minutes or thereabout. Vinegar is the prevalent kitchen smell at this moment:

My conclusion - chicken adobo made with hecka garlic and coconut milk is delicious. You get the same vinegar based sauce made rich by the added fat from the coconut. It indeed retains the taste and smell of the national dish of the Philippine Islands, and then some. The only thing I would do is add more chili peppers. One was not enough. Three would be a good number. I must discover what these bird's eye chili peppers are. This was a very simple dish to make, all told. I of course marinated the bird overnight, but I did not taste much of a difference from the long marinade. 2 hours would work just fine. I like the pictures I took, with white balance. Looks almost exactly like what the eye sees. I like writing about cooking. I think I'll do this more often, with the added benefit of pictures. Feels right. I'm stuffed, like chicken.

2010-12-29T13:06:00.000-08:00

A bit before the end of lunch here. Blue skies and white caps in San Francisco. I can see the froth clearly from 14 stories up in the air. Flags whipping about. There were leaves, branches, depris shrewn across the bike path on my a.m. commute thanks to the storm. "It rains on the just and the unjust." You see them everywhere today, clinging to their collars, shoulders bend toward the wind. No one likes being pushed around. But are you a pusher?

Penny Farthing

2010-12-28T10:11:00.000-08:00

     As I was pulling out a fistful of coins to pay for my sub par bagel at Lee's this morning, I noticed a shiny new penny in the pile. I took a closer look and discovered that the penny had been newly minted in 2010. What's more, the design was also brand new, hence to me unfamiliar. When did this occur? I'd like to take a picture of it, macro, a penny instead of the stamen and pistil of an orchid, for once, but alas I do not have a working digital camera. "A king without a sword! A land without a king!"
     I like the new design, something reminiscent of either the Roman Phalanx or the US Olympic Skiing logo. I haven't seen the penny's design modernized in my lifetime, so it is indeed a Major American Event. I salute the American government! I salute the U.S. Mint! I spent the other coins on my onion bagel toasted with butter from Lee's around the corner from Embarcadero 1, but I held on to my shiny new copper penny. Good luck charm for challenging times in American society. I will try to post a picture soon. Everyone should have a look. It may provide much needed perspective on the Present Day.
     Breakfast for me early this morning consisted of a thick slice of my homemade Right Bread, toasted and buttered, and spread over with organic apricot fruit preserve. I picked up a new brand of preserve yesterday afternoon at Rainbow Coop Vegetarian market, my favorite spot for produce and dairy, cheese, salsa, dry goods, tea, soap, chocolate, nuts, olive oil, honey, etcetera. I love this store. It's great. I typically spend much more time than originally planned meandering about the co-op, looking at this vegetable, investigating that instrument, sniffing fruit, weighing bulk heirloom beans, or just look-seeing. Generally milling about the nutritional supplement or kitchen utensil aisles. It is indeed a cherished SF pastime, to get lost in Rainbow Coop. Time well spent out of the wind, cold, rain, away from the red meat chewing general public. I'd like to post pictures of my purchases along with other lists and measures. Perhaps once I have the proper instrumentation.

Saturday ruminations

2010-12-11T11:43:00.000-08:00

Sipping tea steeped from teabags Lily Langois bought in Barcelona back in July. Feels like ages ago, that journey, worlds ago. Honey and milk added, good. Clears the mind. What was the name of that store, hmm, and what street was it on? A picture would jog the memory. They're so handy. I like tea.

I just recently switched a normal folding chair for a big purple exercise ball to sit on here at my desk. It is said to be better for your back and posture than a standard chair. I don't know about the truth of that advice on sitting isometrics. I sense my back aching now, sitting on this ball of air. Though I do enjoy thinking on the act of sitting on a rubber ball inflated with air while I blog away. It somehow adds a peculiar stamp of non-legitimacy to my writing's content, allowing my mind to wander off, drift into this place, then that place, mentally free associate. Give my dirigible a pass. All clear. Airhead blogging, as it were. I haven't typed that phrase, "as it were," since university. Sounds so collegiate.

Yes indeed, I once, years ago, wrote with a certain brand of self-righteous levity. Don't ask me why any self-respecting writer would tag such an imprecise phrase as having "levity." But this is what I mean when I say that writing one's blog while sitting on a big purple rubber ball filled with air can be so liberating. All you need to do to stir the mental pot when you brain becomes cottony and ceramic is push down on your feet and rotate your hips in little circles. Ten circles later, the ideas will sprout like gangbusters. A bumper crop of brilliantly turn phrases, a tract of maxims worthy to be .pamphleted and handed out on Christmas Day instead of candy canes. Tie a string to one or two and hang them from door jambs and kitchen entrance ways instead of mistletoe. The possibilities defy imagination. Don't they?

I'm considering taking a picture of myself atop this purple sphere, blogging. The dream may vanish, however. The thought bubble might just go pop. Instead, I may consider reading through to the end of the final chapter of "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, A Year of Food Life," B. Kingsolver's nonfiction narrative about farm living out East. How long have I been reading this book? These days, too long. Milk toast. Just wanted to write that.

Friday off day

2010-12-10T12:52:00.000-08:00

At home on a damp afternoon in San Francisco. It's been raining here, yesterday, the day before. The roads become very treacherous in this weather, and it's imperative that you cycle with great care, particularly on slick surfaces like rail tracks and painted lines. Crosswalks, intersections, and the like. One particularly sketchy spot is on Church St. where the Muni trains emerge from the tunnel heading west into the Sunset district. Years ago, a friend of mine's front tire slipped on one of these steel rails, catapulting his body forward over his handlebars. He failed to let go of the handlebars in order to use his forearms and hands to cushion the impact and protect his face and head. Also, he was not wearing a helmet. I still can hear the sickening thud when his bald head hit the wet concrete hard and full. Incredibly, he did not crack his skull open or suffer major head trauma. He was able to stand, shake it off, and after a short break remount and ride on. We must have had a strong drink or two soon afterward to dull the pain. Russians, they are indeed hard-headed.

Hola telemundo que vaio!

2010-03-10T10:54:00.000-08:00

By extension, vicariously, I return to this musty, decomposing blog. Let's hope on in rewards come. I'm dreaming of ginger & toffee cookies while watching chunks of pebble & marblized meat skim off the surface of my skin, slough off into misty floors. Who knows why we do the things we do?

Vincent van Gogh wrote, "We must accept the reality of our fate, and that's that." Who was that painter? I tend toward Gauguin in style, but am charmed by philosophy. A pity I lost my polaroid. For here I would slide in a picture of a Moto Guzzi. Time to gargle and promenade.

Jeans 11.4

2009-11-04T11:11:00.000-08:00

But Mr. Lévi-Strauss rejected Rousseau’s idea that humankind’s problems derive from society’s distortions of nature. In his view, there is no alternative to such distortions. Each society must shape itself out of nature’s raw material, he believed, with law and reason as the essential tools. This application of reason, he argued, created universals that could be found across all cultures and times. He became known as a structuralist because of his conviction that a structural unity underlies all of humanity’s mythmaking, and he showed how those universal motifs played out in societies, even in the ways a village was laid out.
For Mr. Lévi-Strauss, every culture’s mythology was built around oppositions: hot and cold, raw and cooked, animal and human. And it is through these opposing “binary” concepts, he said, that humanity makes sense of the world.

10.30.09 entry

2009-10-30T08:39:00.000-07:00

Late tea. How are things? I haven't seen you in ages! That's how we rattle it off.

What shall I write on this morning? How much time do I have? Is that it? We can think about in, see us running through the park, beside the pond, atop a strawberry top, barked by dogs, bicyclists, babies in prams, art museums. In my head, I see an exchange of sites. Here one day in lieu of being there the other day. The temporal distance becomes a fuzzy haze that compromises definition and plants a mustard seed of doubt that begins slowly to burn away all historical certainly. You were not there, and neither was I. That did not happen as you describe it. Really, that did not happen at all. You imagined it. All of it. Where you felt you experience this, cultivated that memory, collect that array of images, you now know that nothing but an ugly discoloured stain holds that place in your consciousness. To think that some kind of act occurred is pure futility.

A sleeping newborn is truly beautiful to see. Often the lack of teeth comes as a surprise, at times a naked shock.

I just napped. It's essential, napping, particularly when there is nothing else to do.

It's nearly coffee time this morning. I'm excited. The cotton will be flushed away from my mind, that's the dream. I can't remember last night's dream. Must have been forgettable. Friday should be movie night. Drag me to the cinema Friday, they should call it. Are there any films currently playing that are actually something more than entertainment? I like to believe I can demand more edifying forms of art here in America, and have my wishes fulfilled. My thinking may be wish fulfillment fantasies. Rather I should search my house for something to read !

I do have a book called The Gift, Lewis Hyde's work on "Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World." An excellent read, regardless that his modern world was 1979. Something can be learned from the text, I feel certain about it. The matter at hand then is to fully commit myself to digging through the information. Hyde's writing is flawless and belled, that is most certain. Who reads this kind of book these days, aside from humdrum academics and social anthropologists? I search for books that embrace me, books to fall in love with. To me, books worth valuing are those that somehow alter my phenomenal world and inspire my mind and spirit atonement. Word.

morning thursday pdf

2009-10-29T08:15:00.000-07:00

I do hope that my digital camera re-surfaces soon. Time to take another sip of tea. How many does that make now? All of the images and video clips taken over two weeks in Europe were in that camera and its little storage pouch. Three memory cards totaling 7 gigs of information. I hope Camille recovers it from her car. Otherwise, it will be official: the gods are conspiring against me to erase all memory of my existence, both visual and literary, from this earth's historical record. What terrible luck! Is luck involved, to inquire frankly? Bad luck's cards could be in play here. Misfortune, misadventure, mistakes. Something is clearly missing. It's my brain, that much is certain. I can only place the blame squarely on my own head. More accurately, the absence of it. Such is my life, after all is said and done. Such as it is. I am cloaked in abusive forgetfulness. Yet I am mere mortal, truth be told. That's encouraging, at least, for the moment. Until the tea runs dry, until I'm fully resigned, forced to fill the silence with music and chocolate.

A friend informed me that I have blogged only once this entire year. This entry makes it two. He obligated me to do something about that dismal stat. Only once, and here it's almost November. The month of ill writings, the month of coughing and nose-blowing. A phlegmatic month. He sent me an e-mail linking up to a blog he recently started, so I checked it out and was both very impressed by the quality of writing and mildly disappointed by its content. The discussion was about film-making, cinematography, and camera work, all interesting and informative material, mind you. Some reflex in me, oddly enough when I reflect on it, somehow assumes personal blogs to be precisely that-personal. Intimate, self-conscious, revelatory. I must be crossing blogs with journals and diaries in my thoughts. Granted, I'll be returning to the blog soon enough and have another go at reading it, this time more thoroughly. That is, more ponderously and with a clear head and strong cup of coffee. In the morning, additionally. I like blogs. Every once in a while, writing one or two might just be the difference, that inch or two of relief, that every sentient being needs. The line is nearly always attainable, within reason.

on the icy road

2009-10-19T04:49:00.000-07:00

Here in Stockholm, waiting for Sofia to be released into the park from school. She started school this fall, & she's got many years to go before being freed from the education years. Young one, yes she is.

It's cold and colorful outside. Gray skies, blue skies. I am a small measure reluctant to venture, even for the Konditori to read my Harper's. It was the first time I picked up this magazine. Why now, I don't know for certain. Perhaps out of boredom, perhaps I was victimized by advertising, perhaps memory. There are two articles that piqued my interest. One about the pot industry in California, the other about AIG.

I made espresso, strong, with milk and sugar.

Both gladness and relief feel me as I write again. I like this sense.

*

2008-12-20T17:16:00.000-08:00

I wrote a few words in my sketchbook, was it yesterday? I thought I felt the heat of a stranger's eyes burning a gaping hole into the top right side of my head. I thought I smelled the rank odor of singed hair. This particular smell calls to mind the slaughtering of goats against a hot and dusty high desert backdrop (Science declares smell & memory to be linked by blood). Boys backed away, turned, and in their imaginations ran for dear life. But in spite of this discomfort, I tried to complete the phrase. Poems don't just materialize from the flower garden's bulbs, from a bank of sun lined clouds, from frothy sea or mossy forest. They appear at your door beaten down and cripple. They hunger for nourishment. They crawl into your life selfishly. It might be that some days the desire rests on your lap or lands on your shoulder. You want to brush away the crumbs, you want to rise from that place, to sweep or kick away. But if you wait long enough, making that extraordinary effort to block out what is immaterial so as to bring the essence of that Thing into sharp focus, perhaps understanding will settle into your mind.

summer

2008-11-15T14:42:00.000-08:00

My lord, I do not want to be at work today. The reason is that summer has returned to San Francisco, California. I biked to downtown this afternoon and quickly realized that absolutely everyone is outdoors. There's traffic on narrow side streets, traffic on wide streets in the park. Pedestrian traffic all over Union Square. Bike traffic on the bike paths through the panhandle. I almost crashed into a small boy pedalling furiously on training wheels. The sun cam down from the cerulean sky and saved that child by casting a tree's shadow over my eyes a split second before impact. I had just enough time to take evasive action and narrowly avoid murdering a minor by way of bicycle.

The city must be full of revelers and bridge and tunnel people. Feels like tourist season again out there. On open grassy spaces in Golden Gate park, groups and individuals are reclining or laying on blankets, sunning themselves and picnicing. Volleyball nets are stretched tight, people are running and bicycling, dogs smile happily, their ears flopping about over their hairy heads. Here at work it's air conditioned and quiet. No one that can help it must be at work in the building. I am not one of them. I wouldn't be, given the choice. And yet, quite frankly, the choice was mine. As it was, I rolled in nearly thirty minutes late. I was proud of that. Nearly a record. Now what? I think I'll make myself a mug of coffee. That should do to wire me up to the network port linking my brain to the hard drive on which important blog-worthy events of this past week are automatically saved. The kinds of elements that "make my tail wag," as I occasionally say to myself, half jokingly, half jokingly.

I had dinner Monday evening with Mike Gorski, a friend from Wyoming that I know through my sister Sheila and brother in law Jeff. He was in town arranging for French residency with his new wife of two months Valerie, A French woman from Martinique. They're currently living in Lille, in northwestern France, but had to travel to San Francisco to deal with immigration, since the consulate here covers Wyoming. We had a pleasant but very short time catching up over Thai food at the Embarcadero. Mike met Valerie in Morocco during a short trip from Granada, Spain, where he's been living for I think a year and a half and learning Spanish and Arabic. They must have fallen in love very quickly, for six months later, they married. Some people either just know in their heart and mind, or they don't really know, but they're bold enough to take the risk, relinquish control over the situation, and go on faith-faith in love, I conclude. Can't be anything but that, can it? I know it can. So many other factors within the circumstance play a part. The main thing is to act on the will by giving up your will. Perhaps that's what love is all about - surrendering.

olives

2008-11-08T13:09:00.000-08:00

I haven't quite mastered the photo editing tool for this blog, but stay tuned. Mastery draws nigh. Where these words will eventually fall in relation to the two jpgs I dropped into the field earlier today I know not. I shall now perform a test, by way of the "PUBLISH POST" button.

Aha. I now have a clear visual roadmap of how things will sort themselves out. A comfort. One thing that annoys me is the inability here to indent new paragraphs. When I make a full paragraph, for example, with the last sentence flushed to the right margin, the reader will never know that a new paragraph has begun. Instead the read page becomes a dense, heavy brick of words, making it more tedious to read due to the absence of visual pauses. So there's that. Now for some coffee.

I've posted two pictures today. The left hand image is of a view from my seat on the Muni bus looking through the front window early on my morning commute downtown. I love riding buses here in San Francisco, and for that matter in other parts of the world, too. Public transportation fascinates and entertains me. There is so much aesthetic material to be found on the bus. These are some of the most democratic of public spaces most anywhere in the world. Here, in Manhattan, in Stockholm or London, even in Japan, although there it's a bit more homogeneous, visually at least. I enjoy looking at people, strangers, the masses, the other, call it what you like, use your own semantic marker. Strangers fascinate me. When some visual phenomena catches my eye, I become a child: I want to just stare forever. Of course I don't. As a grownup, I've become both more self aware and also aware of the self awareness of others. Indeed, social convention leans on my psyche, almost commanding me to modify my behavior and follow the rules. Don't stare. If an individual notices you staring, quickly avert your glance. Look over their head or below their chin, look through the window at passing objects.

A little girl took a seat across from me this afternoon. Her mother sat down next to me. She was dressed in varying shades of pink- a hooded pink jacket, a pink dress with flowers, pink stocking with balloons or hearts printed on them, pink shoes. I guessed her age to be about seven or eight, but her face belied a very different story. She wore the face of a much older woman, someone in their thirties, but without lines and shrunken to the size of a little girl's. Her mother's face to me was rounder, chubbier, more girlish. Her daughter wore her mother's mother's face. She was aging in reverse. It struck me immediately as peculiar and extraordinary. I couldn't decide whether it was for her a blessing or a curse. I don't think it really mattered to her, to be perfectly honest, but I did see that her's was a somber, emotionless, almost unhappy expression.

Then I watched as she moved her hand slowly to her inside pocket and slowly, self consciously pull out a small square wrapped package of what appeared to be a post-it pad. Her long fingers slowly, deliberately unwrapped the package. She looked up and at her mom and reached out to give the wrapping to her mother. She then turned back to the small pad of paper and very methodically pulled off a single tab of colored paper. The way she moved through these actions held my attention. She was so meticulous with her hand movements, as though she held in her hand something fragile and delicate, like a crystal snowflake or a baby panda or kangaroo sleeping. I don't know how to explain the thing. I can only describe what I saw. I might try and speculate about this little pink hooded girl who seemed to be wearing the face of a much older woman to avoid being recognized-an adult hiding in a girl's body. Her vibe was of a much older and sadder, almost world weary soul. Her movements followed the pacing of a grandmother. She could be an actor when she grows up, I thought. Camera operators love slow, deliberate movements. What else does it call to mind? I know. A sloth in the Amazon, that slow moving creature up in the forest canopy, very slowly traveling from branch to branch, tree to tree, as though sleep climbing. Is that right? A sloth? A hairy beast whom someone can wake from the trance with a finger snap or clap of the hand.

palm

2008-11-03T07:33:00.000-08:00

I saw a beautiful vision this morning while riding the 38 limited Muni bus downtown on Geary Blvd. toward Van Ness. I was listening to Teri Gross' interview of Charlie Kaufman, the screenwriter who created some of my recent favorite films, like Being John Malkovich and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. While listening to this man make repeated successful and semi futile attempts to express himself verbally (he reminded me of an old Volkswagon Beetle with transmission problems - sputters & coughs), I looked up and suddenly beheld an arrestingly beautiful phenomenon up in the sky. I saw Superman.

Up in the eastern sky above the San Francisco skyline and hovering over the east bay hung a blue gray cloud. Above it was blue sky. Behind this bank of cloud, the sun was rising, illuminating it from behind, so that below I could see a warm glow of soft yellow naples light. The tops of the clouds were brushed with light, making it look like I was beholding a huge blue gray cake with white frosting on top hovering over the entire city. It was arresting and pleasurable and kept my eyes riveted like a 2 year old child's when seeing something for the very first time. The great dark silhouette of a palm tree I sensed was looking at the same great warm morning cake and waving its fronds lightly in recognition. I felt like I might have been the only one on the bus seeing this vision. Everyone silently looked inward, noseward, impatient and groggy, anxious to be free of the crowded masses so they could get to work quickly and hole up in their cubicle until there smoking and coffee break rolls around. Not soon enough, I gather. Son tar livet i stor stan.

I wish I could say how it makes me feel, seeing these beautiful momentary glimpses of eternity. It's certainly pleasurable for my eyes, and even for my mind and "soul." Clearly, to describe my feelings, I find it nearly impossible to avoid religious terminology. Words like soul and spirit always come to mind, whether it be due to my upbringing or something else. Something simply unavoidable. In most cases, those words don't do much at revealing through language the sense of something so sublime and metaphysical. Better to just shut up, write nothing at all. But the impulse to express my experience drives me to make these feeble attempts. It seems to be an impulse that is somehow central to my existence. The effort at least gives my life a half baked sense of "meaning."

fuzzy rain

2008-11-01T16:59:00.000-07:00

It's raining cats and dogs here, been raining all day. I biked in the rain to the swimming pool and got soaked. I hear the water puddling and can hear the racket caused by raindrops crashing into collected bodies of water. It's noisy this afternoon. What can i do? I should close that window there. I'm listening to Pandora this afternoon. I wolfed down some food after my swim, am always very hungry then. Had minestrone soup, peanuts, a poached egg, a glass of hard cider. Still, with all that I can't seem to get food out of my mind. Anticipating the prospect of eating a steak with a glass of red wine somehow wants me to blame the dreary weather. But it isn't all that dreary, for after all, here I am at home under a roof writing in the afternoon light. Other week-ends recently at this time have found me sitting around alone at work doing next to nothing. There I would plan to get a lot or reading and writing done, but never get around to it. The environment I feel prevents productive personal behaviour. Nothing can be referenced. Windows cannot be opened, it's a vacuum in that room. Too many hard surfaces and not enough fuzz, which I believe very effectively stimulates the imagination and makes one want to step outside of oneself. Fuzz and objectivity is dinner and dessert once and for all.

glitch

2008-10-25T16:13:00.001-07:00

This afternoon, I listen to the Beatles. It's good, easy. Keeps my mind at ease, it's thoroughly familiar music. Comfort music to nurse hangovers and to fend off silence's accusations. Seargent Pepper's is one of my favorite albums, that and Pink Floyd's The Wall. They remind me of long essays.

I made a little list for myself. On my list is act of updating my blogs and journals. Then there is reading, and my shoulder Theraband exercises, which I am doing now. Later I might want to stretch my back in particular, which feels rather rigid and sore today.

Bit of a rough start this morning. I didn't climb out of bed until 10:30 late morning. Woke actually at about 5:30am but with a heavy hangover that drove me back to bed. Yesterday afternoon found me at the Ferry Building partaking of various wines & spirits at the Organic Beer & Wine Tasting, sponsored the California Organic Federation. Fun times. There was food, alcohol, music, and crowds of people. The Ferry Bldg is a prime place for this sort of event. The artisanal vendors and restaurants will also serve tapas style snack foods like grilled sausage on a stick, cheese melted on bread, mushroom crostini, and pizza slices. I enjoyed the sausage, mushroom crostini, which I got for free, and oysters & clams. Delicious. I enjoyed myself, talked to strangers, watched faces swarm by, got tipsy, listened to music. It was live and momentary. People were in high spirits of course, thanks to the drink as well as to it being Friday. A woman handed me a small shot of organic tequila. It was strong and clear. I also drank organic vodka that tasted like aqvavit in Scandinavia, organic sparkling wine, organic beer, and several organic red and white wines. Certainly the perfect storm for hangover creation it was, but who am I to turn away festive vibes. These occasions are beyond my capacity to resist, so instead of trying to turn my back on it I step forward and embrace the thing with open arms.

movie quote

2008-10-21T10:42:00.000-07:00

"Today, my life feels like a string of near misses.
Women I was unable to love,
opportunities I failed to seize,
moments of happiness I let drift away.
A race whose result I knew beforehand
but failed to pick the winner.
Had I been blind and deaf,
or did the harsh light of disaster
make me find my true nature?"
- movie: The Diving Bell & the Butterfly

untitled

2008-10-21T08:59:00.000-07:00

Here are my untitled thoughts:

Now: listening to the Rolling Stones album Let It Bleed on iTunes. "Don't u think u need a woman's touch to make u come alive?" I can relate. @Work at the moment down in the financial district. Eating peanut M&M's from a large blue plastic peanut m&m cartoon dispenser. You lift his arm up, then down, and one or two candies roll out of a hole in his side. Blue Jesus dispensing chocolate covered peanuts instead of diluted blood. Whichever you prefer, by the plumbing of your faith. Then I performed my Theraband shoulder exercises, to strengthen the ligaments supporting my rotator cuffs. It just isn't built to last, this body of mine. I thought about stretching. Don't know if I want to listen to this entire album. I should be reading. Currently reading "Alice Waters & Chez Panisse," a bio by Thomas McNamee,a journalist. Been trying to set aside myself so I can put in some solid reading. Trying to read at work, so I can claim to get well paid for reading biographies about gourmet restaurants and the gauche dramas and lush sociopolitical intrigues that swirled above its roof and chimneystack over the decades. What else have I to do here? Munch m&m's whilst I sip lemon rooibus tea, too cold now. Think about that orange. Twist and laugh with Jagger. Stretch my limbs, lie on orange rubber, spongy to the toes. That, and that.

"U can't always get what u want,

But if u try sometime,

U get what u need."

Jagger and I, sometimes, we're on the same page. Now this song, "Under my Thumb" (listening to Aftermath now) rocks in a way that only the Stones can. Take it eeeeeasy, baby.

some excerpts from my notebook, written in an old church in Southwark, London:

- If I ever have a house, one room will be reserved for quiet (aesthetic) contemplation, with the only adornment either 1) a blank canvas, or 2) a candle

- the only churches I enter these days are those in foreign countries

- saw a 700 year old wooden sculpture of a dead knight

from a painting tag at the Francis Bacon retrospective:

"Birth, & copulation, & death.

That's all the facts when you

come to brass tacks.

Birth, & copulation, & death."

-T.S. Eliot

tgif

2008-10-10T11:40:00.000-07:00

It is a ghost town in the financial district today. The sidewalks seem thinly populated, the anxiety that's descended on us palpable and viral. People leer at each other in fear and loathing, as if they see manifestations of disease on the skin and faces of those they pass. Their stares linger for a fraction of a second too long before they avert their gaze downward, always downward. So I cross the street, then cross back to the opposite side. I avoid squares, corners, heavy traffic. I imagine a string still attached to the top of my head, and myself pulling this string upward to maintain the illusion of great height. My horse, though top heavy, digs its hoofs down into the shifting sand. But what is that foul stench I smell? This gas, if ignited, could set the entire world in flames. Is that fool again attempting to create a spark with the heel of his shoe? If I close my eyes, all ceases to exist. I do remember this working the last time a feeling of terror found its way into my bloodstream. Why shouldn't it work again?

gobbeldygook

2008-10-08T07:36:00.000-07:00

Watchword for the day. Concerning this word:

"Sam Maverick’s grandson, Fontaine Maury Maverick, was a two-term congressman and a mayor of San Antonio who lost his mayoral re-election bid when conservatives labeled him a Communist. He served in the Roosevelt administration on the Smaller War Plants Corporation and is best known for another coinage. He came up with the term “gobbledygook” in frustration at the convoluted language of bureaucrats." (excerpted from J. Schwartz's NYTimes article "Who you callin' a Maverick?" 10.14.08)

The word accurately abstracts my sentiments concerning yesterday evening's presidential debates. I've decided I may just have to bully my way through the festering political rhetoric/inspirational message language and shovel straight down to the cocaine of pure motives. The spelunk that illuminates my way: the System, Capitalism.

I shall sneeze out exactly five deep thoughts now, not two. The pointy corners and razor sharp edges of their more colored consonant's letters vex the tender walls of my sinuses. Reactions are not cerebral cortex oriented arise, resembling hair raisingly swift brain stem electrical impulses than rationality, to put a head on that shoulder.

Be that, I say.

On my bus ride to work, I was already composing essays and juxtaposing them directly over failed love sonnets. It seems the early morning breeze whipping in from the bus roof hatch didn't quite do the trick. My hat still rested wanly on my head, preventing my identifiable features from flying off and out into oncoming traffic, which at such a small hour can be fatal - you man find yourself dropped off in a foreign land populated by either heavily customed desert people or mordantly animated snowball tossing bed bugs. Fortunately for me, however, the deeply rutted trench that I've zealously carved into the concrete by virtue of years and years of repetitive ritual has pre-empted all balancing on a tether between the scales. Simply follow that peculiarly low gliding hat to find my naked lunch.

Sprightly soonly

2008-10-07T17:51:00.000-07:00

My thoughts have chosen normality. I tried to read the thoughts of those I've lately seen and heard, but found I required the English Swedish Swedish English touch of index fingers. Buttons of crystalline understanding undyed and preschool become so much more difficult to hide these days. It just may be that music and apple juice is all the language I require.
I wonder how long it will last. The obvious advantages of beginning again elude me, so I'll just have to resort to default actions. If a smoothly flowing river could be found nearby, I would now go there and thoughtlessly jump in. Things take care of themselves once the sky can be seen filling up and around one's field from flowing places. I am tempted to sincerely believe this. Suffice it to say that I've spent the better part of the last few days since returning from Europe sucking up myriad errant fruit flies with my blue hepa filtered vacuum cleaner. They have become legion in my absence, and some of these gnatty pests have even grown to at least three times their size. These alaming mutations forced me to resort to an electronic home appliance for the purpose of fruit fly genocide. They won't mind, it's dark and airless in that bag, a perfect place for peace and quiet, which all multiplying things need every now and then.