check this out: The Year that Europe Froze
from newscientist.com
Monday, February 09, 2009
Saturday, February 07, 2009
taste testing
our friend Jared came home from boot camp for the week, so i decided to take the opportunity of having people over to experiment.
i made whole wheat buttermilk lemon pancakes:
the Pancakes were pretty good, but not as good as my regular buttermilk pancakes. also, i used 3 cups of buttermilk, instead of 2 and a half cups.
blueberry syrup:
the Syrup is really really nice... if you really like blueberries. next time (and there will be a next time), i plan on cooking the berries longer so it doesn't come out quiet so runny.
and spicy chocolate chunk cookies:
the cookies are awesome. i am going to try another batch with no cinnamon, just cayenne. we'll see how that comes out.
i made whole wheat buttermilk lemon pancakes:
the Pancakes were pretty good, but not as good as my regular buttermilk pancakes. also, i used 3 cups of buttermilk, instead of 2 and a half cups.
blueberry syrup:
the Syrup is really really nice... if you really like blueberries. next time (and there will be a next time), i plan on cooking the berries longer so it doesn't come out quiet so runny.
and spicy chocolate chunk cookies:
the cookies are awesome. i am going to try another batch with no cinnamon, just cayenne. we'll see how that comes out.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Bleddyn Gway
and again with the prose...
Bleddyn dropped his bags on the top step and looked up at the gutted factory building in front of him. Red Welsh brick, built by Welsh working hands. The stench of the bay swept passed him in gusts, reminding him how much he utterly despised the sea. How much he despised brick. And clocks.
The building had been remodeled to accommodate a collage of colorful low-income renters—single mothers, students, his brother. Since the textiles industry faded from prominence, more and more people started living in places never meant for living. No parking, cold metal railings everywhere, ornamental clocks that don’t keep the time and far too close to the stinking sea.
He pulled down the plastic case covering the bells and pushed the button labeled “Gway”. Number 14.
No answer. Figures.
Bleddyn sat next to his bags and reminded himself of all the other stuff he hated. He hated women, he hated coffee drinkers, he hated email, phones, people with phones, buttons, zips, anything practical, anything impractical. Shit. He hated everything. Fortunately, he was able to focus all of that hate on his queer little brother who, unfortunately, wasn’t even home for him to hate directly. Bleddyn just sat there, thinking hateful thoughts towards the ginger bastard.
And then the door opened. And what he saw was unlikely, repulsive and sort of beautiful. A young woman in a dress opened the door, unprompted, and looked down at him—the displeased lump of human being squatting on the front step of her building. What repulsed Bleddyn wasn’t the woman herself, but the dress. Why the fuck was she dressed in an Elizabethan gown? If she’d just been dressed in jeans and a top he’d have been able to hate her, like he hated everything else. But she wasn’t dressed normally, she was in a gown. He wanted to hate her so much for it, for denying him easy-to-dismiss hatred that he’d been growing accustomed to, but he couldn’t hate her the same way he hated old clocks. She was beautiful and probably mentally unhinged.
“Um, hi.”
“Do you want to come in? Do you know someone who lives here?”
“Why are you wearing that dress?” He didn’t move from his slumped position. He couldn’t. He was paralyzed with disgust and wonder.
She smiled. Goddamn it she smiled at him. Goddamn her, she’s pretty. He was hopeless.
He sort of smiled back. He hated women. He hated her, and her breasts. Goddamn women and gowns. “It’s, um, nice. Sparkly.” She smiled at him again. “A bit… unusual though?”
She stepped out onto the step beside him and sat close enough that he could smell her. She smelled like a woman, like a woman who used nice shower products. He hated women, and showers. It occurred to him that he hadn’t bathed in about four days and probably smelt worse than the sea. He shuffled away from her. He hated himself.
“Um, are you okay?”
“yeah.” He wasn’t okay. Where the hell was is brother and why the hell was she wearing that terrible gown? “where’d you get it?”
“hun?”
“Your dress… where’d you get it? You an actress or something?”
“Oh, no, I’m not an actress.” She smiled again and he cringed despite himself. “Are you sure you’re alright? You want to come in? Tea?”
“Why are you wearing it?”
She stood up and unlocked the front door. “Come on.”
He hated her, he hated himself, and most of all he hated his brother.
And though he hated everything and everyone, he followed this girl into her apartment and let her heal him. Let him forget why he’d come to see his brother and forget about the clocks and the phones and the sea. Let him undress her, though he still had no idea why she’d worn the gown in the first place. He convinced himself that she’d just lost a bet or some utterly mundane and normal thing. He let himself think she was something sort of normal, and that it was entirely normal to follow a stranger in an Elizabethan gown into her apartment and stay there for two years.
Bleddyn dropped his bags on the top step and looked up at the gutted factory building in front of him. Red Welsh brick, built by Welsh working hands. The stench of the bay swept passed him in gusts, reminding him how much he utterly despised the sea. How much he despised brick. And clocks.
The building had been remodeled to accommodate a collage of colorful low-income renters—single mothers, students, his brother. Since the textiles industry faded from prominence, more and more people started living in places never meant for living. No parking, cold metal railings everywhere, ornamental clocks that don’t keep the time and far too close to the stinking sea.
He pulled down the plastic case covering the bells and pushed the button labeled “Gway”. Number 14.
No answer. Figures.
Bleddyn sat next to his bags and reminded himself of all the other stuff he hated. He hated women, he hated coffee drinkers, he hated email, phones, people with phones, buttons, zips, anything practical, anything impractical. Shit. He hated everything. Fortunately, he was able to focus all of that hate on his queer little brother who, unfortunately, wasn’t even home for him to hate directly. Bleddyn just sat there, thinking hateful thoughts towards the ginger bastard.
And then the door opened. And what he saw was unlikely, repulsive and sort of beautiful. A young woman in a dress opened the door, unprompted, and looked down at him—the displeased lump of human being squatting on the front step of her building. What repulsed Bleddyn wasn’t the woman herself, but the dress. Why the fuck was she dressed in an Elizabethan gown? If she’d just been dressed in jeans and a top he’d have been able to hate her, like he hated everything else. But she wasn’t dressed normally, she was in a gown. He wanted to hate her so much for it, for denying him easy-to-dismiss hatred that he’d been growing accustomed to, but he couldn’t hate her the same way he hated old clocks. She was beautiful and probably mentally unhinged.
“Um, hi.”
“Do you want to come in? Do you know someone who lives here?”
“Why are you wearing that dress?” He didn’t move from his slumped position. He couldn’t. He was paralyzed with disgust and wonder.
She smiled. Goddamn it she smiled at him. Goddamn her, she’s pretty. He was hopeless.
He sort of smiled back. He hated women. He hated her, and her breasts. Goddamn women and gowns. “It’s, um, nice. Sparkly.” She smiled at him again. “A bit… unusual though?”
She stepped out onto the step beside him and sat close enough that he could smell her. She smelled like a woman, like a woman who used nice shower products. He hated women, and showers. It occurred to him that he hadn’t bathed in about four days and probably smelt worse than the sea. He shuffled away from her. He hated himself.
“Um, are you okay?”
“yeah.” He wasn’t okay. Where the hell was is brother and why the hell was she wearing that terrible gown? “where’d you get it?”
“hun?”
“Your dress… where’d you get it? You an actress or something?”
“Oh, no, I’m not an actress.” She smiled again and he cringed despite himself. “Are you sure you’re alright? You want to come in? Tea?”
“Why are you wearing it?”
She stood up and unlocked the front door. “Come on.”
He hated her, he hated himself, and most of all he hated his brother.
And though he hated everything and everyone, he followed this girl into her apartment and let her heal him. Let him forget why he’d come to see his brother and forget about the clocks and the phones and the sea. Let him undress her, though he still had no idea why she’d worn the gown in the first place. He convinced himself that she’d just lost a bet or some utterly mundane and normal thing. He let himself think she was something sort of normal, and that it was entirely normal to follow a stranger in an Elizabethan gown into her apartment and stay there for two years.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
the smiths
how about some fiction for a change? it happens oh so very very rarely. enjoy!
***
Mr. and Mrs. Smith grew up together. She was the Mary Jane to his Peter Parker all through secondary school. They shared a secret life together, even as very young children. When it was uncool, at the age of 7, to play with girls, Mr. Smith still went over to Mrs. Smith’s to color and make up stories with her. It was around that age—the distinctly uncool age to be with the opposite sex—that Mr. and Mrs. Smith promised to marry each other, and shared their very first kiss.
There were rough patches in their relationship, as in any. For example, Mrs. Smith went through a particularly academic phase while away at a big, snobby (in Mr. Smith’s opinion anyway) university where her dreams were filled with philosophical musings. Meanwhile, Mr. Smith apprenticed at a mechanical engineering firm which specialized in motion-sensor soap dispensers while attending night classes at a small, local college. At this time, they both saw other people.
They saw each other at the holidays, when Mrs. Smith came home. They humored each other with pleasantries, but learned how distinctly incompatible they really were. Though sweethearts, and terribly fond of one another, Mr. and Mrs. Smith expected different things from life. Mr. Smith wanted to invest in property while the market was good. Mrs. Smith wanted to travel obscure corners of the globe. Mr. Smith had a steady job, a car, drank coffee he made at home each morning, and enjoyed Douglass Adams novels. Mrs. Smith had two degrees in the humanities, a friend with a cottage in Greece, drank matte yerba after a long night of political discussion with visiting scholars and spent a lot of money on odd looking shoes.
Both lovely in their own respects. Both secretly admiring the strength and fearlessness of the other.
There was one whimsical summer romance between Mr. and Mrs. Smith. But as the leaves changed color and the cold set in, Mrs. Smith grew restless and Mr. Smith grew tired of her fancies. They split again.
They had, at once, given up on each other and dismissed their promise to one another of marriage in a heated battle of words and one unfortunate platter which, at the time, was covered in an array of sticky cheeses which, try as they might have, could not keep the platter from shattering into a significantly large number of small pieces. The carpet also suffered from the incident.
After many years of dissonance, Mr. and Mrs. Smith came upon each other in an office of all places.
This little office belonged to a coroner. This coroner, whose office was set adjacent to the hospital where both Mr. and Mrs. Smith had been seen into this world, had asked both Mr. and Mrs. Smith into his office to confirm the identify a body.
In the weeks previously, Mr. and Mrs. Smith had both reported a missing person; a close friend each had, very separately, kept in touch with over the years. This friend was called Janet. Mr. Smith walked Janet’s odd collection of dogs several times each week in exchange for the use of her garage where he kept the parts he was collecting to build his dream super car. Mrs. Smith had read the travel journals Janet wrote as a young woman and they spoke extensively over the phone after every one of Mrs. Smith’s adventures abroad.
Mr. Smith noticed Janet wasn’t home one Thursday afternoon and that her dogs hadn’t been fed. Needless to say, Mr. Smith took care of the animals, and as a second day passed and Janet had not been seen, Mr. Smith reported the woman missing.
Although she was miles away, Mrs. Smith had also noticed Janet’s absence. The two had arranged to speak the day after Mrs. Smith’s return from Botswana. Janet never missed an opportunity to speak with Mrs. Smith about her adventures. After several days of no answer to her phone calls, Mrs. Smith phoned the local authorities, asking if they would check in on the woman to see she was alright.
As surprised as Mr. and Mrs. Smith were to see each other after so many years of silence, they were equally surprised to see that the woman under the white sheet on the coroner’s table was indeed their mutual friend Janet.
They never found out what happened to Janet.
But they did some catching up, adopted Janet’s odd collection of dogs together, and invited Janet’s sisters to their wedding reception which took place a mere three months after Janet’s mysterious death.
They honeymooned in Greece and Mr. Smith got his super car running just three days prior to the birth of their first child.
***
***
Mr. and Mrs. Smith grew up together. She was the Mary Jane to his Peter Parker all through secondary school. They shared a secret life together, even as very young children. When it was uncool, at the age of 7, to play with girls, Mr. Smith still went over to Mrs. Smith’s to color and make up stories with her. It was around that age—the distinctly uncool age to be with the opposite sex—that Mr. and Mrs. Smith promised to marry each other, and shared their very first kiss.
There were rough patches in their relationship, as in any. For example, Mrs. Smith went through a particularly academic phase while away at a big, snobby (in Mr. Smith’s opinion anyway) university where her dreams were filled with philosophical musings. Meanwhile, Mr. Smith apprenticed at a mechanical engineering firm which specialized in motion-sensor soap dispensers while attending night classes at a small, local college. At this time, they both saw other people.
They saw each other at the holidays, when Mrs. Smith came home. They humored each other with pleasantries, but learned how distinctly incompatible they really were. Though sweethearts, and terribly fond of one another, Mr. and Mrs. Smith expected different things from life. Mr. Smith wanted to invest in property while the market was good. Mrs. Smith wanted to travel obscure corners of the globe. Mr. Smith had a steady job, a car, drank coffee he made at home each morning, and enjoyed Douglass Adams novels. Mrs. Smith had two degrees in the humanities, a friend with a cottage in Greece, drank matte yerba after a long night of political discussion with visiting scholars and spent a lot of money on odd looking shoes.
Both lovely in their own respects. Both secretly admiring the strength and fearlessness of the other.
There was one whimsical summer romance between Mr. and Mrs. Smith. But as the leaves changed color and the cold set in, Mrs. Smith grew restless and Mr. Smith grew tired of her fancies. They split again.
They had, at once, given up on each other and dismissed their promise to one another of marriage in a heated battle of words and one unfortunate platter which, at the time, was covered in an array of sticky cheeses which, try as they might have, could not keep the platter from shattering into a significantly large number of small pieces. The carpet also suffered from the incident.
After many years of dissonance, Mr. and Mrs. Smith came upon each other in an office of all places.
This little office belonged to a coroner. This coroner, whose office was set adjacent to the hospital where both Mr. and Mrs. Smith had been seen into this world, had asked both Mr. and Mrs. Smith into his office to confirm the identify a body.
In the weeks previously, Mr. and Mrs. Smith had both reported a missing person; a close friend each had, very separately, kept in touch with over the years. This friend was called Janet. Mr. Smith walked Janet’s odd collection of dogs several times each week in exchange for the use of her garage where he kept the parts he was collecting to build his dream super car. Mrs. Smith had read the travel journals Janet wrote as a young woman and they spoke extensively over the phone after every one of Mrs. Smith’s adventures abroad.
Mr. Smith noticed Janet wasn’t home one Thursday afternoon and that her dogs hadn’t been fed. Needless to say, Mr. Smith took care of the animals, and as a second day passed and Janet had not been seen, Mr. Smith reported the woman missing.
Although she was miles away, Mrs. Smith had also noticed Janet’s absence. The two had arranged to speak the day after Mrs. Smith’s return from Botswana. Janet never missed an opportunity to speak with Mrs. Smith about her adventures. After several days of no answer to her phone calls, Mrs. Smith phoned the local authorities, asking if they would check in on the woman to see she was alright.
As surprised as Mr. and Mrs. Smith were to see each other after so many years of silence, they were equally surprised to see that the woman under the white sheet on the coroner’s table was indeed their mutual friend Janet.
They never found out what happened to Janet.
But they did some catching up, adopted Janet’s odd collection of dogs together, and invited Janet’s sisters to their wedding reception which took place a mere three months after Janet’s mysterious death.
They honeymooned in Greece and Mr. Smith got his super car running just three days prior to the birth of their first child.
***
Monday, February 02, 2009
king cake stressed fassion
this morning, walking down the hall
of this dilapidated university
the toes of my shoes wet from slush
with my coat swung upon
a vision of academia, two magazines
littered to the brim with day dreams
fantasy low-residency MFA programs
daring to hang from the fingers of one hand
and in the other, a cup of earl gray
too hot to drink, or to hold tight
anxiety ridden over words i care not to write
but more for the words i need to write
the ones that no one pays much attention to,
but to call myself a poet...
of this dilapidated university
the toes of my shoes wet from slush
with my coat swung upon
a vision of academia, two magazines
littered to the brim with day dreams
fantasy low-residency MFA programs
daring to hang from the fingers of one hand
and in the other, a cup of earl gray
too hot to drink, or to hold tight
anxiety ridden over words i care not to write
but more for the words i need to write
the ones that no one pays much attention to,
but to call myself a poet...
Sunday, February 01, 2009
baked eggs
i don't claim the statues of "foodie", though i use it on a whim to describe my husbee. he does, after all, refer to his copy of "Hamburger America" as "the bible". as in "Katy, do you know where my bible is?".
instead, i am something else in relation to food... an eater? an emotional, out of control, gimme more eater. i was a fat kid, my mom is/was a yo-yo dieter at an opra level of wow she's big, wow she's thin.
growing up, i lived on comfort foods. fatty, sugary, wonderful food. because of that born-into habit with food (we could also call it lots of little bad habits), i had a love-hate relationship with food. i know so many people can relate to this.
so i'm out for a change. well, i have been out for a change for a little while now as a matter of fact. it's not easy though, working at an ice cream shop in the summer and a pizza place all year round (yum), but it's so worth it.
i've been trying new recipes. wait. no. i've been trying recipes, full stop. and i don't just mean baking. i mean, actually cooking stuff.
i'm still honing my roasted vegetable skills (what spices and herbs to use, for example), and my crock-pot still only makes two things: minestrone, and meatballs.
to research new ideas, i've been grazing the pages of foodgawker. though i drool a lot over the tasty goodies, i've learned that there's no limit to food.
take eggs for example. the incredible, edible egg. there are just as many ways to prepare eggs as there are blogs about food. e.i. everyone with a food blog has had a go at eggs.
i decided, then, that i would try something different with eggs today.
these, are baked eggs.
i don't know if i'll jump at the next chance to make them, but they were tasty and easy and really filling. kind of like an omelette in a ramekin.
i combined a couple of different recipes i found online (on blogs via foodgawker). essentially though, there's a slice of de-crusted, buttered whole wheat bread around the edge of the ramekin, which was then loaded with turkey bacon (a slice each), chopped tomato (i used the little ones, 'cause they taste better), some chopped sweet onion, an egg (i broke my yolk, 'cause i don't like it gooey, but left ryan's because he does like it gooey), and some shredded mozzarella cheese to finish it off. then i baked them for about 15 minutes at 375. Ta-Da!
there's also a recipe i want to try without the bread, which is using ham in a muffin tin, filled with egg. like a little... ham and egg cupcake. odd, but interesting.
instead, i am something else in relation to food... an eater? an emotional, out of control, gimme more eater. i was a fat kid, my mom is/was a yo-yo dieter at an opra level of wow she's big, wow she's thin.
growing up, i lived on comfort foods. fatty, sugary, wonderful food. because of that born-into habit with food (we could also call it lots of little bad habits), i had a love-hate relationship with food. i know so many people can relate to this.
so i'm out for a change. well, i have been out for a change for a little while now as a matter of fact. it's not easy though, working at an ice cream shop in the summer and a pizza place all year round (yum), but it's so worth it.
i've been trying new recipes. wait. no. i've been trying recipes, full stop. and i don't just mean baking. i mean, actually cooking stuff.
i'm still honing my roasted vegetable skills (what spices and herbs to use, for example), and my crock-pot still only makes two things: minestrone, and meatballs.
to research new ideas, i've been grazing the pages of foodgawker. though i drool a lot over the tasty goodies, i've learned that there's no limit to food.
take eggs for example. the incredible, edible egg. there are just as many ways to prepare eggs as there are blogs about food. e.i. everyone with a food blog has had a go at eggs.
i decided, then, that i would try something different with eggs today.
these, are baked eggs.
i don't know if i'll jump at the next chance to make them, but they were tasty and easy and really filling. kind of like an omelette in a ramekin.
i combined a couple of different recipes i found online (on blogs via foodgawker). essentially though, there's a slice of de-crusted, buttered whole wheat bread around the edge of the ramekin, which was then loaded with turkey bacon (a slice each), chopped tomato (i used the little ones, 'cause they taste better), some chopped sweet onion, an egg (i broke my yolk, 'cause i don't like it gooey, but left ryan's because he does like it gooey), and some shredded mozzarella cheese to finish it off. then i baked them for about 15 minutes at 375. Ta-Da!
there's also a recipe i want to try without the bread, which is using ham in a muffin tin, filled with egg. like a little... ham and egg cupcake. odd, but interesting.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
cupcakes in love
dolce: a girl, a camera, and a slice of life
i am particular to the cupcakes myself. the rose minicake and cupcakes give my cupcake-shaped heart good cause to yearn.
someday, maybe, i will make a cupcake as lovely. someday...
i am particular to the cupcakes myself. the rose minicake and cupcakes give my cupcake-shaped heart good cause to yearn.
someday, maybe, i will make a cupcake as lovely. someday...
Friday, January 23, 2009
an Ode to what Light does
because Peter Wasilewski is brilliant
breaking the natural order
for the sake of personal beauty
a bird's wing preserved
by the polar lenses, white light,
and the touch of a man
fingers trapped in children's toys
a summer treat for i the least
but the sick romance
at the back of your mind
my summer night pleasure
for i all the more
tripping through swirls
and deep pools
along dark slippery
city streets
filled to the brim
with triumphant marches
and parades with routes
passed loosers' houses
locked in at the midst
of a winter battle
to the death and the part
the weight of a horse
on a frozen river
as the war rages on
in a field far away
what was lost
but a letter to the queen
but what of it
was a loss?
breaking the natural order
for the sake of personal beauty
a bird's wing preserved
by the polar lenses, white light,
and the touch of a man
fingers trapped in children's toys
a summer treat for i the least
but the sick romance
at the back of your mind
my summer night pleasure
for i all the more
tripping through swirls
and deep pools
along dark slippery
city streets
filled to the brim
with triumphant marches
and parades with routes
passed loosers' houses
locked in at the midst
of a winter battle
to the death and the part
the weight of a horse
on a frozen river
as the war rages on
in a field far away
what was lost
but a letter to the queen
but what of it
was a loss?
Thursday, January 22, 2009
azure letters
for Ashraf Osman
i will not have a grave stone
because by the time i die,
they'll have thought of something better.
i wish you could say the same,
but it's becoming clearer each day
that you are already dying.
one poet's wish after another
for peace and skies clear of white
from the dust of dead neighbors
goes swiftly unheard by all
but the well-groomed dog at your feet
and i, who can't possibly understand
the significance of real warfare.
inspired by Under Siege by Mahmound Darwish
i will not have a grave stone
because by the time i die,
they'll have thought of something better.
i wish you could say the same,
but it's becoming clearer each day
that you are already dying.
one poet's wish after another
for peace and skies clear of white
from the dust of dead neighbors
goes swiftly unheard by all
but the well-groomed dog at your feet
and i, who can't possibly understand
the significance of real warfare.
inspired by Under Siege by Mahmound Darwish
Monday, January 19, 2009
for my loved and lost
i sat across a coffee table
from Frank, George, Mina and Gertrude
with a bowl of cereal and a multivitamin
we made a list together
of all the girls i've loved
and let slip through my fingers
neither Mina nor Gertrude
keep the company of girls
and Frank is too much of a socialite
but George sees my worries as folly
for none of them are lost
only resting, silently,
waiting for me to finish my breakfast
from Frank, George, Mina and Gertrude
with a bowl of cereal and a multivitamin
we made a list together
of all the girls i've loved
and let slip through my fingers
neither Mina nor Gertrude
keep the company of girls
and Frank is too much of a socialite
but George sees my worries as folly
for none of them are lost
only resting, silently,
waiting for me to finish my breakfast
Sunday, January 18, 2009
wabi-sabi (give me i'll give you #27)
For Matt Dioguardi
meditation
with a
homely tree frog
mother
swimming in
the koi pond
we
are lost
in a poet's
world
meditation
with a
homely tree frog
mother
swimming in
the koi pond
we
are lost
in a poet's
world
shenandoah cupcake (give me i'll give you #26)
for Yasmin Elaine
the west was won
and great beasts tamed
by innocence and icing.
sprinkles that flirt with the tongue
atop curls of sweet frosting
and the lips of cowboys
left adorned
with moist crumbs
from women's biggest little secret:
the shenandoah cupcake.
the west was won
and great beasts tamed
by innocence and icing.
sprinkles that flirt with the tongue
atop curls of sweet frosting
and the lips of cowboys
left adorned
with moist crumbs
from women's biggest little secret:
the shenandoah cupcake.
Friday, January 16, 2009
city condo
3, 2, 1 blastoff
old Canadian paneling techniques
in modern city condos
made to order special deliveries.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
of fate and forsaken dreams (give me i'll give you #25)
for Sara Kelley
every other song about angels
ends with a singer humming the tune
and the orchestra pit subdues
as the conductor's arms fall
slowly like leaves to the stand
the wand, as close to magic
as he'll ever come.
every other song about angels
ends with a singer humming the tune
and the orchestra pit subdues
as the conductor's arms fall
slowly like leaves to the stand
the wand, as close to magic
as he'll ever come.
Flobble (give me i'll give you #24)
for Rowan Harris
the limits of space-time
don't stretch quite as far
as a vision of your wisdom
and bright purple hair
the limits of space-time
don't stretch quite as far
as a vision of your wisdom
and bright purple hair
On Leaving the Station (give me i'll give you #23)
for Morgan Elektra
as i exited the subway
a sturdy figure stood
observing the wet crowds
and as i passed i heard him
mumbling about the umbrellas
looking like funeral flowers
as i exited the subway
a sturdy figure stood
observing the wet crowds
and as i passed i heard him
mumbling about the umbrellas
looking like funeral flowers
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
The Blow to Glow (give me i'll give you #22)
for Kim Coakley
behind an old wooden door
cracked by the winds of ages
a blue imprint of an angel
lingering behind, for the touch
of a strong desire, a wish
but ever more the misguided
she falls in love with a dream
and sells her wings for dust
behind an old wooden door
cracked by the winds of ages
a blue imprint of an angel
lingering behind, for the touch
of a strong desire, a wish
but ever more the misguided
she falls in love with a dream
and sells her wings for dust
that dry/wet border on the edge of a rainstorm (give me i'll give you #21)
That dry/wet border on the edge of a rainstorm
(that you never see, but you know has to be there, logically)
for John Bell
i drew you a raincloud
with my high precision laser blaster
using the new weather-kit add on pack
and edging techniques passed on
from generation to generation
of regional weather gods.
i drew you this raincloud
in the shape of a tree
with lots of misty leaves
and muddy puddles
for logic to jump in
next time it has an idea.
i hope you like it.
(that you never see, but you know has to be there, logically)
for John Bell
i drew you a raincloud
with my high precision laser blaster
using the new weather-kit add on pack
and edging techniques passed on
from generation to generation
of regional weather gods.
i drew you this raincloud
in the shape of a tree
with lots of misty leaves
and muddy puddles
for logic to jump in
next time it has an idea.
i hope you like it.
the last pot roast on earth (give me i'll give you #20)
for Drook
on the very last friday of the very last calendar
someone scribbled a skull and cross bones
and we recycled all the old diet ginger ale cans
fashioned them into a sail that captures dirty molecules
on the very last friday of the very last calendar
someone scribbled a skull and cross bones
and we recycled all the old diet ginger ale cans
fashioned them into a sail that captures dirty molecules
rooms in parks (give me i'll give you #19)
for Drook
i had to put my foot down
when you pointed to the parkinglot
and dangled a key in front of me
from an old shoelace.
you thought you were clever
trading it in for that?
a house on wheels
and two sets of snow shoes?
i want my mp3 player back,
this is over. i'm out.
i had to put my foot down
when you pointed to the parkinglot
and dangled a key in front of me
from an old shoelace.
you thought you were clever
trading it in for that?
a house on wheels
and two sets of snow shoes?
i want my mp3 player back,
this is over. i'm out.
when the ice cream melted (give me i'll give you #18)
for Nicole McLernon
i tried to bring you presents
in square boxes, decorated
in the finest confection
a baker could have anticipated
but once i'd reached your door
i realized my mistake
alas, all the ice cream had melted
and there was no more room for cake
i tried to bring you presents
in square boxes, decorated
in the finest confection
a baker could have anticipated
but once i'd reached your door
i realized my mistake
alas, all the ice cream had melted
and there was no more room for cake
What does the angel give you if you win? (give me i'll give you #17)
for Russell Ragsdale
'you cannot win' she says
as she pulls the blindfold down off your eyes
revealing the course of obstacles before you
'but if you do, by some chance'
her voice is like a song with no end
the anticipation building
as she breaths beautiful warmth
down the nape of your neck
she whispers 'you may have me'
and now you know, you must win.
'you cannot win' she says
as she pulls the blindfold down off your eyes
revealing the course of obstacles before you
'but if you do, by some chance'
her voice is like a song with no end
the anticipation building
as she breaths beautiful warmth
down the nape of your neck
she whispers 'you may have me'
and now you know, you must win.
Lord Dark (give me i'll give you #16)
for Russell Ragsdale
a pin point towards
the light in your eyes
a reflection of knowing
just how deep the river's flesh
flows past the wondering finger
as it dips below the surface
the light of questions
unanswerable by blood
the sheild of age
and the dark bedchambers of wives
a pin point towards
the light in your eyes
a reflection of knowing
just how deep the river's flesh
flows past the wondering finger
as it dips below the surface
the light of questions
unanswerable by blood
the sheild of age
and the dark bedchambers of wives
shiny (give me i'll give you #15)
for Mick Regan
you sprung me from jail
for a pat on the back
and a pillow case full
of old glory and grit
you'll learn...
there's nothing pretty
about escapology if you can't
bend your arms behind your back
without breaking them
you sprung me from jail
for a pat on the back
and a pillow case full
of old glory and grit
you'll learn...
there's nothing pretty
about escapology if you can't
bend your arms behind your back
without breaking them
a burning vein (give me i'll give you #14)
for Kristen Tortilla Williams
you take yourself so seriously,
it makes you burst into laughter
on the spot of accusation.
your ride your bicycle with purpose,
other than falling into a puddle of mud
that matches the color or your shoes.
three things that remind him of you,
the tall and the room and the loft
of suggestions held down by good will.
you take yourself so seriously,
it makes you burst into laughter
on the spot of accusation.
your ride your bicycle with purpose,
other than falling into a puddle of mud
that matches the color or your shoes.
three things that remind him of you,
the tall and the room and the loft
of suggestions held down by good will.
those same six songs (give me i'll give you #13)
for John Cabral
i demand a choir of ambivalent wisdom
surrounded by painkilling nurses with guns
redemption is the widow's veil
on the doorknob of your inner sanctum
a counciltation of magnificent wit
and worry not for the pride of your team
to bury the good book by fire's kiss
at dawn on a private field of frost
i demand a choir of ambivalent wisdom
surrounded by painkilling nurses with guns
redemption is the widow's veil
on the doorknob of your inner sanctum
a counciltation of magnificent wit
and worry not for the pride of your team
to bury the good book by fire's kiss
at dawn on a private field of frost
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Cake or Death (give me i'll give you #12)
for Elaine Garbarine
span the night, a warrior's path
to the tower of devil's food or lemon delight
to eat your way out
the frosted crest with fork or spoon
and a side of ice cream.
span the night, a warrior's path
to the tower of devil's food or lemon delight
to eat your way out
the frosted crest with fork or spoon
and a side of ice cream.
Hello, old friend, it's been a while (give me i'll give you #11)
for Brian Boutwell
across the table
in a nondescript diner
in a nondescript souther town
in a state of hot breath
and bone chilling plastic seat covers
a reunion of old all still the same
covering tracks and past misspellings
memorizing new lines in old faces.
hello, old friend. it has been a while, hasn't it?
across the table
in a nondescript diner
in a nondescript souther town
in a state of hot breath
and bone chilling plastic seat covers
a reunion of old all still the same
covering tracks and past misspellings
memorizing new lines in old faces.
hello, old friend. it has been a while, hasn't it?
Mou'sif (poème pathétique) (give me i'll give you #10)
for Ashraf Osman
there is no sound like the ripening of mud
against the tires of your bicycle
to melt your inner most will to climb
the hill behind your childhood home.
peculiar scents, familiarize your dysfunction
as a common feature among men of your gender
but to tell your father face-to-face
in the heat of this autumn humidity
would care too far the sensitivity
of family and war ridden, muddy slopes.
there is no sound like the ripening of mud
against the tires of your bicycle
to melt your inner most will to climb
the hill behind your childhood home.
peculiar scents, familiarize your dysfunction
as a common feature among men of your gender
but to tell your father face-to-face
in the heat of this autumn humidity
would care too far the sensitivity
of family and war ridden, muddy slopes.
I Miss Living In The Brothel (give me i'll give you #9)
for Mary K
waking to the sound
of aluminum bunk beds against plastered walls
the begrudging water falls
to fill the chipped tub
and one man rests on a sofa
sipping matte and humming
old leonard cohen songs sweat
through the layers of carpet
to wake me fully
before i see that bus i need
pass the house, full of people
and not one of them looking back.
waking to the sound
of aluminum bunk beds against plastered walls
the begrudging water falls
to fill the chipped tub
and one man rests on a sofa
sipping matte and humming
old leonard cohen songs sweat
through the layers of carpet
to wake me fully
before i see that bus i need
pass the house, full of people
and not one of them looking back.
Just. Cakey. (give me i'll give you #8)
for Michelle Lee
sit pondering the color of frosting:
pink, or green?
pink... with green sprinkles?
and a strawberry.
wrapping up in winter garbs
to fetch strawberries
from the local supermarket.
this cake will be perfect.
do you write it an ode,
or wait and compose a eulogy
on a full stomach?
sit pondering the color of frosting:
pink, or green?
pink... with green sprinkles?
and a strawberry.
wrapping up in winter garbs
to fetch strawberries
from the local supermarket.
this cake will be perfect.
do you write it an ode,
or wait and compose a eulogy
on a full stomach?
The Rhetoric Monster (give me i'll give you #7)
for Nate Byrnes
the doubt sets in real fast
as the tie clad man in hat approaches.
hiding under the carpet is no good,
too much soup, you think.
full stop. can i stop time?
the power of your mind is too weak,
too many blogs, you think.
try to become invisible,
but the cement walls are too damp
to lean against, you know.
he knocks and each thump
syncronized to your heart beats.
he's going to kill you with
big words.
the doubt sets in real fast
as the tie clad man in hat approaches.
hiding under the carpet is no good,
too much soup, you think.
full stop. can i stop time?
the power of your mind is too weak,
too many blogs, you think.
try to become invisible,
but the cement walls are too damp
to lean against, you know.
he knocks and each thump
syncronized to your heart beats.
he's going to kill you with
big words.
little toe, big toe (give me i'll give you #6)
for Nicole Beaudoin
virgin toes in dirty sand
the first thought this morning
was wasted on artificial causes
and desires unmet by the sea
she looks out onto, in the early
of morning and cold winds march
across the seaside shipwreck
in her mortal's wicked dreaming
virgin toes in dirty sand
the first thought this morning
was wasted on artificial causes
and desires unmet by the sea
she looks out onto, in the early
of morning and cold winds march
across the seaside shipwreck
in her mortal's wicked dreaming
get out of town (give me i'll give you #5)
for Nicole Beaudoin
this and that the get out of town
to the pink slippers she says 'start walking'
this and that the get out of town
to the pink slippers she says 'start walking'
Discovering the Benefits of Acai (give me i'll give you #4)
for Beth Ayer
the morning after, wrapped in his arms
you catch a glimpse
of his Brazilian drivers' license
on the bed-side stand,
but the dates are wrong.
there's no way he's that old.
the morning after, wrapped in his arms
you catch a glimpse
of his Brazilian drivers' license
on the bed-side stand,
but the dates are wrong.
there's no way he's that old.
this train doesn't stop that often (give me i'll give you #3)
for Beth Ayer
'can i pick from these trees?' the young boy asks the old man
a big plastic basket tied to his waste
'yes you can son. from the top branches.'
the boy thinks as he climbs, i am not your son.
'can i pick from these trees?' the young boy asks the old man
a big plastic basket tied to his waste
'yes you can son. from the top branches.'
the boy thinks as he climbs, i am not your son.
classy is a philosophy (give me i'll give you #2)
for Jenni Baker
spread stockings over a delicate duvet cover
imported from Holland alongside the painting
of colorful bell peppers hanging in the lounge
the doorbell rings, the hum of pearls on pearls
fulfilling the backdrop of intimate business
and only the lack of scent hangs on your position
spread stockings over a delicate duvet cover
imported from Holland alongside the painting
of colorful bell peppers hanging in the lounge
the doorbell rings, the hum of pearls on pearls
fulfilling the backdrop of intimate business
and only the lack of scent hangs on your position
pneumatic mnemonic (give me i'll give you #1)
for Ryan Acheson
the strain on knowledge
when the credits run too long
forgetting names and faces
of famous actors
each one, replaced by an element
on our periodic dining table
the worry sets in and you sulk
curled up on the sofa with a cat in your lap
mumbling names of people you've met
on the streets of imaginary towns
the strain on knowledge
when the credits run too long
forgetting names and faces
of famous actors
each one, replaced by an element
on our periodic dining table
the worry sets in and you sulk
curled up on the sofa with a cat in your lap
mumbling names of people you've met
on the streets of imaginary towns
give me a title, i'll give you a poem
if you're familiar with explodingdog.com, then you already know the drill. but if you don't here's how it works... sam from exploding dog draws pictures to go along with the titles his fans email in to him. he even does live art shows where he gets titles from people observing then draws the picture right there and then.
since i'm feeling deprived of inspiration and in desperate need to compose... i'm going to do the same as sam, but with poems.
i've done similar poetry experiments before (in the vein on john ashbury's collaboration with artists (when i remember the one's name, or find any reference to it, i'll link it, but i'm at a loss a the moment)), but this time i want input from some new creative people.
so, you suggest a title for a poem, and i will write it. each poem will be posted on this blog - and i'll do my best to either send an email with the poem in, or post it (or a link) in the comments thread on your blog (if you have one).
so, let the titles roll in...
p.s. i can't promise they'll be good > _ <
since i'm feeling deprived of inspiration and in desperate need to compose... i'm going to do the same as sam, but with poems.
i've done similar poetry experiments before (in the vein on john ashbury's collaboration with artists (when i remember the one's name, or find any reference to it, i'll link it, but i'm at a loss a the moment)), but this time i want input from some new creative people.
so, you suggest a title for a poem, and i will write it. each poem will be posted on this blog - and i'll do my best to either send an email with the poem in, or post it (or a link) in the comments thread on your blog (if you have one).
so, let the titles roll in...
p.s. i can't promise they'll be good > _ <
Monday, January 12, 2009
Sunday, January 11, 2009
we have a new doctor
not that i don't love david tennant as the doctor loads, but i was nervous about the regeneration from christopher to david because, like so many new-who-viewers i hadn't lived through one yet. this time, knowing that there are still four hour-long specials staring david, i am super excited about the new face of the doctor. and steven moffat at the helm of the show! it's going to be excellent.
Friday, January 09, 2009
relative
marshmallow icing over a hot cocoa weekend with the tree down, in the pile with last year's carcass there is the thought- how romantic of your insides - to want to plant each holiday in the ground and metaphor the landscape into a future kind with artificial sweetener aiding in the continued inconsistencies of morning rituals and as you brushing your teeth afterwards, thinking about diatoms and how little you really care about environment unless it impacts the size of the jeans you buy or the taste of your afternoon snack. overall, i think you're too hard on yourself. here, have a piece of gum.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
reply
"i fancy the hell out of you"
by way of reply to a "hello" kind of wave
across an isle of internet cafe in cambridge
the one opposite the little ice cream bar
"let me treat you" the hair falling over his left eye
cute, so i ask him "how?"
"what do you mean, how? with money"
"to what?"
he pointed across the street and smiled
a please-let-me smile.
by way of reply to a "hello" kind of wave
across an isle of internet cafe in cambridge
the one opposite the little ice cream bar
"let me treat you" the hair falling over his left eye
cute, so i ask him "how?"
"what do you mean, how? with money"
"to what?"
he pointed across the street and smiled
a please-let-me smile.
sing song la low notes
sweet tie, twinkle like birds' eyes
in a medieval mirror - misshaped
but happy
about the sea side, a gull choking
on cold welsh rarebit
i've just had my hair cut, we've just met.
so i'm not wondering if you'll notice,
but other mischievous thoughts burden
the color of your temper
and the complexion of your breakfast rituals.
haunting me, wishful triangle
or circle sequence and a note
passes from one train car to the next
etched on the dry parts
of a used tea bag.
in a medieval mirror - misshaped
but happy
about the sea side, a gull choking
on cold welsh rarebit
i've just had my hair cut, we've just met.
so i'm not wondering if you'll notice,
but other mischievous thoughts burden
the color of your temper
and the complexion of your breakfast rituals.
haunting me, wishful triangle
or circle sequence and a note
passes from one train car to the next
etched on the dry parts
of a used tea bag.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
a lineage of doctor who cakes
since ryan revealed all the wonderment of doctor who to me back in... 04? (was it really that long ago!?), i've been adventuring with doctor who icons and cakes. yep. tasty delicious cakes ^_^
liz and i recently bravely entered into a new area of caking - we made fondant icing!
before i unveil the latest creation, let me roll you through past cakes...
first, was the Dalek Cake
i made a chocolate swiss roll from scratch, which was very very messy, but also very very tasty.
then, the TARDIS Cake
Ryan had a TARDIS shaped cake for his 3rd or 4th birthday, and asked for a reprise of such a beloved cake for his 26th (i think it was 26th). Kerry, Ryan's sister, and I toiled a bit to get the thing standing, and it didn't taste too magnificent, but it looked great, and the cupcakes did taste good--we we made out in the end.
then there was the Slitheen Cake
which, as you can see, looks like crap. BUT, it tasted brilliant and everyone enjoyed the green-colored, lemon-flavored wonderment of its insides, so I guess that's a win on one front.
then, the Cyberman Cake
he was made mostly of frosting. and although most people ate the cake out from under the super thick layer of gray marshmallowy fondant, it did taste incredible and i'd say he looks pretty amazing too. double win.
now... what's next?
liz and i recently bravely entered into a new area of caking - we made fondant icing!
before i unveil the latest creation, let me roll you through past cakes...
first, was the Dalek Cake
i made a chocolate swiss roll from scratch, which was very very messy, but also very very tasty.
then, the TARDIS Cake
Ryan had a TARDIS shaped cake for his 3rd or 4th birthday, and asked for a reprise of such a beloved cake for his 26th (i think it was 26th). Kerry, Ryan's sister, and I toiled a bit to get the thing standing, and it didn't taste too magnificent, but it looked great, and the cupcakes did taste good--we we made out in the end.
then there was the Slitheen Cake
which, as you can see, looks like crap. BUT, it tasted brilliant and everyone enjoyed the green-colored, lemon-flavored wonderment of its insides, so I guess that's a win on one front.
then, the Cyberman Cake
he was made mostly of frosting. and although most people ate the cake out from under the super thick layer of gray marshmallowy fondant, it did taste incredible and i'd say he looks pretty amazing too. double win.
now... what's next?
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
some winter bard
startling though a joyous scene,
the sight of a sick man
dancing in the street
his feet caked in red mud
and bandaged stubs
where fingers should be
dancing and laughing
to the strumming and humming
of an old bard's song
the day before Christmas
amidst the shoppers and quarrelers
inspiring children and mothers
sewing the spirit's seed
through imaginary gardens
brought to life through the words
of a traveling bard with no name
and three children at his feet
chiming bells and trash can covers
the sight of a sick man
dancing in the street
his feet caked in red mud
and bandaged stubs
where fingers should be
dancing and laughing
to the strumming and humming
of an old bard's song
the day before Christmas
amidst the shoppers and quarrelers
inspiring children and mothers
sewing the spirit's seed
through imaginary gardens
brought to life through the words
of a traveling bard with no name
and three children at his feet
chiming bells and trash can covers
Sunday, December 21, 2008
snow (to be continued)
first, there was no snow.
and then there was. (looks like we even got some paper snow...)
lots of snow.
Jack looks surprised at all the white stuff.
or maybe he was scared, seeing has how he ended up in ryan's lap ^_^ kawaii!
decorating the tree (part 3)
the first part of the decorations to go on the tree was the bow at the top, preceded by the red string at the top of the tree and the hook on the ceiling--a preventative measure to keep the tree and the computer safe from one another at all times.
Rowdy helped with the lights.
a little garland goes a long way.
Jack helped us make this really long paper chain.
pretty lights... but missing something...
cards and presents add the final touches ^_^
oh crimbo tree (part 1)
we went to Hyannis Garden Center after I called a few places who told me they didn't have any more trees left. This place had plenty and at all sorts of prices. We picked out a medium tree ^_^
Here's Liz and I walking into the store to pay for the tree. I was so happy to get one finally. We'd all been so busy with work and school and stitches and all sorts, we had to wait until the 18th to finally get the tree.
The tree didn't exactly fit in the car, but we made it home just fine.
Liz and I did all the tree putting up, which Ryan did exactly what I'd asked him to: take pictures of everything.
Liz loves the smell of pine, how cute ^_^
It took a little jiggery pockery...
... but we got the tree standing pretty straight in the end.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
troubleshooting
to pin point the problem,
just let her cry.
hold her with big arms.
keep her warm and close
until the fire is drowned,
doused out with reason.
just let her cry.
hold her with big arms.
keep her warm and close
until the fire is drowned,
doused out with reason.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
canadian pancakes
a fondly on the sofa, he
picked up at the airport
on his way home from the south.
so he chooses to catch her,
make her pancakes
while finishing the local brew
straight from the jug.
butter out, and syrup warming on the stove
along side the cooper bottomed pan
if he's going to make her breakfast
he's going to do it properly.
seduction is not an art,
it's a skill.
picked up at the airport
on his way home from the south.
so he chooses to catch her,
make her pancakes
while finishing the local brew
straight from the jug.
butter out, and syrup warming on the stove
along side the cooper bottomed pan
if he's going to make her breakfast
he's going to do it properly.
seduction is not an art,
it's a skill.
dear big little orange
dear big little orange cat,
two years old
and you still sleep
on my head at night,
slowly pushing
my head off the pillow
until i wake up, and reclaim it.
you've got a wet sniffer
and you're sneezing again
sleeping more because
of your kitty sized cold.
i am sick at home,
for the second day now
and i'm more inclined
to take you to the vet's
than i am
to take myself to the doctor's.
all my love, to my little bit orange monster,
get well soon
two years old
and you still sleep
on my head at night,
slowly pushing
my head off the pillow
until i wake up, and reclaim it.
you've got a wet sniffer
and you're sneezing again
sleeping more because
of your kitty sized cold.
i am sick at home,
for the second day now
and i'm more inclined
to take you to the vet's
than i am
to take myself to the doctor's.
all my love, to my little bit orange monster,
get well soon
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