Litany, by Billy Collins

You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
-Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.

The poem as recited by an enthusiastic three year old.

And by the author on City Arts and Lectures.
This is the same poet who wrote "Taking off Emily Dickinson's Clothes" which you will have to google yourself.

For My Friend Randy Who Sends Me Random Ideas

What Are You Standing On?

I. What I am standing on
is an island
an island
so small
I can feel
each particle of earth
slip away
under the ridges
on the prints
of my toes.

II. What I am exploring
with my arms and legs
is warm
and large as a mountain
with head-high stalks
impeding every step.
I throw out a line
to steady myself.
The wind catches it
and I drift away.

Tableau

Tableau

Two pink porcelain roses
beneath an ornate, carved
jade-colored
asian vase

Graduated pelicans
form an accusing trio
looking down their long
salmon-colored beaks

One lonely walrus
on his island of driftwood,
his hide and tusks
made from originals long-dead
overlooks

a red-clawed family
of turquoise crabs

1/21/09

Haiku High Five

Yet another reason to get over there and check out the Cleaner Plate Club again: Agribusiness Haiku. I hope she doesn't mind me posting it here, it was just so damn good. There are more.

For Monsanto
Your stock grows…in Hell.
GMOs: they’re a sin now!
Sez who? The pope, dude.

A Different Kind of Snow

I know I give Modesto a hard time sometimes. It's the Anti-New York: the city that always sleeps. Two seasons: Hot and Fog. The Midwest of California. (With no offense to the actual Midwest.)

Although I miss some of the people that are still there, springtime is the only time I really miss the Central Valley. Since I'm not there to show you, you should take a look at this Flickr search of blossoms in Modesto. And this one.

During one of our poorest times, when Mike and I first got together and he was working so that I could finish my last year of college, we lived in the only house that I could find where I could have a dog. It was in the middle of an almond orchard on the outskirts of the tiny town of Hilmar. Hilmar is most famous for its cheese factory, a facility that actually makes more money from its whey, aka protein powder, than its cheese, these days.

We lived across from and down the road from muddy Portuguese dairies that partied to tuba music on Saturday nights, and down the road from an enormous turkey farm. Turkeys, in case you didn't know a) stink in the summertime and b) frequently suffocate or perish from other causes, which c) creates a pile of dead turkeys that, well, see a). When Mike would pick me up from school in our one shared vehicle, we'd stop at the stop sign on the way home, count to three, hold our breath, and drive as fast as we could past the stench. Sometimes only to suck in a lung-full of eau de cow manure on the first breath.

It was where we learned to do the "country wave" which is holding up your hand in a sort of straight-forearm, bent elbow "how" position (think Tonto) when driving or walking towards anyone on a country road. At first, we couldn't figure out why everyone was waving at us. Finally we went with it. It's what you do in the country. In Hilmar, in Napa Valley, or anywhere. You can always tell the "city people" wherever you are, because they don't get "the wave". It's like secret handshake, or maybe a secret salute. In your neighborhood in town, you do it to your neighbors, but in the country, you do it to everyone, whether you know them or not.

Our house, humble, paneled and bi-sected as it was, was literally surrounded by almond trees in a well-groomed orchard, with levees every few rows for irrigation from the canals, (or for tripping over during late-night drunken camera-tag). Most of the year, the orchard was dusty or muddy, depending on the season. Or full of noise and tractors shaking the "L" out of the "A-mands". (Yes, that's how they get that way.)

After the seemingly endless dense, damp gray of a Central Valley winter, when the cows looked miserable and droopy and piles of silage steamed in the cold, springtime was magical. Corridor upon corridor of white and pink flowers bloomed on every country road. Our little house was surrounded by white trees snowing a fairy snow of white petals. Seen through the window, silent but for the faint singing of birds, the petals fluttered down, covering the dust. (Like this.) Mike's niece Mackenzie was born in the spring of that year. I remember going to see her when she was first born, how fragile and serious she looked, how delicate. Returning home, I sat and watched the flowers rain their quiet snow, and wrote a poem about how lovely it was that she came at such a gentle time, as though the transition from one quiet world to another had been pre-arranged. Sometime I'll dig that poem up and post it.

Happy Spring.

Produce of the Day Extravaganza

A missed gem-- I wish I could remember the name of this beautiful watermelon. And figs, figs figs. End of summer, beginning of fall.

I started taking photographs to document the flowers and the produce of each season, so that I could paint them all in watercolor. Then I found that I loved just taking the pictures. When I paint, it tends to be quick and simplistic. A little bit naive. Although I am an excellent pencil drawer, if I do say so myself, when I start working with color, I want to get right into it. Color enthralls, but it also distracts. Some artists can see in color, and reproduce it. (See Robert Chunn) For me, color is so fun that I want to skip past the accurate rendering of the object.

I am shite at flowers. So many details, so many beautiful colors. My eye struggles to see depth and volume, whereas with fruits and vegetables, I can still sense the orb, or the stalk, almost the weight of the object.

But my idea was to start documenting what was around each month, with the idea of eventually doing a calendar/cookbook. Since I didn't grow up with the seasonal connection to food, (aside from summer peaches, that is) I wanted to make a calendar and cookbook that helped other people like myself. I found a cookbook that does a fantastic job of this: The Garden Fresh Vegetable Cookbook. THIS IS A GREAT COOKBOOK. But, alas, it does not have photos OR art. Not even simple line drawings which, by the way, I could provide for you if you need them. When I was a restaurant manager, I drew all of the coloring pages for children myself. A pizza on a paddle, a regional map of Italy with all of the foods identified, a field of mustard and an explanation of why it is important in the Napa Valley. My pizza is still used at some of the restaurants.

But, as usual after a glass of wine, I have wandered far from the path. Maybe it is the smell of a plum-blackberry upside down cake in its last five minutes of baking that is distracting me. Maybe it is the fact that I have just purchased the espresso painting from Robert Chunn While writing this post. That's right, it's mine now, and you can't have it.

Maybe it is the fact that I spent the day with Maggie and Molly, and we had such a nice time that I've had a halo effect on the rest of my day. I'm going to go post a picture from that so you can see.

San Francisku

Oh, San Francisco
Chilly city-- hilly city
San Francisco

Don't Drink and Blog

It's Saturday night, and I'm having a fantastic time. There is an event onsite at the property, and Mike is occupied driving around in a golf cart, turning lights on and off, and otherwise lending a genial hand. He's a good guy. He might be bombing in at any moment.

As for me, I came home from work, opened a bottle of wine, made myself a nice big salad with some veggie box greens and tomatoes (from Cabo, not from veggie box yet) and some cold cuts, and sat down in a lounger outside to listen to the jazz music from the event and read some magazines. I read almost all of Blueprint, which is unfortunately a Martha Stewart publication, but which was intriguing just the same. "Not your mother's Martha Stewart" I think they put it in one ad. Fresher, more modern, less stately and perfect than Martha.

This is my ideal evening. I left all of the shades open until it was completely dark, the TV is not on, Norah Jones is playing softly in the background. As soon as it got too dark to see the mosquitos before they saw me, I came inside, gave the dog a tennis ball to chew on, and continued reading. I just finished Eat, Pray, Love, by Elizabeth Gilbert, which I loved, so I bought two more of her books and may dig into one of them tonight. (PS- If Mike ever left me, this is what I would do every night, after I finished crying my eyes out for a thousand years.)I realize I have been lax in my blogging. I am a little stressed out about an upcoming deadline, which makes me feel like if I am at the computer, I should be WORKING, dammit. But the solution will present itself shortly, and I will be finished and on my way to Hawai'i soon. Yeah, that's right, I am going on vacation for a week. Try not to miss me.

Here is one of the things I meant to put up this week while my nose was getting grindstone rash:
Strawberries, and how I keep them fresh. This seems to work for me, though I have never seen it advised anywhere. Strawberries seem to deteriorate quickly in the refrigerator, drying out and losing their pleasant firmness. Fruit without its firmness is unappealing, unless it is a fig, in which case, figs with stretch marks and a little give are the sweetest (I so hope that women are more like figs than strawberries.) I rinse the strawberries (organic please-- strawberries are the most contaminated when pesticides are involved) place a paper towel on the lid, and then flip the whole thing over in the fridge. This seems to keep the strawberries hydrated, instead of turning gray and shriveled, but lets them drain so they don't sit in water and mold. Like I said, most written material advises against washing any berry before storage, but this works for me for the several days that it seems to take me to eat a container of berries.

If your lettuce or spinach gets wilty, don't throw it out, just put it in a large bowl with cold water until it is crisp and vibrant again, roll it in paper towels and put it back in the veggie drawer. Same with herbs. Rinsed and rolled in paper towels (recycled of course) they'll last nicely for at least a week. Even rubbery carrots and celery will perk up with a little water.

A few shots you missed this week:




Fava beans, asparagus and ham pasta, flowers, butterflies, the flowers Mike got me for doing all of the things I do (get your mind out of the gutter, he was talking about taxes and finances and keeping this ship afloat, and maybe some other stuff) and my gardening project, a big pot for the front porch, with a red-0range "dragon lady" cross vine, bacopa (yes, I know this will be scalded by the sun) and some scotch moss for that hit of lime green. I really like the way it turned out, and even better, the lawn sprinklers hit it in the morning so I don't have to water it every day. So far. But it isn't 100 degrees yet, so that could change.

My friend Randy, in the Marshall Islands, sent me an email briefly describing a bizarre but beautiful moment he witnessed in the hall at school (The College of the Marshall Islands).

This is what he wrote: "I was walking through a crowded walkway the other day (crowded because it was between classes) and was a few feet behind a young man. Approaching from the other direction was a young woman. As she walked by, without stopping or saying a word, she placed a half-eaten piece of cake in the young man's hand. He, without stopping or saying a word, put the whole half-eaten piece of cake in his mouth and kept walking. It was just really cool and elegant."

This is what I wrote:

He called her on her cell phone.
She took a bite of cake,
wiped her mouth off with the back of her hand
and flipped open the phone.
"Mouf?" she said.
"Hi, it's me. I'll see you in the hall between classes."
"Meff." she said.
"And you'll give me your answer then, right?"
"Yeff." she said, licking the crumbs from her lips, "I will."
As she approached him on the covered walkway,
her hips carved out a slalom course in the air.
Her hair was long and heavy and shiny black.
As he approached, her heart stirred, but her face was serene.
She placed the half-eaten piece of cake in his hand as she passed without stopping.
He put the whole piece in his mouth without thinking twice.
Walking on, her smile was wide like the seam on a bean.
His grin was broad and full of cake.

(I added a word, Randy, if you are reading this, I hope you don't mind me sharing all of this.) Randy and I had a poetry class together about a million years ago at Stanislaus State University, and he is very good at sending me what our instructor called "triggers" or things that you use as starting points for a piece of poetry. I used to write a lot, but I haven't lately.

Ok, so that's my week in a coconut shell. Aloha.

Dragging it Around

For the record, here is my knee today.

On another subject, my friends Emilio and Monty have cats. Two of the cats are psychotic and do not like affection. Sometimes at night, in a very un-catlike way, they drag small articles of clothing (even bathroom rugs!) around the house and wail and cry. It is a very strange thing for a cat to do.

When I was in college, and before, I wrote a lot of poetry. Here is something I have been dragging around with me for years:

God is Great

Isn't God great?
Awesome, man. Pass the popcorn.

Earl met his girlfriend
at the church club meeting
for students.
They were praying and singing
playing religion games.
Biblical twister
put your right foot in Jordan,
your left ear on a pillar of salt
and such.
The whole time, Earl was
thinking
"I want to date her."
She was overweight,
a parasitology major.
But she volunteered to
teach him the fox-trot
and the two-step
in dance class
the next day.
She was probably thinking
the same thing
Earl sometimes has greasy hair
and he snorts when he laughs.
He'll watch baseball all day long if
you let him.
He says Sharlene is the
most giving person he's ever met.
He's going to marry her.
God
is great.

(Hi Kristin.)