Monday, January 31, 2005

Glorious Quiche Lorraine, home-style, a la Bocuse; I wish you could smell this! Posted by Hello
Who says life is only difficulty?  Posted by Hello

Tuesday, January 25, 2005

It is a struggle and blessing to convey our surroundings when so much of them are internal; how interestingly we color our external reality with our internal one. It is not a filter, no, much more than that, it is a bright painting spread confusingly on top of another one. For me it is so interesting that I step outside to see what is inside and in writing about it I learn, more or less, to gracefully align them both.
These are Blini (Central Asian style). They are served my favorite way with vareniya (CA style jam, in this case from apricot trees in front of my dacha) and sour cream. They are hot, buttered and folded in quarters. Posted by Hello

Friday, January 14, 2005

oak lullaby

snowing now
almost defying gravity
a heavy burden
tumbling down a
light lazy blanket of water and air
dull soft inverted world
sky cant be seen
dark above
brightness falling
cold stardust
precipitating locally
in a small
still living part
of the cosmic killing jar
a hint of coming
the smell of ice

don’t fear
little acorn
a clue to stupidity
limiting the world to only
what can be seen

trees sleep hope
and talk to god in
warm rivulet dreams

Tuesday, January 04, 2005

Cup's Corner 5

The street and the fresh air did only little to steady Sidney. He continued to be in a preoccupied state and Mr. Lorry was satisfied, for the most part, to walk along with him silently. When he got to the neighborhood where the wine bar was, he became visibly more agitated and was trying t figure out what to say so he could take his leave and head off to calm himself. It was then that Mr. Lorry rather abruptly said something that caught his attention.

“You’ve been struggling with it lately, haven’t you,” he asked?

It was as if he had been listening to the raging that was going on in Sidney’s head and the sudden question was very embarrasing. Sidney, momentarily at a loss for words, struggled to put a line of thought together that was worth communicating with normal company but before he could staunch the dammaged flow, Mr. Lorry spoke again.

“You’ve been to that bar a thousand times but that has only led you to this frustration your having now,” he said. He quietly added, “you’d be better off to go back to the Manette’s, even in this state, then to go back in there again.”

With that a volcano of words erupted from Sidney’s mouth without his even thinking about them. “Am I just following old patterns? I know where those lead and I am tired of not being where I want to be. Can I start something new? Do I have to always be flawed with this terrible weakness as I have always been? Can hope be found or am I always to be something which might have been noble and happy but is now to be nothing more than a prisoner of these chains. I am wretched in these shackles watching the world go happily by the window of my self made cell. Can I not crush these walls just as I have made them,” he asked?

“There is hope,” was Mr. Lorry’s taciturn response and he took Sidney’s arm as the headed off in the direction of Sidney’s rooms. A wellspring of emotion gushed forward in Sidney and, constantly having to dry his eyes, he allowed himself to be led home. Mr. Lorry doctored him with some laudinum, when they had arrived, and Sidney found himself drifting stupidly on some happy fog. With this, he allowed himself to be put to bed and placidly began to drift out from shore on the placid waters of lake sleep. He remembered seeing Mr. Lorry leave but he seemed to have drifted so far from the scene that saying anything was rather less valuable than talking to a painting of a person. In the ensuing darkness, he watched with detached amusement, many slow and happy scenes.

Until Mr. Lorry awakened him (apparently he had spent the night in a chair in the next room), he wasn’t sure wether he had slept or had gone off on a journey to some strange, placid, new land. That strange fog seemed to be clearing somewhat but he found himself irritatingly sluggish. They had coffee together and Mr. Lorry excused himself, saying that duties at the bank required his presence. It wasn’t until after he had bathed and dressed in crisp fresh clothes that a sense of seamlessness was replaced by the awarenessof things having definable edges, such as the starched collar of his shirt and the hems of his cuffs. Creases and gathers sewn into the cloth of his suit seemed to be satisfyingly precise and the cut of the gem in his ring was pleasantly sharp. It wouldn’t be until early afternoon of a long day in court before he would sense the hunger for more of the opiated calm that he was now so glad was passing.