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olive

the smooth muscular cord
in olive hues, a great
heaving pull of which would
draw back her lip with such
grand presentation
to feature such a magnificant sneer,
had that morning
begun to tremble like
matchstick legs
a fearful black chihuahua,
or like the jerking dance
of half a squirrel
run into the asphalt.

---

I haven't written or meditated in a while.  This morning, when I finally meditated, I finally knew what to write - and just goes to show that the two are so closely linked.

the method of marking time

The last nine months passed in a pleasant rhythm.

morning|afternoon|evening|night

breakfast|smoke-o|lunch|afternoon tea|dinner|drink

summer|summer|summer|summer

solitude|instruction|work|rest

cool|warmth|heat|heat|warmth

arrive|love|goodbyes

Returning to this busy land meant remembering the more standard measures of days, hours, minutes.  After such long months of only the most haphazard frames of time thrown together much like the amateur fences that we built, it was hard to imagine this mathematical chart of chronology.  As a celebration of returning to days that were busy enough to merit marking people's names, locations and times down, I decided that it was time to purchase myself a calendar.

I had a general idea of what this calendar would be: small enough to carry around so that I could reference it quickly, have a protective cover of some sort, ideally have both monthly and weekly calendars with lots of space for me to write things down, be not too terribly expensive and not too terribly disfigured.  The synchronicity of the beginning of the school year gave me hope that the back-to-school market would be saturated with calendars for all those organization-hopefuls.

There were plenty of calendars of all different shapes, sizes, and prices filled with unnecessary pages and doodads and stamped all over with different brand names.  I quickly gave up on the idea on finding the perfect calendar and decided that it was much more likely that I would find success by altering an existing calendar.  My purchases consisted of some vellum paper with a thistley, black silhouette and a pleasantly bright yellow piece of card from the trendy scrapbooking section of Michael's, and a small calendar that I found on sale at Target.

It was so simple to create this perfect calendar.  The most challenging part was the idea.  All that remained was cutting the vellum with an exacto-knife, cutting the card, and then punching holes in all the same places as the circle binding and replacing the generic color-dot cover.  Suddenly I have the calendar that I wanted all along, and that fond association brings joy to me every time that an excuse arises for me to pull it out of my bag.

And now I am filling those pages with the names of the incredible people that are slowly being introduced into my life, with the new responsibilities that I've hoped for, the classes I've been yearning to take.

Now even the marking of time brings me joy in ways it never had before.

doom

doomdoomdoomdoomdoomdoomdoomdoomdoom
doooooomdooomdoooooooomdooomdoooooom
doooomdooooooomdoooomdooooooomdoooom
doooomdoooooooooomdoooooooooomdoooom
doooooomdooooooooooooooooooomdooooom
dooooooomdooooooooooooooooomdoooooom
dooooooooomdoooooooooooooomdooooooom
dooooooooooomdoooooooooomdooooooooom
dooooooooooooomdoooooomdooooooooooom
dooooooooooooooomdoomdooooooooooooom
doooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooom

shamefully

i did not get around to writing a blog post yesterday.  i was too busy trying different kinds of rum in milk punches.  so here is a sexy picture to make up for it.

'pure-finders'

I read this quote, describing the squalid nature of Georgian London -

"At the lower end were occupations now not only lost but barely recorded: that of the 'Pure-finders,' for instance, old women who collected dog-turds which they sold to tanneries for a few pence a bucket (the excrement was used as a siccative in dressing fine bookbinding leather)."
The Fatal Shore, by Robert Hughes

- and immediately behind my eyelids appeared images of the old asian women who wandered around the Berkeley campus, who reached into the trashcans and stomped the plastic bottles and aluminum cans flat as students like me walked importantly from point A to point B, glancing briefly at them as long as it was certain that eye-contact would be avoided.

And I wonder what their stories were that I never bothered to ask, and never bothered to record, and whether they will be lost as well.

fairy tale sunset

ben is wearing clothes by __. it doesn't matter who designed them.  he sits on a burnt out and rusted van by __.  you will never know if it was a domestic or an import.  the sky was brought to you courtesy of what could have been any number of days.  it was lived by the three of us and is now available for your viewing pleasure.

42 died.

42 died today.

Parched and dry from working in the heat,
      existing at such a rapid speed.

They could be seen driven to the water, leaning in for a sip
and then a moment of panic as her very molecular structure and tension wrapped around them,
the age-old siren pulling at their hands,
and dragging them under.

I wade warily through the chlorine blue shallows and wonder if a dead bee can still sting.

dust and dry brush

The other day, Devin read me a short story by Joan Didion about the Los Angeles area and the wildfires that tear through these hills during the summers.  Hearing the story while staring at the endless brown of dust and dry brush gave grounding to the images of wildfires that I can recall seeing on the television.  The dust billows and blows like a diaphanous skirt, so you practically have to tiptoe the car down the driveway to keep the ground decent.  

I first really noticed the dryness when the little air plants (tillandsia of various sorts) that I had nurtured in San Francisco began to curl into themselves and cry out hoarsely.  A spray in the morning was no longer sufficient, even when they were being kept inside the kitchen.  If I stepped away and returned in a matter of thirty minutes, I'd return to see them scaly and rigid, as if their very existence was becoming ossified and they'd soon crunch like abandoned seashells into little calcified piles.  Soon all the littlest ones tipped over hollowly, and a rescue greenhouse was improvised for the sole survivor out of a plastic bag, where it finally seems to be recovering.

only life's potential

the garden erupted like a release of steam
from the pressure building up in my veins
my fingers churning up the dust and horse shit
circles and shadows calculating behind my eyes as i type out my intent in the earth
and plunge their punnet squares deep into soil
until i finally stand up and pull-crack my rigid spine
blink and finally see the instantaneous flowering of life where there was once
only life's potential.

the bee's knees

a little treat courtesy of Jim, Devin's dad

the bee's knees
the juice of one orange
the juice of one lemon
1 1/2 shots of gin
honey or honey flavored agave - sweeten to taste.

shake with ice, strain and serve