Sandy took the last leaves from the big Maple in front of the church, the sky is blue, very blue, and I’d like to go to Penzey’s Spice Shop to find something tasty and beautiful that is not sugar. Also, this post is filled with random and disparate things. Be warned.
It’s pear season. I can count on one hand the things I like about colder weather and impending winter. Pears are one of them. This morning I made myself some misbehaved oatmeal: I browned and sauteed a pear in a bit of coconut oil. I added a pinch of cardamom (just-crushed in my mortar and pestle), and a sprinkle of cinnamon. Right before taking them off the heat, I added a squirch of balsamic vinegar, which gives the sweet pears just a touch of sour. (The balsamic quickly cooks away leaving the pears a bit gooey in a caramel-y way. Hello, yes. I’m a foodie). I spooned the pears over my oatmeal, topped it all off with some toasted walnuts and declared the lot of it good and misbehaved.
There is no flow today. It’s all stop ‘n’ go.
I keep checking on things. Like that email that just ping-ed. I shouldn’t have. It was LinkedIn telling me I should follow Deepak Chopra. The fuck. Pissed me off. Stop telling me what to do, whom to like, whom to follow. Even if I like the person I am told about, I don’t want to hear it in that way. I am tired to death of promotion. I am tired to death of causes. It’s all noise. And I am saturated. Saturated.
Can I make it to the polls without being accosted? Do this. Don’t do that. Here, look here. Don’t look there. I am tired of the lot of you. Tired to death. Shut up. Just shut the fuck up. I am so hungry for straight up truth. The political, man-made world is so noisy these days, and I don’t even have a TV. Nature has a lot of sound. So much. And sometimes it’s very loud, too. But it’s different. I am tired of the noise that comes hand in hand with our need for political maps. Physical maps show so very much, including extremes, but they are not noisy: they show the ups and downs of mountains and valleys, the wide range of temperatures and climates, the depths of oceans, but there are no borders and, by extension, no border crossings. Political maps are all about the borders. And difference. And defense, and the need for guards.
Some people wear their security guards in their necks. Once upon a time I worked on a man who had about 10 guards in his neck and he couldn’t remember when he’d last been able to turn his head with ease. I work on necks like that, oh, at least once every couple of weeks. Sometimes more.
It’s getting cold.
I am a restless bunny. Today, I can’t seem to channel my restlessness into good. I am all over the place. I’ve closed some places of distraction, but still. So much restlessness.
I am tired. I want to be taken in. I want arms around. I want a time out. I want to be pinned down. I want to have no choice. No choices. None.
There is something burning in the house of me and I can’t find the burner to shut it off. I wish it’d just burn the house down already. Black Hockey Jesus’ entry yesterday really moved me. (Also, he knows about coming off of things). I’d like a fire to burn down my cravings, my desires, my attempts at love. My feeble, misguided attempts at love. But please, can I keep my coats?
I have two jackets. Given me by two of my attempts at love. I wear them, alternately, to keep warm these days. I have a mind to wear them both at once today. It’s so cold. I’d like them both to keep me warm. I want care. I am a restless, jumping bean and I want care.
That picture of my brother and me with the raisins. We were so little. That picture says it all. Of the 4 of us, I always finished my Easter candy first. No contest. I bet my sister still has her Easter candy from when she was 6. Mine was gone within hours. If that.
Oh, Life. Please find me. I feel lost.
What else. I feel jealous. Jealous of all things beautiful.
What else. I feel frightened. Of losing things. And people.
What else. I am horny. So horny I could fuck a tree. (And no, not just any tree will do).
What else. I ate too much too quickly. And I drank too much tea.
What else. Can I be with all of this with “unbearable compassion”? Ram Dass says it like that. Isn’t that beautiful? (And that, right there, is one beautiful thing that does not make me jealous today.)
I’d like to write about kindness. About how the sun shines on everyone, no matter what they ate or didn’t eat yesterday. Or this morning.
I’d like to write about kindness. About how Saffron, my housemate, grinned at me this morning. Something I said made her grin. There must still be some funny after all.
I’d like to write about kindness. About how I have a memory of it, even though in this moment I feel more jaded and cynical than Howard Stern. Except that I don’t think Howard Stern cries about it. But who knows.
I’d like to write about kindness. About how the driveway construction guy, over the unbearably loud noise of the smooshing-down-roller machine, smiled, made the universal sign for sleepyhead, and mouthed: ‘did you just wake up?’ It was noon. They’d been at the driveway for a long, long time. And I’d been awake just as long.
I’d like to write about kindness. About how I seem to’ve misplaced mine. Have you seen it? If you do, please don’t chase it. At this point, it’s probably frightened and might run away. Also, please don’t offer it pity. It’s allergic. But do please let me know and I’ll come straightaway and pick it up. Thank you!