A blog called Victorian Passage. Full of all things Victorian, fascinating and useless. They have paint samples, for crying out loud.
This one's going on my sidebar.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
blameworthy
I've been thinking some about the nature of competency, lately. This is mostly due to events in my tai chi universe.
I'm at a level now where not much more can be drilled into me. I'm learning the internal form, which is pretty much the Holy Grail of forms in our style--from here on out it's a matter of refinement and practice. Sit helps as much as he can, offering clues and tricks he's figured out, but tai chi is like writing; you have to find your own method. I have my good days and bad days in class; sometimes I think I'm getting it and sometimes I'm crushed by how far I have to go. And because I am competent enough to see my shortcomings (and I have a teacher who won't let me get above myself), I sometimes get depressed because I know I don't really have the single-minded passion that it takes to excel at something like martial arts. I started tai chi seven years ago; I've been in Sit's class for four. I should be much further along than I am, but my interests are divided, and my time has always been sacrificed. I tell myself that if I just keep at it, I can't help but improve, if slowly.
In a way, all this tai chi indignation is motivating. The SP and I are both getting a little surfeited with honeymooning--not with each other, just with the indolent living--and eager to step up training again. I feel obligated to pass on what Sit has taught me, and to do it in a way that respects the tradition. Furthermore, we've got a couple tournaments coming up, a local one in March and the big one in July. I don't want my peers wondering if I have a lousy teacher or if I'm just a lazy brat.
Sit may be thinking along the same lines, because a few weeks ago he watched me do MY internal form and said, "Look, either you want to learn this or you don't. If you do, you got to practice."
Thank you Sifu-- May I have another?
- We had another visitor to the Wednesday night advanced class. This one we'll call the Wookie--Big dude. Bad posture. Nervous twitches. (What is it about martial arts that attracts these spazzes? The rumor is, this guy has some kind of genuine brain disorder, and is on medication for it.) The Wookie was very strong, but slow. He was like a big dumb bull, pushing through every exercise. He kept saying "uh-huh. uh-huh. uh-huh." like a parrot, to everything Sit said until I was ready to hamstring him. He clearly thought he was getting it; he very much was not.
"Your technique is very good," Sit said. "But it's not tai chi. You do only the yang. You don't have the softness." The Wookie seemed irritated by this. Sit went on to say it was possible to study for "fifteen years," but if you don't have a good teacher and/or you don't practice, you'll never be good.
I got to give credit to the Wookie; he seems to have practiced, but either his teacher wasn't setting a good example or the Wookie was disregarding it. He can't catch an attack, he can't do chin na or anything involving finesse: he can only bulldoze. With this guy, it's easy to assume that he's messed up in the head and will never learn correctly, but I wonder why Sit puts up with him. Does he hate to let a student go? Does he think that as a teacher he can still get through to him?
The Wookie says he intends to come back and "keep learning"; we'll see. - On YouTube, I stumbled across some videos by a trio of guys who claim to be doing the Tai Hui form. Tai hui is Sit's style of kung fu. It's fairly rare. As far as I know, Sit's the only one in the U.S. who teaches it. But there's a former student of Sit's in Kansas City, who claims to teach tai hui as well. Those are three of his students on YouTube. Technically, they are my kung fu nephews.
To my eye, they look pretty rough. Their shoulders are up around their ears when they should be dropped and relaxed. Their elbows are flapping around like chicken wings. Their stances are all wrong--a proper tai hui stance is weight on the back leg, front leg cocked so the knee is out, ready for kicking or trapping. These guys are extending their front leg out straight, and distributing their weight in the middle.
Meanwhile their friends are posting comments going "Good form!" which just makes me groan. Now, we could get into evolution of form and the "right" way of doing things, but that's not really the point. Chinese internal styles all have the same basic principles: movement from the core of the body, rooting of the feet, dropping the hip, elbow, and shoulder. I see none of that in their videos. I see varying degrees of it in other videos that people put up on YouTube. Of course, what is visible in the form is not necessarily indicative of one's fighting ability, but that's not the point.
I used to think form, and competition in form, was a waste of time. Sit admits that what looks good in form is not necessarily good fighting technique. But to me, it's like being able to speak both Cantonese and Mandarin. If you're really that good, you should be able to do either, as appropriate to the context. It's about having control over your body.
Of course there are 10-year students in Sit's class who can't do a proper forward stance, either. And sometimes it irks me that they still come to class, treat it like social hour, and pass on the same bad habits to a new crop of students. Because Sit has given up correcting them, they think they're pretty good.
But it's a fact of psychology that in order to judge your own competency of a skill, you have to have a fair amount of competency. In other words, you can't know how good you are until you're already fairly good. People who are low-level tend to judge themselves more skilled than they are, because they have nothing to compare to.
All of which makes me worry about what my form tells people about my teacher.
- As I'm mulling all of this, a friend directs me to a blog about weaving, where the author addresses the very problem I've been contemplating:
I learned [weaving] in a context where praise is rarely given, and understated when it is; where praising newbie efforts the way we do in the US would be seen as insulting. When I first learned to spin, I was five years old and we’d just moved to Chinchero, Peru.[...]
One day I braided my hair for myself, and I was super proud. I ran up to the first old lady I saw, and said, “Look! Look! I braided my own hair! Didn’t I do a good job?”
“No,” she replied. “You did a waylaka [a lazy, incompetent woman] job. Here, this is how it should be. Do it like this from now on,” and she undid my braids, rebraiding them so tight they’d hold for a week, in about 2 minutes flat.
This wasn’t criticism per se — this was caring, and ownership and community.[...] If she’d told me “You did good,” it would have carried with it the message that such work was all that could be expected of me; that I had no further potential; that I wasn’t worth wasting any time on teaching.
If she would have spent a long, long time rebraiding my hair, going slow, making me do it, that would have been condescending, and again, sent the message that I was of little value, due to my clearly sub-par learning skills. Doing it right, at close to normal speed, telling me what to feel for and think about, would give me more time to go off and practice without making someone else drill it into me. Suggesting that I needed a grown woman to teach me, painstakingly and at length, would have been to single me out from my peers to treat me like a problem.
This segment really appealed to me, because it's the way that Sit teaches. He hardly ever says "good job." I think I'd been there three years before he said it to me, and that first time I was so shocked I thought I'd misheard. He just says, "Yes," when you do it right, and "No," when it's wrong. He rarely singles out anyone for individual attention unless you're fairly advanced and ready for fine-tuning, or have a genuine learning disability, as does one of the younger students in our weekend class. But I like Sit's method. It means you either sink or swim, and it weeds out people who insist on doing things their own way--who then go off and start their own school.
I'm at a level now where not much more can be drilled into me. I'm learning the internal form, which is pretty much the Holy Grail of forms in our style--from here on out it's a matter of refinement and practice. Sit helps as much as he can, offering clues and tricks he's figured out, but tai chi is like writing; you have to find your own method. I have my good days and bad days in class; sometimes I think I'm getting it and sometimes I'm crushed by how far I have to go. And because I am competent enough to see my shortcomings (and I have a teacher who won't let me get above myself), I sometimes get depressed because I know I don't really have the single-minded passion that it takes to excel at something like martial arts. I started tai chi seven years ago; I've been in Sit's class for four. I should be much further along than I am, but my interests are divided, and my time has always been sacrificed. I tell myself that if I just keep at it, I can't help but improve, if slowly.
In a way, all this tai chi indignation is motivating. The SP and I are both getting a little surfeited with honeymooning--not with each other, just with the indolent living--and eager to step up training again. I feel obligated to pass on what Sit has taught me, and to do it in a way that respects the tradition. Furthermore, we've got a couple tournaments coming up, a local one in March and the big one in July. I don't want my peers wondering if I have a lousy teacher or if I'm just a lazy brat.
Sit may be thinking along the same lines, because a few weeks ago he watched me do MY internal form and said, "Look, either you want to learn this or you don't. If you do, you got to practice."
Thank you Sifu-- May I have another?
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
chicken & sausage soup
This is a knockoff of my chicken jambalaya.
Poach a couple of chicken breasts in a big pot or deep skillet, with a little water and chicken bouillion. Add seasoned salt & seasoned pepper.
In another skillet, melt some butter and saute about half of a yellow onion, a red bell pepper and a green bell pepper, all diced coarsely. Throw in a couple cloves of garlic and a couple of celery stalks, also chopped.
When the vegetables are wilted and the chicken breasts are mostly cooked, remove the chicken to cool and dump the peppers & onion in the chicken broth. Add two 10 oz cans of diced tomatoes with their juice. Add about a tablespoon of basil or thyme, one or two bay leaves, and a few generous dashes of Frank's Red Hot.
Dice up cooked chicken and return to pot. Cut a package of smoked dinner sausage into rounds and add to pot.
Let simmer, uncovered, until some of the liquid is reduced and the sausage looks shriveled. Taste; correct seasonings.
Serve with crusty buttered bread.
(You can also eat this over rice. Originally I would add long grain and wild rice to the soupy mixture, and let it steam until it turned to hash. But the jambalaya didn't keep well when it had the rice cooked in; it became starchy and bland in the refrigerator. This soup is just as good the day after.)
Poach a couple of chicken breasts in a big pot or deep skillet, with a little water and chicken bouillion. Add seasoned salt & seasoned pepper.
In another skillet, melt some butter and saute about half of a yellow onion, a red bell pepper and a green bell pepper, all diced coarsely. Throw in a couple cloves of garlic and a couple of celery stalks, also chopped.
When the vegetables are wilted and the chicken breasts are mostly cooked, remove the chicken to cool and dump the peppers & onion in the chicken broth. Add two 10 oz cans of diced tomatoes with their juice. Add about a tablespoon of basil or thyme, one or two bay leaves, and a few generous dashes of Frank's Red Hot.
Dice up cooked chicken and return to pot. Cut a package of smoked dinner sausage into rounds and add to pot.
Let simmer, uncovered, until some of the liquid is reduced and the sausage looks shriveled. Taste; correct seasonings.
Serve with crusty buttered bread.
(You can also eat this over rice. Originally I would add long grain and wild rice to the soupy mixture, and let it steam until it turned to hash. But the jambalaya didn't keep well when it had the rice cooked in; it became starchy and bland in the refrigerator. This soup is just as good the day after.)
Monday, January 22, 2007
nightmares and dreamscapes
I had a horrible dream last night. I dreamt it was morning, and I heard my spouse get up and start moving around, getting dressed, and I rolled over to see it was my ex-husband, the 450-pound leech. "What are you doing here?" I squeaked. "What do you mean?" he said. "I'm your husband."
This was followed by me trying to pretend everything was normal, while wondering--horrified--if the past year had been a dream after all, and trying to slip away to check my laptop for messages from the SP. Meanwhile, the ex is following me around, whining about how I seem so distant lately, and he doesn't want to lose me, and he's really going to change this time, really. I feel suffocated just remembering it. I finally escaped into the bathroom, staring down into the plastic almond-colored sink of my old apartment, trying to visualize the chipped white porcelain of my new sink, in the old house I share with the SP, muttering incantations like, "There's no place like home," under my breath.
Luckily for me, the SP started snoring, as he often does around 4 a.m., and I woke up violently to find his bony elbow nudging me in the temple. I tickled him in the armpit. He snorted and turned on his side and I began to breathe normally again, as the nightmare pressure eased off my chest.
When I told the SP about it this morning, he said it was no surprise I was having nightmares, after that movie we saw last night, Children of Men. It's an impressive piece of dystopic science fiction, but it makes you ask yourself, would it really be such a bad thing if humanity died out?
Oh, and we ripped down another section of wall yesterday. It's kind of fun. We're going to take the ceiling down, too, and encase the whole room in fresh new sheetrock and paint. I'm glad about that. Sheetrock is a lot cleaner than plaster, which tends to shower fine powder down on everything, constantly. That's a big consideration since I want to have my computer and sewing supplies in that room.
It's neat, having that room stripped out. It's like a blank canvas, waiting to be made pretty.
This was followed by me trying to pretend everything was normal, while wondering--horrified--if the past year had been a dream after all, and trying to slip away to check my laptop for messages from the SP. Meanwhile, the ex is following me around, whining about how I seem so distant lately, and he doesn't want to lose me, and he's really going to change this time, really. I feel suffocated just remembering it. I finally escaped into the bathroom, staring down into the plastic almond-colored sink of my old apartment, trying to visualize the chipped white porcelain of my new sink, in the old house I share with the SP, muttering incantations like, "There's no place like home," under my breath.
Luckily for me, the SP started snoring, as he often does around 4 a.m., and I woke up violently to find his bony elbow nudging me in the temple. I tickled him in the armpit. He snorted and turned on his side and I began to breathe normally again, as the nightmare pressure eased off my chest.
When I told the SP about it this morning, he said it was no surprise I was having nightmares, after that movie we saw last night, Children of Men. It's an impressive piece of dystopic science fiction, but it makes you ask yourself, would it really be such a bad thing if humanity died out?
Oh, and we ripped down another section of wall yesterday. It's kind of fun. We're going to take the ceiling down, too, and encase the whole room in fresh new sheetrock and paint. I'm glad about that. Sheetrock is a lot cleaner than plaster, which tends to shower fine powder down on everything, constantly. That's a big consideration since I want to have my computer and sewing supplies in that room.
It's neat, having that room stripped out. It's like a blank canvas, waiting to be made pretty.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
icy Tuesday
I woke up this morning to a report that massive ice storms had killed 29 people so far in Texas, Oklahoma and southern Missouri. That's a bit south of where I am, but news like that doesn't exactly inspire one to get out of bed.
We had a bit of precipitation this weekend. Less in my town, more in the City. Very cold. I started acquiring cold weather gear last Friday--hats, gloves, long underwear-- mostly stuff for doing manual labor. I used to have quite a lot of that stuff, but I let it go over the years because you just don't do as much while living in an apartment. Now, however, I am a House Wife, working in a drafty cold room with a lot of plaster dust in the air, and I need tough clothes. Tony is vastly entertained by watching me work. He says he can laugh at every other woman he's known. He's proud of me and I feel smug. The downside of this is he's getting more ambitious with his plans to remodel the house. Now he's talking about stripping off one wall in the living room, too, so he can realign the two halves of this doorway that's gotten kind of torqued by the settling. He's talking about curtaining off part of the living room with plastic. He says we can't burn the wood stove while the plastic is up, and in the next breath asks me to turn down the heat because our gas usage was up last month. He keeps calling me "intrepid" and "a trooper." I'm starting to wonder what I've gotten into.
Still, it's heartening to see the progress we've made. The room is down to bare studs except for one corner. Monday, I was off for MLK day, so we hauled out all the rubble from the demolished room and took it to the dump. That's kind of a scary trip, in the dead of winter, in the middle of nowhere with a wind that will numb your double-gloved fingers in a matter of seconds. When you go into a dump you get the feeling you've stepped back in time to something primitive and wild. The men who work in dumps tend to be rather proto-human in appearance. The massive earth-movers they drive are like mammoths, lumbering and inexorable. Gulls and birds rip at the carnage. Even in the dead of winter, the landfill is slightly warm and fragrant. You can feel the heat coming off the ground; your feet are warm but your hands freeze from the wind whipping across that bare wasteland.
I expect I'll get to see the dump in every phase of the year, this year: I gather this was only the first of many such trips. Just the rubble from half of that tiny room filled the pickup truck. "I think we got it scared now," Tony said, surveying the bare dusty floor.
=======
Shirley sent me a mildly intriguing reference to an American-Idol-like writing contest at gather.com. Simply put, Simon & Schuster are letting the public act as their first readers. I expect we'll see more of this in future. I think I even mentioned, back when I posted End of the Line on Jim Baen's Universe, that theirs was a similiar setup, although I later learned that they still had designated first readers and the whole process wasn't as democratic as they would have us believe. Currently, EOTL is still being "considered" by the editor of that publication. He's had it for a year. I'm tempted to write them a nudge note but I really don't care that much.
I'm just not in the mood to write. I'm more interested in rebuilding my house and reading everything I can get my hands on, and catching up on the movies I missed over the past three years. I'm even less in the mood to publish, since I realized that selling a novel is uncomfortably like running for public office--it takes a lot of glad-handing and getting your name out there. No thanks. If I ever do finish Trace's adventures I'll either self-publish or find a nice small press to do it for me.
That's the mood this week, at least. Winds may change. I'll admit I had a brief hiccup of excitement at the gather.com contest, and I might've tossed something into the hopper just for fun, but I don't have anything submission-worthy. I'm not sure what "commerical fiction" means, anyway. Does that exclude genre type stuff? Oh, and there's a sinister little rule that if you win, you agree to sign their contract within five days. Lord only knows what's in that contract.
Oh well. Nothing here but hiding out in the bunker, soaking up pop culture and stuffing myself with chocolate.
We had a bit of precipitation this weekend. Less in my town, more in the City. Very cold. I started acquiring cold weather gear last Friday--hats, gloves, long underwear-- mostly stuff for doing manual labor. I used to have quite a lot of that stuff, but I let it go over the years because you just don't do as much while living in an apartment. Now, however, I am a House Wife, working in a drafty cold room with a lot of plaster dust in the air, and I need tough clothes. Tony is vastly entertained by watching me work. He says he can laugh at every other woman he's known. He's proud of me and I feel smug. The downside of this is he's getting more ambitious with his plans to remodel the house. Now he's talking about stripping off one wall in the living room, too, so he can realign the two halves of this doorway that's gotten kind of torqued by the settling. He's talking about curtaining off part of the living room with plastic. He says we can't burn the wood stove while the plastic is up, and in the next breath asks me to turn down the heat because our gas usage was up last month. He keeps calling me "intrepid" and "a trooper." I'm starting to wonder what I've gotten into.
Still, it's heartening to see the progress we've made. The room is down to bare studs except for one corner. Monday, I was off for MLK day, so we hauled out all the rubble from the demolished room and took it to the dump. That's kind of a scary trip, in the dead of winter, in the middle of nowhere with a wind that will numb your double-gloved fingers in a matter of seconds. When you go into a dump you get the feeling you've stepped back in time to something primitive and wild. The men who work in dumps tend to be rather proto-human in appearance. The massive earth-movers they drive are like mammoths, lumbering and inexorable. Gulls and birds rip at the carnage. Even in the dead of winter, the landfill is slightly warm and fragrant. You can feel the heat coming off the ground; your feet are warm but your hands freeze from the wind whipping across that bare wasteland.
I expect I'll get to see the dump in every phase of the year, this year: I gather this was only the first of many such trips. Just the rubble from half of that tiny room filled the pickup truck. "I think we got it scared now," Tony said, surveying the bare dusty floor.
=======
Shirley sent me a mildly intriguing reference to an American-Idol-like writing contest at gather.com. Simply put, Simon & Schuster are letting the public act as their first readers. I expect we'll see more of this in future. I think I even mentioned, back when I posted End of the Line on Jim Baen's Universe, that theirs was a similiar setup, although I later learned that they still had designated first readers and the whole process wasn't as democratic as they would have us believe. Currently, EOTL is still being "considered" by the editor of that publication. He's had it for a year. I'm tempted to write them a nudge note but I really don't care that much.
I'm just not in the mood to write. I'm more interested in rebuilding my house and reading everything I can get my hands on, and catching up on the movies I missed over the past three years. I'm even less in the mood to publish, since I realized that selling a novel is uncomfortably like running for public office--it takes a lot of glad-handing and getting your name out there. No thanks. If I ever do finish Trace's adventures I'll either self-publish or find a nice small press to do it for me.
That's the mood this week, at least. Winds may change. I'll admit I had a brief hiccup of excitement at the gather.com contest, and I might've tossed something into the hopper just for fun, but I don't have anything submission-worthy. I'm not sure what "commerical fiction" means, anyway. Does that exclude genre type stuff? Oh, and there's a sinister little rule that if you win, you agree to sign their contract within five days. Lord only knows what's in that contract.
Oh well. Nothing here but hiding out in the bunker, soaking up pop culture and stuffing myself with chocolate.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
saith the gourd unto Herod
Aren't spam subject lines fun?
Anyway, here's some mental housecleaning for the week, mostly about words and writing. Hey, did you know this used to be a writing blog?
=======
DK sent me an email yesterday:
I have several thoughts on this. First, I wonder if DK has some kind of stock in escapepod.com, since he's mentioned it to me three or four times, apropos of nothing each time. Second, I worry that the state of publishing is even worse that I suspected, because I see several "names" on the lists of escapepod's fiction list, and I know that even the award-winning midlist authors are scrabbling for publication space/money, so I really doubt that my odds would be better in this venue vis-a-vis any other.
Thirdly, I really love it when people (men, generally) who don't know me send me little pearls of wisdom about how I could get published, when the pearls they send me are in no way related to anything else they've seen me do, and frequently reveal the sender's own ignorance about writing and publishing. What's the goal in this? Winning my undying gratitude? Hoping to siphon off some vicarious fame? But then, DK once wrote to Tom Clancy suggesting they write a book together, or barring that, could Mr. Clancy please forward copies of all his research so DK could write the book? Honest to God.
Weary indignation aside, I've been wondering in a more general way if audiobooks are going to continue to grow the way they have. I wonder if publishers have any hard numbers about how consumers are using books; so much media is throwaway or background noise these days. The emphasis is on portable entertainment--of which a book is the original format--but you can listen to a book while driving, or working out, or whatever. Even I'm hard-pressed to sit down and read these days. I wonder if I'd be more inclined to listen to a story, if there were more of the kind of story I want, available? Or would I simply be annoyed by the background noise, the way I so often am with music, these days?
========
My writer's meeting was last Saturday. We had a bit of material to cover, too, after a long dry spell. Three of our members have been going through household changes this year; the other three are just having really bad luck (car accidents, surgery, settling the estates of parents). But this time, Jan brought a nonfic article for her art history class, about the late-19th-century Japonisme fad, and how Japanese art influenced western art (especially the Impressionists, which is hard to fathom), decor, and dress. I knew a bit about this peripherally, because of my cultural research, but it was interesting to see a more in-depth article. I wrote several comments on her paper, and she wrote me a very nice thank-you. I love that. It's so nice to hear when my crits have been appropriate and helpful. Makes me feel like I've got a handle on this writing thing.
My contribution to the group was about 7 pages of a new story I'm working on, a little urban fantasy/slipstream/horror thing. Kinda Ray Bradbury, without the sugar coating. More Shirley Jackson, I think, which makes sense cuz I've been reading her.
=========
I finished reading We Have Always Lived in the Castle. That is some disturbing stuff. It's not supernatural in the slightest. It concerns a pair of sisters, the only survivors of a poisoning that killed the rest of the family (the elder sister was tried and acquitted of the murders). The girls have a symbiotic relationship that's all the more twisted and awful for all its surface normalcy. Jackson's style is tremendously clean, straightforward, and readable. It's like being stuck in a nightmare, where everything makes perfect sense even while you know it's wrong. I admire it greatly.
=========
I also finished The Knife Man (see sidebar). Good reading. Fascinating insight to the state of medicine on the cusp of science. Made me grit my teeth many times at the pigheadedness and shortsightedness of the establishment, who always want to do things the way they've always done them, a system that rewards mediocrity and resists any kind of change for the better.
=========
My writer buddy Rob loaned me Other Powers, by Barbara Goldsmith. It's a social biography, if you will, of Victorian Woodhull. I knew of Woodhull as an early proponent of birth control and the first woman to run for the American Presidency, but the last time I read about her I was in the seventh grade, I think, and the library books at that level were somewhat more sanitized than this account. To my delight, I find that the meat of Woodhull's life and biography center around the American Reconstruction era, and among other things she was a spiritualist. Looking forward to these pages.
Anyway, here's some mental housecleaning for the week, mostly about words and writing. Hey, did you know this used to be a writing blog?
=======
DK sent me an email yesterday:
As I recall you are not particularly fond of writing short stories, but I thought this might present as a good opportunity for you to get something published. Check it out.
http://www.escapepod.org/2007/01/06/300-word-flash-contest/#more-185
I have several thoughts on this. First, I wonder if DK has some kind of stock in escapepod.com, since he's mentioned it to me three or four times, apropos of nothing each time. Second, I worry that the state of publishing is even worse that I suspected, because I see several "names" on the lists of escapepod's fiction list, and I know that even the award-winning midlist authors are scrabbling for publication space/money, so I really doubt that my odds would be better in this venue vis-a-vis any other.
Thirdly, I really love it when people (men, generally) who don't know me send me little pearls of wisdom about how I could get published, when the pearls they send me are in no way related to anything else they've seen me do, and frequently reveal the sender's own ignorance about writing and publishing. What's the goal in this? Winning my undying gratitude? Hoping to siphon off some vicarious fame? But then, DK once wrote to Tom Clancy suggesting they write a book together, or barring that, could Mr. Clancy please forward copies of all his research so DK could write the book? Honest to God.
Weary indignation aside, I've been wondering in a more general way if audiobooks are going to continue to grow the way they have. I wonder if publishers have any hard numbers about how consumers are using books; so much media is throwaway or background noise these days. The emphasis is on portable entertainment--of which a book is the original format--but you can listen to a book while driving, or working out, or whatever. Even I'm hard-pressed to sit down and read these days. I wonder if I'd be more inclined to listen to a story, if there were more of the kind of story I want, available? Or would I simply be annoyed by the background noise, the way I so often am with music, these days?
========
My writer's meeting was last Saturday. We had a bit of material to cover, too, after a long dry spell. Three of our members have been going through household changes this year; the other three are just having really bad luck (car accidents, surgery, settling the estates of parents). But this time, Jan brought a nonfic article for her art history class, about the late-19th-century Japonisme fad, and how Japanese art influenced western art (especially the Impressionists, which is hard to fathom), decor, and dress. I knew a bit about this peripherally, because of my cultural research, but it was interesting to see a more in-depth article. I wrote several comments on her paper, and she wrote me a very nice thank-you. I love that. It's so nice to hear when my crits have been appropriate and helpful. Makes me feel like I've got a handle on this writing thing.
My contribution to the group was about 7 pages of a new story I'm working on, a little urban fantasy/slipstream/horror thing. Kinda Ray Bradbury, without the sugar coating. More Shirley Jackson, I think, which makes sense cuz I've been reading her.
=========
I finished reading We Have Always Lived in the Castle. That is some disturbing stuff. It's not supernatural in the slightest. It concerns a pair of sisters, the only survivors of a poisoning that killed the rest of the family (the elder sister was tried and acquitted of the murders). The girls have a symbiotic relationship that's all the more twisted and awful for all its surface normalcy. Jackson's style is tremendously clean, straightforward, and readable. It's like being stuck in a nightmare, where everything makes perfect sense even while you know it's wrong. I admire it greatly.
=========
I also finished The Knife Man (see sidebar). Good reading. Fascinating insight to the state of medicine on the cusp of science. Made me grit my teeth many times at the pigheadedness and shortsightedness of the establishment, who always want to do things the way they've always done them, a system that rewards mediocrity and resists any kind of change for the better.
=========
My writer buddy Rob loaned me Other Powers, by Barbara Goldsmith. It's a social biography, if you will, of Victorian Woodhull. I knew of Woodhull as an early proponent of birth control and the first woman to run for the American Presidency, but the last time I read about her I was in the seventh grade, I think, and the library books at that level were somewhat more sanitized than this account. To my delight, I find that the meat of Woodhull's life and biography center around the American Reconstruction era, and among other things she was a spiritualist. Looking forward to these pages.
Friday, January 05, 2007
awesome, awesome egg rolls
Take:
marinate the above for 15 minutes in:
you will also need:
Stir-fry the minced ginger and garlic in a little olive oil until a bit brown. Add the marinated pork and green onion and fry until pork is done. SAVE THE USED MARINADE. Remove cooked pork to a cutting board to cool. With a big sharp knife, mince the pork into tiny bits and put in a big bowl.
Stir-fry the cabbage mixture with the leftover marinade juice until the cabbage is a bit limp and the marinade is mostly absorbed. Remove cabbage with a slotted spoon and cook down the leftover sauce until thick and reduced. Drizzle this over the cabbage and pork mixture; toss together well.
Wrap about 3 Tbs of the cabbage/pork filling per egg roll wrapper, according to package directions. Fry in peanut or vegetable oil until golden all over. Drain well. Good hot or cold.
For passable sweet & sour sauce, combine about 1/4 c plum jelly with about 1 Tbs EACH soy sauce and rice vinegar; more or less to taste.
- 3 boneless pork sirloin cutlets (about 1 lb), cut into stir-fry strips
- 3 or 4 green onion strands, minced
marinate the above for 15 minutes in:
- 1/2 c sherry
- 2 tsp chicken bullion granules
- 4 Tbs soy sauce
- 3 Tbs oyster sauce
- 1 Tbs red pepper flakes
- 1 tsp sesame oil
- 2 Tbs brown sugar
- fresh black pepper and/or white pepper
you will also need:
- olive oil for stir-frying
- 3 garlic cloves, finely minced
- 1 cu in. fresh ginger, finely minced
- 1 bag shredded prepared coleslaw mix (cabbage and carrots)
- 1 pkg egg roll wrappers (usu. contains 18-20)
- peanut or vegetable oil for frying
Stir-fry the minced ginger and garlic in a little olive oil until a bit brown. Add the marinated pork and green onion and fry until pork is done. SAVE THE USED MARINADE. Remove cooked pork to a cutting board to cool. With a big sharp knife, mince the pork into tiny bits and put in a big bowl.
Stir-fry the cabbage mixture with the leftover marinade juice until the cabbage is a bit limp and the marinade is mostly absorbed. Remove cabbage with a slotted spoon and cook down the leftover sauce until thick and reduced. Drizzle this over the cabbage and pork mixture; toss together well.
Wrap about 3 Tbs of the cabbage/pork filling per egg roll wrapper, according to package directions. Fry in peanut or vegetable oil until golden all over. Drain well. Good hot or cold.
For passable sweet & sour sauce, combine about 1/4 c plum jelly with about 1 Tbs EACH soy sauce and rice vinegar; more or less to taste.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
reasons I'm in a good mood today
- We emptied my office and are going to tear out plaster this weekend. The SP said I need to be "thinking about" lighting for that room.
- Sit smacked me in the face last night. This is a gesture of respect, though painful.
- The loan servicing company has agreed to put my student loans in forebearance for another year, though they told me at first they wouldn't. This essentially means I can pay off the credit cards this year. Completely.
- I wrote four pages yesterday. Totally new story, unrelated to anything.
- My writer's meeting is Saturday.
- My new fish cookbook arrived. We're having fish tacos for dinner tonight.
Monday, December 18, 2006
double-chocolate sour cream cookies
An enabler--er, friend came over Wednesday and we baked. I made the almond cream sticks and tried something new that was an instant hit: Chocolate sour cream cookies. Kind of like a soft sugar cookie, but with chocolate. I got the recipe off Recipezaar.com. Full instructions are there.
1/2 cup butter
3/4 cup sugar
1/2 cup brown sugar, packed
1 egg
1/2 cup sour cream
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup baking cocoa
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips (I used about 1 1/4 c organic dark choc chips)
The original recipe called for vanilla chips, as well, but I left those out. These were very good; dense, rich and not overly sweet. That and the use of brown sugar makes me suspect this is an older recipe (like: pre-seventies). The sour cream in this recipe makes up half the shortening (ordinarily there would be a full cup of butter to 2 cups sugar). This uses about 40% less sugar and adds the complexity of sour cream.
They make up a fairly thick, sticky batter and don't spread much as they bake. They were decent right out of the oven, but like most things with sour cream they were better the next day, and even better after that.
My Sparring Partner loved them. So did I; I ate six for breakfast the morning after I made them. That was good for an extra pound or four. I'd make another batch if I had a modicum of self-control.
I was intending to make a pound cake, too. I bought some dried Bing cherries and rehydrated them in a little orange & lemon juice, with a splash of almond extract. I figured I'd layer the minced cherry & almond comfit in the middle of a pound cake, but I got to feeling poorly on Thursday and let the project go. The cherries, however, have been marinating in the fridge and they are awesome. I've been eating them straight from the bowl. They're about gone.
Honeymooning is hard on the waistline. We've not been good little tai chi students. We haven't been training much. We've both put on a few pounds this month. Sigh.
1/2 cup butter
3/4 cup sugar
1/2 cup brown sugar, packed
1 egg
1/2 cup sour cream
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup baking cocoa
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips (I used about 1 1/4 c organic dark choc chips)
The original recipe called for vanilla chips, as well, but I left those out. These were very good; dense, rich and not overly sweet. That and the use of brown sugar makes me suspect this is an older recipe (like: pre-seventies). The sour cream in this recipe makes up half the shortening (ordinarily there would be a full cup of butter to 2 cups sugar). This uses about 40% less sugar and adds the complexity of sour cream.
They make up a fairly thick, sticky batter and don't spread much as they bake. They were decent right out of the oven, but like most things with sour cream they were better the next day, and even better after that.
My Sparring Partner loved them. So did I; I ate six for breakfast the morning after I made them. That was good for an extra pound or four. I'd make another batch if I had a modicum of self-control.
I was intending to make a pound cake, too. I bought some dried Bing cherries and rehydrated them in a little orange & lemon juice, with a splash of almond extract. I figured I'd layer the minced cherry & almond comfit in the middle of a pound cake, but I got to feeling poorly on Thursday and let the project go. The cherries, however, have been marinating in the fridge and they are awesome. I've been eating them straight from the bowl. They're about gone.
Honeymooning is hard on the waistline. We've not been good little tai chi students. We haven't been training much. We've both put on a few pounds this month. Sigh.
Monday, December 11, 2006
nothing and everything
Have you ever been frightened by your own desire for something, because you knew it left you vulnerable? Have you ever gotten what you wanted and found that it exceeded your expectations? Have you ever been in a situation so perfect that in the back of your mind, you're terrified you'll wake up? That you figure it must've been a mistake, because you haven't been all that good in this life, much less the previous, and pretty soon the universe is going to up and sweep it all away?
Seriously--these Peppermint Bark candies are that good.
And the boy's not bad, either.
Seriously--these Peppermint Bark candies are that good.
And the boy's not bad, either.
Monday, December 04, 2006
sugar jones
I am having this obscene urge to bake. Cookies, pound cake, pies, apple turnovers.... 'Tis the season, I guess. It's not really the eating I crave, it's the making. The smells and textures of butter, sugar, flour and eggs. The implements of baking--the pans, wooden spoons, spatulas; the cold fine-edges of cookie cutters in adorable little intricate shapes; the blunt smooth-grained weight of a cherrywood rolling pin, given to me by a mom who shared my passion for baking and is herself a champion bread-baker.
So I was scanning back through my recipe box and pulling out favorites, plus a few new things I'd like to try. Here's the litany of calories:
So I was scanning back through my recipe box and pulling out favorites, plus a few new things I'd like to try. Here's the litany of calories:
- The family favorite is coconut-sour cream cookies, a cakelike little pillow of heaven with a very fine texture, dense but very soft and moist. You can really only make them at Christmas. Once when I was a pre-teen I made a batch in summer, and they sagged into a mound of sugary mortar at the bottom of the cookie jar. We had to keep them in the fridge and dig out a serving with a spoon. But in winter, they keep very well. In fact they are better after two or three days.
- Almond cream sticks. These are fine-grained and slightly flaky, somewhere between shortbread and a pie crust. They are full of butter and cream cheese and are very rich, but oddly light. You can eat a whole lot of them before you realize the danger.
- Brownies made with Baker's bittersweet chocolate and swirled with cream cheese. (Are ya seeing a pattern, here?) My favorite brownie recipe. Moist and rich. Make a thin layer in a broad flat pan, cut into small bites and freeze the bulk.
- Chocolate- and butterscotch-chip cookies with oatmeal and pecans. I grind the rolled oats into flour and finely chop the nuts. That way they are more about flavor and texture than chunks. Most people will eat these, even those who claim to dislike pecans. Both additions are useful for upping the fiber contect and reducing the sweet, so you can tell yourself they semi-healthy.
- Grandma Rella's oatmeal with raisins and pecans. Now these ARE healthy. They have about 30-40% less sugar in them than most modern cookie recipies, and you make them with old-fashioned rolled oats. They're cakey and chewy, filling and satisfying. In my mom's house there is no shame in eating these for breakfast or dinner, preferably with milk. Hell, if you broke them in a bowl and poured milk over, you couldn't tell the difference.
I keep thinking I can do a variation on this theme, with dried apples, maybe some almonds, and cut into bars. - The perfect sugar cookie. Alas, I have not yet found it. I keep trying. I think there must be more dairy fat involved, somehow. (I have no interest in the dry cardboard-like cutout-type recipes. Blech.) A couple years ago I was experimenting with Madeleines: they kept coming out dry, so I added some sour cream. The Madeleines fell all apart but the batter was fantastic. It puffed and then sank into a wonderful chewy moist cookie-like substance. Must attempt this again.
- Something involving cherries and almond flavor. I don't know what form it will take, yet... maybe the base recipe for the coconut sour cream cookies, which strongly resembles a poundcake. I just bought a bottle of Almond extract from Penzey's--the real stuff, made with bourbon. But what form should the cherries take? Dried? Fresh? Canned? Pureed? Preserved? Comfited? I don't know, but I am undaunted.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Holly Oakley
I went shooting this weekend. First time ever. Got to handle a cowboy gun--a big Colt .45 six-shooter replica, the long-barrel model with a side-gate breach, just like I gave Trace. It's got some kick, but less than I expected, and different than I expected. The gun is balanced around the trigger, and it's long and flat--your hand is diagonally below and behind the chamber. When it discharges it kind of rocks back, and if you don't try to fight it, your whole forearm floats up with it.
My sparring partner said he was impressed at how I wasn't afraid of the kick. I'll admit I was a little apprehensive about looking like a girl, but I've been in kung fu class long enough to know that getting hit isn't the end of the world. You just absorb the blow and keep on with the task at hand. Plus, in tai chi we learn to "separate the substantial from the insubstantial," which basically means you pay attention to what parts of the body must be tightened to do work, and which parts have to be soft to act as shock absorption. I figured out real fast that you have to tense the wrist and hand, to hold the gun, while the index finger is soft to pull the trigger and the elbow is loose to allow for the kick. If you try to take the kick at the hand, you'll get hurt.
Besides, you only have to aim long enough to pull the trigger. Once the explosion is gone, so is the bullet, and the kick doesn't matter to your aim.
I spent an hour or so working up to the Colt. First I shot a little .22 rifle with a scope, which was so smooth and effortless it was like throwing darts--only more accurate, since I can't throw darts to save my life. Then I progressed to a .22 revolver, which was harder to aim but got me familiar with the grip and action. Then they gave me something with a larger caliber: a James Bond gun, the Walther PPK 9-millimeter. It was very cool and sleek-looking, and I was pretty keen on it until I fired it. It's a small gun, and it felt good in my hand, but the slide-action made it jerk a lot. There's no mass to hold it down, and that explosion packs quite a punch. It shoves itself back into your hand. All the recoil seemed to bear right on the web of my thumb and forefinger. I shot through several magazines but never really settled to it. Sure looks sexy, though.
Then the Colt. My arm was softened up by this time, but after the Walther my nerves were a bit rattled. The range-master arranged me in a slightly forward stance, and I remembered my tai chi and rounded my shoulders across the back. Two hand grip: right around the grip and left palm cupping underneath. The gun was designed for larger hands than mine and I had to stretch to pull the hammer back, but it was no difficulty to cock it with my thumb.
I had figured out how to sight with one eye by this time. The left wasn't quite closed, it was just unneccessary; I wasn't focusing with it. The barrel was long and shiny, and I could look right down it to the red dot in the center of the target. The angle of the grip makes it as if you really are just pointing your finger, much more so than with the modern Walther. I set my teeth, felt for the ground with my toes, and pulled the trigger.
Boom! Crack! Ping! Nothing else sounds like a gunshot, especially out-of-doors. I had taken my earplugs out to really get the experience. The noise is so loud and percussive that it rings--you can feel the prick of your eardrums. My forearm seemed to rock back and I let it float down again. You can't really see where the bullet goes, in that moment when you pull the trigger; the assault to your senses is too disruptive. But there was a hole in the paper: had it been there before?
Sight down the barrel again, nice and slow. There's a tension on the trigger, an easy pull and then a point where you feel the spring. It takes only the tiniest curl of muscle to pull it past that point. Boom! Another hole in the paper. My back teeth are vibrating. I put my earplugs back in. The SP tells me that the range-master's mouth fell open at that point. Cock the hammer back, try to think forward at the paper. Boom! The kickback isn't a recoil, like the Walther, it's a torque around the chamber. I can't stop it, so I let my wrist go with it. Boom! Boom! A spray of wood pulp goes up behind the target. I am definitely hitting something. Boom!
Click. I'm out of ammo. I'd forgotten to count. I thumb the chamber and the barrel, gingerly at first, but they are only warm, not hot. The clean silver of the gun has darkened, smokily, around the chamber.
Everybody in the world, I think, has certain delusions about their own prowess. Some commedian said we all believe we're above-average drivers. Everyone I know seems to think they are above-average marksmen, as well. Maybe it's just the men I know.
"Did I hit anything?" I asked, semi-jokingly.
"Hell, yeah, you hit it!" the range master said. "That was outstanding!"
I won't claim I dead-eyed it. But all six shots hit the paper--one of those tabloid-sized targets--at fifty feet. Four were in the black. One was an inch from the bullseye.
"Did the SP tell you I'd never fired a handgun before?" I said to the range master as he signed and dated my paper target.
"Yeah... I'd say you have a gift." He grinned at me.
I sighed theatrically. "I suppose now I'll have to do something responsible with it."
"You may be obligated," he agreed.
My sparring partner said he was impressed at how I wasn't afraid of the kick. I'll admit I was a little apprehensive about looking like a girl, but I've been in kung fu class long enough to know that getting hit isn't the end of the world. You just absorb the blow and keep on with the task at hand. Plus, in tai chi we learn to "separate the substantial from the insubstantial," which basically means you pay attention to what parts of the body must be tightened to do work, and which parts have to be soft to act as shock absorption. I figured out real fast that you have to tense the wrist and hand, to hold the gun, while the index finger is soft to pull the trigger and the elbow is loose to allow for the kick. If you try to take the kick at the hand, you'll get hurt.
Besides, you only have to aim long enough to pull the trigger. Once the explosion is gone, so is the bullet, and the kick doesn't matter to your aim.
I spent an hour or so working up to the Colt. First I shot a little .22 rifle with a scope, which was so smooth and effortless it was like throwing darts--only more accurate, since I can't throw darts to save my life. Then I progressed to a .22 revolver, which was harder to aim but got me familiar with the grip and action. Then they gave me something with a larger caliber: a James Bond gun, the Walther PPK 9-millimeter. It was very cool and sleek-looking, and I was pretty keen on it until I fired it. It's a small gun, and it felt good in my hand, but the slide-action made it jerk a lot. There's no mass to hold it down, and that explosion packs quite a punch. It shoves itself back into your hand. All the recoil seemed to bear right on the web of my thumb and forefinger. I shot through several magazines but never really settled to it. Sure looks sexy, though.
Then the Colt. My arm was softened up by this time, but after the Walther my nerves were a bit rattled. The range-master arranged me in a slightly forward stance, and I remembered my tai chi and rounded my shoulders across the back. Two hand grip: right around the grip and left palm cupping underneath. The gun was designed for larger hands than mine and I had to stretch to pull the hammer back, but it was no difficulty to cock it with my thumb.
I had figured out how to sight with one eye by this time. The left wasn't quite closed, it was just unneccessary; I wasn't focusing with it. The barrel was long and shiny, and I could look right down it to the red dot in the center of the target. The angle of the grip makes it as if you really are just pointing your finger, much more so than with the modern Walther. I set my teeth, felt for the ground with my toes, and pulled the trigger.
Boom! Crack! Ping! Nothing else sounds like a gunshot, especially out-of-doors. I had taken my earplugs out to really get the experience. The noise is so loud and percussive that it rings--you can feel the prick of your eardrums. My forearm seemed to rock back and I let it float down again. You can't really see where the bullet goes, in that moment when you pull the trigger; the assault to your senses is too disruptive. But there was a hole in the paper: had it been there before?
Sight down the barrel again, nice and slow. There's a tension on the trigger, an easy pull and then a point where you feel the spring. It takes only the tiniest curl of muscle to pull it past that point. Boom! Another hole in the paper. My back teeth are vibrating. I put my earplugs back in. The SP tells me that the range-master's mouth fell open at that point. Cock the hammer back, try to think forward at the paper. Boom! The kickback isn't a recoil, like the Walther, it's a torque around the chamber. I can't stop it, so I let my wrist go with it. Boom! Boom! A spray of wood pulp goes up behind the target. I am definitely hitting something. Boom!
Click. I'm out of ammo. I'd forgotten to count. I thumb the chamber and the barrel, gingerly at first, but they are only warm, not hot. The clean silver of the gun has darkened, smokily, around the chamber.
Everybody in the world, I think, has certain delusions about their own prowess. Some commedian said we all believe we're above-average drivers. Everyone I know seems to think they are above-average marksmen, as well. Maybe it's just the men I know.
"Did I hit anything?" I asked, semi-jokingly.
"Hell, yeah, you hit it!" the range master said. "That was outstanding!"
I won't claim I dead-eyed it. But all six shots hit the paper--one of those tabloid-sized targets--at fifty feet. Four were in the black. One was an inch from the bullseye.
"Did the SP tell you I'd never fired a handgun before?" I said to the range master as he signed and dated my paper target.
"Yeah... I'd say you have a gift." He grinned at me.
I sighed theatrically. "I suppose now I'll have to do something responsible with it."
"You may be obligated," he agreed.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Monday, November 13, 2006
whoa, grandma
I took my Sparring Partner to meet my grandparents this weekend. They took to him immediately, as I guessed they would. Of course my grandparents are so sweet and gregarious, and the SP is endearingly good-natured and gracious, especially with older people. He's going to fit in the family just fine.
My grandfather immediately hauled him off I knew not where, talking about house construction and tools, and I followed my grandma into the kitchen to help with brunch.
"Wow, Holly," she said in an undertone. "He is handsome. He is so good-looking. And that voice."
He does have a lovely low voice, and a smooth articulate way of speaking. I was surprised, though, to hear the compliment. I mean, I think he's a hottie, but I know I'm not a reliable judge of his looks. And my family doesn't hand out empty compliments.
"I know I shouldn't carry on like this, an old grandma like me, but wow," Grandma said, while I grinned bigger and bigger. "You got a good one, there."
"Aw, stop it, you're gonna make me blush," I said.
"Well, you should be!" she said, giving me a squeeze. "You're the blushing bride."
We're getting married on Saturday--me and the SP. At last, at last. We'd always expected it would happen someday, although we never talked about it until recently. We both had a private conviction that I'd be widowed young and we'd hook up in ten or fifteen years. Hey, karma works in mysterious ways.
Grandma loaned me an antique Art Nouveau-era necklace that belonged to her grandmother, part of my namesake legacy. My dress is white silk, sleek and simple.
I feel serenely blissful.
My grandfather immediately hauled him off I knew not where, talking about house construction and tools, and I followed my grandma into the kitchen to help with brunch.
"Wow, Holly," she said in an undertone. "He is handsome. He is so good-looking. And that voice."
He does have a lovely low voice, and a smooth articulate way of speaking. I was surprised, though, to hear the compliment. I mean, I think he's a hottie, but I know I'm not a reliable judge of his looks. And my family doesn't hand out empty compliments.
"I know I shouldn't carry on like this, an old grandma like me, but wow," Grandma said, while I grinned bigger and bigger. "You got a good one, there."
"Aw, stop it, you're gonna make me blush," I said.
"Well, you should be!" she said, giving me a squeeze. "You're the blushing bride."
We're getting married on Saturday--me and the SP. At last, at last. We'd always expected it would happen someday, although we never talked about it until recently. We both had a private conviction that I'd be widowed young and we'd hook up in ten or fifteen years. Hey, karma works in mysterious ways.
Grandma loaned me an antique Art Nouveau-era necklace that belonged to her grandmother, part of my namesake legacy. My dress is white silk, sleek and simple.
I feel serenely blissful.
Friday, November 10, 2006
spicy sausage 'shrooms
Saute some mild Italian sausage in a little water and olive oil. Use the bulk kind, or take the casings off of links. While it cooks, chop it up with a spatula or wooden spoon. Don't let it brown. You'll only need about 3/4 to 1 cup of cooked sausage, so if you cook a lot, save the rest for pizza or bolognese sauce.
While the sausage cooks, wash several large button mushrooms. With a paring knife, cut the stems out, and pare out some of the gills and edges to make little bowls of the caps. Save the stems for another project. Mushrooms freeze well enough for use in sauces and things.
Lightly oil a baking sheet, and the mushroom caps. Might want to line the sheet with foil, or use one with sides, because these will leak.
Drain the cooked sausage (as much as you need) and mince it very fine with a knife. Add generous sprinklings of Italian herbs (any pre-mixed blend that you like--I prefer Penzey's), fresh ground black pepper, and a tad too much red pepper flakes.
Add a couple spoonfuls of plain goat cheese (chevre). You want about 1 part goat cheese to 4 or 5 parts sausage, or to taste. Add just enough to make it stick together. Mix coarsely.
Use a spoon and your fingers to fill the mushroom caps and mound the sausage mixture on top. Garnish with some julienned red bell pepper, if you like. Sliced olives or onion might be nice, too.
Bake shrooms at 400 degrees for 15-20 minutes, depending on size. They will shrink and turn black. When they are allover dark, they're done. I did mine in the convection oven, at 375 for about 10 minutes.
Yum! Spicy! Salty! Rich! Way tasty little canape, or dinner. And it went pretty quickly, since I only made 10 or so.
While the sausage cooks, wash several large button mushrooms. With a paring knife, cut the stems out, and pare out some of the gills and edges to make little bowls of the caps. Save the stems for another project. Mushrooms freeze well enough for use in sauces and things.
Lightly oil a baking sheet, and the mushroom caps. Might want to line the sheet with foil, or use one with sides, because these will leak.
Drain the cooked sausage (as much as you need) and mince it very fine with a knife. Add generous sprinklings of Italian herbs (any pre-mixed blend that you like--I prefer Penzey's), fresh ground black pepper, and a tad too much red pepper flakes.
Add a couple spoonfuls of plain goat cheese (chevre). You want about 1 part goat cheese to 4 or 5 parts sausage, or to taste. Add just enough to make it stick together. Mix coarsely.
Use a spoon and your fingers to fill the mushroom caps and mound the sausage mixture on top. Garnish with some julienned red bell pepper, if you like. Sliced olives or onion might be nice, too.
Bake shrooms at 400 degrees for 15-20 minutes, depending on size. They will shrink and turn black. When they are allover dark, they're done. I did mine in the convection oven, at 375 for about 10 minutes.
Yum! Spicy! Salty! Rich! Way tasty little canape, or dinner. And it went pretty quickly, since I only made 10 or so.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
my semi-annual political post
Last night I was at a small social gathering that included a friend of a friend whom we'll call M. I spend an hour or so conversing with him, more or less amiably. He seemed quite intelligent. Of course like many intelligent people, he seems to feel that everyone can benefit from the virtue of his intelligence, whether he knows anything about your field of expertise or not. The minute he finds out I'm a writer he started telling me how/where I should research, what kind of books I should write and how doing so would "broaden my audience." Few things are more likely to set my back up, so it's possible that my opinion of him was somewhat dimmed by the time we got around to the topic that is still on my mind today.
We had come around, somehow, to legend and archeology and Ireland, so I mentioned the Atlantis thing, and that segued into the Celtic/Druidic revival that came around in the 1890's (which is when the definitive popular versions of Robin Hood and King Arthur and the Atlantis legends were conceived--by fiction writers), which figured heavily into Hitler's Master Race concept a generation later.
So M confides to me his pet theory. He had noticed the similarity between the KKK ceremonial robes and the old Druidic ceremonial robes (Well, yes--the founders of the KKK were, in fact, Scotsmen, and I have heard that theory before, but since no one really knows anything about the Druids it's risky to make conclusive comparisons). And, he says, the southeastern part of the country is populated with whites of primarily Scots-Irish decent. (Yes, my family is from south Missouri and Arkansas, I'm aware of that). "Appalachia," I said.
"Right, right. So the Irish always thought they were the chosen people, right?" (Ok... well, according to the stuff I've been reading lately, that view was somewhat recent and romanticized..) That's where the Aryan people came from." He gave me a brief lineage of the migration of Man from the cradle of civilization through India, Greece, Europe, and into Ireland. I can neither verify nor refute it right now, so we'll move on.
"And now they're all settled in the lower part of this country. Ok, there's some Spanish and French influence, but it's mostly contained. And now you've got all these people who come from the South U.S. and think they're part of this Master race--who were the Druids? High priests of the chosen people! And who's in charge of the country right now? You see? They think it's their destiny to rule! They think they're the chosen race. And I can't wait to see them get driven out of office tomorrow."*
I nodded. "Y'know, I was with you up there til the conclusion."
He chuckled. "Well, you know I've described this theory to sociologists who think there may be something to it."
I nodded again, thinking it was the kind of logic that Harry Turtledove novels are built upon.
I could've shredded him, but what was the point? Can I even count all the random fantastical assumptions in his "theory"? We won't even delve into the mix of races that made up the population of the British Isles, in the two millennia between the disappearance of the Druids, and the immigration of the potato-famine Irish to Western shores in the 1860's. Because the bulk of them were NOT descended from Druids. Take a peak at the Wikipedia entry if you want to go into this, because I'm certainly not going to. Shaky enough to pressume that the descendents of those Scots-Irish immigrants, who settled in the hilly southeast of the U.S. 150-200 years ago, have retained enough cultural or genetic "memory," shall we say, to a) remember/care that they came from Ireland, b) retain the foggiest idea of what a Druid is, and c) maintain enough national identity to believe/care that "they"--supposing that d) there are enough of them to perpetuate a conspiracy--are destined to rule? And e) they're all--every last mother-loving one of them--Republicans?
"Now, I'm not suggesting they think they ARE Druids," M was hasty to clarify.
Well, good. Because you wouldn't want me to think you were COMPLETELY without a leg to stand on.
Honestly, this is what bugs me about politics. I started to type "radical politics" but I don't think there's any other kind anymore. Everybody who's ever given me an earful of political jingoism bases it on the same ridiculous warrants, i.e. "George Bush doesn't care about Black people." or "I think George Bush just really hates gays." Or, in the case of my ex-husband, "Liberals want us all to be atheists."
It's stupid. It's absolutist, it's projecting your own fears onto others, and it's presuming to know the mind of someone you've never even met. The COLLECTIVE mind of a PEOPLE you've never met. "If you're not one of us, then you're against us." It's offensively negative, and it accomplishes nothing.
I heard the worst, most manipulative ad ever on the radio the other day. The narrator spoke with a pronounced "black" accent. "Don't you think working families should have enough to eat? Don't you think the elderly should be able to get the medicines they need? Candidate X voted against raising minimum wage, and the drug companies give her money to protect their interests. (My paraphrasing actually makes it sound more dignified than it was.) Don't vote for Candidate X. She's a mean horrible woman who will starve your children and grind up your grandma for Soylent Green."
I'm just weary of it. These last six years have been the worst in my memory. I can't remember the last time I heard anybody pleading to "focus on the issues."
With the exception of a very few things, like abortion, nothing is an either-or issue, and certainly no side of any issue is the sole ideological property of any party. Why do I even have to say this? We ALL would like to see health care better-run and more efficient. We're ALL worried about how our children are going to make a living and who's going to care for us when we're old and decrepit. It's just plain idiot prejudice to insist that one party would take care of everything if those elitist assholes from the other party would quit lying and stealing.
And IF we assume that M is right, and the South has risen again, with their Gaelic-influenced country-western music and their Aryan noblesse oblige, all I can say is, why the hell shouldn't they? I challenge you to find me an ancient culture on this Earth that DIDN'T wholeheartedly believe they were the Master Race. The Navajo people's name for themselves is "Diné," which means, "the people." The Greeks divided the world into two categories, Greeks and "xenos." The Jews' tendency toward self-isolation has been their preservation and their destruction. Why should the Republicans and Democrats be any different?
And so what if that other group think they're better than everybody else or they're destined to rule or go to Heaven or whatever? In a two-party system, your faction wins about half the time, so what are you bitching about? You really think that your party has all the right answers and your best interests at heart and should be given free reign to "fix" everything? If you do, I'm coming over to your house to garotte you, tonight. You are a dangerous radically naive individual who is just as reckless as a suicide bomber.
You know what I think? I think that the primary virtue of a democracy is that nothing can be accomplished quickly. I hear people talking about Washington being "broken" and this country "lacking in direction," but I think standing still, politically, is the healthiest thing we can do.
The Tao Te Ching says:
You want a radical idea? Stop voting. Stop letting them force you into making a choice you don't want, just because it's an illusion of choice. Millions of Americans have already done it. It's the only ethical thing to do, because it's the only way to avoid forcing your will on someone else.
Or if you're the type who likes to be proactive, go work for some group that advocates less legislature and smaller government. Find a cash-only doctor. Save an emergency medical fund, instead of paying premiums you'll never see again. Get out of debt and work for cash. Raise your own produce and fertilize it with your own compost. Live in a house made of straw bales, for all I care.
Just don't talk to me about it. Your indignation, frankly, is beneath me.
*in the elections today, Nov 7.
We had come around, somehow, to legend and archeology and Ireland, so I mentioned the Atlantis thing, and that segued into the Celtic/Druidic revival that came around in the 1890's (which is when the definitive popular versions of Robin Hood and King Arthur and the Atlantis legends were conceived--by fiction writers), which figured heavily into Hitler's Master Race concept a generation later.
So M confides to me his pet theory. He had noticed the similarity between the KKK ceremonial robes and the old Druidic ceremonial robes (Well, yes--the founders of the KKK were, in fact, Scotsmen, and I have heard that theory before, but since no one really knows anything about the Druids it's risky to make conclusive comparisons). And, he says, the southeastern part of the country is populated with whites of primarily Scots-Irish decent. (Yes, my family is from south Missouri and Arkansas, I'm aware of that). "Appalachia," I said.
"Right, right. So the Irish always thought they were the chosen people, right?" (Ok... well, according to the stuff I've been reading lately, that view was somewhat recent and romanticized..) That's where the Aryan people came from." He gave me a brief lineage of the migration of Man from the cradle of civilization through India, Greece, Europe, and into Ireland. I can neither verify nor refute it right now, so we'll move on.
"And now they're all settled in the lower part of this country. Ok, there's some Spanish and French influence, but it's mostly contained. And now you've got all these people who come from the South U.S. and think they're part of this Master race--who were the Druids? High priests of the chosen people! And who's in charge of the country right now? You see? They think it's their destiny to rule! They think they're the chosen race. And I can't wait to see them get driven out of office tomorrow."*
I nodded. "Y'know, I was with you up there til the conclusion."
He chuckled. "Well, you know I've described this theory to sociologists who think there may be something to it."
I nodded again, thinking it was the kind of logic that Harry Turtledove novels are built upon.
I could've shredded him, but what was the point? Can I even count all the random fantastical assumptions in his "theory"? We won't even delve into the mix of races that made up the population of the British Isles, in the two millennia between the disappearance of the Druids, and the immigration of the potato-famine Irish to Western shores in the 1860's. Because the bulk of them were NOT descended from Druids. Take a peak at the Wikipedia entry if you want to go into this, because I'm certainly not going to. Shaky enough to pressume that the descendents of those Scots-Irish immigrants, who settled in the hilly southeast of the U.S. 150-200 years ago, have retained enough cultural or genetic "memory," shall we say, to a) remember/care that they came from Ireland, b) retain the foggiest idea of what a Druid is, and c) maintain enough national identity to believe/care that "they"--supposing that d) there are enough of them to perpetuate a conspiracy--are destined to rule? And e) they're all--every last mother-loving one of them--Republicans?
"Now, I'm not suggesting they think they ARE Druids," M was hasty to clarify.
Well, good. Because you wouldn't want me to think you were COMPLETELY without a leg to stand on.
Honestly, this is what bugs me about politics. I started to type "radical politics" but I don't think there's any other kind anymore. Everybody who's ever given me an earful of political jingoism bases it on the same ridiculous warrants, i.e. "George Bush doesn't care about Black people." or "I think George Bush just really hates gays." Or, in the case of my ex-husband, "Liberals want us all to be atheists."
It's stupid. It's absolutist, it's projecting your own fears onto others, and it's presuming to know the mind of someone you've never even met. The COLLECTIVE mind of a PEOPLE you've never met. "If you're not one of us, then you're against us." It's offensively negative, and it accomplishes nothing.
I heard the worst, most manipulative ad ever on the radio the other day. The narrator spoke with a pronounced "black" accent. "Don't you think working families should have enough to eat? Don't you think the elderly should be able to get the medicines they need? Candidate X voted against raising minimum wage, and the drug companies give her money to protect their interests. (My paraphrasing actually makes it sound more dignified than it was.) Don't vote for Candidate X. She's a mean horrible woman who will starve your children and grind up your grandma for Soylent Green."
I'm just weary of it. These last six years have been the worst in my memory. I can't remember the last time I heard anybody pleading to "focus on the issues."
With the exception of a very few things, like abortion, nothing is an either-or issue, and certainly no side of any issue is the sole ideological property of any party. Why do I even have to say this? We ALL would like to see health care better-run and more efficient. We're ALL worried about how our children are going to make a living and who's going to care for us when we're old and decrepit. It's just plain idiot prejudice to insist that one party would take care of everything if those elitist assholes from the other party would quit lying and stealing.
And IF we assume that M is right, and the South has risen again, with their Gaelic-influenced country-western music and their Aryan noblesse oblige, all I can say is, why the hell shouldn't they? I challenge you to find me an ancient culture on this Earth that DIDN'T wholeheartedly believe they were the Master Race. The Navajo people's name for themselves is "Diné," which means, "the people." The Greeks divided the world into two categories, Greeks and "xenos." The Jews' tendency toward self-isolation has been their preservation and their destruction. Why should the Republicans and Democrats be any different?
And so what if that other group think they're better than everybody else or they're destined to rule or go to Heaven or whatever? In a two-party system, your faction wins about half the time, so what are you bitching about? You really think that your party has all the right answers and your best interests at heart and should be given free reign to "fix" everything? If you do, I'm coming over to your house to garotte you, tonight. You are a dangerous radically naive individual who is just as reckless as a suicide bomber.
You know what I think? I think that the primary virtue of a democracy is that nothing can be accomplished quickly. I hear people talking about Washington being "broken" and this country "lacking in direction," but I think standing still, politically, is the healthiest thing we can do.
The Tao Te Ching says:
The more laws and restrictions there are,
the poorer people become.
The sharper men's weapons,
the more trouble in the land.
The more ingenious and clever men are,
the more strange things happen.
The more rules and regulations,
the more thieves and robbers.
You want a radical idea? Stop voting. Stop letting them force you into making a choice you don't want, just because it's an illusion of choice. Millions of Americans have already done it. It's the only ethical thing to do, because it's the only way to avoid forcing your will on someone else.
Or if you're the type who likes to be proactive, go work for some group that advocates less legislature and smaller government. Find a cash-only doctor. Save an emergency medical fund, instead of paying premiums you'll never see again. Get out of debt and work for cash. Raise your own produce and fertilize it with your own compost. Live in a house made of straw bales, for all I care.
Just don't talk to me about it. Your indignation, frankly, is beneath me.
*in the elections today, Nov 7.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Halloween wit
Last night the SP and I went out on the town, to promenade in our gunslingin' finery and take in the sights. You'd think I'd learn by now to take a camera.
It was cold. And dark. We didn't see quite as much costuming action as I'd expected, but then we got downtown kind of late. We did see a Droog, though, strolling uptown along the sidewalk, complete with bowler hat and cane. Genuinely creepy and very cool (I should note that, in the course of searching for pictures, I ran across a blog entry that claims they're overdone. Could be--I'd never seen one before, but that may explain why vintage bowler hats are so hard to find).
We also saw "V," as in "Vendetta," sweeping his way across the intersection with the light change. Black hood, cape, sword-stick and all. Impressive, at least at a distance. Much more effort than the ready-made commercial version. Got to admire that.
But my personal pick of the evening was the waiter in the rather classy Italian restaurant where we stopped for an appetizer. The SP first pointed him out: "That guy's wearing a Superman tee-shirt." And he was--but over it he wore an Oxford striped shirt, with the sleeves rolled up and the front unbuttoned. His trousers were gray, and he had a conservative striped tie looped around his neck. He was a nicely built young man, maybe thirty, with dark hair neatly combed and parted. He wore black-framed glasses.
"He's Clark Kent," I realized aloud, with delight.
Classy. Subtle, but needing no explanation or guesswork. Two thumbs up, mister waiter.
Oh yeah, and we got some attention, too. I wore my blue 1880 dinner dress, with my new hat and wool cape. The SP wore his new gunslinger ensemble, looking remarkably like Val Kilmer in "Tombstone" (though less pasty). Mostly people admired at a distance, but a few came up and offered compliments. There was a large party of mostly women at the table behind us. Several were dressed as nuns. They were a bit drunk and huggy and just loved us. "Oooh, look at her dress," they said. "Ooooh, look at her hat. Ooooh, look at him!" "Mmm, I like that one. Look at that coat! Is he supposed to be a gunfighter?" "Maybe he's her husband!" (As opposed to some stranger who just happened to meet me at the bar dressed in the same period garb?)
"That nun slapped me on the butt," the SP reported as we made our way back to the car.
It was cold. And dark. We didn't see quite as much costuming action as I'd expected, but then we got downtown kind of late. We did see a Droog, though, strolling uptown along the sidewalk, complete with bowler hat and cane. Genuinely creepy and very cool (I should note that, in the course of searching for pictures, I ran across a blog entry that claims they're overdone. Could be--I'd never seen one before, but that may explain why vintage bowler hats are so hard to find).
We also saw "V," as in "Vendetta," sweeping his way across the intersection with the light change. Black hood, cape, sword-stick and all. Impressive, at least at a distance. Much more effort than the ready-made commercial version. Got to admire that.
But my personal pick of the evening was the waiter in the rather classy Italian restaurant where we stopped for an appetizer. The SP first pointed him out: "That guy's wearing a Superman tee-shirt." And he was--but over it he wore an Oxford striped shirt, with the sleeves rolled up and the front unbuttoned. His trousers were gray, and he had a conservative striped tie looped around his neck. He was a nicely built young man, maybe thirty, with dark hair neatly combed and parted. He wore black-framed glasses.
"He's Clark Kent," I realized aloud, with delight.
Classy. Subtle, but needing no explanation or guesswork. Two thumbs up, mister waiter.
Oh yeah, and we got some attention, too. I wore my blue 1880 dinner dress, with my new hat and wool cape. The SP wore his new gunslinger ensemble, looking remarkably like Val Kilmer in "Tombstone" (though less pasty). Mostly people admired at a distance, but a few came up and offered compliments. There was a large party of mostly women at the table behind us. Several were dressed as nuns. They were a bit drunk and huggy and just loved us. "Oooh, look at her dress," they said. "Ooooh, look at her hat. Ooooh, look at him!" "Mmm, I like that one. Look at that coat! Is he supposed to be a gunfighter?" "Maybe he's her husband!" (As opposed to some stranger who just happened to meet me at the bar dressed in the same period garb?)
"That nun slapped me on the butt," the SP reported as we made our way back to the car.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
where's Miss Fairweather when you need her?
I was over at the SP's house last night. He was installing a counter in the kitchen, I was eating a sandwich in the living room, away from the noise and sawdust.
My cat is currently residing at the SP's. You Rudy-fans out there will be glad to know he's settled in very well; he's got the run of the house and the SP's really good with cats. Rudy's earning his keep by diminishing the cricket population in the house: the basement is populated with these scary prehistoric-looking monstrosities that look startlingly like the bugs from Starship Troopers. My fierce fat neutered killer lapcat likes to pull the legs off them and bat their writhing carapaces around on the hardwood floors until they expire. Eat your heart out, Casper Van Dien.
But last night Rudy ran up against something he wasn't prepared for. He was nosing around the edge of the couch when suddenly he jumped back and something flew up in the air. I thought at first it was that pair of socks he'd been tossing around, but the thing went up and up and kept circling. It made no sound whatsoever, and neither did Rudy: he hopped up on the couch beside me and tracked its laps around the ceiling.
I confess I yelped a couple of times--part startlement and part nervous laughter. My SP had warned me that bats got into the house sometimes. This was a good-sized bat, too, about six or seven inches in wingspan. It's a freaky thing, the way they swoop and dive at you but veer off at the last second--this little dark shadow making no noise in the corner of your vision.
My SP's house is old; it has doors between every room. I grabbed Rudy and shuffled him into the dining room and closed the pocket doors so the bat would stay in the front room. I even opened the front door, hoping the bat would find its own way out--but alas, it was too disoriented and could only circle. I went and fetched my Sparring Partner, who has experience with this sort of thing. He said the only way to deal with it was to chase it around until it was exhausted and then try to scoop it out the door.
We proceeded to do this, with a broom and a fluttering newspaper. The bat tried to land a couple of times--on the doorjam, on top of the curtains, but we routed it out and made it fly until it finally collapsed on the mantle. I actually knocked it out of the air a couple times, which made me feel bad because I didn't want to hurt it, but it only collided with the newspaper and landed on the futon, so I don't think it was too badly hurt. When it landed on the mantle the SP grabbed his welding gloves from beside the woodstove, and nudged the bat into a five-gallon paint bucket (the kindling from said paint bucket was unceremoniously dumped on the floor). The bat was too tired to fly by this time but kept eluding him behind the knickknacks on the fireplace, then climbed down the wall beside the mantle. It was fascinating watching the little bugger climb, with his little clawed toes and webby legs.
The SP nudged it into the paint bucket and then leapt for the front door, bounded down the porch stairs and deposited der fledermaus somewhere in the wild suburban night while I doubled over laughing in mingled humor and relief.
Ok, yes, they're small and easily damaged, and afraid of humans. But they're just plain freaky, the way they swoop and make no sound. It's bad enough having something flying at your head and know it's armed with teeth and claws and habitually carry rabies....
Now I'm thinking I shall have to get the cat vaccinated, dammit. More money down the drain.
My cat is currently residing at the SP's. You Rudy-fans out there will be glad to know he's settled in very well; he's got the run of the house and the SP's really good with cats. Rudy's earning his keep by diminishing the cricket population in the house: the basement is populated with these scary prehistoric-looking monstrosities that look startlingly like the bugs from Starship Troopers. My fierce fat neutered killer lapcat likes to pull the legs off them and bat their writhing carapaces around on the hardwood floors until they expire. Eat your heart out, Casper Van Dien.
But last night Rudy ran up against something he wasn't prepared for. He was nosing around the edge of the couch when suddenly he jumped back and something flew up in the air. I thought at first it was that pair of socks he'd been tossing around, but the thing went up and up and kept circling. It made no sound whatsoever, and neither did Rudy: he hopped up on the couch beside me and tracked its laps around the ceiling.
I confess I yelped a couple of times--part startlement and part nervous laughter. My SP had warned me that bats got into the house sometimes. This was a good-sized bat, too, about six or seven inches in wingspan. It's a freaky thing, the way they swoop and dive at you but veer off at the last second--this little dark shadow making no noise in the corner of your vision.
My SP's house is old; it has doors between every room. I grabbed Rudy and shuffled him into the dining room and closed the pocket doors so the bat would stay in the front room. I even opened the front door, hoping the bat would find its own way out--but alas, it was too disoriented and could only circle. I went and fetched my Sparring Partner, who has experience with this sort of thing. He said the only way to deal with it was to chase it around until it was exhausted and then try to scoop it out the door.
We proceeded to do this, with a broom and a fluttering newspaper. The bat tried to land a couple of times--on the doorjam, on top of the curtains, but we routed it out and made it fly until it finally collapsed on the mantle. I actually knocked it out of the air a couple times, which made me feel bad because I didn't want to hurt it, but it only collided with the newspaper and landed on the futon, so I don't think it was too badly hurt. When it landed on the mantle the SP grabbed his welding gloves from beside the woodstove, and nudged the bat into a five-gallon paint bucket (the kindling from said paint bucket was unceremoniously dumped on the floor). The bat was too tired to fly by this time but kept eluding him behind the knickknacks on the fireplace, then climbed down the wall beside the mantle. It was fascinating watching the little bugger climb, with his little clawed toes and webby legs.
The SP nudged it into the paint bucket and then leapt for the front door, bounded down the porch stairs and deposited der fledermaus somewhere in the wild suburban night while I doubled over laughing in mingled humor and relief.
Ok, yes, they're small and easily damaged, and afraid of humans. But they're just plain freaky, the way they swoop and make no sound. It's bad enough having something flying at your head and know it's armed with teeth and claws and habitually carry rabies....
Now I'm thinking I shall have to get the cat vaccinated, dammit. More money down the drain.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
brainstorming in spam
I daresay others have mentioned this before me, but I noticed anew today the strangely intriguing taglines on the spam in my junk folder. Here's a random sampling from today's spam, with inserts where needed to make grammatical phrases:
Note a couple of them are just words, but some of my very favorite words. Makes you wonder what kind of email filters are going through my mail.
I keep thinking there's got to be some use for these very fine scraps of verbiage. Just in twisting them around to make sense, I can feel bits of story coalescing in the primordial soup of my writer's brain. I don't generally do poems, but...
The disorder at Fell is and was a little battle,
between wondering whether it were something inseparable from us,
or the cache of an everyplace troubadour,
whose impish commandment imbued us all with
midnight craftsmanship...
did we not choose an aparatif and another go at Milton.
Take that, English majors!
- is separable an[d] cache
- impish commandment
- aperatif
- midnight craftsmanship
- the disorder at fell (or is that Fell? as in a place named Fell?)
- a little battle between wondering whether it were [something?] both times
- imbue
- everyplace troubadour
Note a couple of them are just words, but some of my very favorite words. Makes you wonder what kind of email filters are going through my mail.
I keep thinking there's got to be some use for these very fine scraps of verbiage. Just in twisting them around to make sense, I can feel bits of story coalescing in the primordial soup of my writer's brain. I don't generally do poems, but...
The disorder at Fell is and was a little battle,
between wondering whether it were something inseparable from us,
or the cache of an everyplace troubadour,
whose impish commandment imbued us all with
midnight craftsmanship...
did we not choose an aparatif and another go at Milton.
Take that, English majors!
Friday, October 06, 2006
wickedness
It is a beautiful blue day outside. I got paid today, and the check was a bit more than usual since I'm no longer paying insurance on my ex. I woke up today with that feeling I was in the right place, doing the right thing. It helps that I'm settled into a place where I can be myself again.
Halloween is coming up. I went to the craft store and bought a couple of artificial crows, black chicken feathers over styrofoam and wire. I had a pair of them some years ago, but threw them out when I moved, and now I'm sorry I did. This new pair are smaller and not quite as imposing, but they'll do.
I was standing in line at the checkout with my crows, and the woman in front of me starts doing a little customer-return dance. She wants to return some scrapbooking crap, but the package has been opened.
"We don't take back opened packages," the clerk tells her.
"Well, the man who helped me said I could return it," the woman coos. She's too old to be using that kittenish voice. She's chunky and overdressed, with dyed dark hair and sunglasses. "I'm sure you remember. You sent him to help me. He was one of the managers."
"I'm sure he didn't say that," the clerk says. "That's against our policy. Do you know who it was?"
"Oh, I don't know his name," the customer simpers. "But he said I could return it, it was just yesterday..."
"Well, what did he look like?"
"Oh, I don't want to say," she says. "That wouldn't be nice of me."
At this point I snorted and dropped my purse and the crows on the counter. "Oh, come on, lady," I said out loud. She froze and gaped at me. "Does that work a lot?" I asked her.
"Well--I--! Give me that!" Her whole demeanor turned snarling in an instant and she grabbed her opened package of stickers. "Never mind, you little--" she reared her head, backing away, and I grinned at her, eyebrows cocked-- "bitch!"
I laughed. "Yeah, I'm the bitch."
"He had dark skin!" she said triumphantly, and flounced out the door.
I gave the clerk a bland look; she had on her best neutral-service expression. "I worked retail too long to listen to that crap," I said.
She handed me the receipt for my crows. "You have a good day, sweetheart."
I perched the crows above the entrance to my cubical at work, above the plate that says "Messinger of Doom."
Yes, I am downright dangerous when I'm in a good mood. I'm contemplating ways to built artificial skeletal arms out of wire and flour dough.
Halloween is coming up. I went to the craft store and bought a couple of artificial crows, black chicken feathers over styrofoam and wire. I had a pair of them some years ago, but threw them out when I moved, and now I'm sorry I did. This new pair are smaller and not quite as imposing, but they'll do.
I was standing in line at the checkout with my crows, and the woman in front of me starts doing a little customer-return dance. She wants to return some scrapbooking crap, but the package has been opened.
"We don't take back opened packages," the clerk tells her.
"Well, the man who helped me said I could return it," the woman coos. She's too old to be using that kittenish voice. She's chunky and overdressed, with dyed dark hair and sunglasses. "I'm sure you remember. You sent him to help me. He was one of the managers."
"I'm sure he didn't say that," the clerk says. "That's against our policy. Do you know who it was?"
"Oh, I don't know his name," the customer simpers. "But he said I could return it, it was just yesterday..."
"Well, what did he look like?"
"Oh, I don't want to say," she says. "That wouldn't be nice of me."
At this point I snorted and dropped my purse and the crows on the counter. "Oh, come on, lady," I said out loud. She froze and gaped at me. "Does that work a lot?" I asked her.
"Well--I--! Give me that!" Her whole demeanor turned snarling in an instant and she grabbed her opened package of stickers. "Never mind, you little--" she reared her head, backing away, and I grinned at her, eyebrows cocked-- "bitch!"
I laughed. "Yeah, I'm the bitch."
"He had dark skin!" she said triumphantly, and flounced out the door.
I gave the clerk a bland look; she had on her best neutral-service expression. "I worked retail too long to listen to that crap," I said.
She handed me the receipt for my crows. "You have a good day, sweetheart."
I perched the crows above the entrance to my cubical at work, above the plate that says "Messinger of Doom."
Yes, I am downright dangerous when I'm in a good mood. I'm contemplating ways to built artificial skeletal arms out of wire and flour dough.
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