Sunday, October 17, 2010


"We will revive those times, and in our memories preserve and keep fresh, like flowers in winter, those happier days."

-Sir John Denham, Sophy

Sunday, October 10, 2010

Living the Question...

I like answers.

Yes. No.

Black. White.

Stability, in other words.

Things up in the air are liable to fall. Unanswered questions riddle the soul.

And then I read yesterday:

"Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language. Do not now look for the answers. They cannot now be given to you because you could not live them. It is a question of experiencing everything. At present you need to live the question. Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer, some distant day."

- Rainer Maria Rilke

I open doors, unlocking questions which perpetually squeak with uncertainty. I am frightened of my own experiences, of exhuming deadly broken bones for reanimation. And, I am frightened by learning a new language, at once accented with Greek, Hebrew, and quietly whispered French -- I wonder, what does this speech mean? I am not good at translation. I am still trying to learn to hear that which I speak.

Transposition though, hearing Many Voices keyed towards communion...with that I have experience. Polyphonality though, is a dangerous thing. It always has been, this child of the chant. Merging independent lines -- brought fears that the sacramental voice, the sacred, would be lost -- it is a threatening thing. Monophonic lines are more easily heard and followed. Melodies purely rise and fall with clean tones of assurance about their place. And yet, The Gregorians were missing something.

That something, was separate voices singing together; not in unison, but together, even as diverging parts. Even, when it is necessary that they follow their own lines.

How to make peaceful sense of and how to reconcile these diverging voices, I think, is Rilke's Beautiful Question.

Elucidation eludes, however, and I am rendered speechless with listening...growing faint from living with question.

A zucchini made its way to my house this weekend. A very large zucchini, having grown much past its natural size. Did it lay forgotten, its existence buried under the rough leaves of late summer thought? Was it the one whose assigned Picker was frightened to reach beneath the canopy and to touch before sight? I remember being that Picker, being the one sent to the garden to gather my family's own forgotten produce. Returning to the house, I presented giants grown of neglect.

This Green Giant...what to do with it? The giver of this gift gargantuan, had just the answer to my question.

Pancakes. Zucchini pancakes, served with applesauce and sour cream. Eh?, I said. But, as I am learning, strange ingredients do make good pan-fellows, complimenting to strengths and serving in weakness.

Yes. Make me pancakes.

Thus, they were made. And, I ate. I ate food made for me. Fried, fatty, comfort food.

And you know what? That night, saying yes to pancakes, just might have provided the living answer to my question.

~ Zucchini Pancakes ~

Shredded zucchini
Sorghum flour
1 Egg
Sautéed onions
Mix thoroughly and then form into something vaguely resemblant of a pancake
Fry in oil until crispy and brown

~ Homemade Applesauce ~
Melt butter/Earth Balance
Add 2 apples, cut into chunky pieces (I like chunky applesauce)
Add brown sugar and cinnamon, stewing until the pancakes are done.

Top pancakes with applesauce and kefir cheese.

Be comforted.

I will continue to live my question in belief that someday, I will experience living the answer...

Sunday, October 3, 2010

Damnation in a potato.

My parents, once again, were right: looks can be deceiving.

Not easily fooled by flash, I have always gone for the underdog. This, a trait I inherited from my father. I remember him, when I was growing up, sitting in front of Sunday football games, always rooting for the underdog; particularly, I remember, the Cleveland Browns. He, a distant armchair member of The Dawg Pound. Why, I wondered? We were not Ohioans. We had no distant relations in this state; in fact, I have still to this day never been there. And, I don't know that my dad has either. I now find that their motto is terribly fitting, and perhaps my dad knew it at the time. A state who believes in All Things. The looks of things, and people, can change -- sprouting up on spouted possibilities.

My dad is dichotomous. Beneath Underdog Breaths is divulged that People Don't Change, quoting recently: “The alligator said he’d give him a ride across the river. And (the squirrel) said, ‘Oh no, I can’t do that.’ (The alligator) said, ‘I won’t bite you.’ So the squirrel jumped on the alligator’s back, and about halfway across, he reached around and ate him. The moral is: man, that’s still an alligator.”

But, alligators can beautify, can they not? I believe that they can. They can file down scales and put lotion on. Yet, I am pessimistic that they will. This dichotomy, it seems, I inherited as well. I hold standards, remote ideals, and yet I dare not trust that they'll be reached. I dare not believe the words -- sweet promises spoken. I am scared of being bitten again; or, worse this time, eaten...

I wanted a potato. A potato with eggs. Breakfast in the p.m. But, it wasn't to be. As I cut open a beautiful red outside, I found grey. Rotting black, eating away at the starchy flesh.

Damnation, in a potato.

Dinner's menu alters. Plans change. Taste something different...

Perhaps, I think far too much about Innards.

Internal mysteries will not quiet. I yell at them sometimes, these questions of secret, asked of me; and I pound in midnight anger as I do on the walls when my Mousy Wall Guests will not sleep.

A "picture of health" a Perfect Potato, is sometimes damned... question, and to eat something different, before it, itself, is eaten from the inside out...

~ A Damned to be Different Dinner ~

Swiss chard
Earth Balance "butter"
Sea salt & pepper