Friday, November 27, 2009

Good Tidings.

Whenever I make pie crust there always comes a point when I am positively sure that the crust will not turn out. Sometimes it’s when the flour, water, and other various ingredients come together. I look at that mix and think to myself that it is either far too sticky or just too dry or impossibly flaky. Sometimes it’s when I roll it out. The dough rips over and over again or sticks to the pin or counter or just won’t roll into a circle. Or sometimes,that incredibly frustrating thought occurs as I’m transferring the dough to the pie pan. It will be a little too short and not quite reach the sides of the pan, or it will rip in two during the transfer from counter to pan.

In any case, there is always the moment when my heart sinks a little and I realize that there is NO way that this crust is ever going to become a crust. Now, I do realize, a crust is a crust. I can always just start again, flour, Crisco, water, repeat. But for some reason the depression that sets in when I am sure that the dough is going to fall apart is just a little overwhelming. I paid such close attention to everything. I measured out each cup and half cup carefully making sure not to cut corners. I didn’t play with the dough but moved quickly through each step. And I was newborn baby gentle while picking transferring the rolled out dough from counter to pan. And yet I watch and feel and know certainly that such a fragile and delicate thing is going to fall apart in my hands.

So, dejectedly, I continue to go through the process of forming a crust, knowing that there is no way this thing is going to make it through. I patch and fold and mend the broken holes, I add water or flour depending. It’s going to take more time and effort to go back and start over so I might as well delay the inevitable and work with what I have. Besides, I’ve kinda become attached to this crust. When I’ve done what I can I look down to find that I have a pie crust. No, it’s not perfect. And no, it looks like nothing I wanted or expected from a pie crust. It’s patched and odd shaped and not quite as thin as it should be. But, it’s a crust; it held together, functions as a crust and tastes good. Not perfect, but functional and better then the last I made. I might not ever make a Good House Keeping pie crust. It might always be patchy and kinda funny to look at. But it will be good, and maybe that’s all that counts.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

I love you. I don’t love only your heaviness and I don’t just love your lightness. I couldn’t understand your softness in isolation and your hardness in and of itself would scare me. I don’t love only your heart because that would be impossible and to love only your head would be a contradiction. I love your “confluence of being” as a dear friend would say. And screw Plato and for making it any other way. To concentrasim and let the separation be damned.

Friday, November 13, 2009

New News?

The News Today
Source: The New York Times
Summarized by: Me.

India's economy still growing, Rural Villages Still Poor pg.A4
Canada Still Apathetic pg. A4
Jails Still Full of Immigrants pg. A13
China Accused (again) of Abusing Prisoners pg. A8
Church Playing Politics (Really, Pope, WRONG CHOICE!) pg. A15
Politics Playing Church (dumb asses) pg.A26
Nintendo Excited for Christmas, because that's what Christmas is all about! pg. B2

Kinda pisses you off doesn't it?

Saturday, November 7, 2009


Some nights
I can’t sleep
And I know I won’t be able to.
So I sit
And read
Trying to hard to be productive
And I think
About what
I could accomplish if it was day
But it’s not
So I'm here
Making up shitty poetry

I think that if only,
if only I could unite the sounds of my heart,
The words of my head,
And the motion of my lips,
If only I could unite them
I could say what my...
"Confluence of Being"
Wishes to express
And then maybe, maybe
I could be at peace.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Musings from a predictable mind.

The Quiet World

In an effort to get people to look
into each other's eyes more,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.

When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.

Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
and proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.

When she doesn't respond,
I know she's used up all her words,
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.
-Jeffrey McDaniel

I stumbled upon this poem a while back. I liked it so much that I wrote it on a random piece of cardboard and duck taped it to the white brick wall above my drawers. Romantic right? It became part of my wall and I subsequently forgot about it. This evening however, as I was looking around my room for a distraction from homework, my eyes fell again on this poem. I still think it is beautiful. No, it is not a brilliant representation of what the English language is capable of doing. Nor is it particularly stunning as a work of art. Why then, do I like this? Because it accomplishes what it sets out to do. There is an idea here that is floating around and it makes you want to find it. What I think is so beautiful about this poem is that is encourages, no forces the reader to see a side of love and human interaction that we see little of. Silence. By the order of the government, McDaniel forces the reader into a world in which the form of communication we use best, words, are limited. And then he takes us one step beyond merely the shock of limited speech, he forces us to read of silence in love. We live in a world where words are held up as THE form or communication, where touch is becoming more and more sexualized and silence, demonized. I believe that we are left with a great longing for human interaction (and more specifically love) that is not synonymous with noise, but consists of important statements said over and over, silence, and intense concentrated listening to something as quiet as breath.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

- Ernst Junger

…all these adventurers, fairy tale princes, sea pirates, and magnanimous criminals, I don’t complain that they have passed on but I would wish that they might find with every new orbit that life affords us successors on whom the whole sum of love and belief dedicated to them might be carried on.