No One Wants to Come Over for Dinner

cook1“How to Cook Everything.” The title on the spine of the book tells me it knows such secrets. Everything? That seems rather daunting but I suppose it is possible. You give me the basics and I should be able to run with the rest. I’m not much of a cook so teaching me anything would be an improvement.

Though I think I would be more intrigued if the title were “How to Cook Anything.” I’m not sure why I find a distinction there but I do. The realm of possibilities seems to just explode in front of me with the word anything. Anything? Yes, anything.

My first thought was can you teach me how to cook the books? That might come in handy if I ever became desperate. Though my skill with numbers is so low I might end up screwing myself.

My second thought was can you teach me how to cook a human leg? Not that I would ever be in a position to need to know but thought perhaps someone might actually know. Yes, that’s creepy but they did say everything. Let’s move on.

And I suppose when they say everything they mean actual edible things. Though I suspect you could argue that edible is equivalent to won’t kill you, and so again opens up the possibilities of what everything might mean, which is probably related to the invention of the corollary that states just because you can cook it doesn’t mean you should.

I think maybe I need a book that is called “How to Cook Anything and Not Kill Yourself.” That would be useful. I need to hire someone to stand nearby when I’m cooking. Their only job would be to stand there and when I wasn’t sure I could look at them. Like when I grabbed the basil and held it over the tomato soup I could look and they might nod yes. Or when I chop up some belladonna and hover it over the omelet they would shake their head no, kind of like when the toddler is about to put a bad thing in their mouth and the parent says no. Except I’d be like the kid who waits til the parent looks away and then slowly move the bad thing toward my mouth again. I’d be a bad child.

No wonder no one wants to eat my cooking. Probably seems like a life a death choice every time I offer them food. They don’t seem to believe I have a survival instinct too. Sure the food might suck but it usually won’t kill you. I mean come on, I read the book.

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The Ceiling Fixture Shall Remain Crooked

ceiling3aI’m in bed staring up at the ceiling fixture. It’s crooked, crooked in that it is a square fixture and is not squared to the walls of the room. I hate the fact that I notice because I really don’t want to notice.

Some key facts to point out before I move on. One, it is indeed my own bed. Two, the light fixture is new to the room. Three, I have not straightened the light fixture.

The ceiling fixture in the office is new as well. It is round and cannot because of this feature be unsquare. This pleases me. Don’t get me wrong. I like the light fixture in the bedroom. It’s just that now I have to determine whether the lack of squareness to the room is acceptable. However, what is seen cannot be unseen.

I certainly don’t know the interior design protocol for a square ceiling fixture in a square room. I don’t even know if there is one and deep down don’t care if there is one except that now I at least wonder if there is one.

If the rooms in my bedroom were curved I wouldn’t have to care. Though I’m not sure how I would feel about sleeping in a circular bedroom. Reminds me of what my dad used to say about round churches: no corners for the devil to hide in. No place for my nightmares to hide, perhaps.

I might feel like I was sleeping in a turret or a castle tower, like Rapunzel. I wonder if Rapunzel had nightmare.  I wonder if Rapunzel had a round bed. Would a round bed make the round room better or worse? I think it might give me vertigo, especially if it was right in the middle of the room with a big round light fixture above. Circling, circling, circling with no point for your eye to catch on to, no horizon point. I’m getting dizzy just thinking about it.

The square fixture does at least have a nice clean horizon to latch onto, anchors the room however unsquarely. I think I’ll leave it. For now. Maybe someone will notice. Maybe they will inform me of the interior design protocol for square fixtures in square rooms. Maybe I’ll straighten it. Maybe I won’t.

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Musings on a Naked Matador

 

matador1aI need a naked matador to battle my inner demons
Not a rodeo clown to distract the menacing hordes
Not a huntsman to track and shoot the raging beasts
Not a hypnotist to soothe and calm the crying monsters

My demons,
As much of me as my good Graces,
As my unfulfilled desires,
As my greatest fears,
Must be treated with the dignity
That even my warm heart deserves

My demons demand a worthy champion
Bold and unbounded with a relentless fervor
Wrought with terrible symmetry against all my foes,
Who shall stand in awe before her
As they are honorably and utterly vanquished

I need a naked matador to battle my inner demons

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Lazarus and the Cookies

cookie1“What are you doing here?”
I said to clearly warm cookies
Arranged neatly on the kitchen island.
“There are no cookies in the house.”

“We are Lazarus come back from the dead”
The cookies replied in a chocolate smooth melody,
Their breath scented with vanilla overtones.

I inhaled their aroma deeply.
“You are not Lazarus. He would not
Tempt me to devour him whole.”

“Where did you come from?”
I said to the baker’s dozen
Glowing golden in the fading light.

“We are Gandalf come back to you now at the turn of the tide.”
The cookies replied, their chocolate chip eyes
Winking a little too come hither at me.

I eyed the hundreds of dark, deep-set eyes.
“You are not Gandalf. He would not let me
Pass and commit him to the fire of my belly.”

I heard the cookies sigh. They said
“We just are and you just are.
Let us just be together in the
Harmony of your belly.”

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Itching My Need for Calm

calm1My eyes itch. They really itch. Which is weird because I’m not holding anything sharp and haven’t just chopped up a bunch of hot peppers, both of which tend to induce the irrational need to rub one’s eyes.

My eyes are so itchy I can barely keep them open to write this (which I am sure I’ll use as an excuse for all the typos). My hypersensitivity to physical sensations doesn’t help. I notice the tiniest things. I’m like the Princess and the Pea. The tiniest irregularity is noticed. From the most subtle misalignment of a sock to ants crawling all over my body. No wait, the ants thing isn’t really that subtle and must admit doesn’t happen too often but if it did I would super notice.

Maybe that’s why I get vertigo sometimes. Oversensitive and overwhelmed by visual sensations. I get vertigo when I’m driving, which if course means now no one will ever let me drive again. But seriously, I have never been in an accident. I usually get vertigo when I’m driving on those big sky roads where the parallel lines merge together or when the road is lined by trees. Maybe it’s a tunnel thing which leads to a claustrophobia and my brains inability to reconcile the conflicting notion of a wide open space feeling like an enclosed space. Does not compute.

So maybe all my troubles come down to hypersensitivity. The root cause. I don’t have vertigo. I don’t have claustrophobia. I don’t have allergies. Those are just symptoms. I have hypersensitivity. Well, great. What does one do about that?

I suppose you can dull the senses. We’re pretty sure there are drugs out there that do that. The problem with the drug solution is that it dulls everything, not discriminatory. I don’t think I want to be dulled that way.

I think maybe a better way is to apply calmness. Not relaxation, but calmness. Stillness in the face of the cacophony of life.

I think my calmness will come through meditation. Stilling the waters. My own calm within the storm. If I can’t be less sensitive perhaps I can at least be more controlled.

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Musings, the Audio Sessions II

The Diamond and the Damneddiamonddamned

 

One ring may rule them all
But two will bind us together.

Commitments hard as diamonds,
Bound to an infallible ideal
Designed to reflect change and weather sieges,
Daily remind us of choices made that
Cannot be unmade.

Remind us that choices bow to the commitment
And commitments bow to the ideal.

Ideals as hard as diamonds,
Opaque walls that muffle
Sight and sound,
Warnings and calls,
Cannot be scratched or broken
Impervious to persistence.

Free will as hard as diamonds,
Last resource of the damned
Refuge of the evolved,
Hides beneath the ring and
Waits
For the hammer on the anvil.

Musings on a Sparrow

Sparrow in the mouse trap
A fairy bound to the ground by a goblin’s chain
Flutter, flutter, sputter
Capabilities of flight rendered useless
By a sprung clamp no amount of flapping
Could dislodge.

Who will set him free?
Who will defy the goblin captor?
Who will fight for his freedom?
I will. I will be his champion.

With broom and stick I approach the
Shackled sparrow.
“Shhh. It’s OK my sweetie” I say in my
Best Dr. Doolittle Voice with my palms
Gesturing downward. “Be still”
And he was still.

One, two, three the trap is flipped.
I see the bloody, trapped leg.
“Oh Honey be still one more second.”
One, two, three and the clamp is lifted.
Hesitation, then flight and freedom.

Who will set the sparrow free?
I will.

Musings on Sheep

Dreams of writing something dark and
Deep slip out of consciousness when
All that comes to mind are sheep.
The visit to the farm,
Sheep paintings on the wall.
Sheep everywhere. Sheep, sheep, sheep.
Ah, but we do a disservice to the sheep
Who distract us by being woolly and cute and
Sometimes bring us sleep.

They don’t talk about their past.
They don’t talk about it at all.
A forgotten piece of the capitalistic puzzle
When they displaced the yeoman from their fields,
Sending them unprepared into a world
That didn’t know what to do with them.
The curds and whey and wool of social upheaval,
Never have so many followers changed the world so
Unwittingly.
Who will be the sheep of tomorrow? Baaa!
Who will lead where they follow? Baaa!
Curds and whey and bleu sheep cheese
Will take me to the dark and deep
And I’ll change the world while I sleep.

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A Fab Time at the Mall

beatles2This is hard to admit. I was in a mall the other day. The Mall. The Mall of America. The mall was very busy. Parking was stressful, really stressful. Rush hour traffic jam stress is mild compared to the atmosphere of full-on white-knuckle, predatory, winner-take-all Mall of America parking.

Walking into the sterile, cacophonic hive sent me immediately into sensory overload. How do people ingest all these sights and sounds and smells? About forty-five seconds and I was done with that.

In my defense I was there for a good reason. And fortunately the destination was almost empty, perhaps because it had some cultural significance.

A travelling Beatles exhibition centered around the Beatle’s 1965 concert in Minneapolis. The centerpiece of the exhibit was backstage photos taking by the bands tour manager, up close and personal. Fascinating, un-orchestrated.

The exhibit tried to place the concert ion the greater context of American Beatlemania, from the beginning of their first tour in 1964 to their last concert in San Francisco in 1966, a span of two and a half years. The Beatlemania explosion is beyond my comprehension.

The truly fascinating part of the exhibit was that the last third was devoted to Beatles merchandise. I can’t remotely remember it all but made the exhibit worth seeing. At least a thousand pieces of memorabilia. Trading cards, bubble bath, board games, record holders, pennants, coloring books, lunch boxes, wigs and so on. My favorites were some small dolls that had no resemblance at all to any of the Fab Four. The mop top wigs were your only clues.

The fascinating part was not that the memorabilia existed but how much existed, how much was produced. Remember it was only two and a half years between their first concert in America to their last concert ever. I cannot even fathom what that would look like in today’s world. Is it even possible?

Imagine a band going viral and staying viral for two and a half years. Imagine every doo-dad and novelty manufacturer expending all efforts to keep up with demand for band phone covers and wristbands and whatever. It would be kind of freaky.

I suppose boy bands could be considered mini-Beatlemania events though that seems rather blasphemous to ponder. Please don’t throw rocks at me.

So I learned two things: Never go to the Mall of America on a holiday and the Fab Four continues to fascinate me.

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