A New Poem in the Confessional Style About the Passion of Cooking

Confessional

for Mark Alba

When I first met you I was playing bass

For a band that had potential, and I still

Followed that other path

(In a slight way compared to you)

But I did cut out the heart of the artichoke

Using the method you showed me.

We had our obligatory disagreement

In a skyscraper, Atlanta Georgia lawyers

All around us and you asked me to make sure

The curled parsley lacked stem pieces for

The garnish. Andy told me I won’t be asked again

Because I had to dip out to go pick up

The package, at a specific time, a specific place,

And neither of you thought about Atlanta Rush Hour.

Which would have put me too far behind.

You grabbed my (lost) knife kit out of that van.

And you held it for me until I retrieved it.

I briefly explained my situation and apologized

And you apologized

Too

And when I couldn’t show up again because

My Buick Century engine blew

Crossing through Nantahala Gorge

I knew you were disappointed

But at least there was a woman

Who saved me for a time,

And there was an entirely new direction.

And then

There was your talent,

Just waiting to be recognized

Written on the black meringue bark,

Surrounded by black cherries,

And drifted by dehydrated milk foam

Snow.

Dental Insurance

             Marilyn Sapp stared through the high-rise window of her corner office, 35 stories above the streets of the city. The low-hanging grey clouds that straddled the skyline appeared to lay a weighted hush on the activity below and she could feel the heaviness of the storm approaching. Today was the next step in her march toward domination of the nanotech sector of the economy. The composure that graced her face concealed the ethical dilemma that hung over the atmosphere of Nanobiotics Inc. as she waited patiently for the senior engineer, Jim Benson, to update her on the latest test trials.

            Sapp had designed the first micro-machines that were capable of self-repair, and more importantly, replication. The uses for the machines ranged from maintaining plumbing systems for the city’s waste water management to rebuilding complete parts for machines on assembly lines. Since the technology had enjoyed such a high level of success in the industrial sectors, Sapp felt the next logical step for the company would be to design systems that could manage in organic life forms. The first trials proved to be highly efficient and tests on lab animals proved to be consistently effective. The next phase would include using a human subject in order to prepare the system for mass production. Sapp imagined the dismay the dentistry field would experience as their services were rendered obsolete by the machines. After all, she had spent a the entirety of two student loan installments fixing her teeth in graduate school, so she felt a twinge of pleasure through her consideration.

            From her desk, the conference phone beeped. After clicking the accept button, she shuffled her hand through her grey hair.

            “Yes?” She examined the device as if it contained a secret.

            “Benson here,” he spoke clearly and deliberately. “We’ve completed the latest test runs and you’ll be pleased. The results show a point zero one percent chance of error and we’ve yet to observe any anomalies. The systems are ready and all we’re waiting for is news from above to continue.” Benson stalled in anticipation.

            “Proceed to the next phase. Our lawyers have drawn up all the paperwork and I’ve interviewed the applicant personally. There shouldn’t be any interference from here on out.” Sapp considered something for a moment and added, “Just keep everything quiet. We don’t want to rattle the protesters. There’s already too much heat rising from the streets and you do remember how quickly things can burn.”

            “Yes ma’am, the monkey trials did kick up a lot of dust, but I’m confident that the current team will practice tighter discretion. I’ll notify you when the preparations are finalized and the applicant arrives.” Benson’s voice disappeared as Sapp clicked End.

           

            Imogene Bradstreet had been on death row for 12 years, 6 months, and 5 days before representatives from Nanobiotics contacted her. She was jailed for the murder of her husband, who, she had discovered quite by accident, had been molesting her 4 and 6 year old daughters. Upon catching him with his pants down, literally, she bashed his head in with a bedside lamp. The jury had been sympathetic, but the letter of the law prevailed and she was sentenced to execution by lethal injection. She entered the meeting room dressed in a drab blue jumpsuit and grey plastic sandals. Her ragged hair was piled on top of her head and held in place with two pencils that crisscrossed in the tangled mass. The company had met with local officials and convinced them to strike a deal with the inmate. If she would consent to three trials, she would be released from death row and even offered a chance of parole. She sat directly across from a woman who introduced herself as CEO of a company that produced microscopic robots. After a lengthy exchange of personal histories, Marilyn Sapp wrapped up the interview.

            “You understand there is a small margin for error, but our analysts are at the top in the field and they have assured me that the final trial should go smoothly. If something does go wrong, you have my word that you will be compensated.” Sapp studied the lines in the woman’s face. Years of prison had tempered her features, yet deep lines etched her forehead and worry seemed to crinkle at the space between her eyelids and the bridge of her nose.

            “Anything is better than this hell hole. I ain’t got nothin left to do but sit and wait to die anyway. I’m grateful for this chance to be useful again.” Small tears squeezed from Imogene’s ducts but she repressed them in time to avoid an outburst.

            “Good, then tomorrow we can proceed.” Cass stood up and extended her hand, which was gracefully grasped by Imogene. “Best of luck to you, and I will see you after the trial.”

            Imogene Bradstreet thanked her once more and returned to her cell. She figured the final trial would be a snap since the first two went flawlessly. They just shined a concentrated beam of light on a couple parts of her body and scars that she had for years were reconstructed into skin and “healed” as if there had never been an injury. They explained to her, in much too much detail, how the dental machines would be a little bit different. More would be required to reconstruct something as dense as teeth, but not to worry, they would monitor her and terminate the process immediately should anything go awry. She figured since she was marked for a premature death to begin with, being a human guinea pig could not be any worse. Besides, there was the possibility of freedom and that outweighed any reservations she might have conjured.        

            The thick, ash-colored clouds that spread through the sky sputtered droplets that dotted the window as Sapp turned toward the elevator. As she entered the pod, crackled bursts of lightning flashed in the distance and the rain had slanted and started to slam into the façade of the skyscraper. The door closed.

            She emerged from the elevator and proceeded down the corridor to the examination room. As she entered, Benson nodded to her and patted his assistant on the shoulder. He approached her. He explained that the applicant had been sedated, and all the systems were online. He ordered his assistant to initiate phase one. A mechanical arm hovered above Imogene Bradstreet’s face and emitted a concentrated beam of light into her mouth. Her vitals were stable. Everything was going as expected.

            At first it appeared as a tiny line as if a child had taken a pencil and scribbled on her face. Soon, many lines appeared and the skin on her cheek turned green and seemed as if it were metallic. Quickly, Benson’s concern radiated from his command to his assistant, “Turn it off!!! Turn it off right now, something’s going terribly wrong!!”

            The assistant furiously clicked on the keyboard and lowered his head in defeat before he looked at Benson, “It’s too late, it won’t stop until the circuit has completed.”

In Memory of Gary Miles

Gary was my mother's companion for the past 12 years. She had come to depend on him for simple things like running to the store to pick up some bread, or making sure the oil in the car was changed. He died a week and a half ago and left a gaping hole in our household. On top of that, our car broke down the day after and left us with a nagging sensation of despair. Usually when someone passes away, I remember my relationship with them and feel gratitude for the times we shared. Gary was no exception. Each person I have known to pass away leaves behind an impression of what their whole lives encompassed. Gary struggled throughout his entire life and it seemed like he could never catch a break.

The break he did catch, however, is that he met my mother and they developed a supportive relationship. My brother and I grew close to him and I came to depend on him to help me in times of need, like when he bailed me out of jail, or picked me up in the middle of the night when I had no other way. The impression that Gary has left behind expresses how we may find love in this world, even if the struggle seems so vast, even if our experiences are not very kind. I often wished he would get to be on a television game show because he loved watching them so much. He also loved to sing and always dreamed of being in a talent show like American Idol. Reasonable dreams, since people actually do those things.

So here we are, struggling to figure out how to handle everything from funeral arrangements to contacting his estranged family members. For a while we were the only family he felt he needed, but he had started reaching out to folks near the end. He scrapped through life until the very end and his face was etched with the lines from years of hard labor. He was fiercely loyal and someone you could count on in a fix. The impression he leaves behind is one that maps out the strength we gain through our struggles. He also reminds us to press on even when it seems like everything is falling apart and hopeless. Much like this time. I am not sure how it will all work out, but I do know that Gary's impression will last much longer than his suffering. Even from beyond, he sings, and I sincerely hope that his song is forever joyful.

Abbreviated Language

First of all, it is NOT cute that you shorten the word vacation to "vaca."  "Delish" is a word that seems less likely to describe a tasty treat than to signify a level of socially superior exclusion.  I know, our language is being abbreviated due to the effect of social media on the ways we communicate.  I get it.  We are all so busy nowadays that it is a challenge to utter a word more than a couple of syllables long.  Rushing around, paying bills, working, practicing, studying, eating, sleeping, bathing, all the activities we must include in our daily routines, make the importance of using language properly fall on the level of something like mailing a letter to your great aunt or picking up litter on the side of a highway.  No offense to those who actually write letters to their great aunts, I'm sure your efforts bring comfort.  And forget about the trash.

Language evolves, I get that.  I also understand when Derrida explained how written language, if not completely privileged over oral, is at least AS important.  (I mean, if we all went around saying SMH or LOL in our conversations, we would come across as being one stick away from a boomerang).  That is sort of what he was getting at when he coined the term différance, to show how a word that is read can hold meaning in a way that it cannot if simply heard. Consider "there, they're, their" or "its, it's" or "your, you're" and you'll have an idea of spoken vs. written communication.

There is a reason we shorten our language, and there is a lot to be said for economy.  Only shortening words like "brilliance" to "brills" and "fabulous" to "fabu" does something to our culture that pushes us closer to the abyss of cutesie than towards the realm of substance.  It also means that if you systematically replace whole words with approximations, the odds are that you are a snob.  It is one thing to quickly tweet a message where you say "prof" instead of "professor" or "info" instead of "information" as it shortens the character count and allows your complete idea to be unimpeded.  It is an entirely different matter when you're speaking with your pal and brag about how you picked up some great "merch" when you visited the brewery.

I'm not sure I can explain how "ridic" it is that we abbreviate some words.  When I hear certain shortcuts, I immediately cringe as if someone has inserted a chalkboard into my soul.  I am not opposed to the idea of making our language more fluid and expressive.  Rather, it is an attitude that is attached to the process of shortening. We are so infatuated with our quickness and cleverness when we use such terms, that our self-satisfaction supersedes our good sense.  It is one thing to grow up in a culture where terms are learned and used, quite another to denigrate them intentionally because they sound hip or slick.  It is not going to stop and my disdain will only serve to keep me agitated.  Still, something must be said about how important our language is to our lives, and how by slaughtering it, we slaughter a little bit of ourselves.  Just imagine every time someone says "delish" somewhere in the fabric of space/time, a rupture opens and something like ice cream disappears.  It could happen.

I do wonder why I think it is okay to say "prof" and "info" but not "marvy" or "presh."  It is all a matter of personal taste I suppose.  I can understand why someone would enjoy getting  a "mani-pedi" or goes to the "fridge."  I know that in kitchens, asking what the "temp" is on that steak is commonplace.  There are some words that easily lend themselves to abbreviation.  I feel like I should be composing a defense of all words and how they are used, how it is okay because it follows the line of short attention spans, how language is beautiful no matter how it evolves.  Language is the single most important tool developed by humanity and it serves us in extraordinary ways.  Maybe I should stop right here and rejoice in the fact that I can even communicate at all.  I C it will never change and it comes across as if I'm a H8er.  MayB I M, N this particular context.

Where has Poetry Gone?

As I consider graduate schools, and whether I have what it takes to make it in or not, I return to a consideration that has been bugging me lately.  What has become of poetry?  Is it enough nowadays to have some kind of experience and exalt that experience through word placement in verse?  A lot of poems read like prose and have the feel of narrative.  Because the nature of popular poetry has moved into a realm of self-revelation, there are more and more poems being published that lack any formal use of poetic convention, like simile, metaphor, conceit, personification, metonymy, synechdoche...you get the picture.  Now, it's okay to see a sunrise and talk about how many colors there were on that cold winter morning while you pine over lost love and the emptiness that seems to capture the sky.  Okay, maybe there is a bit of convention involved in some places, but it seems like the craft of poetry has become more concerned with eliminating the use of articles and stumping the speech with jerky lines of sudden images than with developing a sense of poetic interaction with an object.  Maybe it is because our emotions are so limited and shared that poetry has burned out.  Maybe it is because there are only so many ways to approach the big themes, and the smaller ones don't seem to have much weight.

The various poetic movements that have arisen through history had a sense of intentional cohesion.  If you go postmodern, you are accused of attempting to undermine the establishment.  If you mimic other forms, you are accused of being unoriginal.  It is a fine line between breathing and spitting.  Haiku has a simplicity that transcends the simple.  Long modern poetry has a complexity that challenges the ways our minds work.  Too many times I have attended poetry readings where we are offered a slight glimpse into a new world, only to find by the end, that it's the same exact world we've been lumbering through already.  It's not a matter of seeing anything new as much as it is about establishing relationships.  Relationship has replaced technique.  I'd prefer to read a rhyming poem set in iambic pentameter about a snail on a stump than I would to read about another person's failed attempt to make things right in a love affair, only to find it never could have been because it wasn't.  I understand the necessity of capturing a spontaneous moment, and revising it through a process of subtle contemplation and craft.  And if you must reveal your disappointment, please consider something fresh, like conjuring metaphors from stacks of aluminum cans, or how advertising drowns out your voice every time you said "i love you."

I am student of poetry.  I embrace the spirit.  I see the value of the verse form and how effective it can be when exploring the vastness of life.  Yet, the world has filled with self-congratulatory expositions of the creative process.  You get into the right circle, then you're guaranteed an audience that will gush over your witticisms and honesty.  It's so challenging to get out of our own heads that it seems like it may never occur again.  We need a new poetic movement that embraces the passion of the Romantics and slams it into the pastiche of postmodernism.  It is not necessary to create something so abstract that you need an inside tip to decipher the riddle.  Rather it is a necessity that poetry pushes through its current stagnation.  Some people are better teachers of what poetry should be than writers of anything.  Some people are so straight-forward that it's impossible to figure out why a work is a poem and not a broken up paragraph.

Maybe I am bitter because I see young poets giving it their all, seeking recognition and being denied because all the journals are filled by fame.  Once you have a voice in the world of poetry, you can write about dog food drying on a board, and stop right there.  There should be an acknowledgement of something beyond that connects us to other things below.  There should be a recognition that transcends the mundane relationship of "oh yeah I've been there too."  I want poetry to reveal the mystery, and show me so many different aspects of it.  I want poetry to excite me and lead me to an awareness where even the most insignificant event achieves relevance.  I want poetry to lead me into the heart of love without pulling me through sentimental sludge.

We've all imagined another way of life other than our own.  We've all seen something that has startled us and has taken us out of our own sphere of understanding, even if for a brief moment.  We are surrounded by an abundance of potential, and until the voice of mainstream poetry changes, we are going to be stuck with the same old thing about the same old thing.

The Light of Hurricane Katrina

Though I was terrified as the brutal storm slammed the land, I found shelter through many things,

A likeness of Ganesha, a small piece of jade, candles on the mantle, a small battery powered radio and The hiss of AM, and me pacing in circles and talking to God,

I proclaimed my appreciation for the many things of the world, the cracked corporate conspiracies,

The hearts of secretive politicians, all the systems how perfectly intertwined, the laws of nature

As expressed through a furious deluge, everything in sync and acknowledged as I walked and spoke Aloud, grasping the perfection of the world as if it were my last day.

I watched the storm from different vantages, from the window in the living room,

Where outside the rain seemed less like water than sheets of ice slanting onto the asphalt,

Where the wind roared as it bent and snapped tree limbs and trunks throughout the neighborhood.

I stood in the screened-in back porch and gazed at the huge sycamore that stood in the middle

Of the yard.  I watched the planks of the wooden fence shudder under the force of wind,

Certain that at any moment they would dislodge and seek the façade of the house

Like spears chucked by an angry storm as she displayed her power and her fury.

I held the piece of jade tightly in my fist, seeking the symbolic protective force of a stone,

Rubbing it with my thumb as I continued my conversation with eternity. 

I studied the picture of Ganesha with his blue elephant head and regal robes, his broken tusk that

He had hurled at the moon along with the curse of darkness until he was convinced

To restore the light to the celestial sphere.  I meditated about breathing and attempted Zazen

While the crash of objects being forced into direction and movement echoed through the room.

I napped briefly on the couch to conserve my strength and when I awoke,

I was surprised by the flickering candles’ reflections on the surface of water

That had begun to fill the house as I had slept.  Disoriented, when I touched what I imagined

A dream, the ripples extended to the corners of the room and the candlelight distorted. 

I gathered my things, recent journals, a wallet with identification and money,

The hard drive I had removed from my computer, upon which was recorded my recent efforts

At writing a novel, extra clothing, a compact pillow, and a quilt

My conversation melted into silence as I clicked on the black flashlight, found my way

To the attic over the garage, and cowered in fear as the haunting tornadoes sounded

Through the distance. I wrote in my journal by candlelight and sipped from a pint of bourbon,

I noted the sounds, described the way I tripped over a fallen tree limb as I maneuvered

Through the flooded yard, how my clothing was drenched, how the coldness seemed

To wrap around me more out of solace than out of disdain.  When I had exhausted my strength,

I blew out the candles and slipped into the realm of dreams. 

I slept until the storm abated, and climbed down from my sanctuary.

Outside, the night sky opened up and stars thickly filled the distance as if they had all

Been constructed by one sliver of light and interconnected.  I surveyed the yard, the flood water

Three feet high and filled with toxicity.   I looked at the small crepe myrtle bush,

On whose flexible limb I had secured a bright red hummingbird feeder using a small wire tie.

In awe, I noticed it still hung, though scarcely secured against something like a storm,

And it became another symbol that had protected me

From the terror of a life threatening storm, and the possibilities of unwise decisions.

I had been spared through a process of gratitude, superstition, and reverence

As I waded into the neighborhood, certain I was alive.

Overcome Toxicity

The first toxic friendship I can remember occurred when I was in my early teens.  Through the peer pressure of a fearless kid named Randy, I followed his example through many underhanded adventures.  One time we threw eggs at a kid's house and ran like hell.  I liked the kid whose house we bombarded, yet I still persisted in overcoming my personal opinion and pelted the front door with a couple of eggs.  Why did I do it?  Ironically it was because Randy had a vendetta against Will, the kid whose house we egged.  He thought Will was too smart and a show off, though in reality he was just a soft-spoken kid who liked to read.  We also stole beer from our parents, snuck out of the house late at night, spent weekends on Dauphin Island without a word to anyone, stole wood from the neighboring subdivision as it was being constructed, made fun of everyone, skipped school, and performed many acts of mumbo jumbo with toilet paper and eggs.  Most of these activities, I would have never considered had I not been influenced by the encouragement of Randy.  We all do things while growing up that appall us later in life, but most kids manage to behave within some level-headed boundaries.  Randy knew no boundaries, and had I not moved away before my junior year of high school, I may have ended up in junvenile detention with him.

Through the years, I  moved around and met many people.  Most I got along with and enjoyed learning about.  The few I met where I felt no promise of friendship, we simply parted ways and didn't associate anymore.  Occassionally I butted heads with others over whether lamb shanks should be braised or if the Vols had a chance against the Crimson Tide.  Opinionated disagreements usually ended up diffused and at the end of the night  we sat around like old chums, sharing beers and stories from the kitchen line.  We solved our problems by accepting each other's individuality and differences of opinion.  It was simple and effective.  Toxicity was the last thing we wanted in our environment.

I had not even considered the idea of toxic friendships until recently when a friend shared an article with me.  It was one of those "how to clean up your life" type articles, and it made sense.  One of the signs of a toxic relationship is when you lose a sense of confidence when you associate with someone you think is close to you.  Usually it is accentuated by criticism they claim is to help you become a better person.  Another sign is when you acheive something, they are quick to point out how self-centered you must be to revel in your accomplishment.  They accuse you of narcissism, mental illness, lack of empathy, closed-mindedness, or ineptitude.  All of this under the premise that they value your friendship and want to work through issues.  You endure it because you have invested time and energy into the relationship and quite possibly have even developed a level of pseudo-trust to where their words affect your emotional state.  You never consider any of it as a projection of their insecurities.  It all seems like it really is your fault and you must change or else you'll never be successful.  Another sign of toxicity in "friendship" is when you are expected to put someone else's priorities over your own.  If you don't take time out of your busy day to interject your sympathy and indentification into their personal struggles, you are branded as an egotistical child who will never understand the real world because you lack humility, compassion, insight, and depth of character.

I have never claimed to be some transcendent creature forged from the realm of enlightenment, but I do recognize my capacity to love and I work on developing awareness of how I could change to be better at communicating, better at listening, and better at indentifying with others.  I am aware of how I have messed up in life and when my decisions have been selfish and misguided.  I accept responsibility for my actions and I make honest efforts to ensure I am more careful.  Regardless of my shortcomings, a true friend would be more inclined to clue me in to how I am messing up in life by telling me how I have disappointed them, instead of waging a character attack.  A true friend would step up, question my motives, and point out how my actions are self-defeating, instead of attempting to defeat me through criticism and disdain.  Even if a friend only gets in touch once in a while and it comes from a sincere place, it is far more valuable than being bombed by myopic vilification.

The articles all say that it's best to remove those elements from your life if you want to clean house and feel peace of mind.  There are people in our lives who support us and feel a sense of vicarious pride in our achievements.  They nurture us, build us, and do their best to share our burdens.  I choose to focus on those aspects of my life and say goodbye to the voices that always bring me down.  Though I haven't met many Randys in my life, I am able to see the few that I have set me back in egregiously destructive ways.  The next time a voice in your life tells you how worthless you are for whatever reason, kindly snuff it out and focus on where you intend to be.  Don't give too much life to it or it will reverberate in your head every time you must make a clear decision. Even if all those things really are wrong with you,  they can be fixed.  Odds are you are just fine, but fix it all anyway to the point where that voice  has no fuel and grows quiet as it sinks into the deep dark mist of the past.  Disconnect yourself from such toxicity.  You'll feel lighter in your spirit, and then you can spend time with the people who really do care.

Techno-dreams and the Fear of Falling

I remember when I was five-years-old my dad gave me a slide rule.  I was still in the phase of enjoying pursuits like fingerpainting and playing "pretend like" but when I look back on that gesture, I become aware of how necessary it must have seemed for me to learn how to use the device to engage the world with a firm commitment to aviation, finance, or engineering.  It was 1974 and the slide rule was on its way out because the electronic calculator had taken over.  Maybe because I was only sparsely mediocre in mathematics or maybe because I was still caught up in Aesop's Fables, I never developed an interest in the slide rule.  Thank god the world devised electronic calculators.  Now I had another instrument to fascinate me while I neglected to learn its true uses.  It was too much fun punching out 7734 and turning it upside down to reveal "HELL" on the display.

Now, those days are far behind me.  I've forgotten how to use a calculator except for the simplest of tasks.  I've learned how to use a computer well enough to get around in word processing programs or virtual worlds.  I have a deep appreciation for the freedom of mobility that cars grant to us, but I also maintain this deep-seeded fear of the devastation that collisions can cause.  I have always been fascinated by technology yet secretly suspect of the REAL influence it has over consciousness and the way it seems to outpace my comprehension of the world around me.

No longer do we use technology only as a tool to perform a task.  It has become integrated with the center of our existence.  I fly around Second Life without a remote sensation of flying, yet when I stand on a high surface in the virtual environment, I get a bit queazy to my stomach.  The feeling is real and yet I am sitting on a chair, looking at a computer screen.  I feel as if I may fall, and even if i do, I'll just bounce off the ground, dust off my shoulders, and fly away.  Still, the fear of the process of falling is visceral and sharp.  This is what technology does to me.  It tantalizes me with the joy and beauty of freedom and quickness.  Then it sends me into a dramatic tailspin, down, down, down, through the depths of my mind.  I experience the same feelings when I dream.

When we turn away from technology it is like we awaken from a dream.  What we considered the real world during our engagement has slipped away and has been replaced by the other reality.  Only the reality is not the objective reality of things and ideas, it is a reality of introversion and denial.  While engaged with technology, as with dreaming, our minds focus on the images of now.  We are not really worried about how we look or what people will think.  We use the tools to fixate on tasks, we dream images regardless of whether people will find out.  When we wake up from either state of engagement, we are confronted with our notions of reality and become self-critical, competitive and flooded.

Psychological speculation has always intrigued me and I've been sucked into a lot of it from Freud to Jung, Perl to Skinner, Lacan to Zizek.  Each time I read anything psychological, I start looking at my mind as the construct shaped by what others have defined.  I enjoy it.  I like to wake up into my dreams, fully unaware of where I'm going.  The same when I wake up into Second Life and teleport to a poetry reading or art exhibit.  I like how books have shaped my perception of reality, and how the voices of thinkers have influenced me to see the world around me as both fantasy and form.  I imagine I'll continue to redefine my neuroses and contemplate my ego-involvement with the fabricated universe.  We all agree that the ground upon which we stand is REAL as we look to the sky and see forever, God, azure, stars, or ourselves.  All the while, the ground waits to swallow up our bodies, and we only feel that reality when we are unaware of feeling at all.

I've Returned!

It has been a while since I have updated my blog.  Mainly because I've been focusing on school and other projects.  We successfully launched the latest issue of Homespun, Tennessee Tech's literary journal.  I was designated editor-in-chief and we managed to coordinate effectively and launch the journal online this summer.  We have plans to include more multimedia and we will network with other departments to request art like music, videos of theater and open mics, photos, digital art, and anything else that would make Homespun more engaging. 

I have been bellyaching over my novel, American Zen and the Noise of Fusion, for years now.  It doesn't seem right.  I feel like it's a good story and if reworked effectively, it can become a great story.  I printed out a hardcopy to mark-up, so I'll see how it goes.  I am also revising my current collection of poetry, Dragonfly Satori.  I will be uploading the revised version soon, so this one will soon be obsolete.

The last couple of days I have been exploring social networks with more attention than usual.  It's not because I don't trust social media, it's that I don't really understand it.  I know for months I've been getting linkedin requests and haven't even considered how to use it.  Pinterest baffled me for a bit, but one day I found a bunch of beautiful pictures and started clicking away.  I even used twitter for more than test messages today to praise our women's soccer team for their victory over Columbia. 

So, there is news about a possible spoken word collaboration in Second Life between Winston Dufaux and Alexi Ayers.  Alexi runs the Singularity Tribe website and sim and she puts together some amazing music collages.  If you're ever in Second Life, you can catch a show on Saturday nights at 10 SLT, Second Life Time is the Pacific Time Zone.  Here's a glimpse:

A Mountain is a Mountain.

Regardless of which side of the debate you prefer to straddle, there is one constant among all belief systems.  Faith is required in order to pursue any relationship with that which is beyond all comprehension.  We strive to understand the nature of this phenomenon and in the end, the only proof for any of it is what is told to us by that part of our brain we call our heart.  The concept of flux is ever apparent.  Even as I type everything around me changes in subtle yet persistent ways.  Though I cannot see it directly, I am aware of the process.  The idea of having an inherent understanding of things as they are is most apparent before we utilize symbols to express those things.  So we arrive at Zen again:

Mu is a term in Zen that is used to describe "emptiness " or "nothingness." This is what a zen practitioner hopes to attain and realize. The universe is in a constant flux of change. Nothing ever remains unchanged. As long as we continue to desire we will always be suffering. If one wishes not to suffer, desire must be cut-off from one's life. Physically, all sentient beings suffer with birth, illness, old age, and death. The whole body-mind complex is in a state of suffering.

And though desire lies at the root, and dissapointment is the byproduct of expectation, there is professed a systematic movement towards something more. Alleviation from suffering is the goal of enlightenment.  All sentient beings suffer and as a result, the cycle must be transmuted into something else in order for the chain to be broken.   Through realization it is as such:

        Before one studies Zen, a mountain is a mountain.

        Once one attains insights, a mountain is not a mountain.

        When one really understands, a mountain is a mountain.

Winston Dufaux has on display in the Ionic Collective, that postmodern fragment of the metaverse Second Life, a small collection of his short poetry.  Not quite haiku but strangely similar in tone.  When you approach the gallery (which is nestled sweetly underneath a lake, behind the main stage) the lights from within appear to glow as if emanating from luminescent apparitions.  It all depends on how you belief.  The lights could be lights.  They could be virtual representations of what lights could be.  They could be voices as if from dreams, as if who placed them there dreamt them and was inspired.  Again, I would like to mention the band Engrama, because they deserve it.  Winston hopes to read his poems aloud while accompanied by Pupito on guitar.  This may happen tomorrow if the cards fall in the right manner.  Noom, the assertive and helpful sim manager (who actually lives in Portugal) made some nice backdrops for the poetry.  She is the one who will ensure that Winston actually commits to this endeavour. 

In the spirit of Portugal, for not much is spoken of Portuguese cuisine, I would like to direct you to Mize's blog, where you'll find and interesting and diverse collection of recipes.  Of note, there is not always a complicated path on the road to delicious food preparation.  So yes, things connect in a seemingly random fashion, but strip away preconceptions and it all seems like one small chain in the realm of existence.  Isolate the event, and the magic is in the fact that it even occurred in the first place.  Do people really think it is clever to say It seems like Déjà vu all over again.  Oh, I think I had this Déjà vu before!  Shrugs.

So continues this dance between the virtual and the actual, between the imaginative and the concrete.  Winston, a talking mime, and me an omniscient third person narrator.  Depending on perception, maybe I am the mime without a body who only has printed words to convey my performance.  I remember one of my first dreams, I was three years old.  There was a variegated aluminum building.  Slate blue.  At the upper right hand corner there was a circle within which a man and woman sang "It's a Small World."  I have always been a prolific dreamer, and have taught myself to remember more dreams than most people (as far as I've been told) and the other night I dreamt I won $15000.  No biggie, it is because money is always a worry.  Just like seeing a small world when you are three is not a big deal.  Whether my dreams contain some key into reading the nature of reality, I can not readily proclaim.  What I can say is that my mind does present some curious symbolism through dreams, and if i look closely enough, from a heart filled with silence, every once in a while, I see a mountain once more.

Harry the Frog.

I first met Harry the Frog on a message board called the Zen Shed in 1999.  He was the moderator and each week we would all contribute to a Renga poem.  Here's an excerpt from Wikipedia:

In Japan a renga starts with a hokku of 5-7-5 sound units by one of the guests - usually the most honored or experienced. This is followed by the second verse of 7-7 sound units, called the waki (脇^?, "side"), and then by the third verse of 5-7-5 sound units, called the daisan (第三^?, lit., "the third"). The next verse will be 7-7 sound units, and this pattern is repeated until the desired length is achieved. It is common in English to use forms that show the number of the verse, how long it is to be, whether the moon or flowers should be mentioned, when one author takes two links at once. Since the renga of different lengths have different schemes for how many verses are given to each season and non-seasonal verses, it is easiest to use one of the available forms so that everyone understands and follows the same program.

Harry always made sure the waki got along with the daisan.  He was keenly adept at maintaining the peace between the two.  When Harry first arrived in Australia, which he claimed was in the 1960's, he had the good fortune of coming across a book of haiku in an old thrift shop.  This particular book was imbued with a subtle and mysterious energy.  When read in a certain sequence, each haiku revealed a modicum of universal truth.  As his understanding grew, he began practicing the art of restorative food preparation and taught the craft to only two people.  Those two people must remain a hidden secret, far from the clammy paws of consumerism.  Rest assured though, two people learned from his lessons, and those two people agreed to teach two more.  He would tell you that maybe Tracy Bayntay might be one of those, but then he'd grin and you wouldn't know for sure.

The Zen Shed was our virtual hangout where we practiced such a cool and interesting activity like renga.  Therein lies the same issue, what constitutes reality?  Harry would say reality does, even if you call it something else like telephonic or jamboree.  He has a knack for being witty and nonsequitor.

One of the best cooking secrets he shared with me was, nevermind.  But he did share several and among them was a cilantro pesto.  The trick was in gathering the right ingredients though, something that takes far more effort than most busy lifestyles allow.  Price one pays for quickness.  Harry recommends growing as much food as you can, while initiating a Meowyum chant and listening to your favorite music, as long as it has gamelan, such as used by Solace, in it.  The rules for cultivating such unbelievable results with food are specific yet a certain ambiguity resides in interpretation and application.  Like most things.

Harry inspires Winston to compose haiku while practicing his mime gig.  He explains that haiku expands the mind because it is so seemingly simple in form and so complex in nature.  Harry likes the idea of expanding the mind.  He considers himself a future primitive shaman, at least that's what he calls it.  He says food is alchemy.  He says he used to practice alchemy back in the day but never said when that was.  The enigma of his life is something that is at once shocking and soothing.  He does seem like he's been around the block a few times.  One of his morning rituals involves steeping a pot of chai tea.  Contrary to the opinions of many, there are not infinite recipes for chai tea, explains Harry, if anything there is only one perfect way to do it, and that's for you to figure out.  One of his many kooky practices. 

So Winston connects with a new friend from the Netherlands who wants to compose music for spoken word.  Winston tells him that it might be a perfect idea to collaborate.  Just another day at The Ionic Spell collective, thinks Winston. Pupito hooks him up with a virtual tour of the virtual space. Harry the Frog looks on and nods as he hands Winston a glass of Numanthia Toro.

What is American Zen?

American Zen is a reconciliation.  The debate over what delineates substance from artifice continues to rage in thought as people strive to define our common era.  American Zen is a practice where vast consumerism is understood through a process of spiritual integrity.  Through the intentional expansion of consciousness, we are able to achieve a heightened state of awareness and overcome the disdain that erupts from our interpretation of environment.  In his book Simulacra and Simulation, Baudrillard explains,

There is no real, there is no imaginary except at a certain distance. What happens when this distance, including that between the real and the imaginary, tends to abolish itself, to be reabsorbed on behalf of the model? Well, from one order of simulacra to another, the tendency is certainly toward the reabsorption of this distance, of this gap that leaves room for an ideal or critical projection.

The distinction between oberver and Other breaks down.  The essence of illusion  dissolves and becomes as concrete as any other phenomenon.   All definition is a clumsy attempt to corral a thing into understanding, but yet succeeds in portraying a glimpse potent enough to initiate interconnectivity.  Whether experiencing the golden satisfaction of paella or the soundscapes of My Dad Vs Yours, each experience lends itself to a new formulation of reality.  One constantly in flux but nevertheless real.

Winston Dufaux moves into the Ionic Spell Collective.  He intends to collaborate with musicians who live there and create spoken word projects.  He must fix his unicycle.  The patch of weeds in front of his house reminds him of childhood.  He senses it but does not bother to tell anyone.  In a virtual environment, the wind is barely active.  He looks at his new surroundings and considers where to hang the paintings.  He picked up some digital art from a friend of his, also virtual.

The first meal Tracy Bayntay prepared for them contained all the elements of the excitement of new love.  She lifted a beef short ribs recipe from the web and as a result of her meticulous attention to detail and her culinary prowess created the best meal Winston ever tasted.  While she cooked, she listened to pet ghost project on her mp3-player-without-a-brand-name.  She made sure to add the additional pop to her dish.  Those familiar with the pop understand how important it is for tasty food.  The aroma from the dish wafted through the air and inspired Winston to work on his next project, his spoken mime performance of "The Great Hug" by Donald Barthelme.  His virtual friend, the painter (who is really me in this reality) showed him a video clip he made for rhetoric class.  It was used for a presentation.

And so the guy standing there explains how a sense of whimsy is inspired through a narrative appeal.  He uses notecards but is too nervous speaking publicly that his presentation is clumsy.  He pushes through by imagining that he is someone else in the audience watching the presentation.  This technique works and he finishes with flourish.  He is glad to inspire Winston.  It isn't often that a virtual fictional character creates something from such a presentation, but Winston does a fine job.

Tracy Bayntay and Winston Dufaux.

I have decided to link my recipe descriptions to other blogs in order to promote other individuals and expand on the repetoire of interesting links.  I am still going to maintain my own secret stash of recipes for use in the cookbook that will be written by a fictional character, Tracy Bayntay, from my first novel American Zen and the Noise of Fusion.  She even plans on keeping a travel journal as she makes her way around the world in search of spices.

Oddly enough, when Winston was on tour with the band around the Gulf Coast, he heard of this electrafolk outift from Brooklyn, Jon Sheldrick and Luke Smith.  A buddy of his had actually burned the mp3's to disc and recorded then onto cassettes.  That was his first exposure to Awning.  A rather lo-fi way to go, but highly enjoyable. He threw on the old walkman and strolled the empty beach at Dauphin Island.  There was no sign of seagulls.  He sat on a pier and imagined briefly the startling glimmer on the waves and felt as Borges had explained in his story "The Aleph."

I come now to the ineffable center of my tale; it is here that a writer's hopelessness begins.  Every language is an alphabet of symbols the employment of which assumes a past shared by its interlocutors.  How can one transmit to others the infinite Aleph which my timorous memory can scarcely contain?

He was drawn to the craft of mime at first to practice from the unspoken codex of silence.  The more he considered paradox is when he joined the band as a frontman.  Introduce the band.  Introduce some songs.  Pull out the door jam and hulu hoop, toss tennis balls into the crowd.  Speak loudly and clearly like you just emerged from prolonged understanding.  But above all speak out loud and break the code of silence with rounded and sharp syllables.  He had read the Borges quote on numerous occassions and even once clumsily narrated in Spanish.  More practice, more practice.

Tracy has a thing for potatoes.  Admittedly, the pommes frites she had at the farm were by far the most sumptuous.  Tossed in a small amount of truffle oil, some fleur de sel.  Lately though, her favorite has been potato cakes, though the difficulty and expense of authentic wasabi forces her to resort to the mass produced product.  Either way, she prefers to use a lot of it.  Throwing some smoked salmon on it, a variation of crème fraîche  delicately drizzled from a spoon.  Micro-greens.  Bread crumbs.  She had some down home barbecue style potato cakes when she visited the ranch.  Full of smokiness, bacon bits, pungent green onions and sharp Vermont white cheddar.  Fire roasted tomato and garlic jam infused by a hint of cinnamon.  Chipotle balsamic reduction.

Winston stood up as the sun set.  He remembered the old saying, "kids will be skeletons."  Since he cultivated such a keen sense of symbolism, he knew the saying was really a song by Mogwai.   He flipped the tape over to E.P. (2) by Awning and followed his future footprints down the shore.

Distracted from Festivus

The festivus tradition of airing out grievances was held in silent fashion tonite.  I failed to install the proper ritual to my inward ranting, but I think the process of my life allows room for improvisation.  Most of my complaints are self-directed as I compare my creative endeavours to others', my minimalistic lifestyle to opulence, or my whimsical daydream notion of success to actual motivation.  To say I follow verb tense practically is partially correct and I easily overlook such discrepancies by listening to music instead.  Tonite's choice?  Hacia Dos Veranos from Argentina:

 Ignacio Aguiló: guitar

Diego Martínez: bass

           Julia Bayse: flute, keyboards

    Andrés Edelstein: drums

Their music can be located here at their bandcamp page

I first heard about Hacia Dos Veranos from a friend in Second Life.  Inworld he's known as Pupito Helstein, guitarist for the band Engrama or [Engrama].  Accompanying him, lakua Aruaga on drums.  They play live sets in Second Life and occassionally stream live video feeds of their performances.  Currently they maintain a sim (short for simulator [sim processes]) called The Ionic Spell, a dazzlingly postmodern environment with modest retro houses, period furniture a la 1969, and other subtle details that lend it darkly nostalgic resonance.  You'll find an art gallery where current artists' works are displayed, record players with stacks of virtual vinyl, and other simulacra tucked into nooks and crannies.  When there is no live music, the sim streams electro postrock from somafm which is a nice addition to the mood while exploring.  Pupito was the drummer for Hacia Dos Veranos, but he and lakua currently reside in Vitoria, Álava, Spain.

Part of my culinary experience took place in an interesting spot in Asheville called Zambra.  The cuisine was a fusion of north African and Spanish, with creative license applied as well.  One of my favorite dishes was the pan seared scallops which were served with a sauce composed of a spice mix called Ras El Hanout and coconut milk.  Though not technically traditional, the dish stood up to the bold wine list.  I learned about tapas through my experience at Zambra and later applied a similar approach when I ran the kitchen at a spot called Bamboo Room which was an extension of the now defunct Akumi.  Akumi was on Wall Street, and I always loved that area during fall when the Ginkgo biloba trees glowed brilliant yellow.



Where Am I Going?

I do a radio program for WTTU 88.5 FM called "Cooking with Sound."  Much like everything else I do, it is a collage of fiction, food, and music.  I enjoy making up the stories for all the characters I use, and in some cases, those characters either are real people or resemble real people.  I exaggerate their music preferences in order to allow a semblance of character to shine.  When I do talk about food, it is usually based on something one of them had taught me. 

I plan on developing my idea when my show starts again in January.  It is always evolving, I can't really figure out how to define what I wish to convey, but I know there is something lurking that must be expressed.  By allowing the show to rely a great deal on spontaneity, I believe it assumes an organic quality.  How's that for paradox?  Music generated through some digital means, transmitted, and either streamed from the internet or played on a radio.  I don't own a radio.  How can it be organic if all the ingredients for the show are synthetic?  For one, the idea emanates from an organic entity, me.  I'm the one who chooses the songs, contrives the stories, and shares them with other organic entities who might be listening.  It is like sitting around a glowing screen of fire while we describe our daily experiences.  Only this is a one way street where it's just me talking.  There lies another issue.  How can something be labeled a lie if there is some kernel of truth from which it sprouts?  I have heard people say all of communication is essentially a lie because to convey our relationship with reality requires media reliant upon the creator.  Therefore, this subjective interpretation of reality is relayed and subsequently, removed from the truth of a thing.  But once something exists, even in a field of symbols, it too achieves a life of its own.  It becomes another construct that infiltrates consciousness and shapes it.  Maybe it is all one big lie, but it is a lie that is innocent in its infancy.  All we have is what we experience.  Maybe the idea of truth is the greatest delusion of all.

The one thing that amazes me about cooking is how precise it is in application.  There are shortcuts and alterations, but essentially the process either works or it doesn't.  Try making whipped cream out of heavy cream in a food processor.  Walk away to check on something else and return several minutes later.  Now you see that it has turned into butter, which isn't such a bad thing, but one that does not serve a likely purpose on that Strawberry Shortbread Delight that has delighted the clientele since 1990.  My point is that there are parameters within cooking that must be followed or else your end product ends up hardly resembling the vision of it.  So maybe a marinara sauce lacking an anchovy undernote could be considered a lie.  Or a buerre blanc that fails to utilize vinegar.  You probably shouldn't use ham hocks to make a chocolate cake or add olive oil to your fluffy meringue.  There is a degree of translation involved in food preparation.  Common sense most often prevails in most procedures, no chewing gum with the pasta, no crushed clam shells in the creme brulee.  It may sound ridiculous.

If what we perceive, before we even start to think about it, constitutes the truth, and what we interpret after is a lie, then there's really no debate.  All attempts at communicating are inherently flawed and cannot be trusted.  As evidenced by things in this world that have been made, whether buildings or dandelion wine, there is something beyond our inclination to call something lie or truth.  Some things work, some things fail.  Whether truth or lie is all an illusion.  What works, works.  What doesn't ends up being another idea, equally real but less effective.

It was Gone in the Blink of an I.

There I was again, preparing fried potatoes. I had cut them all into perfect shapes, blanched them in one hundred fifty degree oil, and was ready to go. I dropped the first handful into the oil and winced as the oil coated the tip of my middle finger and sent searing pain through me, down to my toes. It was not the first time it happened either. Being burned is a right of passage in kitchens. No one talks about it much at dinner parties. It's usually, "What is your favorite dish?" or "How do I keep my hollandaise from breaking?" Which are both very good questions.

My favorite dish usually involves some kind of seafood served with sides that aren't creamy and delicious, like polenta or risotto. I prefer pairing rice (but NOT risotto) with my seafood. Forget about cheese. I don't think the two go very well together unless it's a fried fish sandwich on the Gulf Coast. Then cheese is okay. Really I enjoy making sauces most. In regards to the first question about hollandaise, the best way to keep it from breaking is to make it correctly. Keep whisking and don't let the egg yolks scramble.  Add the melted butter while whisking, again be careful not to scramble the yolks.  It is a dance with danger though, because you cannot keep hollandaise refrigerated OR on heat. It will congeal to a gloppy mess if too cold, or break apart if too warm. So you keep it at room temperature and if you are a big fan of Sunday brunches in the early afternoon, you must realize that the hollandaise on your Eggs Benedict might have been sitting out at room temperature since 7 o'clock that morning. Though it seems step heavy, it is a great preparation to try at home while being seduced by world news. Don't worry too much though because most places these days don't even make hollandaise sauce. They buy powder or paste products to which you add water and whisk into fake hollandaise. The amount of chemicals present in those products will ensure a healthy and delicious two o'clock PM Sunday afternoon Eggs Benedict experience.

There is a danger zone with food, mainly protein based, and sitting out for longer than four hours at a stretch. Bacteria loves that environment and often vacations there for reproduction. They migrate over from the mess someone never cleaned up on the floor under the reach in across the kitchen. Where the whipped cream dribbled during a busy rush the night before. No one really thinks about these things because face it, chefs are all conscientious and concerned with public health. Just imagine all those man hours spent just caring about how clean and sanitary the work surfaces are. Even the floor.

There is also no quick cure for being burned.  It's going to hurt like hell for a little while and the only thing you really can do is try to understand the sound that the pain is making in your brain. There are momentary pauses though, like if you put mustard on the burn, or cold water, or in some cases egg whites. Everyone has a cure that they swear works but to this day none has worked for me except trying to understand the sound. And I still can't put my finger on it.

It is a piercing sound, and a throbbing sound. All at once it is red and orange and yellow. The reason they call them warm colors becomes apparent through the sound. It also reminds you of other places that are hurting within you. Forget it if you have a broken heart and you burn your arm. Might as well brand it with a hot poker. Crimson or scarlet. Like sharp and pointy angles of the isosceles through the enigma of goo.

Do not ever, EVER, add a roux to a broken hollandaise because that is just plain wrong. Suck it up and do it all over again. When cooking with hot oil, pay close attention so it does not splash back on your soft and waiting skin. Though the pain is intense, it lasts no longer than it takes for the nerves to calm down. Usually that occurs in the blink of an I. Adding roux to broken sauces is also a staple for professional chefs who don't have time to start over again. Trust them, they have your best interest and health in mind. All the myths about kitchens and alcohol and drug use are completely fabricated. How could one possibly make the best food while cloudy in the head?

Water at one hundred ten degrees, vigorous scrubbing with some form of cleaning agent, during the time it takes to sing the ABC's in your head. This will make your hands clean for touching stuff to put on other people's plates. Next time you are in a public washroom, notice how people briefly run cold water over their hands before initiating the automatic paper towel dispenser. My personal favorite is seeing the chef on television cut the chicken on the cutting board, wipe their hands on a towel, and proceed to assemble that delicious Caesar salad dressing.  Another process of preparation to perfect without it breaking.  One that hopefully does not include Salmonella and offers a nice complement to a bed of chopped romaine lettuce, two grape tomatoes, a handful of croutons, and a filet of blackened salmon.   

Failure is Always an Option.

Don't let the person in the crooked toque lean in too closely and convince you that picking yourself up is the right thing to do. Sometimes it's appropriate but sometimes the mistake, or the failure, is what actually propels you towards the next big thing.

Look at it like this. I tried to find an interesting stuffed French toast recipe to share with you, and realized there were over 13,000,000 different variations. I chose one, cooked it at home, and made a big marshmallow mess all over the stovetop.  I should have stuck with the first one that caught my eye.

Then instead, I chose to make this blog to provide a glimpse into the reality of cooking. The blisters and the aches. Cooking as a profession is getting away with showcasing some kind of glamour, but yet, check out the celebrity chefs when they fail. The karma of seeing their disappointment publicly lends authority to the idea that failing is okay. Because look at them.

Look at how she alludes to a Greek god at the end of the dish. Someone familiar and secure like Cassandra. Couldn't see that one coming she says. Like Ramsay's disdain for truffle oil and his wikipedia'd quote about its pungency. It's a travesty to have it in your pantry but it's absolutely great tossed with pommes frites or roasted beets. You see, this is not your ordinary glimpse into how to cook or might not even have much to do about food in general. Like those poems that inundate the market nowadays with which all young poets must be familiar if they are to succeed. You must name places. Keep it simple and let the last line bring the reader to their knees. Don't fool anyone including yourself. Always avoid exclamation marks and parantheses especially if you think you need to use them. Clean up after yourself, for god's sake, when you've finished each poem. I am walking through this alley. The splashing light dimples against the puddled gloom. They take pictures of themselves because they are in love and have been to Bangkok, Lima, and Digeridoo. Let the wind slide across your thighs. Be shy towards the audience but speak up in ca dence with the rhy thm of the words. Know the rules and break them. Keep failing because if you succeed you end up just like them. On display and fornicating with the abyss.