Tossed Left, Tossed Right, SettleWe have been teased with spring. The weather turned lovely and sunny and wet, if only for a moment: groundhogs regardless, the season shudders retrograde. It's snowing again.
It's a good one. There is a breath of movement in the air, and the flakes are big and fat, dancing as they gently drop. They are reft one way, then tumble back in clouds. When they touch ground, they pile up to form a carpet that gives for a satisfying compaction under the foot.
It dampens everything. Large noises struggle muted in the distance, and the small pings and hums of the modern world melt away in the soft, clotted air. They have not been out to salt yet, and the roads are tracked white: cars shuffle by slowly with only the gentle noise of crumpling snow.
War ProfiteerIt is a useful day to celebrate. We went to a little Italian place not far from here on a hill, a strange little room set back from the world, cloistered from the evening. The decor didn't suffer for it, and gentle music sifted through the tight array of tables. The kitchen was quite close, and it became a little silly as ranting began to spill from it, bright and clear and full of colorful words and violent handling of cookery. It is to their credit that the food could have been the food of an off night, but the food was fine, the vodka sauce bright, the bread good, and the soup a warm comfort. It would have been better if the cursing had been in Italian.
Before that: we had been in casual discussion with another friend who was in dark woods (a condition not entirely unknown to myself, these days). He had woes, to be sure: they were mostly in that terrible category of uncertainty, where he holds in shaking hand a guttering candle to try to lamp the hulking shadows in the future. It only makes them worse.
She said: two things. The first is to remember gratitude, for all of the good things before you are too shy to stand up to speak on their own, but they will be gentle if you remember them. The second: play. Let that noun roll freely on the tongue to wake it up, and send you out to make small discoveries of delight in spite of yourself. I think these are good advices, for they make the assumptions fall away, re-color the landscape, and the neck hurts less from the study of shoes. It is a good time for it, too.
So we sat in a little Italian place, listing to yelling and crashing English in the kitchen, to Italian melody on the sound system, to the snap of cards on the table and the whip and spray of words and chuckles as we filled ourselves with tastes and smells. I leaned to my arm at the end, and my shadow fell across the candle, revealing light sent down through the deep cobalt of the candle dish, setting on the white of the tablecloth a delicate blue limn.
Small SwimI have been cheating; I tromped down the local Asian supermarket last weekend and stocked up on dumplings and steamed buns for the freezer. I picked up a sack full of pot stickers, a brightly labeled bag of pork buns, and a smaller, less assertive bag of buns with bean paste in. I've made all of these before from scratch, and I should be practicing, because I am not very good at them yet. On week nights, though, it is very much easier to get the steamer going to soon tuck in to a hot dinner with so little time and effort.
However: it gives me an excuse to break out the bottles and mess around with dipping sauces. This is a fun way to while away the minutes: soy sauce, fish sauce, ginger pepper sauce, oyster sauce, garlic sauce, thai chili sauce, vinegar, sugar, scallions, bits of ginger and garlic into a bowl to sit (but probably better not all at once). So far, the winner that was easiest to make was a splash of good light (not lite) soy and a dribble of Korean garlic/pepper paste. The winner that requires me to plan a bit was the leftover (untainted) extra marinade from the pork the other night: soy and sesame oil and smashed ginger and star anise, with scallions in.
A simple plate of hot dumplings, and a shallow bowl. Turn on the radio and eat.
The WolvesAfter an evening of port cities, indirect object pronouns, and tenses my native tongue can only gently hint at, it was time to take exit. It is a time of night around here that limits choice of destination, but of the two we went to one, and they had hot chocolate, so that was alright. They also had potato pancakes: these were not good, but a comfort nonetheless.
I should spend some time in the country, the deep country, so as to better understand the qualities of night. Around here, there are precious few spots that lie in deep shadow. Lights are most everywhere, and even where there are none, there is the glow in the sky. It takes a pretty clear night and absent moon to generate real murk.
In this way it occurs to me that outside at night is an extension to our lives in a way most modern. We can sit by windows and look down the street; across the way a light in a window burns, shadows moving behind the curtain. Sitting here, even with the lamp on I can see things in the streetlight outside. My home is bordered, but the border is fuzzy, extended by what can be sensed beyond it.
Without all this spill, out where the word night yet has meaning, I imagine the psychology is quite different. With the falling of the sun comes ink spilled, allowing one to sit unseen on porches, together with the mystery that the world has become. In colder months the walls of the home become a hard border at night, circumscribing what can be known, security made immediate. Even the windows would betray, mirroring over with the light from the fire.
I do not know enough about it. I imagine it would be quite different.
VespersIt is Lent. Take that for what it is; these are days like all the other ones, as well as days unlike any other (more or less like any given). Among other things, the local Cathedral celebrates these Sundays with the Vespers, sung in English (and a little bit of Latin).
This is fine stuff. It is simple singing, unadorned by instrument. It fills the building in strange ways, climbing to the ceiling and then drifting down again, the end of each note lingering in echo; when the harmonies blossom, it is like an unfolding. It is old singing, too — but for the language, it is more or less as it has been done for a long time, a very long time. Clerical matters aside, the is a lovely non-denominational peace about it, particularly as the choir is warming up in the vestry, and the notes trickle in from places occluded.
It would be nice if they left the lights off.
Dead Letters OfficeI have a repository of text that (for whatever reason) never amounted to much. I imagine most people have one of these: old notebooks in the corner of the study, a word document somewhere filled up with fringes, all of those little scribblings on the backs of ATM receipts in the pile on the night stand, threatening to tumble off into the thin space behind the small bookcase. I like to think that they do not mind this so much — little secrets, little notions, happy in anonymous privacy.
I sometimes go through mine. There is all sorts of oddity in there. There are notes on fireplaces and compass rose made from Penrose tiles. Letters to lovers better not sent (those few I had the wisdom not to send). Lovely little scenes of cloistered gardens in which nothing at all would ever happen: they were so perfect that nothing at all ever could. Lists of instructions about how to make lists of instructions, backwards. That sort of thing.
A great deal of them mention pie. I'm not sure what to make of that.
The Surgery Has Been ScheduledThis should be interesting.
The March Hare FluThere are things to put in mugs. Coffee and tea, certainly, but I am feeling a little under the weather, so those are largely out (just a touch of weak tea to keep the headache at bay). There is hot water, hot water with lemon, hot water with mint, and I have already mentioned the hot water with honey.
Then there is rougher stuff: little packets of chemical lemon flavor to mask what must be the truly horrifying tastes of a potent medicinal cocktail. I have two boxes in the cupboard: non-drowsy formula and excessively drowsy formula. I am going with the latter, and hope to feel better in the morning.
The Man In The MoonEarly in the evening, the Man in the Moon peers down kindly. His gaze settles on us as one does after a good dinner, and the chairs are set back. There are possibly drinks. He tells us stories.
In the middle of his journey, the Man in the Moon straightens. His eyes are happy, and set level, and his smile is apparent. It is a face of laughter, upon hearing a good joke.
Later in the evening, the Man in the Moon turns his head again, to the other side, to rest upon a fist perhaps. The eyes are upward now, seeking the gentle courses of days to come. The grin remains.
Good worm moon; I know not what to do with the rabbit.
All content under copyright by the author. Dancing is permitted. The strange deltic glyphs in the sand under tidal flow are a pleasure to watch in their deepening. Offer not valid in Kansas. We put it down and then we lost it. It all happens in the corner of the eye. Commentary accepted at pen@goob.com, although the traps are agressive and the pointy bits simply drip with dark liquour. We have a dog, but we do not own it. Thank you.