Searching for Strathcona

Micah Blaine’s childhood in Lafayette, Louisiana was typical of Acadiana, at least it was typical of Acadiana of the last quarter of the twentieth century.  By the time he was born in 1972, Cajun French was not as widely spoken as it had been while his parents were growing up. But he spoke Cajun French, albeit with an accent informed by Dan Rather, Peter Jennings and Tom Brokaw. His fluent Acadiana English—a mellifluous mix of charm and criminally ungrammatical patter—spoke of his roots and his upbringing.

An influx of Laotians, Vietnamese, and Cambodians after the Viet Nam war had changed the character of the fishing industry in the region from pure Cajun to a rich cultural stew. But the area retained its distinct identity, even as it morphed from acutely parochial to bewilderingly cosmopolitan.

Gladys Mellencamp, his eleventh grade civics teacher, was the first to notice signs that something unusual was going on with Micah. Responding to a question she posed regarding the difference between the political systems in the U.S. and Canada, Micah said the U.S. system was deeply divisive and antagonistic, whereas the Canadian system was “all about compromise.” It was his pronunciation of “about” that struck Gladys; he pronounced it the way Canadians pronounce the word. She laughed at what she thought was his cleverness and appreciation of dialect. Micah didn’t understand.

Next, Tender Matthews, Micah’s distractingly buxom biology teacher only six years older than he, corrected his spelling of ‘colour’ in a paper describing how chameleons manipulate chromatophores to send messages or convey a change in mood. Tender was the object of Micah’s private and deeply held sexual crush. Later, he made a not-so-subtle pass at her, saying “You’d like my French toast, Ms. Matthews. What say you come over Friday night and I’ll fix you some for breakfast on Saturday morning, eh?”

She required him to write a letter of apology for his actions. He wrote, “I am very sorry for my behaviour toward you. I recognise it as inappropriate  and promise to practise restraint.”

In spite of his aberrant speech and spelling, and despite his inappropriate lust for his biology teacher, Micah’s grades were among the highest in his high school graduating class. His parents, Barley and Virginia Blaine, rewarded his academic achievements by offering to pay for a trip to Europe the summer after graduation if he maintained his grade point average. Micah expressed appreciation for their offer, but asked, instead, for a trip to Montreal. Perplexed, the Blaines agreed to his request.

Unbeknownst to his parents, Micah had applied and been accepted for admission to McGill University. His trip to Montreal was, in part, a job-hunting expedition, the success of which would determine whether he would begin school there in the fall. Another purpose of the trip was to introduce Tender Matthews, who had since more than forgiven his overture, to the wonders of Canadian life with a younger paramour.

[More to come, later…much later.]

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Three Hundred Nineteen

My mind is like a river with parallel channels. In one course, the water is a gentle stream, caressing its banks. In the other, a relentless, savage torrent claws at the shoreline. How can it be that those two forces of nature reside in the same river valley? Can the Buddha and Attila the Hun inhabit the same body?

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Pretender?

Love expresses itself in unexpected ways. Even if you are unaware of its presence, it is right there, next to you, being rude and unapologetic. Or maybe that’s not love at all. Maybe it’s a pretender. How can you possibly know? The unfortunate reality is that you simply can’t. You must live with the uncertainty and die wondering.

 

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Three Hundred Eighteen

The horrors of humanity show themselves in unspeakable ways. I am thinking this morning of the people of Paris, the people of France, the people of this earth who continue to endure madness. Perhaps I would embrace religion if religion were not responsible for unimaginable horrors. Perhaps not.

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New Food Secrets

Okay. They’re not secrets. For for the most part, they are new, at least to me.

The program for yesterday’s Men’s Club Luncheon consisted of a Great Courses instructional video prepared in partnership with the Culinary Institute of America. The presenter, Chef Bill Briwa, gave a lecture/demonstration entitled Mediterranean Spices—Exotic Blends.  The same guy, from the same video series, has constituted the program several times in the past and I’ve enjoyed every one. Yesterday’s program introduced me to a number of spice blends and other flavorings that I found really intriguing.  Here are the bits and pieces I was able to reconstruct from my notes:

  • Tabil is a Tunisian spice mix that includes corriander, cumin, and caraway seeds along with crushed red pepper flakes. It may include garlic, as well.
  • Dukkah is an Egyptian blend of nuts, seeds, and spices used with olive oil as a dip for breads and vegetables.
  • Charmoula is a north African (Tunisia, Morroco, etc.) marinade used primarily with seafood. Its ingredients include chopped cilantro and parsley, the chopped peel of preserved lemon (which I learned how to make), a variety of spices, and olive oil.
  • Za’ atar, another Egyptian spice mix of herbs and spices (including thyme, sumac, salt, and sesame seeds). Like Dukkah, it is used as a dip for bread that’s soaked in olive oil. The sumac is used to make the mix sour; sumac is used in many places where alcohol is forbidden to add flavor.
  • Baharat is a Turkish spice mix including corriander, cinnamon, cloves, cumin, cardamom, nutmeg, and paprika; typically, it is used with lamb.

In addition to the spice blends, we learned about how to preserve lemons. We also learned how to make fattoush salad. I say “learned.” Rather, we were exposed to how it’s done. I will have to look up a recipe for fattoush salad. As for the lemons, here’s what Chef Briwa said: cut deeply, but not all the way through, a lemon so that it’s almost quartered. Fill the wounds with salt. Place the wounded lemon in a glass container with a screw-on lid and the boil two parts water and one part salt and pour the mixture over the wounded lemon. Seal with the lid and let it sit at room temperature on the counter for six weeks. It will then be ready to use (the peel will be the most useful part to include in various recipes).

By the way, according to Chef Briwa, purslane is a good source of omega 3 oils, the only (or one of the only) plants that can make that claim (if a plant could make a claim).

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More Gourmet and Gourmand Tales

We returned last night to Pulaski Tech’s Culinary Arts and Hospitality Management Institute for a fine dinner. The draw, for my wife, was the menu; it included sweetbreads as the main course. Alas, there were no sweetbreads served last night, but the substitution—lamb chops—made up for it.  Our menu last night was:

  • Amuse bouche (a little odd pastry with what I believe was a mango glaze …not my favorite)
  • Country pate (excellent!)
  • Seafood paella with seafood sausage (good, but I like the more traditional paella I’ve had much better)
  • Lamb chops (oh my GOD they were wonderful!), with white bean ragout (meh)
  • Passion fruit mousse (actually, a little cake with passion fruit jam and some interesting fruits they claimed were cherries), a reason for me to eat desserts even though I can take or leave desserts.

This was our second trip. I was moved. Intrigued. I want to go back.

But, speaking of food…I spent yesterday afternoon, before our visit to Pulaski, having lunch with the Men’s Cooking Club. To date, most meals have been okay; not bad, not wonderful, just all right. Today’s lunch was the exception and it was, indeed, exceptional. The menu included:

  • Antipasto, with mozzarella balls, a hard cheese, salami slices, prosciutto rolls, pistachios, baby carrots, crostini with two tapenades (red pepper and one other I liked but could not identify), and Italian bread.
  • Lasagna bolognese, with béchamel and ragu bolognese sauces
  • Tuscan bean soup
  • Oven roasted vegetables

Now THAT is what I had hoped to experience when I joined the Men’s Cooking Club.

After those two meals, though, I should fast until Independence Day 2016. I doubt I’ll hold out quite that long.

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Three Hundred Seventeen

I sometimes daydream about creating large semi-abstract outdoor sculptures in residential settings, sculptures whose scale is so large as to compete with and perhaps dwarf the homes around them. Having neither the technical nor the creative skills to execute such a daydream, I must remain satisfied to simply think about it. It’s not just sculpture, by the way; I’d be delighted at giant street art painted on houses. I can envision art so large that it might require two or more houses to serve as its canvas. I sometimes feel I was born at the wrong time with the wrong skills matched to the wrong desires. But I have to be satisfied with my time and my skills and my desires, too, don’t I? Don’t we all? Indeed we do.

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Taking My Breath Away

Time turns mountains into valleys and granite into sand. But time, alone, cannot perform such feats. The inexorable forces of nature relentlessly work those million-year miracles. When I look at the world around me and consider the changes that have taken place over thousands and thousands of millennia, the scope of the universe—billions of times larger than this tiny speck on which I live—takes my breath away. Humans lack the patience required to reach objectives that take more than a lifetime to accomplish. But not always.

Recently, I read about artisans in other cultures who teach their children their skills so their progeny can continue their work, which cannot be completed in the artisan’s lifetime. I wish I could recall exactly what and where I read about this multi-generational endeavor. Another example of endeavors that take lifetimes to reach their conclusions is construction of the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona, Spain. Work continues to this day toward realization of Antoni Gaudi’s architectural vision. People who have the will and vision to initiate projects they know cannot be completed in their lifetime but begin them anyway take my breath away. I don’t think I know any such people, unless of course you consider parents.

 

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Three Hundred Sixteen

Ideas can spring into being unexpectedly. An email exchange with a friend a short while ago got me thinking; what inspires creativity? What provokes thoughts that, as they snake their way through one’s consciousness, illuminate the dark recesses where creativity hides? One such trigger is pain. Not necessarily excruciating pain. Even a minor irritant, like an eyelash stubbornly twisted and wedged in the corner of the eye, is sufficient. A grain of sand inside an oyster’s shell is a metaphor for creativity born of pain, the irritant to which a pearl owes its existence.

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Mask Photo Summary

For purposes of keeping a photographic record of the masks I’ve made, here are all the ones I’ve completed and two in the works. I have two more awaiting raku firing (I have no pictures) and I believe I have two or four awaiting glaze firing. In addition, I have a couple finished at the sculpture studio and awaiting bisque firing. When they’re all done, I’ll add them here and will change the text to reflect that.

First Mask

First Mask

Wild-eyed nutcase

Wild-eyed nutcase

Second Mask

Second Mask

Third Mask

Third Mask

Stinky Mask

Stinky Mask

Another Mask

Another Mask

Yet Another Mask

Yet Another Mask

Yes, another one

Yes, another one

Another mask

Another mask

Nastyface Mask

Nastyface Mask

Bill Clinton aspirant mask

Bill Clinton aspirant mask

Nose ring mask

Nose ring mask

Fake Japanese Kintsukuroi

Fake Japanese Kintsukuroi

Buttonface Mask

Buttonface Mask

Uber tongue dude

Uber tongue dude

Angry psycho mask

Angry psycho mask

Horn devil dude

Horn devil dude

Low art mask

Low art mask

Beasty-teeth dude

Beasty-teeth dude

White crackle glaze guy

White crackle glaze guy

Not yet fired mask

Not yet fired mask

Latest one, unfired

Latest one, unfired

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Words & Wine

Last night, a friend/fellow writer (one in the same) and I attended a program entitled Words & Wine, a workshop program designed to encourage participants to discuss words and to write. People who attend are encouraged to bring wine; it’s a casual affair, but its serious business. For a $12 fee, the leader guides participants through a two-hour conversation, during which they discuss the writing of others and write something of their own to share with the group. The topic focus last night was poetry; specifically, poetry relating to babies. After reading and discussing several poems about babies and babyhood, we were given four prompts from which to select one to spur thoughts to write a poem. I selected this prompt:

YOU ARE A BABY. Write a free verse poem about being in the womb, about being born, and about what it is like to live the first few days of your life. What are the sights? Sounds? Feelings? What makes you cry. Make observations from the perspective of a BABY.

I took my notebook computer with me, intending to use it to write. But I was alone in that; I opted to use a notebook, like the others in the session, despite my miserably slow handwriting. Kai led the session. Participants were Tiffany, Valerie, Heather, Don, Katie, Mary Lou, and me. Here is the poem that emerged from me:

Familiarity

Soft, warm pillows surround me, keeping me
safe from something I can’t see.
My days have no hours, no mornings,
no nights, just comfort and occasional
consciousness, dim and dark; so little light.

Suddenly, my safety is shattered, the silence
sacrificed to sound, the warmth falling
off me in sheets, as my host objects
to this new trip toward another eternity.
If I could talk, I’d complain; hell, I will anyway!

These first few days are new, the sounds so much
closer, yet the comforting beat of her heart so
much further away. Solace in the form of strokes
and kisses dim the sense of loss of the pillows
and the timelessness of that cozy safe-house.

No longer am I fed fully without a fuss.
Now, I have to insist on being noticed.
Before, noises startled me;
now, I make the noise and startle them.

Is she the one who kept me warm and safe?
She feels different but I know her skin and
recognize her taste. Comfort takes on a new
skin, another dimension, as she takes me
into her arms and feeds me familiarity.

I found it very difficult to write from the perspective of a baby; so much so, I felt I had failed miserably. My immediate thought on reading the prompt was this: how can language be used to describe the “thoughts” and perspective of a baby that has yet to grasp even a shred of language. Even feelings and sensations would be foreign. I could have chosen another prompt, but the others would have forced an even more impossible perspective on me. Yet the feedback I got from the group was positive; in that sort of environment, though, I suspect that’s the only feedback one might expect. The topic was not one I would have chosen and the idea of being given a prompt and being expected to PRODUCE was a little daunting. In retrospect, though, it was a good exercise, one that challenged me. I doubt I’ll go back regularly, but I enjoyed the session, so I will go back on occasion.

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Three Hundred Fifteen

Being noticed matters. It matters because being the subject of attention offers evidence that someone cares enough to notice. I appreciate being noticed by the small cadre of folks who visit my blog on a regular basis, whether daily or monthly or somewhere in between. One of the people who notices me regularly is celebrating her birthday today. Happy birthday, Joyce! I notice that you notice me and I appreciate it.

 

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Emotions

Emotions are dangerous beasts that burn bridges and set fire to occupied buildings. They wreck dreams and ships and desires. They rip hopes into shreds that cannot be rewoven into whole cloth, leaving us naked and cold in the darkest times in the most desolate places. Those same emotions, though, create brilliant light with sufficient energy to illuminate the depths of the ocean. They lead us to riches that dwarf the value of even the most spectacular material largesse. Emotions are best sealed in casks filled with lead and dropped into the deepest part of the sea; if not that, then released like white doves and helium balloons.

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Three Hundred Fourteen

My collection of empty wine bottles is screaming to know their fate—a bottle tree or a whimsical room divider or what have you—but I allow the bottles to sit, abandoned, in the workroom. It’s simply for want of the right tools, the right ideas, the inclination, and energy to begin. And, then, the discipline and stamina to finish.

That’s what’s keeping those wine bottles in a constant state of angst.

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Who Will Read, and How?

This morning, I read a report on  technology device ownership in 2015; it is published by the Pew Research Center and based on the Center’s research. If their data on changes in device ownership can be relied upon as forecast tool, smart phones will largely overtake e-book readers in the near term.

In early 2014, the percentage of U.S. adults who owned e-book readers was about 32%. The research just reported shows a sharp decline to just 19%. At the same time, smart phone ownership has climbed from 35% in 2011 to 68% today, with 89% of 18 to 29 year olds owning the devices today.

I am, at times, a research junkie; I look at such data and attempt to forecast the future. Yet my attempts to use data to make predictions inevitably leads to looking for more information. So it is this morning. After reading the study I mentioned above, I sought information on trends in the format of book consumption. While e-readers seem to be losing their prominence to smart phones among those who consume books electronically, print remains the primary format for books; at least it held primacy in 2013, according to the Pew Research Centers report on the subject, released in 2014. According to Pew, 76% of Americans read at least one book during 2013; out of that group, 69% read a print version, while 28% read an e-book.

If I look strictly at data, I might assume the future of print books is bleak, but that future will play out more slowly than others have suggested. The changes from print to electronic books are taking place, but they are not taking place at the blazing speed I once imagined. Yet the figures for older people skew figures for the whole population. The younger readers, ages 18 to 49, were much more likely to have read an e-book in 2013 than younger readers; between 32% and 37%, versus 28% for the population at large.

I was a bit surprised that youngest readers (ages 18-29) were a little more likely to have read at least one book during the year than were the next most voracious reading group, those aged 50 to 64, 77% of whom read at least one book.

The bottom line? Hell, I don’t know! The data can be interpreted almost any way I might want; but the truths buried in them are hard to uncover. My sense is that readership, in general, is falling and will continue to fall in the U.S.A. Of those who read, most will continue to prefer print books for a while, but the convenience of, and improvements in, technology, probably will make e-books more and more attractive to larger and larger numbers of readers.  The shift to print-on-demand, which has already taken place, will continue to reduce high-volume print runs of all but the most popular best-sellers. Authors will increasingly rely on royalties from electronic versions of their works, versus royalties from print sales. I expect electronic versions of books to increase in price, though not substantially; the reason is this: the almost infinitesimal royalties from e-book sales cannot sustain a writer, even a popular writer (unless I misunderstand electronic royalties, which is entirely possible).

It’s all speculation. That’s all it is. I’m a speculator. At least it causes me to think.

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Three Hundred Thirteen

There’s a chill in the quiet early morning air; the trees warm themselves under a patchwork quilt of their few remaining leaves. Later, when the sun rises and brings a light breeze, I imagine the rustling of leaves and branches is the trees shivering, the way I do when I cast off the comforter and feel the goose-flesh on my skin.

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Time to Move On

When do we know it’s time to move on, time to shed our attachment to an idea that, though magnetic and alluring, isn’t realistic or achievable? If the idea were a relationship, it might make sense to follow the wisdom that “when it hurts less to leave than it hurts to stay, it’s time to move on.” But if the idea is not a relationship—if it’s a longing for something that never grew beyond desire—those words of wisdom are not applicable…or are they?  Some people might carry the concept over to their yearnings. They might say, “if the pain of hoping for something that has no chance of happening is greater than the anguish of recognizing its impossibility, it’s time to move on.”

But that really doesn’t make sense, does it? The time to move on is not at the point at which there is imbalance in the pain; it’s at the point at which one recognizes the unalterable truth that a dream or desire is unattainable. Allowing oneself to wish for the impossible is tantamount to giving oneself permission to be willfully insane. And that, I think, is self-inflicted pain. I’ll have none of it. Time to move on.

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Three Hundred Twelve

My penmanship is not up to the task of handwritten letters; I’ve long since lost the ability—if I ever had it—to write notes pleasing to the eye. But I continue to hone my capacity to express my thoughts through my fingers. A note or letter I type carries with it thoughts equal to any I would place on a page with a pencil.

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Capturing Scenes

Leaves on the massive oak tree outside my window labored to stay horizontal on their stems, struggling to shed heavy beads of dew. The fog, not opaque but nearly so, distorted my view of the trunks of trees, even those nearest me, behind branches that reached almost to my window. The sun had risen over an hour earlier, but it remained hidden behind the thick, wet, grey blanket that blocked my view of the road. Dim, filtered light made its way through the haze, casting a pall over the tiny part of the earth I could see.

When the fog gets that thick, the scent of seaweed and salt and fish fills the air. It’s the same aroma I smelled the first day after I moved to Christian Bay, twenty years earlier.  That seaport perfume had carried me back to my first days on the water when I heard the muffled “crack!” of a rifle shot. My nearest neighbor, Sharon Clutcher, often shot at critters infringing on what she felt was her personal space, so I wasn’t particularly surprised by the sound, but it did seem a bit odd, shooting at something in this pea soup.

Sound plays funny tricks on you in heavy fog. The foghorn of a ship docked at the port right in front of you can sound like it’s a mile away, but a car backfiring on the highway bypass ten blocks away can seem like it’s just behind your ear. So I wasn’t sure the gunshot was Sharon, but I assumed it was, until I saw a man stumble up the walk to the front door of my house, right below me.

“Help, I’ve been shot!” I could barely make out the words, though I could see that his left shoulder was awash in blood.

I ran down the stairs and flung open the front door as the guy collapsed into a heap ten steps away. I ran to him but, just as I reached him, I heard another report from a rifle and saw the man’s body jerk as a bullet ripped into his mid-section. At the same instant, I heard a voice to my right, very close by. “Don’t you even try to help that sorry son-of-a-bitch, mister!”

My heart raced as I wheeled around toward the voice, just as the face of the man it belonged to appeared inches from my own. He smelled of stale beer and day old sweat. His salt and pepper hair, wet and uncombed, clung to his forehead, which dripped with beads of sweat. He was unshaven, inconsistent clots of whiskers dotting his round face, and his eyes were large and dark and bloodshot.  He held a gun in his left hand, his right hand clutching the stock, his right finger inside the guard, resting on the trigger.

 

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Three Hundred Eleven

Sharpen your fingers and carve an arc of your initials in the sky.

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Three Hundred Ten

Take it all seriously. Every smile, every frown, every eyebrow raised in surprise at your audacity. But don’t take it personally. And don’t let it ruin an otherwise remarkable lifetime.

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Three Hundred Nine

Watching the world drift by from a comfortable place on the periphery seems to me a waste of opportunity. It’s not as dangerous as engaging in action, but neither is it as fulfilling.  Opportunities to fail aren’t available to everyone; we need to take seriously those offered.

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Three Hundred Eight

Dreams sometimes tease me with possibilities that do not exist. They must be thrust beneath the pillow and starved of the oxygen necessary to survive.

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Writers’ Retreat

It won’t be long before I depart Hot Springs Village with three friends and colleagues for a three-day experiment in productivity. We’re driving to Eureka Springs to spend three days and nights at The Writers’ Colony at Dairy Hollow in an attempt to set fire to our creativity and productivity as writers. Each of us will have a private room and writing space. We will gather for meals and, perhaps, for evening libations, to discuss our work and our progress. And, I hope, we will talk about our successes and our failures and what triggers each. Above all, I hope we share what motivates us to write; whether it’s pain or desire or regret, I want to know what spurs my fellow writers to write. I think I’m about ready to reveal more of me in my writing than I’ve ever done before. It’s probably nothing  of much import to most; I won’t reveal anything truly earth-shattering; I’m not gay, I’m not a transvestite, I don’t practice cannibalism, I’m not a pedophile, I’m not addicted to crack cocaine, etc., etc.  My truths probably are evident in my writing; just not to anyone else but me. Hah!

My wife will have a breather from me in general while I’m away. My sister-in-law will have a breather from my silliness and from the wound-up-guy who tries to fake mellowness while I’m away. Other people, the few with whom I regularly interact, won’t notice.

The great American novel is not just a few days away, but a better version of what I’ve been writing is…I hope.

Posted in Humor, Wisdom, Writing | 4 Comments

Three Hundred Seven

The reality that some dreams and desires are unattainable  is among the hardest to face. Whether we view our response to that pain as an adjustment or a defeat says more than words ever could about our wisdom and our bravery.

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