Reality can shake the foundations of one’s beliefs, shredding certainty. It pays to have an open mind.
You never know when an army of persuasive leprechauns and seductive mermaids will come into your life riding, respectively, Harleys and hippocampi.
I enjoy driving in rural areas where people wave at people in passing cars. My sense of human goodness is reinforced when people I don’t know express friendliness that’s not obligatory. It’s just a genuine appreciation and acceptance of another person.
I wonder whether other people are as sentimentally appreciative of something so non-committal, so absolutely void of fundamental meaning. I kind of hope so, despite the idiocy of the idea.
Memories etched with the charred embers from the fires of unfortunate experience should be lost in the ashes. But they tend to linger, giving fuel to painful struggles that scorch the soul.
Last night, I spent the evening researching a subject I wrote about back in November, breakfasts common in different parts of the world. Long ago, I concluded that people who claims certain dishes are the “typical” breakfasts in any locale are questionable sources. A “typical” Mexican breakfast, for example, describes a long list of foods that Mexicans might eat for breakfast; that list will vary by region and by individual experience and custom and by availability of ingredients.
When people have options, they tend to seek variety in their foods. The same thing, day after day after day, becomes stunningly dull. That having been said, certain dishes are more common in some places than others; some are unique to a country or a region.
My research conducted last night was just the latest in indulging my curiosity about breakfasts around the world. I expect it to continue. And, maybe, I’ve found a subject about which I might write some interesting and informative non-fiction. That remains to be seen. In the interim, I will continue my intrigue with such stuff as ackee with saltfish, bake and saltfish, uji, and kimchi-jjigae.
Acknowledging people you meet on the street can be a profoundly different experience from place to place.
Well, the ophthalmologist has spoken. My self-diagnosis of map dot fingerprint dystrophy was wrong. I would have failed the final exam in medical school, I suppose.
The problem with my right eye, it turns out, is an early-onset cataract. Most of my symptoms (cloudy vision, as if looking through smoke; decreasing night vision; problems with glares and halos; decreasing acuity of my vision) fit the picture. But the most significant reason for my visit to the ophthalmologist, itching, doesn’t seem to be on the list.
Doc says I could get surgery now, if I wish, but suggested I wait for a while to see if it is really as problematic as I think it is. I know I hate that cloudiness, but maybe I can deal with it. He wants me back in six months for a follow up.
He says my problem is that a cataract is forming on the back side of the lens capsule. He made me feel young by saying “people who develop cataracts early, like you, frequently have them form on the back side, and they often develop quickly and advance rapidly.” Meaning, I may need surgery sooner rather than later. But probably not yet, if I can tolerate the smokiness in my vision and the halos at night when I drive.
AmDay, as the Pig Latineers would say. I want to be young with eyes of an eagle and the body of a leopard. Or something like that.
The diagnosis is considerably better than eminent blindness, so I am thrilled. I’ll get cataract surgery when the smokiness in my right eye becomes truly problematic.
Oh, by the way, I had lentil soup a couple of nights ago, flavored with Ethiopian awaze paste. I bet you didn’t. But you wish you had. It was nice!
Elegance is the quality of graceful dignity. It has nothing to do with wealth and everything to do with empathy.
Look in a mirror and you’ll see a reflection. Look into the eyes in that reflection and you’ll see eyes that saw everything you’ve ever seen. Every smile, every scowl, every spot on the pavement, every bird in flight. Everything. They have been with you every step of the way, something you can’t necessarily say about your brain, the brain that lets you down repeatedly, failing to remember the things that brains are supposed to remember. But that’s not a reflection on you; that’s a reflection of the fact that there’s just too much to remember and too little worth remembering.
The only salvation is that to which you attest with your own stamp of absolute commitment and unshakable resolve. You are the only one who can correct the flaws of character that mar your honor and dignity. No external force can save you from your own poor decisions and deeds. You, alone, are responsible for righting the ship.
Today was to have been a normal Tuesday, starting with breakfast at Debra’s diner with the woodworkers, followed by a few hours of making sawdust. But map dot fingerprint dystrophy (a condition in which the surface of the eye is dry and “cracked” to look like fingerprints), or what I believe to be map dot fingerprint dystrophy, persuaded me to forego the making of sawdust, which would have made breakfast at Debra’s a prelude to nothing. So, instead, I cooked breakfast, the usual, for my wife. Turkey bacon, egg substitute, tomato juice, and half a mandarin (the latter two which remained uncooked).
The ophthalmologist recommended to me by a couple of Village people (woodworkers in the group) had no available slots on his calendar until February, when I called a few weeks ago. So, instead of searching for an alternate doctor, I stewed over it for a while, wondering who to see in his place. To date, I have not found an alternate, which is to say I have not searched for an alternate. That is a very stupid approach to personal healthcare. I will correct that this morning. If I do not find a suitable alternate, I will simply make an appointment with said recommended doctor (Braun) whenever an appointment is available.
Had I not make a huge batch of lentil soup last night, I might have used the unexpected freedom from woodworking this morning to do that. But, since I have a big stock pot full of lentil soup sitting in the fridge, it would be pointless to make another, only to find there’s no room for it in the fridge because the room has been taken by another pot, the one I made last night. Instead, after I make a few calls to local ophthalmologists, I may go for a walk up the hill and around the water tank and beyond. Or I may not.
Quite probably, I’ll make a trip to the National Park Community College store to buy some clay for my pottery class, which starts up again tomorrow morning. And I may see if I can find a place called Coffee Love, a coffee shop that features writers reading their work on the fourth Tuesday of every month (the event is called Latte and Lit). The president of the writers’ club told me about it and suggested we visit on the 27th, which I agreed to do. So, I want you to know that night is booked, in case you were planning on having me over for dinner that evening or were making plans which would involve my presence in London, Ontario.
Every road leads to ruin, eventually, so choosing the one with the most enjoyable ride is a reasonable approach.
Sometimes I don’t want to write. I don’t want to read. I don’t want to watch television or movies. I just want to converse. I want to talk about things on my mind, things on another person’s mind. But the effing television seems to have absorbed every little bit of interest and communication that’s available, leaving nothing left for conversation.
I want to be sitting in a little motel in the outskirts of Albuquerque, a little place with glass block windows and a glass block shower enclosure, a motor court from the 1950s. There’s no television there, no way to assign more value to artificial conversations between strangers than conversations about life with people who matter.
There are days that make me wish for things that never were, things I wish defined me and who I was. This is one of them, I suppose. Goddamn. There’s more pain than there should be, there’s no doubt about that.
If I could change the world, and I could if I had enough commitment and energy, I’d make television illegal. I’d force people to sit together during dinner. I’d demand conversations about uncomfortable topics. I’d LEARN about people and they’d learn about me.
But I can’t change the world. I can’t even change myself. I am living on the edge of a wish that should just slip away, I guess. What the hell is it with me at the moment? I think I need to slap myself in the face and eat a lemon to get right with the world.
One of the many things I love about mi esposa hermosa is that she is creative in ways that surprise me and that encourage my own creativity. Yesterday, as we discussed what we might do with the awaze paste I made, she suggested using it as a flavoring next time I make congee. Brilliant! Ethiopian-Chinese fusion! Maybe we’ll call it Ethiopinese or Chinopian food. There may be a future in that cuisine.
Later in the day, as we were having the last of the Christmas tamales for lunch (hoping they had not gone back in the almost two weeks they’ve been in the refrigerator), she suggested I try the awaze as an accompaniment to them. It was a wonderful match. Immediately, I began imagining other Mexican-Ethiopian (Mexicopian or Ethioxican, yes?) combinations, including doro wot tacos. Surprise! I discovered that someone else has already come up with the idea!
Then, this morning, as we were having steel-cut oats for breakfast (normally, I use a tad of brown sugar when I prepare it; this time I did not and it was a little bland), she suggested I use the awaze paste. I did not follow her suggestion, but her comment gave me an idea: why not put a bit of soy sauce in the bowl? I did. I prefer savory to sweet. It was good!
All of her recent creative food ideas may be a sign that my wife, who has been in a self-described “non-spurt” (she says she loves to cook “in spurts”), may be ready to enter a “spurt.” When that happens, I am the fortunate beneficiary of wonderful meals. I’m hoping!
I sometimes wonder why people who are not open about their emotions keep them private. Is it simply because they are private people? Or is it because they are afraid of what others would think if they shared how they feel? Or were they trained to keep their emotions to themselves? Or is it something else entirely?
Depending on my mood, and I have plenty of them, I think keeping one’s emotions private is an act of self-preservation, a way of putting up a protective shield against being wounded. “If I don’t expose my vulnerability, you won’t know how to hurt me.” Yet people get hurt anyway. Or maybe it’s a matter of embarrassment. “If I were to let you know I have feelings for you, you might laugh at me, or worse.” Or maybe it’s a sense that displaying one’s emotions is a sign of weakness.
I suspect there are dozens of reasons people keep their emotions private. I have plenty of emotions I keep private and I have a lot of reasons for not sharing them. But I know, too, I would feel a lot better about life in general if I could comfortably share them. It’s a good thing, I suppose, I can write about them, or at least expose them tangentially, here on my blog; otherwise, I might suffocate in an air-tight bag of my own making.
The mind is a mysterious place. I suppose that’s why I’ve always been interested in psychology. The prospect of uncovering, or at least understanding, the mysteries is both fascinating and terrifying.
With all my writing about emotions, I wonder if I actually express them in the real world. Am I the person I write about, the person who keeps them to himself? I know I keep some of them bottled up inside me, but I wonder if I am not as open about the rest as I think I am. Maybe a psychotherapist could answer those questions for me.
Thanks to a friend’s Facebook post, I read an excerpt from a book entitled The Art of Forgiveness, Lovingkindness, and Peace, by Jack Kornfield. The excerpt, called Meditation on Gratitude and Joy, struck a chord within me. There is so much need for gratitude; gratitude is its own seed and sustenance.
The morning is dreary and cold, with grey skies and, from what I can tell, light rain. Last night’s forecast called for sleet and freezing rain this morning, but I don’t see evidence of ice, though I hear an occasional noise that sounds like sleet against the windows. If the forecast was correct, any icy precipitation will turn to rain a bit later in the day, as temperatures rise above freezing and the layer of cold air high in the atmosphere pushes north. Still, the day will be cold and grey and unsuitable to enjoying the great outdoors.
Weather like this summons the soup and chili maker in me. That person failed to prepare for making chili, though, by neglecting to buy a chuck roast (which is what I require to make real chili). Consequently, if I make something suitable to the day, it will be soup.
My favorite wife, though, being far better at looking ahead than I, had the good sense to make plans suitable to the day. But she acted on her plans a couple of days ago by making a wonderful vegetarian chili. And she made enough for two meals, so today might just be perfect for the second helping of vegetarian chili. She prepared for today long before I thought about preparing for it.
That notwithstanding, I may prepare for the days ahead by making lentil soup today. My wife has assembled a rather large collection of lentil soup recipes that I use as the basis for my soups, modifying them here and there to experiment with flavors. When I depart significantly from the recipes, I cross my fingers and hope the outcome will not offer evidence of my incompetence in the kitchen. So far, so good.
As I consider what departures I might take with today’s soup, if I make it, I’m thinking seriously about attempting to imbue my lentil soup with the flavors of Ethiopian food. However, I do not recall whether we actually bought berbere spice when we finally found it in Dallas after a very long and tedious search. I am afraid we did not; if not, my hopes of making Ethiopian-inspired lentil soup will be dashed on the rocks of inaction and procrastination. Berbere is a necessary ingredient in awaze, which is the hot sauce I would make to use in the lentil soup (and which I’d use in and on other foods, if it were available). Awaze uses berbere, oil, salt, lemon juice, ginger, garlic, and sugar; I’ve never made it, but I know how I would if the opportunity were to present itself.
My wife just got up and pointed out the tiny icicles hanging from the rain gutters. So I suppose we’ve had a bit of sleet and freezing rain. Time to go look into the availability of berbere.
Scars need not be ugly reminders of painful experiences. Scars also are badges of honorable battles fought and wars won.
How would my life be different if I had red hair? I’ve often failed to ask myself that question at the most inopportune times. Well, I asked it this morning and I have at least part of the answer.
My life would be different in that the amount of pheomelanin present in my hair would be at a much higher concentration than it is.
I have a French woman-friend who I’ve never met face-to-face, only via Facebook and a few emails and texts. She invited me (and my wife) to her home for dinner whenever we get to California. She is a lawyer, a writer, and an incredible chef (judging from the food photos she posts and the way she describes what she cooks).
I mention this because I think it’s extraordinary that I am able to develop, if not friendships, then acquaintanceships, online. That’s something that would have been impossible twenty years ago.
Her husband is in the military. She has children who, from the videos I’ve seen, are exceptionally bright; they follow their mother’s intellectual path.
The world is changing faster than the speed of light. I wish I had more time to observe the transformation from the way it is to the way it will be.
I want to write novels. I want to experience passions only young men can experience after coming face-to-face with existential danger. I want to live my life over, keeping the experiences that mattered and discarding those that exemplified my mediocrity.
Having seen the videos of my French woman-friend swim with the sharks and expose herself to excitement that challenges one’s grip on reality, I wish I’d made different choices over the years.
Maybe it’s not too late. But probably it it is. What the hell, I’m apt to go for it, anyway!
Tension builds, tighter and tighter, like an emotional pressure cooker at risk of catastrophic release. Then, suddenly (or slowly) without warning, the pressure is gone. No explosive concussion, no sparks, no flames. Not even vapor. It’s as if I’m watching a silent slow-motion video of a rubber band, stretched five times beyond its safety point, snap. Instead of a blur of violent motion, I see a thick wet noodle slow-dance until it collapses onto the floor, every shred of energy spent.
All the pent-up emotion wasted on an anti-climax of epic proportions. The lust, rage, love, loathing, and fear, just gone. In its place is an emptiness like no other, an emptiness that swallows not just a lifetime, but centuries of lifetimes, whole civilizations. Babies not yet born two hundred years hence are swallowed up in the emptiness. The history of a thousand years is consumed, a mere kernel of corn to a ravenous bird that decimates a million acres of grain in the blink of a cat’s eye.
Just using this Saturday morning to exercise my fingers and my imagination, if that’s what it is.
I think it is more common to read about paroxysms of rage than to read about paroxysms of despondency. Depending on one’s emotional constitution, what’s common in print is not necessarily the more common in experience.
I have added another word to my vocabulary, though I can’t guarantee it will stay. Thanks to my friend, Trish, I now know that psithurism (a noun) means, according to various sources, the sound of wind in the trees and the rustling of leaves or simply the sound of rustling of leaves.
It is pronounced, using the International Phonetic Alphabetic, as follows: sɪθjʊəˌɹɪzəm. If it makes it any easier, just leave off the “p” and pronounce it with the initial “i” being a “short” i.
Imagine that you are walking into a shop where mechanics work on cars. Do you smell grease and oil and gasoline? Do you sense those smells as you read this? If you do, your imagination is in working order.
I am trying to imagine myself as an emergency room physician, a man who successfully deals with urgent and critical care issues calmly but with an extreme sense of urgency. At the same time, this man who has such remarkable command over the E.R. is far from one to be admired in his personal relationships. He botches relationships and verbally abuses people he claims to love. He is as inept in love as he is expert in critical care medicine.
The reason I am trying to imagine myself in the skin of this physician is that I want to write about him realistically. I want t0 authentically portray the man; the way he thinks, the way he responds to his two worlds (professional and personal), and the way his mind works. I want to make this clearly troubled man the object of a reader’s loathing while, at the same time, the object of empathy and sympathy. I want his demons clearly visible, yet I don’t want to tell about them, I want to show them. First, I have to know what those demons are, from whence they sprang and why they so successfully keep hold of him and how they manage to torture him so that he tortures others.
So, I have to get inside his head. I have to be him. But I don’t want to BE him, you know?
Living where I now do, among so many of the aging and the aged, I frequently encounter people who seem to be content to live in a world in which change of any kind is viewed with suspicion and distrust. It’s not as easy to avoid them as I might like, but it’s a necessity if I hope to retain my appreciation of new ideas and new perceptions of the world. I want to find more people who relish exposure to challenging and thought-provoking ideas. You cannot change the people around you, but you can change the company you keep.
And so, eight days in, an important goal for the coming weeks and months begins to gel.
