The intensity of density

A fully packed 24 hours, in no particular order:

1. Painting the kissing couple in magnetic poetry words on Anne and Jeremy’s fridge while Audiafauna rocked the house down below, backed up by Anne’s once-upon-a-time fella, Andrew.

2. Blitzing through A&A’s birthday and goodbye party before that, and seeing the half dozen photos of my not-quite-19 year-old self, not-quite-as-crazy-as-I’d-become-by-my-birthday, but sticking my tongue out just the same, in every one.

3. K’s tale of strange and horrifying tale of mysterious dog vomit and other misadventures

4. Spats about belts, deliveries, entrances, staircases, and, well, what spats are about.

5. Hoisting Michael up on my shoulders, in blue jeans and a bathrobe, for another of the traditional photos he seems to have decided to enjoy.

Corn on the Cobb Salad, and other burgeonings

I lightly boiled three eggs,
mashed them up in a bowl
with a healthy dose of olive oil,
pepper and salt, and some chopped greens, mostly spinach.

I enjoyed it very much.
Does this remotely resemble any traditional dish, that I could look to for guidance and refinement?

I think the addition of raw corn, or perhaps lightly cooked mushrooms, would be a worthwhile endeavor.

Meanwhile my erstwhile partner jokingly asks if I’m having an affair.

This on account of twice cooking dinner without premeditation, including enough for leftovers, and once waking up early enough to walk the lake before work, and I think there was a massage in there somewhere.

All behavior in keeping with my ever-present intentions, but not so much my regularly demonstrated behaviors.

I would not ask him why

I saw today the man
Who stops sometimes to stand
And stare up at the sky
He looked me in the eye
He did not nod or pause
We went our separate ways
I looked back; there he was
Still
I could not track his gaze.

Early, Early, Saturday

Early, early, Saturday
My baby left me, gone away

I poured her coffee, stirred her oats
Watched her pack a change of clothes
Watched her tie her shoes on tight
Watched her leave; like the money on the table last night.

The Malingerer’s Plea Bargain

Drop me in the water
Throw me in the hole
Lock me in the larder
But let me pay the toll

Surviving Consumption

You can’t be suffocated by anything you’ve learned to breathe.

You can’t be drowned by anything you’ve learned to drink.

You can’t be buried by anything you’ve learned to eat.

How much of your life do you want to spend learning how

to eat & drink & breathe

things that would otherwise fill you dead?

Intentions for the year of productivity

Things I want to pay attention to long enough to begin doing, continue doing, get done, and get out there:

1. Abstract Chess (tabling at Art Murmur, playing regularly, updating the site, distributing sets)

2. A new song mix for each month (January was a new mix for Rachel, February was the Beatles Tragic Romance, March..?)

3. Posting to this blog at least twice a month

4. Regular (Weekly?) Dinner and Movie nights at the Fantastic Jackson Flat which Rachel and I know live in

5. Write letters, make phonecalls, take long walks with old and new friends

Sweet John Ree

Sweet John Ree tugged at his collar, where its well starched curve had begun to chafe against the stubbly pores of his neck.  He gulped instinctively, filling his lungs with air while his fingers held that stiff shirt collar out, away, off his throat for a moment.  Then he let the collar go, let it squeeze him up again, and tightened his tie.  Surely the knot had been loosened by his momentary twitch, his tugging fingers, his gulping breath.

The curb at Montana is a peak on the brink

Thin air off the hill colliding with the thick swift fumes of the highway

The last southern block of the Dimond looking out at the northmost end of the Fruitvale

Across the curving gulley; 580 as it winds from the shore of the lake

Towards the high edge of the flatlands.

My Oakland (Quick Write) (Edited)

My Oakland is incomprehensible outside the city lines, not because of some insular insanity like the surreal kookiness of Berkeley, or the shabby sterility of Emeryville.  My Oakland only makes sense within its own borders because of particularity, not peculiarity. (Quick write at the start of the Living Oakland workshop I’m taking through the Oakland Library)