recipe ~ Blueberry Syrup (5 cups)

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#recipe Blueberry Syrup at facebook.com/jack.edwards.186

A post shared by Jack Edwards (@edwardianjackal) on Sep 17, 2019 at 4:55pm PDT

24 oz of blueberries, 2 cups of filtered water, 1.5 cups of sugar, 1/2 cup of honey, 1/2 cup of lemon juice ~~ add all into large pot and bring to simmer, stirring constantly, cook until reduced, and liquid is syrupy and dark; strain to separate pulp from syrup, keep pulp for topping in separate container;

recipe ~ Spicy Mediterranean Chicken (serves 8)

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#recipe Mediterranean Chicken at facebook.com/jack.edwards.186

A post shared by Jack Edwards (@edwardianjackal) on Sep 17, 2019 at 4:30pm PDT

 x8 chicken thighs, x1.5 red onions sliced, x1 bulb of garlic, fresh parsley, x2 cans of 28 oz tomatos (cubed), container of dried apricots ~ spice (1/2 on chicken before fry, 1/2 after mixed): 2 tbs cinnamon, 2.5 tbs coriander, 2.5 red chili flakes, 2 tbs whole black pepper, 2.5 curcuma (or curry spice), 2 tbs salt, 2 tbs cumin, 1 tbs pepper ~ ~ Over open charcoal grill; apply 1/2 spice to dried chicken, fry; remove chicken, in same oil, cook onion and garlic until tender, remove; scald both cans of tomatos in the same pan, stirring with slight reduction; put all ingredient into foil pan on grill, add apricots, mix well, add remaining 1/2 spice and continue to cook to desired consistency; add parsley at end; serve with rice;

...(next) Chambersburg, Trenton, 1994...

He made more than a few switchbacks that even he got turned around.  The light of day dithered to dusk.  I need distance.  He kept on the 3, but cut north to the 252.  He had his bearings now.  Three hours and no sign of being followed.  He remembered little of the drive - only the color and makes of cars to make sure none of them were too familiar over time.

West 30.  He stopped before entering Malvern on a small stretch of road, lined by trees.  The sky had turned purple, but with the lights off, you could see nothing.  He stretched out his hands and pulled his seat back.  It was quiet enough, he saw no one for twenty minutes.  The cicadas were an ever-present buzz.  Dark came and Rook passed out.

...

He woke up with a hunger headache.  Gas.  Food.  He had barely enough for both.  He topped off at the first chain gas station he could find.  They won't care about me, not ask questions.  They didn't.  He wanted to buy a map but that would be a tip-off.  He resisted the urge and took a paper placemat from the Rollo's Diner instead.

After he hit the head, he got right out of the little town he didn't know the name of.

Can't stay in Ohio, Mauro has reach out that this way.  He was in league with another boss out this way - he remembered him talking about some play in Athens and in Columbus.

Kentucky.  The placemat was a cartoonish estimation of Rollo's locations in the area.  Lexington was one.  I'll find a town near there...Winchester.  Get a job washing dishes, live in the car for a time.

He eventually found the 68, used the rest of his cash but for 7 bucks for gas and lunch.  He swung through Lexington, double-backed on the 60 and toward Winchester.  In Colby, he stopped the car, pulled the plates and through them in a gully among a pile of floating trash.  He checked the car for anything distinguishing, straightened out his clothes and headed into town.

...

Rook found quickly that Winchester had two main strips - N Main and N Maple.  He rode down both, nonchalantly, keeping his eyes open for a Help Wanted sign.  Folks weren't too interested in him, which was a good sign.  If they were, best get out of Dodge.

A little cafe on Broadway needed a dishwasher.

He found an abandoned house near the N Main, parked in a patch of overbrush and hoofed it back to the strip.  The town was mostly red brick, two story shops and Pam's Cafe was no exception.  He smiled and asked the waitress about the job.

"Well, hon, they're gonna need you right away - you good with that?"

"I just got into town and looking to put down some roots - I can work now if you want."

"Clark?"  A chubby bald man came around the corner with a carafe of coffee, he did not look trusting at all.  Doesn't matter, just get the gig and I'll work hard.  Plus working at a cafe will be a steady supply of leftovers.  Rook explained the situation to Clark.

"You ain't trouble are you?"

"No sir - I was working for a spell out in Parkersburg, chain restaurant called Rollo's."

"I know Rollo's."

"They were outfitting the place with new refrigeration units, you know the industrial GE ones from last year's show?  Well, they couldn't keep us through the summer while it was under construction, so I figured I'd come out to Kentucky before the winter."

"Change of scenery?"

"I had some distant cousins out this way, living in Lexington, figured I'd try to set some roots here for a while."

"What's their names?"

"The Browns.  Harold, Jenny...like I said, they were distant but I don't have any other family."

"Aight then, Rich Brown...going ahead and start work tonight.  No funny business because I'm watching."

"Yes, sir."

Rook rolled up his sleeves, put in a six-hour until the Broadway Cafe closed.  Washing dishes was soothing, he completely forgot about his cares.  The radio station played country, I never really listened to this before.  Not bad.

"Good work Rich, we open at 6:00a tomorrow, be here ten minutes before."

"Yes, sir."  Clark opened the register and gave him 15.

"You stick around Rich, we can get you some tips as well."

...

Rook went back to the car exhausted.  I'll get a room tomorrow.  Wash up.  Wash my clothes.

The cicadas had followed him, buzzing in the darkness of Kentucky.

...

...when it's over...27aug19...

Resolve comes and sits coldly upon one's chest.
Inevitable.  Sad nonetheless.
The cathedrals were pinnacles of the ecstasies
Breaths both day and night in thought of you
What could have.  What was never.
Yet below the lofts of those countless towers rests
the city.  Its brightly colored squares and decorated streets.
I saw daylight dance upon deep red sakura, happily shifting in the ocean's breeze.
The trills of children and joyous animals in play.
Lovers holding hands in quiet contemplation
Holding not only hands but breath and hope
A quantum of surrender.
A city held in a moment suspended in quiet joy.
Expressed to unrelenting stone
Unrecognized to me now.

Ruins far too friendly a word
Even smoke dissipates.
Cruel dispassion, mechanistic precision
Razed it well.
The only lofty throes are the shadows reaching skyward
Over the dark gloss of nothing.
I lament it.  And nothing can be remembered for nothing ever was.
As you say.

The sun darkened.
A red fissure split the sky.
No screams at was inevitable.
The towers fell, the city crumpled
Like paper
The memories lost
And must shuffle be.

The Belle of the River...short exercise_30jun19

The triumphs of erect stone, molded in the likeness of their creator.  Pinned against the clouds, raised on colonnades each.  To enhance their own loftiness, they point to above.  All told, 'do not think of the firmament below, it is nothing compared to the spaces above'.

Agreed.  The human mind has its limitations and assuredly its self-importance.  Myself, as lowly as I am, still am victim to the same.

My hands sweat and I shift my kit of oils and canvas to the other.  I would relieve myself of my woolen jacket, but I have not formally asked anything of the gardens and I am still desperate to find the Head Gardener.  A fellow I'm told is Michaels.  I've no idea what he looks like, but I suspect I would find him nearer the estate.

The Villa Liatris had survived the [Civil] War, nestled on a bend of the Mississippi near Ama.  It had a rare garden of contemporaneous European varieties of Lady Slippers, with yellow and purple hues that I'm told are quite unique and not easily reproduced in oil.

I had not come across them yet as I tracked across one side of the garden and to the other.  An ominous green house had stretched perpendicular to the main house, but I dare not enter without Michaels.

Frustrated at the endeavor and the heat, I found the shade of a cypress that was flanked with thick brush, creating an unnatural form of shade and coolness.  I could always find one no matter what backwood forest I find myself.  I sat and allowed myself to cool.  Sweat and humidity weighed my suit down.

"Sir?"  The call of southern hospitality.  It was a young voice.

I smiled before I opened my eyes, "Forgive a man some shade, son.  It is awfully warm out today and I have exhausted myself on effort of finding Mr. Michaels."

"Mr. Michaels, sir?  The Head Gardner?"

"That's him."

"Let me fetch him for you."  The boy ran off behind the arboretum.  I committed myself to the spot until he showed up.  In some time, the boy walked out with an older man in a light white long shirt.  I stood up and straightened out.

We shook hands.  "What can we do for you Mr. --?"

"Mr. Michaels, I simply wanted to ask for your permission to mix some oils and a bit of canvas painting.  I hear tell that the Lady Slippers are available this time of year.  I'm particular for the yellow and purple 'uns."

"Oils?"

"Painting.  See sir I work as an illustrator for the Post.  They are doing a fall piece for summer flowers.  I guess for folks hearkening back on the weather.  They gave me a stipend for your time to sit and paint for a day or two.  That is, if you are agreeable."

"Well, son, I t'ain't ne'er hear of such a thing, but as long as you are just painting them and not disturbing them I don't see no harm."

"Won't touch them.  May I pay you or the manor for the privilege?"

"Wouldn't hear of it.  We are happy for'n your interest.  Just put in where you seen it - we do have tours come through here and the Lady is keen on it.  Maybe send us a copy?"

"Sir, I'll send you three and you'll get all sorts of credit."

With that Michaels took me to another section of the garden I wouldn't have found.  It intersects under a portion of where the trellis of the arboretum spans to the Manor, it's quite beautiful with all sorts of orchids lining the walk-way.  Just enough sun is good enough.

And there they were, in full bloom.  I was eager now to take off my jacket, oblige myself on some cool tea (no cubes, they hadn't any electricity), and a stool.

I made two first runs on the yellow and the purple, making swaths from the corner to the center - arriving at a fair conclusion.  I will do the second one on my visit.  I put the color on my finger and put it near the flower.

"Close?"

"Colors change with light.  Today is a bit cloudy, but hot.  Tomorrow may be different.  I'll get it close it enough."  With that, I took my thin charcoals and sketched their forms.

Whistle.  "I t'ain't e'er seen one draw that quickly afore!"

I had what I needed even I didn't come back.  But I like the place and the tea is fine.

"See you tomorrow!"

...

As I walked off the estate with tools in tow and my jacket hung off my shoulder, I sported a young belle on the walkway.  She was peculiarly out of place for the time.  I guessed it was a costume ball of some kind.  She was absolutely perfect in every way.  Flawless skin, proud cheekbones, glimmering green eyes and fiery dark red hair.  She walked with pride, with back as straight as the statues I had just left.

"Sir."

"Miss."  I wanted to pull her aside for even a second, but her gait was such I didn't expect to stop her.  She did keep me in her periphery for the slightest of seconds before moving on.

I paused.  I couldn't help watching her walk away.  As a lady should, she did not turn around once.  God bless her.

Another reason to show up tomorrow.
...

...stares...16jun19...

There is no regalia in the sun light, but pomp
As you may see me
Yet I may see differently in my stare

Fantastic things
Star fields of brilliant color
That paint the vivid fields of night
Aback the costumed trees that seemingly dance
Stretching up, undulating to the rhythmic wind

Creatures that bray and chortle
in musical choir
a chorus you've yet to hear
(but even now you may delight to think what it may be)
Night birds in ancient song
lull us to simplest pleasures

By the shore
of painted waters
perhaps you are there
with languid line
your voluminous hair
and soft nape
drape to a soft arm
that, with lighted touch,
upon the merry streams
as if keys
or chords

Forgive my stare then
It may not what you think it be

Forgive want
As it may be just a memory
that can only be
in reverie

Mistake it not
for anything that
may be truth
as what a
heart's beat
may only be.

Es lässt sich nicht lesen...10jun19

Ce grand malheur, de ne pouvoir etre seul. - La Bruyere

"The Man of the Crowd" - Edgar Allen Poe

"Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors, and looking them piteously in the eyes - die with despair of heart and convulsion of throat, on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed.  Now and then, alas, the conscience of man takes up a [burden] so heavy in horror that it can be thrown down only into the grave."

Furtive.  That was the word the ghost of Samuel Burbage struggled for as he floated about the bed of Lawrence Count, age 72, New Shoreham RI.  Lawrence here has a furtive look about his eyes.  It was pitch in the room, but a ghost can see everything.  It was an attribute only available to the dead.  It was once a specialty to spirits, but the technology age did a great injustice with the invention of night mode.  Not that they can see everything.  Old Saint Michael had told Burbage over a game of bridge, "They may try to see the weakest of a light spectrum, but they'll never be able to capture feelings."  Burbage and a cohort from old Maryland, Tanner, watched Saint Michael closely.  "Watch how he counts the multipliers: I think he mixes clubs for spades."

Lawrence had *the* glow.  A guilty man.  A man who has to live with himself everyday.  He hates the world because he doesn't operate within it.  He cannot amend himself to life, so he makes mistakes.  He stacks guilt atop missed opportunities atop minor indiscretions.  He thinks he prays.  "He prays only to himself, he knows no GOD."  Saint Michael pointed him out and through the fog of miasma came to Lawrence.

"Why do we do this, Arch Angel?"

"All we can do is try Burbage.  If Tanner did haunt you, and you didn't repent, well, you wouldn't be here to do the same."

"This isn't a reward, Michael."

"Didn't say it was Burbage.  But it is the RIGHT thing to do."

So Burbage came to the creeping hour half-heartedly.  As Lawrence finished thoughts on the day's events, then a binge through a half-baked series on a streaming service, he started for bed.  Lawrence knew Burbage was there, even just a little, because the lights would come up in a blaze to make the trek up the stairs and down the hall.  Oh, he acted brave, but I could see the gait change, the odd periphery glances.  Burbage put his hands on Lawrence's back and he could feel him shiver.

Lawrence would 'read' before bed (if you catch my drift men) which Burbage was thankfully pulled from.  "Yes, we can see it...but, do you want to see?"  The answer 19 times out of 20 'no'.  The others were reassessed, you see.

Then the lights would go out and Burbage would whisper in Lawrence's ear, "Fluffernutter, fluffernutter."  Use words that make no sense to the living.  They hate that.  Except for fans of Sid Caesar.  Use the word 'sausage' then.  [Jonas Sinkletter was a grand writer of the Guide.]

Lawrence would grind himself into his blankets.  Burbage could sense it all in his glow: Count treated others as 'below' him, although the dissonance in that attitude is weighed in their own trappings.  Count had no real friends.  He had a wife that left him, running off with Anyman ages ago.  (Anyman had an interest and that was all that was needed.)  Count collected things and we know where that leads.  In the end Lawrence Count had little, so he expressed it in an ego so fragile it could balloon and break several times in the course of a day.  And so late in life to boot.

"Fluffernutter, dummy."


"It's not too late, Michael?"

"I didn't say that, Burbage.  You have to do what you can.  They make the choice."

"Fluffernutter, idiot."

"I'm not being graded, Michael?"

"You're already here, Burbage."

"Good.  I can't say I'm particularly good at this."

"Burbage."

"Fluffernutter."

...

The new day came and Burbage was long gone: the twilight and witching hour passed.  Lawrence Count noted his silliness at the nightly fear again.  But true rest escaped him and it did gnaw, even just a little.

Remembering the world is a bunch of idiots gave him the energy to start his day anew.

...

short: Chambersburg, Trenton, 1994

Rook rolled a gum wrapper between his right thumb and forefinger, over and again.  The Juicy Fruit had lost its flavor long before.  It was like chewing Silly Putty.  It's keeping me warm though.

He shifted on the bench at the corner of Hamilton and Chestnut.  Columbus Park couldn't be emptier.  A cold Saturday morning like this.  I stick out like a boombots.  He pulled his wool coat over his leg, he continuously shook it off.

From here, Rook could see all points.  But the boss wanted him to keep an eye out on the Pharmacy.  

"This time of morning?"  Mauro answered with a scowl.  He was being questioned dummy.  Rook quickly followed with, "I got it."

He measured the next question, "What am I looking for?"

Mauro opened a drawer and Rook instinctively shifted back, a plastic bag packed full with script bottles.  He sat back and turned his head to Chuck.

"What time does the owner come in?  We know they open at ten on Saturday, but maybe the doctor comes in earlier.  Is it even the owner that opens up?  Does he come alone?"  Chuck gave him a $50.  "Don't get picked up is all.  Don't look like a disgraziat."

I got here way to early.  His watch had 8:23.  I gotta sit here another hour?

Rook had stopped smoking a year ago.  Cold turkey.  He had a rough couple of weeks after that, made it up with fries.  "Time to quit smoking, ah."  It would be perfect now.  Calms the nerves.  It's forty degrees, no wind.  Perfect drag and then get a coffee.

Twenty minutes went by.  Something ain't right.  It was too quiet.  He scanned all points again.  Stood up and walked over to use the trees right on the corner as cover.  Nothing.  But not a good nothing.  A nothing like something was going to go down.

He left the car three blocks over, like he was told.

"You know what he should do?"  Mauro put the bag of bottles away.  "He should sit in the park, the one across the street."

"Yeah, maybe keep your car a few blocks down though."  Mauro snapped his fingers and agreed.

His chewing slowed.  It's a fix.  Rook spit the gum out and scanned the walk back toward his car.

"Shit."  Mauro set him up.  Fifty dollars.  He saw the grill about a block down from the Pharmacy, a cruiser grill shining in the sun.

Rook crossed the street toward the Pharmacy, just as the cruiser pulled out at the same time.  He broke into a run, making a hard turn around the building, jumped over a small fence and through an alley to the other side.

Think.  Can't go back to the car, they'll have another car waiting there.  Maybe.  Chuck had him out in the open, so they wouldn't have thought about the car.  Car.  His run broke wide and he met the street again.  He hadn't run that fast since middle school.

The car was not watched, at least by what he could see.  Stay or take off?  He started the car, did a 'u' and headed south toward Clinton.  If I can get to Broad I can lay low for a while.

Mauro.  He gave him up.  He meandered purposefully down the streets, making his own switchbacks, but each time trying to get to Clinton.  He thought he saw pulotti once, but going cross.

He made Clinton and then Broad, he lined the speed limit but didn't go a mile above.  Can't go back home for a while.  Have to go West or Upstate.  Rook figured to put 20 miles north until he had to get gas.  Mauro.  What do I do about him?

...

caustic homage (draft): 02feb19

A hotel room is a dangerous place
when you are all by your lonesome
Don't it feel like a cell?
esp. when the warmth of a woman has escaped it
The smell of her on the sheets
fades as the night wears on and
you wonder if she were ever there.

Picaresque restaurants close and the last
of the lonely make their way into the night
The servers are eager to hit the club 
So dishes are piled in the sink
to the anger of the breakfast shift.
The crew hold on to one another as they
head off singing a hackneyed 
"Comme d'habitude".

Memories of only the grandest of failure
despite the storied truth
reminesce in the smells of those that came before
and thought the same thing
when they lay in the bed
with a Lark on their lips
and nothing on the TV set
in a town small as this.

The boarders next door stop using the sink
And the entirety of the floor grows quiet
but the frequency hum
of televisions left to keep company

Tomorrow looks to be an unwritten failure
should we meet it
And there's the question again
again as fresh as the first time.

And so it is

Comme d'habitude je vais sourire
Comme d'habitude je vais même rire
Comme d'habitude, enfin je vais vivre

...

Philip Sidney's "Astrophil and Stella" c1580

19.

On Cupid's bow how are my heartstrings bent,
That see my wrack, and yet embrace the same?
When most I glory, then I feel most shame:
I willing run, yet while I run, repent.


My best wits still their own disgrace invent:
My very ink turns straight to Stella's name;
And yet my words, as them my pen doth frame,
Avise themselves that they are vainly spent.

Penelope Devereux c1575

For though she pass all things, yet what is all
That unto me, who fare like him that both
Looks to the skies and in a ditch doth fall?
Oh let me prop my mind, yet in his growth,

And not in Nature, for best fruits unfit:
"Scholar," saith Love, "bend hitherward your wit."

...

A chord strike and I awake
"Penelope!"
Sunlight tendrils drape her face in my dream
My heart has swelled and I'm defeated
Surrendered to her and all to her
The dream ends and the cold answer is given
Realizing in each dream
Her eyes never meet mine
It is my love to own

Unrequited to the last.

...waiting to hibernate...06jan19

intermittent rain

followed by the sun some
grey puddles
wet grass
deep pockets at Boisseranc
cut the turf
a layer of ready mud


neath yellow scrag
missing it
'A long while sick, supposed.'
he didn't look from the shadowed lap
his wiry face
his eyes closed
guilty I say


mine come in cotton shirts
and the smell of Canoe
never tugging on attention
but if I look they are
unencumbered
reminiscent

breathing deep

always there

other spirits come as lighted orbs

their chests raise and fall

but they mock 

the action

mindless

rote

lost

...