Sunday, February 19, 2017

work in progress:"Filipino Cookbook"

He crossed the thinnest point of a rivulet and back to the shore where he first awoke.  The glade afforded better cover here.  The thick green of the elephant ears larger.  It would surely hide him from any eyes that happened upon him again.

A trickle of water, collected high above him in the towering mangroves, ran down the its trunk and near him.  He drank deeply of the clean water and cleared his nose and ears of sand.  Once clean, he felt a lull of ease, but shook himself to watch the waters, hoping for any signs of his brother.

After a time, it began to rain. He ducked out from under the shelter, pulling loose vines that dropped from the mangrove.  He used these to tie the elephant ear together.  A little roof.  He wanted to rest, but hunger got the best of him.  He knew there had to be mani near by, as this glade was downstream by the looks of the water collecting from above the cliff.  Peanuts always found a way - where convenience made animals or humans passed them.

After some time, he did find the familiar soft stems of the plant in a clump below the cliff, on hard packed soil.  They were wilted in the growing rain.  He pulled a handful out and took them back to under the shelter of his little roof.  They were not ripe, but it did not matter.  He was ravenous - sucking the shells of the bean and then eating their seed last.

He took turns between the cliff's edge and the river.  The edge of peril wore away in time.  Escober went some other way.  My brother came up some other river.  The rain may have slowed their coming, or stopped their trucks.  They would be coming.  This time it would not be back to prison, but to hang from the nearest tree.

The patter of the drops, collected above, fell like the clap of a hand on the leaves of the elephant ear.  He put his back to the tree, and arranged the leaves above him, he was dry enough.  With his stomach turning, but with sustenance, he fell asleep, the rain assuring him safety for a time.  In his light dreaming, and the peanuts' taste in his mouth, he remarked to himself how different they were when roasted and salted.  He thought about his uncle's oxtail soup.

Uncle's Kare Kare
Kare kare is a deliciously, full-bodied soup that is tangy, oily.  The cross of fragrant meat with the base of peanuts satisfied any one that were lucky enough to have it prepared right:

Three to five pounds of oxtail, five tablespoons of cooking oil, five cloves of garlic (crushed), one medium onion (sliced), a quarter of a cup achuete water, a banana heart (sliced crosswise), two bundles of Chinese long bean, or, sitaw, (cut into two inch pieces), sliced eggplants as desired, a third of a cup rice, toasted brown in a pan first and then ground into a powder, a half-cup of buttered peanut and salt and pepper to taste.

Cut oxtail into bite sized pieces.  Boil once and discard the water.  Boil again until tender.  Saute garlic and onion in the oil.  Slowly add in the achuete water, sauteed garlic and onion to the meat and bring to a boil.  Add all vegetables and enough water to make a fine sauce.  Add the powdered rice and peanut butter dissolved in a third cup water into the meat.  Season with salt and pepper.  Serve alone or with rice.

Leon slept dreaming of the soup.  He slept dreaming of the harana.

abstract:"are these not reveries?"

I do
Prescendone
The blue pill with the orange strip
I can see the mottled skin when I hold it to the florescent light
It tastes like nothing
I settle it in the saliva on the side of mouth and allow the jacket to melt away and the white powder to settle across the gulley of my gum
It does its trick
And I float upwards

I dream in these reveries
Because the doctor's lead me here
Dr. Fansem, Nurse Siffa, Therapist 1, Investigator Unknown
And I believe in them, why shouldn't I
"Dream.  It's healthy."
Then, "Take the pills.  Don't forget."
And I don't.  I am a good boy.
I take them and they are most important to me and my mental state and general health and for the good of the therapy.

There is a tree outstretching his branches under the warm sun of the spring
And light breezes on long grass
And I am not really there but floating through it
Where am I I should ask I don't
Never
It's enough to feel the sun and the breeze and there is nothing ill, nothing dark
And I wake and I don't care, because sleep will come again
Soon enough

I have enough pills
And time
And the sun is always there to greet me
In time
Where do they make them
In happy factories?
Glory be I say to myself and no one else
Because it's my little corner
Of this side of the world.

Tuesday, February 14, 2017

poem:"teh reals"

It is within the dregs
The grey mottle of shadow
Nothing stirs
Breath suspends
Not in anticipation
But resignation
It is here on clouded floor
Under undecisive grey light
It hangs above
Like an unanswered question
Unfulfilled quest
The promise lost

Five years
Written in salinity
in ink in time
the candle
ne'er lit

It's fine
It's fine

It is it is

over now.

Sunday, January 29, 2017

love:"of literacy" #magicofstorytelling

The outcome of caring people who care about
kids, literacy and the future!
Giving a child a love of reading will hardwire them to think critically, love more deeply, and see life as the precious gift that it is.  Literacy inspires us to reach beyond to think further than the bubble of our day to day.  At its best it connects us and allows us to share things in a way that the sheen of other media falls short.

If you see an uptick on this message its because of http://www.abcbeinspired.com/magic-of-storytelling/ - where adding the hashtag #magicofstorytelling will assure a new book gets to a child and inspire them to reach beyond.

My son and I are blessed to have helped set up 49,300 books last Friday as part of First Book and Disney at the Lafayette Rec Center in LA.  It was a grueling 3 hours, but with dozens of VoluntEARS, we were able to offload 27 palettes of new books.  The idea is for the kids to create their own personal libraries.

No matter who you are or what stage of life, inspire others to read around you.  If you can, consider charities that strengthen the love of literacy to others.

There's nothing like a book.

abstract:"The Tumbled Sapphire"

Straight mattered little anymore.  As a child, much time spent in keeping the horizon horizontal.  Now, lines blurred, shifted in weight, were smooth, hyperbolic.  I found, after decades of dealing with it, that allowing real life to spin, at its own course was more desirable.  Nausea melted away over time and I got used to spinning in my own grey-lighted space.

The only thing that would soothe me from this was when the fall carnival would come.  The sheen of rides, reflecting the lights.  The lights.  The steady cacophony of light would stir me and calm me.  I waited until sundown and sat and was allowed to.  No one came to look after me then, they knew where I was like they knew where the same steady statue of Barnaby Closet stood each day in the middle of the town square.

It was in my fifteenth year, at the festival, that I would meet Charlie.  She came to talk to me.  I don't remember even having a 'hey' at festivals before.  She sat right down and I felt at ease where I normally would have had the urge to sweat and run.  And run until I could no longer and the sweat would cool.  I would lay on wet long grass, near the highway.  Creepies loved the salt from the sweat and come from all over.  Especially the small black slugs.  They were faster than you could imagine, I bet.

http://sorenpihlmann.com/Abstract-Sketches
Charlie has sandy blond hair and dark green eyes.  She if very friendly with me, but she says little when others are around.

We talked for the week and her, and the festival, disappeared through Thanksgiving.

I would do well for a spell.  Then it would all return.  The black, the grey.  Like giant orbs, they would sneak like the sun over the forest and find me.  And it would take me a time of laying down in my room for a few days to allow it fulfill itself.

No more pills I told myself, but I kept the phial within eyesight.  If the man would return.  The shadow man.  He had stayed away, but I don't know how long now.  He felt the furthest away when Charlie was around.  I longed for her.  I imagined her sitting next to me and I would feel better.  She had dark green eyes.

I stayed out late one night.  A night where I had lost myself in a horror comic book at Jacie's.  It had skulls and blood.  I put the comic page so close to my eye I could see the little red and pink dots that made up the spill of death.

Kelsey was getting tired of me, I know.  He just shot me dark looks when I made eye contact with him.  "You're not right, Park.  Go home."

The night felt like a netting coming down upon me.  The streetlights gave me comfort, but of course, only for a little while.  There was as stretch of two miles that had no lights.  Only the sky, of the darkest blue, had light.  The darkness choked me.

Then, in the shadow ahead, I saw him blocking me.  The shadow man.  He melted in and out, but his shape was there.  I know that if I were to fight him, he would win.  So I sat.  I sat on the highway and coldness came, along with the overnight dew.

I braved another glance ahead.  The shadow man was there, but, in the mash of dark, a light figure appeared.  She had grey jeans and white tennies.  A white, thickly woven sweater.  Charlie.  She came and pulled me from the asphalt.  She walked with me and didn't say a word.  She only looked straight ahead.  I had left the light on from this morning.  It was still on when I came home.

Saturday, January 28, 2017

anniversary:"Pride and Prejudice" 28JAN1813


Wikipedia has Pride and Prejudice published upon two dates, but the common appears to be 28JAN in 1813 (where the printing date for the hardcover was the day prior).  And, for poor Ms. Austen, she was not given proper credit on the book, instead given "By the author of Sense and Sensibility" (and for that book, By a Lady).  Ugh.  Perhaps it is a modern sensibility that would think otherwise, but, perhaps there is respect in calling her a lady, in the least.

And, though difficult to calculate with accuracy (or so I have been told by Mr. Internet), the 140 pounds that Ms. Austen received was about the equivalent of $103,000.00 of today's dollars.  A tidy sum to be sure, and one that was able to give her a modicum of independence in her life.  (It was later, with Mansfield Park where she would make more than all of her prior novels combined.)  She lived modestly, committing herself to reading and writing, with only interludes of a romantic life.

It was the first Hollywood production of Pride, with Sir Laurence Olivier, that projected a romantic imprint upon the cinema.  From there, her novel has spawned dozens of imitations, many popular adaptations.  If it is said that there hasn't been a portrayal of strong women, I think it a disservice to Austen and Bronte - who brought a modern blush of womenhood in their novels.  Smart, winning and sure - unlike some of the pop depictions we must endure today.  Sigh.



Monday, January 16, 2017

short:"Daddy Don't You Walk So Fast" excerpt

...probably a few chapters in from my NaNoWriMo in November...

This is where I could go into an exposition of the details of the travel plans, but I am not that guy.  If I were the type of guy to keep both eyes open for the inevitability of a quirky event, I would at least touch on one of those to move the story along, meanwhile letting you know that we simply didn't launch forward on a tugboat from sunny San Pedro.

My father said his peace: 'I'll make it so you wouldn't want for anything'.

"Fine.  How should we pack for clothes?"

"You'll not want for anything."

"A map?  My pills?  A burner phone from CVS with international SIM card capability?"  Justin, the second youngest was a card.  He was incisive and abrasive, we got on best.  At one point he threatened to have an Excel grid with 100 items that anyone would need to take on a voyage around the world.  I never saw it, and didn't need to.  I'm sure he had it all in that fat head of his.  My brothers were as equally difficult.

There I go, making it quirky with a silly little aside.  It was all too true.  And, with two months to go, I sat with my father for lunch at Newport, restaurant name withheld, but one of many that offer pull up yacht parking.  I was asked to wrap sanity around the arrangements once and for all.

My father chewed through his Firepot Swordfish with amazing ease.  I gave him credit for eating something so spicy.

"Well, I'll pay for it later."  The couple next to us sat upright, visible through my periphery.  Aghast!  I can't say I liked the place for the clientele.  We didn't grow up where we could park our yacht on the landing dock outside and show up for lunch in a breezy Louis Vitton windbreaker.  This was the only place I could get my father to meet me now.  He was agreeable because he knew how much I loathed it.

"Your boys are no longer agreeable if they can at least bring something for the trip..." I paused because it sounded funny on the verge of my lips, "...around the world."  I explained the need for outside contact, the concerns of disengagement from the world, aid kits, satellite phone, special clothing and the whole boring lot.

My father, fully reticent, looked through the dark paneling and at the bright light upon the harbor.  It reflected twice in his glasses.  He quietly, but not slowly, ate his food and drank his IPA.  He was enjoying it.  He found comfort in his age, where he stopped caring what others thought.  I was still marred by it, even in mid-age.

"So, perhaps I should impart upon all of you that this trip, and my impending death..." More stiff backs around us and a slightly dropped salad fork off in the distance, "...that I want to assure you all that I have you taken care of.  There may have been thoughts in the past that I have been distant, aloof, uncaring...this trip is a way for me to make it up to all of you.  Be it known that I watched you, bathed you, read you stories before bed, changed diapers, fed you and the like.  That wicked woman that said otherwise has been nothing but misguided and unfair.

"Son, for you, I have packed a small carry-on for our first journey, as we head to the Galapagos then to Tahiti.  It has a toiletry package right from the Macy's counter, all from Harry's and better than anything you deem usable today.  You'll have a tweed travel suit, slacks, socks - all are designed for outdoor and turned inside out for dining in the evening.  Orvis shoes.  You'll each have a smart watch to track our journey, an appropriately appointed all-purpose DSLR, a Moleskine, swimsuit, pajamas, socks, underwear.  A book.  'Final Fridays' by John Barth.

"At various stops along the way you'll gain access to clothes for that trip.  If we have three nights in Udaipur, then there will be an adequately appropriated wardrobe and other items.  If we are snorkeling in the Maldives, then expect some fins and a snorkel.  I have been planning this trip for the better part of a year, and I am no stranger to travel, or to you."

I felt horrendous.  The combination of Dad's thoroughness and my lack of comfort in this restaurant and I didn't touch it.  I had them box it and gave it to my dad for dinner.  We said little after that as I drove him home.

Latter on Skype.  "Well?"

"He's got us covered, fellas.  Just show up."

And we did.  I may not have all the quirky details, but Dad sure did.

...