Wednesday, 11 December 2013

ok cupid

I will not be wearing sexy shoes. I like sexy shoes, but it's not a stylistic precedent I want to set. I will not be wearing makeup. I look quite a bit healthier in makeup, but I don't really want to be bothered. Be prepared for either a bare face or corpse paint. Oh yeah, and I also don't have hair.

If you want to go to a restaurant, make it vegan. If you want to go to a vegan club, go alone, because I hate clubs. If it's cold, I don't really want to go outside, actually. And I'm usually cold. My hands feel like Death.

I'm not really interested in gifts of jewelry, unless you happen to know a lot about Georgian memento mori rings. Or serpent motifs, I like a good serpent motif.

Please respect that, although I recognize it as a crucial topic, I'd really prefer to be asked something other than what kind of music I like as a conversation starter.

I don't think it's cool that you're thinking about raising chickens on your roof. I will probably fall asleep if you play your ukulele at me.  If I fall asleep, please make sure you cover me up.  Please respect that if I fall asleep in your presence it's an aberration that my innate hyper-vigilance usually precludes.

I don't want to discuss Game of Thrones. If you're a huge Bukowski fan, I'd rather talk about Game of Thrones. I'm not aroused by your lumberjack beard. My father has had a beard my whole life.

I like to watch 70s movies and wear sweatpants. Outside the home I prefer dresses. 90% of my shoes are boots. Don't wish aloud that I would wear colors. I like black.

I won't swan around your house wearing one of your button-down shirts and no pants. I have tattoos on my legs and I am kind of bony and I do not 'work out'. I am fastidious about grooming and having nice feet etc but that does not include pouring hot wax on my pubic area and then ripping out all the hair. It hurts.  It's unflattering.

I do not have a 'type'. You can touch my head if you ask politely but don't get all intense about it. Please appreciate the cognitive dissonance that I experience as a result of categorically hating Men and being sexually attracted to them.

I can make you great food and recite long passages from Antigone in the ancient Greek.  I will make your cat love me and we can talk about David Cronenberg while I walk on your back (I'm small). Don't call me because I hate the phone.

Have a super day!

Wednesday, 7 August 2013


Homo sapiens have left themselves few places and scant ways to witness other species in their own worlds, an estrangement that leaves us hungry and lonely. In this famished state, it is no wonder that when we do finally encounter wild animals, we are quite surprised by the sheer truth of them.




Tuesday, 16 July 2013

notes on my grandfather.

a japanese friend translated an old newsletter article about my grandfather. these are the ways in which his kyoto students described him:

-handy with a camera
-danced the tanko-bushi
-built radios
-not like the other stiff foreign profs.
-kind, simple-hearted
-very popular
-friendly to everyone
-likes Tchaikovsky, especially Swan Lake
-also likes Beethoven and Mozart
-wonderful father
-handsome
-kind to wife
-a playful person, full of fun and mischief
-loves Kyoto
-surprised by the number of students who speak English.

i suppose he stayed more or less the same throughout his life.

i spent yesterday working on a spreadsheet, reading an article about how the FBI used the recorded screams of rabbits to keep the Branch Davidians sleep-deprived during the Waco massacre, and pouring candles. 





Friday, 12 July 2013

telling the bees

they say that certainly the surest way to kill a blog is to apologize for not updating it. i'm willing to take that risk, since my sole subscriber is also a dear friend and probably won't abandon me if i pause for a moment of silence here and mourn all the unborn letters that my typing fingers eventually broke apart and reabsorbed.

sometimes i think it would be no bad thing if i included more day-to-day here, other times i balk at the idea because i spill all the boring minutiae over at another journal, going on ten years old now. wait, ten?!
well, something to meditate on. i know it doesn't truly matter, except in that it might provoke me into....updating more. end theme.

today i strained three honeys into fresh mason jars for our good neighbor. one who provided me rose liqueur when a tree branch fell on me. that ugly, muggy, sticky and rain-whipped night.
i make elixirs each summer for the coming cooler days, to keep us hale and hardy and whatnot. these honeys that i plan to give as gifts come from the ethical organic beekeeper extraordinaire loyd, keeper of our family farm. he's a magical bee whisperer in a way i can only hope to be. but whenever i've been given the chance, i've tried to learn from him. those rare heavy buzzing summers.


The Man of Bicorp, an approximately 8,000 year old cave painting of a person gathering honey. 


i retain his old-man habits. i tell the bees when there is a death, or birth, or move, or marriage afoot. you must respect their deep secret knowledge and in turn they allow to you to gently plunder their little monarchy every so often. as non-invasively as possible. to smack your lips on their sticky minerals and vital golden syrups...florid!

the three honeys range from molasses-dark to an almost ruby shade. they are infused with lavender, chamomile, sage, rosemary, wild rose....herbs to keep at bay chest ailments, to act as nerve tonics and lullabies. they are snuggly wrapped up in a cotton furoshiki, patiently waiting to be given to the tall teutonic lady down the hall who paints all day and lives only with a giant gentle wolf-dog. we will eat dinner together soon.

these hot days the cat still insists on sleeping under my chin, in the brutal jet stream of the air conditioner, which always struggles to rein in the heat on the very worst nights in our sleeping space with fifteen-foot ceilings. he throws orange-eyed kisses in my direction and attacks my feet. i've been dreaming of having a garden and planting geodes and crystals in bird baths. maybe this is what the moors dreamt of when they glazed everything in lapis tiles under the desert sun. again with the florid...!

lastly, i am bringing my body back from the death that happens with career-collapse. i'm eating feasts of chlorophyl and oiling my limbs. i like to say that i am a nun.

it's the heat. it's always the heat. excuse my word-spree. i'm unpredictable owing to the heat.






Monday, 3 June 2013

things i have eaten this past week



bosnian coffee
vast expanses of vegan nepalese cuisine
psychedelic-colored fresh carrot juice, a litre for dinner (responsible?)
wasabi roasted chickpeas with the texture of something inedible
spirulina smoothies made gothic with slugs of molasses
raw coconut chocolate bar slathered with almond butter
pizza of vegan cashew cheese, jalapeƱos, garlic and spinach
gyoza
massive olives stuffed with cloves of garlic
rainbow salads
underripe nectarine
steamed butternut squash, cubed
pink lady apple
pizza, pizza, more pizza
genmaicha, rooibos, chamomile, and earl grey teas.


Wednesday, 8 May 2013

drowning


in the past week
i took a boat out to see whales. three humpbacks breached to eye us with strange affection, and fin whales rolled in the brine long as sea serpents. it's surreal to think that this churning life is happening just past your scope of vision on the shore. these are real whales, and they come out to feed every day, and they know things. secrets. 

i saw fleetwood mac and cried a little during 'sara' and was amazed that i could be buoyed along by music to the extent that i was able to handle a stadium show. it rained on us as we left and i had to lift up my long black dress to and scurry to the car.

the sea took a friend of my parents. we spoke to her in the morning, and that evening she was pulled under

i read once that the ocean keeps count. 

it is made up like our blood, or more accurately, our blood mimics it, and like gets thirsty for like. 
maybe whales are psychopomps. i believe in whales.

Tuesday, 30 April 2013

letting the brythonic out


itinerary.
tiny white candles
mead, apples, cereals, vanilla, milk
breadbaking
gentle balmy rain outside
fire
holy wells
feasting
getting rowdy with the record player
mussorgsky