domingo, julio 31, 2005

weekend curiosities

Waiting for the mail is like watching your toenails grow... er... um, well and here I wasted my last ounce of battery so there are no pictures of the Botanic Garden :(



At the Greek Festival:






The microtonal music made us happy, not to mention the spanakopita, gyros and baklava (for I., I swear!). It makes one want to have unlimited funds and go consort with goats on broiling isles in the azure sea... and though you can't tell from the dancer's attire, they were actually quite good, and they were truly enjoying themselves. And it is always nice to see the playing fields leveled, you can still enjoy free public entertainment if you are homeless, that's what I love about D.F. (feeling a bit "homesick"), there is always a concert, performance or gallery opening, free to the public (not that I was ever homeless, but poor...). And speaking of money, if you have any extra or if you care a bout a free press... I meant to post this tidbit several days ago, but didn't have the ocasion.




Would you look at the head on that (woody wood) pecker!!!





And from the garden... wild artichoke flowering in the most anomalous of ways, exhibit A) showing off the lovely white sink (I discovered the marvels of Clorox!) and exhibit B) cradled in a lovely pot made by my aunt Shelley of Cambridge potting fame.




sábado, julio 30, 2005

More American Food

There are times when I feel like a culinary genius, and I just have to pat myself on the back. Now, I have been taking this eating thing quite seriously, in fact I am (as instructed) eating every three hours, and surprisingly feeling pretty good. So this may all go to hell next week when I have to start teaching again, but so far so good.

[Aside: I am a bit nervous, I mean, I know what I am teaching, more or less, but I have never had to be cute and funny and interesting for three hours straight, five days a week, for the same audience, at least when that audience is a heterogeneous one and not a love interest. (You see I believe the key to a good rapport with your class is to make them all fall a little in love with you, not so much that it distracts them from the ultimate goal, but just enough to keep them focused on the main spectacle.)]

So, like any good New Englander (if transplanted and raised in the mid-Atlantic) I was nursed with the addage "Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without". My glee comes not so much from making good food (though that is a felicitous side-effect) but from being able to salvage what seems to be on its way out, while reincarnating left-overs in miraculous manjares.
We polished off the last of the mole verde this morning with a crimini mushshroom (these were a rescue mission), onion, garlic and parmesan fritatta. I realized of course that there are a few more foods to be added to the list of good "American Food" or at least non-denominational, or non-"ethnic" food. Although, sadly I had to throw away strawberries and rhubarb (very American) because I procrastinated for too long on the project of a pie.

Recent miraculous metamorphoses included:

--> dying broccoli into scrumptious cream of broccoli soup (my childhood favorite and one of the few ways I can get I. to consume green vegetables). This was a variation on a soup from the Moosewood Cookbook which allowed me to use not only the aforementioned veggie, but a wilting green pepper. I even used the chicken stock (defrosted) from last week's leftovers. After the greens are pureed (having been cooked with sauteed onion, garlic, and bay leaf in stock) with milk, you add thyme, a dash of nutmeg and black pepper, a half cup of sour cream and (secret twist) *fresh* minced basil.

--> wild Alaskan salmon (previously baked with a sprinkle of salt, dijon mustard, and capers - can't claim this as American as the recipe was given to me by a lovely Quebecoise, colleague in a previous life) into a salmon salad dressed with plain organic yogurt, chopped scallion and dill (this makes it American, or at least as far as I am concerned, because I have never found dill used in Latin America - called "eneldo" in supermarket packages in US, but I have never, ever, found it fresh in a market there.)

--> excessive cherry tomatoes from Eric's garden into fresh (the kind soaked in water) mozzarella, tomato, basil, garlic and balsamic vinaigrette (Ok, I know this isn't American, but it was so damn good!)
and the other day I roasted some of them on a comal with a chile and pureed it with onion and garlic to make the base for a clear pasta soup, using the first half of left over broth.

Now, if only I could be so dedicated to my studies... but there is no one brandishing a whip at me :( not until September anyhow.

viernes, julio 29, 2005

Next time someone says they're gonna get medieval on your ass...

You might think twice about whether they mean to torture you or, rather $%#^@! you to death. Ah yes, we like to feel as if the human race is advancing, moving towards some ultimate perfection (just in case you had your doubts, we're not). I am eternally amused by the fact that absolutely nothing, NOTHING has changed in the basic fabric of human nature over the past 500 years. Sure we have different ways to interact, but in essence we are still the same animals, muddling our way through darkness, desire, the economics of power and tradition, and human mortality. In fact I was just musing with Jenny about how the internet in some ways, sends us back hundreds of years in that it creates the need for epistolary relationships, under the guise of instant gratification, it really allays all real gratification to a purely ideal sphere... Anyhow, no need for me to wax poetic here, because it has already been done, and for the Spanish deprived, well, I'm sorry, but we all know my life is a schism, after all. These were traditional poems that made me laugh out loud, and we young'uns get accused of our literature being pornographic... let's just recall the Cancionero tradicional circa 1500, shall we?

On insomnia: (for Sole?)
La niña que amores ha,
sola ¿cómo dormirá?


On infidelity: (funny how some things never change)
¡Cucú, cucú, cucú!
Guarda no lo seas tú.

Compadre, debes saber
que la más buena mujer
rabia siempre por joder.
Harta bien la tuya tú.

Compadre, has de guardar
para nunca encornudar;
si tu mujer sale a mear
sal junto con ella tú.

[Juan de Encina]

On heartbreak and absence: (my oh-so-typical script)
¿Dónde estás que non te veo?
¿Qué's de ti, esperanza mía?
Que a mí, que verte deseo
mil años se me faze un día.

[Cancionero de Colombia]


On aging: (please don't let me ever be the "older" woman...)
¡Allá iras, doña vieja
con tu pelleja!

Sospira como mozuela
dice que amor la desvela
non tiene diente ni muela,
rumia, al comer, como una oveja.
¡Allá irás, doña vieja!

[Cancionero de Colombia]

jueves, julio 28, 2005

measuring the rate of (self-) absorption

A scintilating day at the library, leaves me feeling... creative? Thoughts on creativity and creative people... There are two ways that this word can be interpreted: 1) the traditional and accepted form, ie. a novel thinker, original, and perhaps a bit flashy and 2) a person that makes things, that creates (regardless of novelty, originality, or pizazz).




Perhaps the goal should be to be both things at once. I have always had the deepest admiration and awe for people who can make something out of nothing, that can take a feeling and turn it into a beautiful, tragic, heartrending piece of art, or film, a poem or a novel. There is this unnameable need to create that begins to tickle, somewhere beneath the spine, in the medula of our bones perhaps, it is a way to alleviate the pressure, or to acheive oneness, an orgiastic coming together of energies.

To begin, it is important to reflect on the innate human fascination with human form. I have wondered about this myself, I have been observing (amateur anthropologist that I am) the ways in which people tend to interact with visual stimuli. No, nothing too exciting, but I am fascinated by the fact that no matter how much more intriguing the photos of buildings or landscapes that I take are (to me), without fail, people will look at the portraits, three times as often. (We can thank flickr for inadvertantly keeping these sort of stats). So, you'll have to forgive the fact that my ambition far exceeds my talent, and that my themes of composition are redundant, to say the least - enamored of my ego? maybe just a little, but really there are better reasons: that I lack models beyond my persona and the world around me . I suppose that may be all we can truly ask of anyone, anyway. Here it is, loosed upon the world, a woman (who me?) loosed with a camera, and a few moments to spare, or robbed from her own unwavering demands, before returning to work. The colors of the day.









miércoles, julio 27, 2005

Tree of productivity




Everyone needs, I think, un arbol de la productividad , a place perhaps real, perhaps mystical, where they can go for that extra push... like when the dissertation is moving along slower than a galapagos turtle (eh, I.S.?), or the jarchas feel like escarcha across the eyeballs, and the glazed look seems permanently tatooed on your countenance. It is then that I go to my tree of productivity and lay belly down in the grass. It doesn't take long, and there is no way I could spend the whole day in the sun (just think what the dermatologist might say!), beyond the sleepy factor, the itchy factor generally sets in after about an hour and a half, but it holds some sort of magical sway over me, requiring that I return to the text, eliminating extraneous thoughts (far from the computer!) and focus. If I were into yoga, which I wish I were but I just don't have the time (don't start, I am taking baby steps, all the culpability about not being other-centered enough makes it hard enough to get to the pool every day) I would consider this being my meditative spot. It is inexplicable, and totally aleatory, but it works for me, so I don't question it.

I'm in love!

Ok, so I announce this to the world on a semi-regular basis... the English language lacks proper diversity in expression of strong emotion, what can I say?

With whom? With what? Well... my new dietician, lovely woman. No, I am not in *love* love, just left her office with that feeling of euphoria reserved for the moving of mountains and other small feats.

Hey, anyone who tells me I that I am in great health and that I have to eat more... well, clearly you can ascertain my cause for elation.

Here's the thing: if I were into BDSM (which I am not, or if I am, you don't get to read about it here) I would be a submissive. This may seems to go against the grain of my character, a born leader, a talker, a mover and shaker (ha ha) but that is only in one extremely limited sphere... academia. I have always been good at school, my secret? I secretly like following instructions (despite my constantly challenging authority - one of the many contradictions, I know, tough nut to crack). It isn't that I like being a lemming, in fact, it may be what I most despise about human nature, the mob mentality, the "Go with the flow". But if someone sets forth clear and delineated goals for me and asks me to perform, I am programmed, completely incapable of fighting my nature, to jump... (This could be dangerous information if it gets into the wrong hands). Now, complying with my own set of expectations, well that's an entirely other ball of wax (not of the sex variety, despite being in surf country). I like the comfort of the lyceum because you always know how to initmate the right answer, how to please the profe, how to shine... In the real world, not so. Usually, in the real world, I feel opaque, dusty, like the thick plexi-glass windows dented with puck-marks at the ice-rink, damaged by years of mistreatment and accidental blows. I don't know which direction to go.

Und so... I may be going through Freudian transference, but it is so much easier to do the things we want to with someone standing over our shoulder with the stop-watch and whistle, shouting, one more, one more... then we don't have to think about the pain of doing the things that we know we should, we just do what we're told.

martes, julio 26, 2005

Arte efímero o expresionismo temprano







In the great tradition of Mexican muralists: the portrait of the young artist (formerly known as I.) making incursions into the world of ephemeral art.

Of course she has a long standing admiration for the greats-- she can even tell you the expressive difference between an Orozco, a Siqueiros and a Rivera (but she still struggles to recognize a Tamayo).

And, for present or future parents, I highly recommend the soluble bathroom crayons for their progeny's formative explorations, thereby enhancing the "ephemeral" quality of the art and saving a bundle on rent deposits and/or paint.

lunes, julio 25, 2005

This is your brain on...

The wonderful things about hosting parties at your house (which of course don't include husband going "why, oh why, have you invited people _ again_?") is that a) house gets clean and b) there is an excuse to drink too much (oh wait I've been doing that since Thursday, so that doesn't work) and c) perhaps most importantly, leftovers = meals with little to no preparation.

One of my favorite things to do, of course, is to pleasure others (with food, food! man, you can't say anything these days), and becuase M. had been so kind as to help clean despite it being my friends and colleagues, I undertook all food preparation myself (although I got a last minute hand on the mole verde).

Last night's menu, simple yet fulfilling:

Mole Verde
White Rice
Nopalito salad
Black Bean and white corn salsa (with green onion, fresh crushed garlic, red pepper and a balsamic honey vinaigrette)
(and Alicia brought a magnificent gazpacho - much better than mine - we can forgive this given that she actually grew up in Sevilla)
Lots of beer and my personal favorite Jarritos de Tamarindo (it's the only soda I actually like)

And a nice central coast Reisling for dessert, to accompany Sara's chocolate cupcakes. (I have recently proposed to myself to become a lush. No such luck, I can only drink so much before my body goes: eh. no can do. Although Saturday night James had a party with his Anthro/Archaelogy colleagues, and M. didn't feel like socializing, so while he stayed home, I took it upon myself to drink Shiraz for the both of us.)

I did promise recipes, so here goes, at least in part:
Mole Verde:

Mole Verde requires (in its authentic preparation) about a pound of ground "pepita verde" (green squash seed, available in any market in central Mexico, but here, I am not so sure) this is dry, it can also be bought in paste (Doña María or other) but understand that the final result will not be as good. Ok, quick run down:
*Boiled chicken, (10 cups of water) cut into chunks ahead of time to make it easier - salt, garlic, onion in pot. Reserve broth.
*Husk and then roast fresh "tomates verdes" (aka tomatillos not green tomatoes) and a few chiles serranos on a hot comal or dry frying pan.
*In a blender, make slasa verde by using roasted tomates, chiles, and fresh garlic, onion, cilantro and chicken broth.
*Meanwhile roast the "pepita" with corn or canola oil in your (final) large pot or deep pan, adding cups of broth until you have a thick green paste. After this is left on the heat for flavors to marry, add the salsa verde and after another few minutes, correct seasoning with salt, and add the pre-cooked (and theoretically still warm) chunks of chicken. Again, flavors are best if left to cook on a low flame for another 10 to 15 minutes.

This is served in fresh corn tortillas or over rice (or both) and the rice should be prepared by sauteeing chopped onion and garlic with the dry rice, and once rice begins to become transparent, add the correct amount of liquid by using the remaining chicken broth, and boil until liquid consumes itself and rice is desired consistency (definitely not mushy! this is not a risotto)

Ensalada de nopalitos:

I generally cheat and yesterday was no exception, fresh nopal is of course best, but it is hard to come by in most places in this country and requires special treatment and tends to be slimy upon being boiled (here's a trick I learned from M.'s abuelita - boil nopal with copper, a penny will suffice, and its "babosa" quality is mitigated).

So at the "marketa" lovingly dubbed by our friend Laura, the engineer, we acquired a large jar of pre-cooked and soaked nopalitos. (Aside: I saw the "nance" or yellow cherries... I am not sure, I could have sworn there was something different, slightly larger, slightly more reddish, it would seem that the jocote will elude me... and they are not the Tejocote (kinda like crab apples) of Mexican ponche fame). These actually work quite well for this salad because after rinsing off the baba, they retain enough pungent vinagre thus eliminating the need for more. To this you add one or two fresh hass avocados, cut into small chunks, and several fresh (red) tomatoes. Last night they were from the garden, which made them that much better. You can also add a little fresh onion, but I forgot. Toss lightly with a tiny bit of oil and correct for salt (if desired) et voilá.


And in closing, eggs have been on several people's minds lately, and they go so nicely with leftover Mole Verde, hence... This is my brain

... on leftovers:

domingo, julio 24, 2005

Looking for beauty in the banal

I am trying to train myself to look for the beautiful things first. There is so much ugliness, so much spite and anger. At this very moment, there are people torturing other people, smuggling guns across borders, denying others life-saving drugs, building walls that strangle any attempt at a peaceable solution, there are adults spreading hateful messages to their children, there are children being born into a cycle of poverty and there are governments who are unwilling to invest in their own future. I don't want to be a part of that. I made a comment to someone the other day that I can't seem to see in colors, not with the clarity that I would like, that my lens is one of melancholy. I think I need a lens adjustment. I believe that we should teach ourselves to truly love other people, more than we already do, more than seems possible. Perhaps I love too easily, perhaps that is my downfall, but, that is the way I am.

Here is my (feeble) attempt at seeing the world through rose-colored glasses, through eyes of love. I want to believe in the resilience of the human spirit, and as I have spent the weekend cleaning the house (not without help) from top to bottom (sorely needed) I was reminded that home is a beautiful place, or at least it can be, it should be. Especially when it is filled with friends to feed (recipes to follow).

domesticidad






sábado, julio 23, 2005

The witching hour

There is an hour of the night, when ones eyes begin to close against their will, when there is a blurring of the lines between sadness and fatigue. I like this hour, because it feels, for a moment that the sadness has dissolved into something else.
There are words to name it, but the words are useless, they can do nothing for the death and the dying, for the crippled and the broken, for the disappeared.
They can do nothing for the ache, and the pressure that builds incrementally with each day that passes.
I make deals with myself:
if I do this, then that will happen
if I force myself not to do that, the resultant action will be such.
These are the mythical excercises of control that we wield over our paltry existence.
They are laughable if only they were funny. And sometimes they work.
Fifteen years ago, maybe, I counted the number of steps that it took to reach the edge of the white-lined tennis court, counting and spelling, one letter per step. If it coincided perfectly, ^^^ would love me. I spelled his name three hundred times, and three hundred times the last foot-fall ended on the last letter of his name.
And lo, it worked. He loved me, or at least my voodoo had plucked my name out of the thinning air and planted it firmly in his mind. We are more powerful than we think, there is more to this world than the merely tactile, there is less, infinitely less, as well. You taught that to me. Fantasy is not nearly as bad, nor is it nearly as good as reality. It is, nonetheless, what it is.
And then, when I realized that he was excercising some claim over me, I got scared, I fled the scene, I clambered towards liberty, I rejected even the notion that I could ever have wanted to call him mine. I was 12. It was probably a wise choice at the time.
Though I have ingested no substances tonight, (how is this night different from all other nights?, the little one asks) there is a liberation in the letting go of coherent thought. I have reverted to automatic writing, it is original 100 years later, non? Contemplating the monsters of Eros and Thanatos, and the places where we always go wrong. The trail is downhill from here, downhill, downhill. And still I imagine a baby boy. I have seen his face, and the face of his father, he is waiting.

viernes, julio 22, 2005

bucholic barbary (or why i'm the way i am...)

Will have to be left for another post because I am, as we speak on the home stretch. However I needed to decompress for two minutes. Let's read the news, I thought, trying to go to La jornada, and mistakenly being led to an offensively pornographic site, (if you have read enough of me, you will know by now that my problem isn't with nudity or even licencious behavior but rather with crass, anti-aesthetic pandering to the lowest common denominator). Oops, better close that out quick before one of my colleagues passes by.
What I did find was this article, originally published in English in (it says) The Independent (of where I am unsure)... I was amused, but I do have to take issue with the fact that the argument that kissing and other bucal pleasures are ignored by men... what women really want is closeness and deep connection... yeah, yeah. Here's the thing, I think that deep down men (on the whole) also want that, they are just socialized in such a way that it makes it very difficult to have that deep interpersonal connection with anyone. (Including other men, not that I am suggesting a kissing campaign, but isn't it curious that societally it is much more socially acceptable for two women to be kissing than men...) I just believe that in some ways men get a raw deal, because as women we are permitted confidants of either sex and men, those that find a way to really open up, generally can only do so with women, and with whom they are not sexually involved. Otherwise it is too damn scary. I am not going to whip out a bunch of statistics, or anything of the sort, but I am a bit bored with the same complaints, and at least in my experience, find that if anyone is more orally fixated it is the men I have known... ah well, makes for a good filler article on a Friday, I suppose.

Meanwhile... I had a lovely visit with the doctor, thank you very much (she asked: how tall are you? me- why? well, it's strange but generally it is the taller women that have deeper cervixes. Marvelous, bringing freakish bodily anomalies to new heights every day).

It began ok, I was early, as I am wont to do, being obsessively punctual to a fault. Interestingly I was bombarded with a barrage of information on birth control (which I kindly returned to them for recycling purposes... I am all set for the next four years) and surprisingly an attractive glossy little pamphlet about the benefits of folic acid consumption, something of a scare campaign: "you might not be ready for pregnancy but your body is!!!" It expounded on the fact that half of pregnancies are unplanned (I can attest to this fact) and that to combat spina bifida women needed to "prep" their bodies with the proper vitamins prior to the accidental "oops babies". Two main problems that I had with this, despite its well meaning intentions: 1) The insidious assumption that just because you had an accidental pregnancy you would bring it to term. Now, I know they didn't outwardly state any particular political posture, but it felt kind of like those sneaky petitioneers that were trying to trick people into signing a petition in favor of parental notification for "all kinds of surgery" under the guise of non-partisan voter-registration public servants (several months after the elections). 2) The other problem I had was with the general climate of "preventative" health care these days. Yes it is important to have a good, balanced diet, yes it is important to get a wide variety of vitamins and minerals every day. BUT... if, as they purport, it is absolutely necessary that you get exactly 100 micrograms of folic acid every day (through enriched cereal, say) then there would be babies being born all over the world with far more birth defects than health, which, is not the case. Rather, I think that this is a new way for the floundering agro-industry to slip itself back into the market. Just imagine the boardroom meeting at General Mills: "Grains have been demonized (thanks Dr. Atkins!)? People want to rethink the food pyramid (which of course was made long ago, under the auspices of the grain and cattle lobbies and has little to do with true scientific investigation of metabolic function or peak bodily performance)? Ok, well we have to scare the citizens into buying more of our products somehow, let's start with the women! They are the ones who do the shopping anyway!"
Now I am not discounting the importance of good prenatal care, nor scoffing at the tragic and heartbreaking effects that birth defects can have on a family, only that we need to be a little critical of the "innocent" information that is being supplied to us, by, it would turn out, state and federal agencies who are in bed with, you guessed it, the agro-lobby bent on shoving as much transgenic grain down the world's throat that it can before it miraculously discovers the detrimental effect it has, and allows us to fabricate some excuse to invade yet another third-world country for their "revolutionary" agricultural practices (introduced by...us).

Wow, I didn't realize how angry I was today. Perhaps it has something to do with the bodily invasions of this morning, or perhaps with being forced to confront myself with the scale, and all that self-loathing (no matter how much we want to not buy into cultural standards of bodily beauty) seeps out.

That was a lot more than two minutes, and because the door wasn't closed I have now been sucked into a "collegial discussion of graduate student perspectives" when I really need to go back to my work!

Grrr.

jueves, julio 21, 2005

Confesiones de una floja

With relation to idealist savant's post about ADD... um. I can't stay in my office for more than an hour. I want to take a nap. I have to read. I can't concentrate.

this is an audio post - click to play

It's early morning...

I am never up this early, well, now it is 7 and sometimes I am up around 7:30, but I have been up since 5:30, and I couldn't even get into bed until 1. I thought my insomnia was a long lost friend (last week) but it would seem she hovers.

I walked to the post at 6:15 with bowl of rice krispies in one hand and piece of correspondence in other (which was no small task given the sudden and severe onset of what seems frighteningly like carpal tunnel syndrome, but I won't self-diagnose, in both wrists). I saw my neighbor, as her lover slipped out the door. Nevermind that the stupid piece of mail was a sweepstakes entry, in which I never participate, but it was free from Amex (I opened three weeks of mail the other day, all trash) with no purchase necessary and the idea of $500,000 free dollars in my pocket (albeit a very slim chance) made me smile for a moment. What would I do if I won? I could afford a downpayment on a house in SB, or the Bay Area!!! We could buy our little piece of land and start the naturally-built co-housing project we've dreamed of (eh?) I could focus on my studies (ha - likely story). I could become a woman of leisure. I could dedicate my life to the pursuit of art... I could give up work and go volunteer for AIDS prevention work in Africa for a year. We could open the art café, and I could dedicate my days to preparing food for others.

Um, no. So fantasy world aside, or perhaps not aside at all, after all what is the life of a would-be literata but one of pure fantasy? I was perusing photos in the wee hours, trying to motivate myself for the long day ahead of... finishing (please let it be today) the Quijote and I was struck by some very curious and indeed Quixotic coincidences, like:
Sancho's letter to his wife Teresa Panza on page 806 was dated exactly July 20, 1614, and I happened to read it on exactly July 20, 2005. Coincidence? or something more? Yes, it is strange, this asynchronous synchronicity that makes one reflect on the power of literature. 391 years later to the day, here I am, reading a letter written by a fictional character and interacting with him. But back to the pictures. There was one woman, whose photos were so beautifully happy, surprising, serendipitous and vibrant, I was intrigued. I have no such vivid repertoire, my colors are the blues and greys, ochre hues, black and white, opaque and lonely. She was in love, and just married and I wonder if that was responsible for this seeming overflow of joy and vivacity. It made me sad to think that I have never seen the world as happy as she, and it made me wonder if somewhere, deep down, I am simply not a defective human being? Or perhaps, just not in the throes of wild and unbridled passion... Sigh.

Now back to Quijote, see I still believe that there is a difference to be made, and I am deeply frustrated by my inability to actually do anything of value, to produce anything of beauty. I tend to see the ugliness first, the caving hole, before the flower that pokes its resilient head from the crack in the sidewalk.

But on that thought I will leave the computer and return to my arduous task (I have so many more books to read, but I am unable to move forward with my list until I have this under my belt.)

And so I will leave you all with some wonderful words for the day: Sponsored by the letter V and the number 839 (which is where I start today):

Vejación - something like vexation
Vituperios - aspersions cast upon another
Vapulamiento - a stern beating

Disclaimer: these are not official definitions from the RAE, but rather my own (perhaps faulty) interpretations gleaned from context.

miércoles, julio 20, 2005

Apariciones











Brief interlude

Last night, I was overcome with a strange sensation, a deep melancholy that lost me in thought.

I rarely send anything back to the kitchen, even if I don't like it. Too shy, perhaps, though some may think this an absurd accusation. The rice was cold, but the Tom Kha Gai was good, and the pineapple curry piquant and sweet, with hints of basil, coconut, galanga and mint.

But the rice was cold, and mushy and altogether unacceptable, and the service, nothing short of spectacularly unattentive.

However, my dissatisfaction was other. There settled over me a wave of sadness and impotence, like the feeling you get when watching a movie in which you know the fate of the protagonist and yet you spend the entire movie in agony, hoping against hope that somehow you were mistaken, that somehow your wishing could revert the inevitable into the realm of mere possibility. I would even take possibility, a glimmer of hope, but no. We are spellbound, in love with the demise of the character, in love with destruction itself, and its knowable desenlace.

And yet we fight it, the dying, the dissappearing, the nothingness, the abyss, the insignificance and we revel in the pain of knowing how it always ends, it is always the same. We hope agaisnt hope that there is something they could do or say, something we could think or feel that would make it all turn out differently.

There is a delicacy in the unfurling that makes the journey worthwhile, nevertheless... nevertheless.

martes, julio 19, 2005

The perils of working at home

Don't laugh, but I have still not made it to the office, nor to my tree of productivity, which may explain me only reading 200 pages in the last two days. I need to go far away from my computer, and my bed (my two main distractions for obvious - i would think- reasons).

Last night I. slept in her own bed! Yay (first time in over a year)! and I stayed up later writing more worthless stories but then, for some strange reason she didn't want to arise in the morning and by 10 I decided that she needed a stay-at-home day. Clearly I had no desire to be productive.

So this is pretty indicative of how the day went, save for the fact that the first five hours we both lacked clothing (and of course I wouldn't dare post any pictures of a naked child as the child porn demonizers would be breathing down my neck).






lunes, julio 18, 2005

If you were a car, what model would you be?

I, myself would most likely be something totally un-chic, un-sleek, but thouroughly touchable (and rideable;) nonetheless. Perhaps I would be a 1978 VW bus? Or a bug, cute in an ugly sort of way? With an interesting mural on the side, gently worn indian cloths draped over the seats. Earth-motherly enough, good to get stoned inside, or sit on top of and contemplate the stars. Eternally in need of maintenance. Ah yes, that's what I feel like today, the precursor to a mini-van.

I went to the doctor's office and in addition to an appointment for pressing problems today, I scheduled my yearly physical (I knew there was a reason I dread my birthday)... nothing like getting your "pap" smeared and your breasts fondled by strangers in search of subcutaneous lumps. I even made a dentist appointment for myself (now that I. has insurance I really must get her to the dentists, but that is a goal for another day). That's right, nothing more important than regular maintenance, getting the joints greased and oiled, and well, greased is exactly how I am feeling, and will be for quite some time. I have been prescribed not one, not two, but three individual creams of varying grassitude for different parts of my poor mistreated skin.

Here is the damage: "you have very interesting skin!" says the dermatologist with a gleam in his eyes (actually, I really liked him, not your typical male doctor ie. actually listened before interrupting, and explained things in a dialogue.)

a) lump = swollen lymph-node due to my compulsively uncontrollable and maniacal fingers in their campaign against scalp
b) itching on legs = sun-poisoning (damn, I was only in the sun pantsless for an hour)
c) itching on palms and soles of feet = strange and uncommon condition (lucky me!) called dyshidrotic eczema (a rare subset of regular eczema) which it turns out is the reason my hands are swollen, and I am subsequebtly unable to wear wedding ring (vaya!)
d) unnoticed issue on upper arms = keratosis pilaris (he gets excited by the fact that this came about after pregnancy..."oh, there are so many exciting skin issues that take place during pregnancy, it is truly amazing!" - yeah, sure, whatever. Can't you give me any hard drugs for this shit?? ha ha. Sorry, allergic to morphine too, it actually causes an awful internal itching. I always feel really funny filling out medical histories because that's the only medical allergy I have and there is always that quizzical look of "how is it that you have come by this knowledge?")
e) itchy toes = tinea pedis, commonly known as athlete's foot. now this I had a good guess about, I don't really remember not having it, but I just can't be bothered to actually cure myself.

In sum: I am an itchy gal (coming up on the seven years, I am, and like a cat, I like to be scratched)
good news = nothing contagious, and I am not dying, yet. At least not according to the good doc. Now if they could just explain the headaches and ennui... maybe I am just allergic to being me?

Condomnation

Agh. I can't ever win. Ever. Let me just throw this out into the air as a question of no consequence. If it were your goal to have an affair outside the confines of your strained marriage, would you a) keep flavored condoms in your purse for your jealous spouse to discover or b) use said condoms and keep them well hidden (or, only buy them on a need-to-use basis?). The same goes for publicly shared information.

That's what I thought. Too bad not everyone thinks like we do. Even when running late to work, there was still time to look in bag, find tropical orange condom (which was a party favor from piñata and made me laugh for its utter uselessness in my life) and stomp back up the stairs to accuse me of being "bien preparadita." Dude, whatever.

I will take this opportunity for a general rant on condoms (this may be a rant that I have done before at least verbally, but anyway.) I know that they block infirmity and disease, as well as pregnancy... ahem. yeah, I know, but I just hate them. It is kind of like, "why the fuck bother?" might as well use something plastic, right. Ok, there is the whole intimacy thing of having someone else's body pressed up against your own... yeah, yeah, they still suck. Which is precisely why I was intrigued by this tropical orange condom. You see, I abandoned ship long ago, long before I was anywhere near my vested exploratory stage, I mean, honestly, sure I did a lot of exploring of other stuff, but...

So, I was reading Jenny's post the other day (which is breaking my heart, sweetie, I don't know how you do it!) and it occured to me that maybe there are other exciting things that can be done with said little strip of latex, expecially if flavored. But now, alas, we will never find out, being the inanimate object of contention for the day. It's a sort of a game you see: hmm. let's see, what can we find to be angry about, or mistrustful or unhappy?! Oh, here, let me fabricate drama! Yes, that's just what I'll do."

Don't mind me, I'm just feeling a bit grumpy this morning, my body seems to be falling apart and yes, I am headed to the doctor's to check out a) aforementioned prurito and b) inexplicable stiff neck and lump that materialized two nights ago on same neck.

Oh. sorry, this is too much. I wanted to include a photo of the delinquent rubber and I realized that it was no longer perched next to the bed. "Isabella, baby? Do you know where that little plastic thing Daddy gave me is?" "No. ni idea." "Are you sure baby?, 'cause I think I saw you come over here to take it" crumple crumple. "Oh... that. What did it look like?" "You know, a little packet..." She enters, looking sheepish. "I broke it." I laugh and take all that is left, the tip, and taste it. Not too exciting. "See, I knew you wouldn't like it, that's why I broke it! I thought it was candy..." she confesses. I'm in a much better mood now.

domingo, julio 17, 2005

When the going gets tough...

The tough make pasta. Or at least in my case. Comfort food, 100% fail-safe. Lately the only foods that I have been able or willing to prepare revolve around this very basic staple. It is funny. There is this strange phenomenon that occurs when you consort with people from all over the world on a regular basis. Invariably there are misunderstandings of basic decorum and cultural expectations. Take yesterday for example, it was a birthday party, and perhaps I am just weird, but adult birthday parties in my world have never required actual presents, but rather a bottle of wine or flowers, whatever. I mean, if it is a big deal, I suppose, oh I don't know, once you have children those are the distinctions, kids get presents, adults liquor... so anyway, I felt totally weird and out of place, when not only was everyone bearing large gifts, but apparently, the birthday "boy" and his gf, who had thrown the party, just got married on a whim the Tuesday before, but failed to mention this to all invitees. Doubly awkward. We had Paella, tortilla, gazpacho, and ensaladilla rusa, plus far too much sangría which was, unbeknownst to me, spiked with a hearty dose of gin. No wonder I was feeling flushed after only two glasses. En fin. For them, of course this was comfort food, the staples. But not for me.

I was asked, as I often am, being the master chef that I am (ha ha - no really I am not bad, but certainly my ego isn't that big) "what would be considered typical american food?" and I, as usual, was at a loss. See, I don't know what typical american food is because I hardly think I could be considered a "typical" american. (shudder, shudder). My general response is that "american" food is most likely something like macaroni and cheese, spaghetti and meatballs, hamburgers (which I never ever make) and then what???

Most kids of my generation, that is, the latch-key kids who marched home in mini armadas and played on their own for the long afternoons of their childhood, as their upwardly mobile parents put in long hours at the office, probably ate a lot of pasta, much like I did. And maybe they even cringed in the falling darkness of their dens, as the blue flicker of the television baby-sat, with a kitchen knife by their side, just in case... or maybe that was just me. Anyhow, I have been feeling rather uninspired in the kitchen of late, and while I am getting closer to the perfect "tuco" (still keep trying, still don't have a good set of instructions but would be open to suggestions) this time I realized that I should have blanched and peeled the tomatoes because their skins rolled up into pointy bristles which ruined the texture and required the picking of teeth. But I made this with a little bit of carrot, onion, tomato, garlic and olive oil, throwing in mushrooms for good measure (ok, there are a few food objects that I can never have too much of: mushrooms, garlic, and cheese being three of these). And we had gnocchis. I didn't make them froms scratch, though I should have because the frozen trader-joe ones didn't cut it. They were too starchy and sweet, and little I. spit them unceremoniously back out onto her plate. Good thing there was grilled salmon, too, or she would have gone hungry. Then the next day I made K.'s family recipe with fresh basil, garlic, tomatoes (this time blanched, peeled, seeded and chopped), olive oil and grated parmesan and romano. This is a cold salad tossed with farfalle, and never ever disappoints, but it is better if the pasta is boiled with some garlic and salt prior to inclusion in the salad. Now, K. has all my respect, she is what one could call a kick-ass chef, just check out her pie recipes here.

And the following evening I. had me make her lovely organic white-cheddar macaroni and cheese, which of course I had to doctor up with sauteed artichoke hearts and ham (turkey ham, actually) on the side. She was not into the briny artichokes even though regular artichokes, boiled and dipped in butter (no wonder) are one of the few green vegetables that I can get my little carnivore to eat with zeal. She'll also eat avocado on her quesadillas, and broccoli (only in cheddar soup) but I swear I don't know from whose womb this child came, because I have always loved vegetable, alas, perhaps it is just a phase.

So tonight, after lounging about, marginally clothed, all day, not doing the reading that I had proposed to myself, but watching an interesting movie about a stalker and a freak hot-air-balloon accident, and the origins of love and obsession: Enduring Love, directed by Roger Michell, based on the book by Ian McEwan. I felt guilty about not making any food for the tribe, and it came to me, the most american of american meals. Tuna noodle casserole, only I didn't have anything but the no-boil lasagna noodles, and lacking the requisite frozen peas I put my atrophying little brain to work. Mind you, this is a better version than what I had as a child, but this is, amusingly, the first meal I learned to cook all on my own (age 9?) and I would make it to help out my mom and dad, so they wouldn't have to cook when they got home at 7 or 8 pm on most nights. (another aside: I am certain that many of my abandonment issues stem from being left alone for so long, and for always being the last child picked up from the after-school programs, which is why, at age 8, I insisted that I no longer needed anyone else to care for me, but that I could do it myself - with my big brother, that is).

So here it went, a white sauce base of condensed mushroom soup, two cans of albacore tuna (yes, I know about the mercury thing, and now, it would seem that sunblock interferes with endocrine function... i can't win, everything is going to give me cancer or in its lieu some other deadly disease, screw it!) with water, 1/4 a cup of sour cream, sauteed crimini mushroom and onions, lightly salted, half a cup of frozen broccoli chopped, and a handful of left-over (not requisite that it be left-over) basil, finely chopped, with a half cup of grated parmesan. I lay this over the lasagna, spreading the sauce thin, making three levels and on top, sliced provolone for the gratinee effect. Considering that there was little else available for rapid preparation, it was not bad, and indeed, a bizarre american sincretic concoction, just like me:)

sábado, julio 16, 2005

Being my own mandolin player...

There was a story I heard once, about a woman who wanted to meet, and subsequently fall in love with, a mandolin player. It was her one goal, her aim and ambition, but every man she met never measured up to her own expectations, and she couldn't seem to find her mandolin player. So finally she got tired of waiting and taught herself to play mandolin. And that is exactly what I intend to do.

Clearly you have a dizzying intelect.

No more wallowing (until next time, I promise).

I was angry with myself for this obsession I seem to have with expressing said self to an empty screen or a world full of strangers, or (let's be honest) those people whose opinions really matter most... and so (although you probably can't tell) I painfully boycotted blogging for the last week. A whole week! Ok, so I posted a few pictures, and a few of I's thoughts that I wanted to capture (aside: this was one I wanted to remember and then promptly forgot. I love that she is so transparent. To my grandmother about the results of the Wimbeldon semi-final between Venus Williams and Maria Sharapova. "Oh, of course she won (Venus) because she is much more beautiful!" would that all of life were so simple;)

But back to the whole boycotting thing. I was plagued by my own utter instranscendence, when it finally ocurred to me. Who the fuck cares? Right. No one cares but me, and I am the one suffering because I am forcing myself not to write. So here I am, writing again, even if no one reads...

And to reintroduce myself to the rigors of writing... I will begin with a short list.


List of things that puzzle me today, and which of no one I will expect a response (here's the mandolin player part:)
1) How on earth do the standings for the Tour de France work???!
2) Is the red itchy rash on my feet, legs and arms from a) sun poisoning b) some strange allergic reaction to the run-off river that melded with the ocean at Jalama beach this morning or c) an early sign of my impending brain cancer and prompt death. d) etc. etc. Ok, see I am even feeling funny again. Thing is, I was itching (we camped last night. hard hard ground, but no mosquitoes... though we were warned of mountain lions) and I remembered that movie Caro Diario, where the protagonist and director (in real life) spent something like two years trying to find out what was wrong and the doctors and acupuncturists and everyone else told him it was all just stress and in his head, and it turned out to be a lymphoma... and so...

Maybe I should not discount my hypochondria as all being in my head! Or, um. here is another case. A friend of a friend (who shall remain nameless, though she will read this and laugh) spent the summer itching like crazy (having had a tryst of sorts with a hippie boy in the raging 90's) and telling her doctor that she thought she had scabies, and her doctor insisting that girls like her (whatever that means... just goes to show you how white privilege can come back to bite you in the butt...) didn't get scabies, and that she was just under a lot of stress and should see a therapist. This went on for some time (mind you this is all third-hand information, but makes it none the less interesting) and aforementioned friend of friend and friend took a road trip in the summer swelter on sticky, steaming pleather seats, still itching, and after many sessions, still confused about the whole stress thing. Finally having crossed the country, friend began itching too. Now this itching didn't take too long to spread to friend's boyfriend at which time both hightailed it to the university infirmary, where it was confirmed in a matter of seconds that they indeed had scabies. Point is... sometimes the obvious should not be overlooked merely because of its obvity.

And so, dear friends and readers. I'm back. and maybe (just maybe) I will do something about the rest of it. Soon. I hope.

jueves, julio 14, 2005

Santa Barbara Scenery

So, if you all needed convincing that visiting me was a worthy cause... here is some empirical evidence to support my case:) And no, no verbal self-expression just yet.




















En sus palabras

Over chicken tikka masala (as per her insistence)

"Mommy, can I change my name when I grow up?"
"But... I gave you your name... do you mean like changing your last name?"
she nods affirmatively...
"well I guess, you could, but are you sure? Luna is a pretty cool last name. You might want to keep it."
"Well, I might change my mind, but I'm not sure because I'm not a grown up yet!"

too true.

domingo, julio 10, 2005

More music

We went guitar shopping yesterday (but nothing was bought). We pulled a typical, "let's just get in the car and drive." After trying many instruments, and singing a few songs, my humor was changed, at least for a while. I. asked, "why are you making that happy face?" and I responded, "Because I'm singing." And it was true. When I am singing, I forget, for a few minutes everything but the sensation of the vibrations in my chest... of course that only works for as long as the music is flowing, then everything else comes back with a vengeance. But, here's a funny memory that I had almost entirely erased from my consciousness. This song was really popular in its Spanish incarnation all over Latin America (ni hablar de España... I'm sure.) and it was one of those songs that I will always associate with my first, well, umm... "real" boyfriend (interpret as you wish). The more I think about this the more it is totally true: There is nothing more banal than a love song. Nothing. And yet for their stupid banality they have the power to transport us across time and space, each and every one of us, to a different time and a different place and sometimes to several all at once. We were out last night, playing music with M.'s new coworkers and this came up. And yes, my mind took flight... the last time I heard this song it was in Pamela's bedroom at BMC, we collectively went to Chile, Peru and then Aruba (thinking of Leo#2 - we had both met him coincidentally there, a year apart). Last night it took me to the river in Manchester and then to Mexico. So enough of these sappy pop-song lyrics... I think after this I am going to take a break from writing my thoughts as, it is clearly observable, they are repetitive, unoriginal, and wasteful of words. I'll be back eventually but I have a lot of work to do.

La mia storia tra le dita
Testo e Musica di Gianluca Grignani

Sai penso che
non sia stato inutile
stare insieme a te
ok te ne vai
decisione discutibile
ma si, lo so, lo sai.

Almeno resta qui questa sera
ma no che non ci provo stai sicura
può darsi già mi senta troppo solo
perché conosco quel sorriso
di chi ha già deciso
quel sorriso già una volta
mi ha aperto il paradiso.

Ma c'é una cosa
che io non ti ho detto mai,
i miei problemi senza di te
si chiaman guai
ed é per questo
che mi vedi fare il duro
in mezzo al mondo
per sentirmi più sicuro.
E se davvero non vuoi dirmi
che ho sbagliato
ricorda un uomo a volte
va anche perdonato
e invece tu,
tu non mi lasci via d'uscita
e te ne vai con la mia storia tra le dita

si dice che per ogni uomo
c'è un'altra come te
e al posto mio quindi
tu troverai qualcun'altro
uguale no non credo io
ma questa volta abbassi gli occhi
e dici noi
resteremo sempre buoni amici
maquali buoni amici maledetti
io un amico lo perdono
mentre a te ti amo
può sembrarti anche banale
ma è un istinto naturale

ma c'è una cosa
che io non ti ho detto mai
i miei problemi senza di te
si chiamano guai
ed è per questo
che mi vedi fare il duro
in mezzo al mondo
per sentirmi più sicuro
e se davvero non vuoi dirmi
che ho sbagliato
ricorda un uomo a volte
va anche perdonato
e invece tu,
tu non mi lasci via d'uscita
e te ne vai
con la mia storia tra le dita.

Or in Spanish, slightly changed (for obvious reasons of meter and rhyme)

Mi historia entre tus dedos:
Yo pienso que,
no son tan inútiles las noches que te di
Te marchas y qué,
yo ni intento discutírtelo,
lo sabes y lo sé
Al menos quédate sólo esta noche,
prometo no tocarte. Estás segura.
Tal vez es que me voy sintiendo solo,
Porque conozco esa sonrisa, tan definitiva
Tu sonrisa que a mí mismo me abrió tu paraíso.
Se dice que, con cada hombre hay una como tú
Pero mi sitio luego, lo ocuparás con alguno,
Igual que yo,o mejor,lo dudo
Porque esta vez agachas la mirada,
Me pides que sigamos siendo amigos
Amigos para qué, maldita sea,
A un amigo lo perdono, pero a ti te amo
Pueden parecer banales, mis instintos naturales.
Hay una cosa que yo no te he dicho aún
Que mis problemas sabes que se llaman tú
Sólo por eso tú me ves hacerme el duro
Para sentirme un poquito más seguro.
Y si no quieres ni decir en qué he fallado
Recuerda que también a ti te he perdonado
Y en cambio tú, dices lo siento, no te quiero
Y te me vas con esta historia entre tus dedos.
Qué vas a hacer, busca una excusa, y luego márchate
Porque de mí, no debieras preocuparte,
no debes provocarme
Que yo te escribiré un par de canciones.
Tratando de ocultar mis emociones
Pensando, pero poco en las palabras,
y hablaré de la sonrisa tan definitiva
Tú sonrisa que a mi mismo, me abrió tu paraíso
Hay una cosa que yo no te he dicho aún
Que mis problemas sabes que se llaman tú
Sólo por eso tú me ves hacerme el duro
Para sentirme un poquito más seguro.
Y si no quieres ni decir en que he fallado
Recuerda que también a ti te he perdonado
Y en cambio tú, dices lo siento, no te quiero
Y te me vas con esta historia entre tus dedos.
Naaa na na na, Naaa na na na. Naaa na na na, Naaa na na na.

sábado, julio 09, 2005

Tempest fugit

Nothing original to say, or feel, or think... but I got trapped in my teenage self, reliving the lives past, envisioning the lives future. I had a throbbing headache last night (still do), and every fiber of my body hurt, so fumbling through my closet in a darkened room, I stumbled upon concert t-shirt #513 from the Swamp Ophelia tour. Funny I don't make it to concerts much anymore, I don't feel the same excitement that I used to, if I hear music, it is almost entirely in my head, slipping out when I am in the car, supposed to be having a conversation of consequence, while my eyes flit across the horizon. Searching.

But as I slipped the too-long T over my head I remembered why I never wear it - it has a strange scratchy texture that rubs nipples raw, even through cloth - but since everything already hurt, what was a little more pain, right?

So these lyrics also didn't make the A-list, only because they don't fit, but I was definitely listening to them then:

I’m harboring a fugitive
Defector of a kind
And she lives in my soul
Drinks of my wine
And I’d give my last breath
To keep us alive

Are they coming for us
With cameras or guns
We don’t know which
But we gotta run
And you say this is not
What I bargained for

So hide yourself for me
All for me

We swore to ourselves
We’d go to the end of the world
But I got caught up in the whirl
And the twirl of it all
A day in the sun
Dancing alone
Baby I’m so sorry

Now it’s coming to you
The lessons I’ve learned
Won’t do you any good
You’ve got to get burned
Well the curse and the blessing
They’re one in the same
Baby it’s all
Such a treacherous gain

Hide yourself for me
I said hide yourself for me
All for me

I stood without clothes
Danced in the sand
I was aching with freedom
And kissing the damned
I said remember this
As how it should be

Oh baby I said
It’s all in our hands
Got to learn to respect
What we don’t understand
We are fortunate ones
Fortunate ones
I swear

Hide yourself for me
I will hide myself for you
All for you
(I will hide)
All for you
(myself for you)
I will hide myself for you
All for you

I stood without clothes
I danced in the sand
I was aching with freedom
Kissing the damned
I said remember this
Is how it should be
---Indigo Girls

So what if I haven't bought another album since 1997 or listened to them much after that? All music serves some purpose, if only to remember who we are.

viernes, julio 08, 2005

Atlas at last


Atlas at last
Originally uploaded by lunita.

My back pain is back. And working at home leads to lounging about and taking interesting shots. I have to get out of the house! I have to finish the Quijote (it's killing me!) I have to go back to work.

jueves, julio 07, 2005

What is wrong with this picture?



Think: adjective number agreement, and the lack of the requisite personal preposition "a", of course forgiving accents as they are not required on capital letters.
Ok, I know I am an irksome grammarian, but honestly, you would think that being a multi-billion dollar enterprise, whose home is situated in one of the most heavily hispanic-populated areas in the country, they could afford a good translation of safety notices and such. The funniest, or most ridiculous part is that in the very same tram there was another practically identical sign, with the error of adjective agreement ameliorated. Were they just shooting in the dark, hoping that one of them would be right?