Wednesday, November 29, 2017
which keeps you afloat. And where does it comes from? Somedays from the sky into a watery depth. Sometimes from the unconscious, upward. And sometimes, it's pure horizon. A body at rest.
Meals are like this, too. And while we're on slippery subjects, aren't reflections liquid pools of tar?Others might suggest, ink of squid. I'm fine with either.
But isn't she fetching? Force for the good. Pele? Demeter? Grab a pomegranate or a bunch of beets. Fix them for sharing. While the beets roast and just after washing your hands of pomegranate paint, put down words on a page. See what happens. And in the waiting...?
The orange season. Pumpkins, squash, orange-red leaves. At its core, persimmons are the building blocks of an autumn kitchen. And to poetry, imagine that. Every third poem has a wink to persimmons. Every six, pomegranates. Just do the math.
Tuesday, November 28, 2017
or a very specific and practical tool? Perhaps you never see but if it wasn't invented the simple would not function? Ball bearings? Makes me think of writing. Without a pencil and its progeny, which words would have gone unwritten. Without a mirror, which masks, silent. Think of the kitchen as a laboratory of invention. Spoons, spatulas, strainers, saucepans. Moving away from the beguiling "s" sounds -- can openers, mandolins, rice cooker, knives. You get the point No pun intended.
Monday, November 27, 2017
into or out of. So liquid, perhaps our fingerprints are unreliable witnesses. Feels like a train station ready for an unexpected journey. The packed spoons, pens & notebooks are not those which will be used on this journey. Implements & instruments -- anew.
Ah that poinsettia won't let go of memory. It circles & encircles. It wreaths memory. Like needle does thread. Like pen finishing off an "I." Like spoon in and out of split pea soup. Here memory has the hopeful tinge of pomegranate, don't you think? Sheer abundance.
I wonder about the state of a plant's memory. For instance yesterday's poinsettia. Is its memory firm/grounded as its roots? Perhaps, pervasive? Or liquid as time & properties of water? Is it dissolving to sleep or rising? The same can be asked of a poem. The same can be said of a meal -- does it rise from the plate or is it resting before the eater's expectations?
In the Mission District of San Francisco -- poinsettia. Stop walking and listen to the story. The man who is painting a small pink canvas in his driveway tells me the poinsettia was formerly the root above and migrated to a trunk next to to the original. He's lived there for 29 years and it flowers every year about this time. Walking is a banquet for the eyes and posies for the page. Keep walking. Keep looking down. Keep looking up. Keep a blank page & pen nearby.