year's ends, knives and egg yolks

tomorrow the lens of the days will constrict to its smallest aperture, then, with a sigh, it will begin to open back up. this eclipse of dark has always stunned me, happening as it does at the exact moment when one loses hope about the lack of daylight. it is a small offer, yes, but not a meager one. stretched out minutes of daylight hearten everyone, especially growing things.

on a different note, today the air in the valley was so terrible it could probably be dipped through with a spoon. going down on a few errands i was stunned to see a bank of fog heave up in the canyon and slowly, sickly, turn from pearly gray to moss brown. cyclists ticked by and so did runners, i sneezed fitfully in the passenger seat and grimaced. we were grateful to escape the western smog for the sharp blue of the eastern summit but were dismayed to find the car covered in salty grime- from merely driving about.

following the ascent, everyone felt he deserved a traipse in the shattering cold.

i guess this pinnacle of the year always stirs me. for one, because it asks us to consider what we can leave behind- following the solstice there is a shift in light from stoicism to abundance (or at least, the promise). so what can we give up? give away? ignore? release? cut off? 

most years i take the tassel off my braid as an offering. i write a list of things that do nothing to nourish or embolden me. i eat sweet oranges and bitter chocolate and put my face in the light for as long as i can. and the following day i carry on. in some ways, part of the rejoicing at the widening of the light lens on the 21st of December is allowing oneself to give up on the things we clench in our back teeth during our sleep or the habits we insulate ourselves with that keep us from the bracing whip of bravery. in part the solstice is a kind of New Year's without the glitz or spangles, without the need for a date, the champagne or the pinning down of festive plans. the solstice is a quiet window opening and then closing that simply lets us let out so we make room for letting more in. what things can anyone hope for?

i have small fears about changing routines, about larger Plans for being Grown Up, finances, bald snow tires, thin ponytails and loneliness.

but, wiping my hands of them lets me open up my cache for new notebooks to fill, new books to read, new things to let rise under a tea towel in an oiled bowl, confronting the small anxieties and putting on my telemark skis.

the Universe's generosity is a mixed blessing- rather like a shattered glass pane: no more window, but innumerable spangly diamonds in the wake. how very lucky.

oh! and also it's prime fodder for doing the things that heap up on lists but never get ticked off. and so, in the honor of that approaching day we got our knives sharpened! now we must get to chopping something proper.

also, an interesting article in this month's edible wasatch: caffe latte con uovo (yes, coffee with milk and egg would be the translation.) bravery demands we try it:

1 egg yolk

1 tablespoon sugar

2 tablespoons coarsely ground coffee

4 ounces whole milk

heat the coffee and milk together in a small saucepan over medium-low heat. ideally this should take about 4 minutes and the coffee should be just about to simmer. in a small bowl beat the egg yolk and the sugar together until the mixture turns pale yellow. slowly strain a splash of coffee into the bowl with the sugar-yolk mixture [to temper] while beating vigorously with a fork. continue beating while slowly straining in the rest of the coffee to create a frothy, warming, jumpstart to a cold morning.  (-- Carole Fontana, Issue No. 7 * Winter 2012 page 43)

notes on progress

it seems like once productivity begins to roll it picks up speed with less effort than usual. see below.

as per the previously mentioned plans, jam: check. more specifically satsuma tangerine, valencia orange, meyer lemon and coriander marmalade.

bread: check. one lovely challah baked in a loaf pan for a change. and then, accordingly...

..toast! with said marmalade.
but, feeling energized by the novel new feeling of i-don't-have-to-sit-down-and-get-something-Serious-done-right-now! i split the challah dough, rolled it with butter, chocolate, cinnamon, sea salt and cardamom and made...

...babka! (both cinnamon and chocolate lovers will be appeased)

also, running: check.
sharpening the studio practice: check. (more on that later)
preserved lemons: in the making. so, semi-check.

fin.

check!

celebratory  coffee and dressed up oranges. check!

supair impractical but guilt-free breakfast (fannie farmer buttermilk biscuits, seaside cheddar, velvet scrambled eggs, bacon confetti.) check!

 introspection and pebbles for forcing narcissus bulbs. check!

plans. check!

bring it on big day off!

graduate school application do this tired lady proud!!

plans

one last day (today.) and all this craziness will be over. until march. when the Decisions come rolling in.

the whole thing has been exhausting beyond words, the preparation for the graduate records examination, the cost of said examination, the duration of said examination (5 hours?!), the infinite emails, replies, forwards, meetings, notes, lost notebooks, library materials, drafting hours, flashcards, lugging-about-of-too-may-things miles, abandoned teacups, mold rinds on coffee mugs, sleepless nights, night terrors, black circles under eyes, the lack of bikram yoga classes, the re-writing of whole portions of the applications, the put downs, the following ups, the cropping, the composing, the re-reading. UGH!

but. tomorrow. the end. thank goodness.

i am looking forward to a number of things, maybe:

1. more narcissus bulbs (hyacinth? daffodil?)

2. more bread dough in bowls

3. nurturing my new kefir grains (eep!)

4. taking more photographs

5. chopping lengths off my hair

6. working up a good sweat more often

7. getting on some new telemark skis

8. spending more time with the Men in my life

()

9. trying to sit still with an emptier mind

10. relenting

it is true the highest standards imposed on us are often our own. for me, that is certainly the case. luckily, these things are catalogued all the time, maniacally. 

fingers crossed tomorrow will come, shining, open like a blade and then snap closed swift like.

topdresser

today condensing, taking out every other word, thinking about staff and notes and rests.

tending to everyone's need to snuggle up, eat lemon cream scones, watch a long-awaited-from-the-library hbo television show (the wire!) and making sure everything alive in the house feels loved

this is our cacti family. siblings have come and gone. today some folks had new earthy spots next to other folks they had never really gotten to know fully. i'm certain everyone will on their spiniest and most polite behavior. 

some dogs were too curious and pushed their nose into sibling quills more than once. perhaps they smell like salad.

cake and pan toggles

to be sure, the Deadline is approaching! i am of the opinion that is has winged feet, or other means to so speedily chew through what i thought was quite a bit of time.

but it seems, as with most deadlines for me, that i do the best work at the end. maybe it is rush or maybe it is a need for closure (although i am wonderful at teasing anxiety out into finite tentacles and to savor each one in a sleepless night that wrecks me.) but whatever it is, they usual strange means of doing something Meaningful are upon me: no appetite, hipbones sharp like ploughs, watery sleep (although the moon last night is to blame, really), and manic scribbling of all kinds.

secretly i live for this hysteria, i think that's part of why RISD was so good for me, it said "forgo everything in  favor of this one small effort." and so I did. we all did, really.

and as I was hunting around for ways to bolster courage of any kind, this beacon blinked on and whirred

it is The Chromatic Typewriter(!)

And it paints- and...draws...and writes i imagine. it was submitted for the 2012 west prize competition and of course, as that's not yet happened, it doesn't seem necessary to use it as a means of justifying how brilliant the whole concept is.

So, a machine- a complicated one, heavy, cumbersome, maker of delicious sound and provider of crooked letters, broken ribbons, stuck keys and frustration. But this one with paints! And with keys mapped just so (pressing shift presumably allows the typer to toggle between colors.) there is no more tangible combination of word and image. this man paints loosely as is, but the typewriter imparts a kind of control that is otherwise inaccessible to an abstract process.

so it is a metaphor, for the ever-present issues of not looking but seeing. and at just the right time.

article 3 number 2

: :

Each man and his wet fist curl fiercely around

groves of standing candles.

(they are strangers.)

Each a stranded vessel

on the white throat

of flat water

among the traveling trees.

Some seas will still themselves in this way from time to time

and the thickening water, now mostly murderous mineral, will

flense the flesh of swimming things from their skeletons.

Thirst makes amnesiacs of everything, teeth drop out.

Each man's luminous chest,

in swimming postures of restless sleep,

will sometimes share

the other's dreams.

Of drowning in the glove darkness

of silt and decay just below trailing fingertips,

or of clear water breaking through skin

and, in reflection, blinding them.

Each will sway sometimes from his watch.

Roused by a hiss of singed flesh

or the bluely darkening bloom

of a clandestine bruise

he will look down to see,

striped in ash,

that in sleep he's put out the other's flames

with his own panicked breath.

the lowest (so far) lows

today the lowest low so far! 2 degrees at sunrise and the air is like a blade. this kind of blue in  the sky is almost of an hysterical saturation, a fist rubbing of maniac color that's impossible to escape. so of course, we go out, with all of our mouths open to catch it, wind burn chafing our lips, space shattering as dogs leap through it. not even winter yet, not hardly.

article 3

each man and his wet fist

together

curl themselves fiercely around their

grove of standing candles.

these, yes, do all the ordinary things;

flicker and bow and shine through

the slats of their ribs,

cause conflagrations of

rage and sadness

to shock down their arms

and shake between their teeth.

but

tides and salt rot are thinning

the bottoms of the barges,

and the tentpoles of tree limbs,

and are forming dry standing earth

in the middle of the sea.

even in sleep united,

each man's luminous chest,

in swimming postures of restlessness

will sometimes share

the other's dreams.

of drowning in the glove darkness

of silt and decay just below trailing fingertips,

or of clear water breaking

through collapsing skin

and blinding them

in reflection.

each man, a stranded vessel

on the white throat

of flat water

among the traveling trees,

will sway sometimes from his watch.

a hiss of singed flesh

or the bluely darkening bloom

of a clandestine bruise and

he will look down to see,

striped in ash,

that in sleep he's put out his own flames

with panicked breath.