No restaurant like home

 

NO RESTAURANT LIKE HOME

Whole wheat and rolled oats with flax, 

golden in the hot pan

cook one side then add to the top:

Red red raspberries, crunchy chopped walnuts.

Add remaining batter on top. Wait.

Wait some more. Flip. Wait. Then Flip some more.

When you think it might finally be cooked inside

Cut it in half and look.  Make sure!

Get out the maple stuff.

Pour the coffee.

Be grateful. 

Know how improbably lucky it is to have a meal at all.

- Mad Mar Mistryel Walker

The apple's proximity to the tree

The apple and the tree: seeds of secular liberalism planted by parental example?

The Parent As A Child

Planted pinks on the parent’s graves last week. Both died in May, 30 plus years apart.  Usually I go with geraniums. Couldn't find any. Too early, or out of fashion, I guess.  

This post is about Mom, who died just shy of 87 years old. She was a life long Republican, but oddly, something of a social liberal who leaned left as she aged, who admired Hillary Clinton.

For 25 years Mom worked as what they now call an "admin" at a state police troop and then when they moved that troop out of town, she worked for a few years at a second one that was closer. She was a discrete and loyal an employee as they could hope, never spoke about work things at home. There was a little hint once.  

While working at the barracks she got a call for jury duty, Years afterwards she said the case involved a motorcycle accident and she relayed a few of the jury selection questions. Had she ever ridden a motorcycle or knew anyone who had? Why yes, her husband. Before they married they rode around on an old Indian machine until they were hit by a car.  Hmm. Because of her job, they asked another question.  Would she always take the word of a police officer over anyone else's?  That would depend, Mom said, on which police officer.  She was dismissed, not sure which side objected.

 Mom had a regular New Years Day Open house and invited relatives, friends and associates from work to stop by. Among the annual attendees was a police dispatcher named Minnie who was usually the only black face in the crowd. Minnie commented on this each year, and she was pretty comedic about it.  To help us see it from her point of view, Minnie invited Mom to a summer barbecue at her house in Bridgeport where Mom would be the only white face in the crowd. Mom agreed to go and asked me to drive.  We were indeed a minority of two. And we were treated  as all Minnie's friends and kin were treated: with mint ice tea and welcoming smiles.  We stayed all afternoon and went away slightly changed.  

It wasn't the first time Mom surprised me. Years before there had been a gay member of the police auxiliary who invited folks from the barracks over to his house for lunch. This was many years ago, another time really and not one of the officers  agreed to go, so the boss asked Mom and the troops only police woman to go. On the day, even the police woman backed out. Unwilling to be so rude, Mom went to his luncheon by herself. 

I was in my early 20s maybe - and I'm afraid I didn't even know what gay was at the time..  She explained without fuss or judgement, very matter-of-factly that it was when certain men liked other men instead of girls, that this man lived with a male friend, and it was like they were married.  She said he was a lovely man, lunch was very nice and she was sad for her host that no one else went. 

There was another thing as well - Mom never voluntarily went to church unless there was a wedding or funeral involved.

I asked her about this several times over the years. She always told me she didn't know what she believed. In later years I pressed her and she said she didn't know if she could know if there were a god or not. Maybe there was maybe there wasn't.  Yet she told me didn't want to fight about it or even think much about it. If someone said 'pray for me,'  she would nod sympathetically.  She would never tell them. And now that she is gone, none of them really believe me. Oh well.

Staying home and not driving is GREEN

I have a new double rationalization for being a recluse.

Because of Facebook (which I am not on right now) and other internet connections, I get invited to a lot of events by poets and musicians I know.  As a family caregiver, if I don't get out sometimes, I have only a mostly deaf 80 year old for company. And that can be daunting. So I have to go out as much as possible for my own sanity.

Yet somehow, for me getting out is always tricky. A) I am reclusive, and by nature tend to stay home and putter. B) I have family caregiver duties and getting out requires timing, setup and/or advance planning for outside help.  C) Conserving resources is a priority. E) Often despite my efforts and intentions, some last minute problem keeps me home anyway.

Increasingly, the merits of driving far seem doubtful. The news about methane, fossil fuels, sea level rise, and the slow march we are making to possible oblivion is not the cheeriest. And the economy is pretty bleak from my point of view.

So now, whether  I stay home by choice, necessity or purely by accident, I have this new comforting rationalization: I think, well, at least I am not spending money on, nor burning fossil fuel to get to some near but far location.

As a part time recluse, I enjoy many solitary pursuits. painting, drawing, writing poems and songs, taking walks, blogging, tweeting, thinking, yardening, reading, watching netflix, music practice etc etc.  None of these require driving.

Balance is the thing though. Like everyone else I need to see other humans and so I do go out, though I try to make it local. So to all you promoters of far-flung events - I  appreciate the invites and heartily wish your events flourish. That said -- I am so sorry to miss your bit, but these days I am often to be found closer to home.

After saying all that I suddenly have an intense desire for a road trip :)

Oh the weeds

Life is full of weeds, things that pop up in every conceivable spot taking the place of what you meant to be there...

Sometimes the weeds are charming, flowered. Sometimes thorny or just quick and stubborn. Opportunists all.

We try to garden as best we can in this life - which is the only one we're fairly sure we've got.

The photo is an empty planter left in the garden last fall. It has a drain hole in the bottom and the weeds just grew up through it.

Philosophy from my past - a 1982 journal entry

I found an old journal of mine in the basement - a book in pen on paper. Some entries I think I will post. :)

This is the very first, from January 4, 1982 -- long before blogs, before cell phones, before I had email, or even a computer.   I was fighting sadness:

     There are no whys.

     There are only nows,
     spanning eternity end to end,
     like points in a line, infinite,
     yet each in strident isolation.

     I am sick of whys.
     Whys stink of pain.
     Give me distraction: the eternal present.
     The kingdom of contentment is "NOW."

     Life needs no reason.
     Life is reason enough.
                   
                           -- Mad Mar (Mistryel) Walker

What we take for granted 'til the lights go out....

Here in the modern lands, we've built out lives around a long thin strand of wire and the invisible stream it delivers to us, to our homes and businesses, to our necessities and our amusements, to our comforts and our endless devices.

When the wire breaks we are lost, transported instantly to another world where our daily lives are changed. Instead of a four lane highway - we travel a narrow, unfamiliar foot-path. Everything slows. Everything is dark and getting colder as we fumble for matches, candles, batteries.

At home we learn to work the curtains and furniture for maximum passive heat gain.  We drag out kerosene heaters, stoke flames in the fireplaces we usually ignore, break out sterno stoves long packed away, put on mittens to grill food on the back deck, pack a few perishables in a cooler  - if we are lucky enough or clever enough to have any of those things.

We go to bed early, get  under the down comforters, get up early to drive off to a warm diner for hot food, head to the fire house for water to flush with, to the store for something to drink. We drive to get warm, to charge the phones - if we can find a gas station that has power.

This storm brought so much quiet on Saturday night. It was beautiful and tranquil - it unnerved our cat no end. She seemed to be listening for familiar sounds that had vanished. By Sunday afternoon though, the roar of a neighbors generator could be heard and the traffic noises began to creep back into our hearing. The sun crept back also and most of the snow has entered the watershed already.  We can see the lawn but not by the back porch light. We have been without power since Saturday afternoon.   It's Thursday afternoon and utility bashing has become all the rage.

First our mayor, who in my opinion has been in office too long, has made no less than five robo calls each of which imparted some useful information, but each of which whined about CL&P, a handy scapgoat in the face of next weeks election.  In a gas station yesterday - I heard more complaining about CL&P - why did they have to import crews from Georgia, grumble grumble, why don't they just hire more people right here. Now think about this for a minute: if they hired enough regular employees to cover special emergencies when 800.000 people have no power for two weeks -  what might the daily charge for electricity rise to?

Let's face it folks - the utilities WANT TO SELL US POWER. They want to hook us up as fast as they are able.

Then in the grocery store a woman who had moved here from New York City, said she thought there was something wrong with Connecticut. There, finally I had to agree - but what is wrong with Connecticut electrically speaking is also what is so right with it - all our lovely trees and our crazy tree hugging loving populace, many of whom moved here from New York because of the state's lovely trees..  This early snow clung to leaves everywhere, dragging down any tree with a weakness, and some that looked hearty as ever before the storm.  Many here even sue towns and utilities over tree cutting . Too many of us say no way, not our tree.....

The moral is, trim up in the summer or shut up when the lights go out. I love the trees too. Nobody wants a bare blacktop world. But a little electric is nice too.

POEM: The Situation

The situation

1
Forget the map
I don't want your location
and I already know where I stand

2
No high heels
Table dancing is out for now
I won't break my neck for your amusement

3
I'm done auditioning
pouring out my depth
You say it's the best ever, but I don't look the part

4
Finally, polite subservience is over rated too
I no longer care about your orders
or your wishes, I can't be bothered
imagining you have my welfare at heart

5
Job applications?
I am too complicated, odd and old
for the inhuman resource raptors to approve
and I can no longer hide my amusement
when contemplating where I'll be in 5 years

      --- Mar (Mistryel) Walker

For 9/11 - Never forget.. to go on living

(Video is from the http://www.youtube.com/user/JBransVideo Youtube channel.)

.

Never forget has become the patriotic watchword of the aftermath of 9/11.  At this ten year anniversary I think we as a nation, desparately need to refine that idea.

.

If by never forgetting you mean - always having in your mind the fresh memory of trauma, loss and vulnerability then I say - now, after ten years, it's time to begin to forget - not our beloved lost, but our fear and anger.

.

But if by "never forget," you mean: take a lesson and go forward with courage, with prudent preparation, endure this all and rise to find joy once again and to live life freely as if no terrorist had ever touched you, then by all means - go forward, remembering, but growing, going on to a renewed life.  I think a perfect example is the memorial on site in New York. There is incredible beauty, and ongoing life in the presence and movement of that cascading water pouring down into the footprint of ground zero. It's a fitting, beautiful tribute and remembrance of those lost.

.

POEM: Mote in the eye of the cosmos

Mote in the eye of the cosmos

a dot, a speck of dust
one electron circling
a nucleus in a Macro-Atom,
the punctuation at the end of
the longest sentence,
a split infinitive:
to maybe cool to a dark cold rock
like so many others
or a hot dry gumball
or broken into asteroids,
or dust, melted to plasma.

But - we are here now - alive...
ALIVE. Shout it!
Live it! Here!
Right here
on this
speck.

- Mar Walker

This poem was inspired by this

Finding a new niche....

Okay for years you were boss.... had an office to go to, people who awaited your judgments and executed them, who held you in respect. Now you are toast, no title, no job, no house. Now what?

One of the things you have to re-invent is the way you relate to other people - and you have to find people to relate to. You cannot sit home glued to Monster.com or Craig's List or the newspaper want ads - all shrinking like a shallow puddle in the afternoon sun. You can not just churn out resumes week after week, accruing rejections like a manic unknown writer.... without beginning to crumble under the lack of interest unless you take steps to reach out in other ways.

Human connection and the esteem and comfort conveyed by it are health giving and life affirming. Feeling you have some utility is important, it's a reason to survive.

So - you need activities that bouy you... stretch your concept of you in relation to others....

First take inventory.... what hobbies have you ever had that others' seemed to appreciate? What free activities can you engage in where other people are present?

WHo do you know who might need help and encouragement? Remember though you are not in a position to offer financial help, anyone can encourage someone else.... anyone can offer a kind word and a listening ear... etc etc

First-aid instructions for video addiction - poem from Inverse Origami

SYMPTOMS:
Victims often appear passive as cows,
butt to couch, knee to elbow, palm to chin
nodding in pale cathode light,
humming jingles in unguarded moments

In the most severe cases,
the remote is clutched and waved about
While channels spin and ad men shout
Lingual clues to addiction include agitated exclamations:
---- "You're blocking the screen."
---- "Give me the damn remote."
---- "Where the hell is the TV Guide?"
---- and "OH MY GOD THE CABLE IS OUT!"

REMEDY:
Work quickly: Crush the remote.
Yank the plug. Ax the cable.
Slap the victim vigorously
with butterfly wings or dandelion puffs
to stimulate the circulation.
Get the victim walking
preferably along rows of rusty,
saw-toothed words in the local library
until the high wears off
Occasionally allow small swallows
of strong coffee or garlic pizza.
If the victim becomes agitated,
run down the white porch steps
out into the meadow
and earnestly roll in the grass
until laughter is induced and the crisis passes.

WARNING:
The victim will be in denial. Expect a relapse.

- Mar the Mad Walker, 1995

---

from Inverse Origami - the art of unfolding
--- Mar (Mistryel) Walker, © 1998
Puzzled Dragon Press
the  picture is a n altered cropped  portion of
an old oil painting of mine called Ascension of Video.

/

Short poem with digital foolishness

Here's a poem to go with this crazy digital sea:

The mix, the shrift of wave and gilt,
all gnarl or growling storm
All life's atwist in azure time's wild light.
Adapt! Transform!