Even when he is late to rise, you could never describe the sun as groggy. He is too bright, too cheerful, (too splendid!) the minute he stretches, clambers out from under the rumpled horizon, strides to the window and hurls wide the brilliant curtainous clouds,
and stands, hands on hips, chest out, and smiles warmly at the shivering morning (who blushes so prettily whenever they meet)
and shouts greetings down to the moon, who is hurrying his way home from the night shift with glad feet,
and ascends the staircase of his apartment in the mountains with confidence
and gulps down a quick breakfast of hastily buttered toast and a half full glass of orange juice, which is full of pulp today, though sometimes he buys it without pulp, even though it doesn't matter, really - he likes it both ways -
and turns out every light when he leaves, as instructed by the Landlord,
but there is a certain sleepy charm to his waking routines that the disgruntled winter grasses fail to appreciate.
"Cold, cold, cold!" they grumble, and "At last the Sun is up."
Monday, January 31, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Evening's Sabres
"Soft as the massacre of Suns
By Evening's Sabres slain"
--- Emily Dickinson
Brilliance. I have no words.The best two lines of poetry I have ever read.
By Evening's Sabres slain"
--- Emily Dickinson
Brilliance. I have no words.The best two lines of poetry I have ever read.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Toast Responsibly
I don't know what kind of bread your mom buys or makes, but around this house, we get it from a bakery that delights in colorful packaging and delicious bread. One of the many types of bread sold at this location comes in a red bag. It is labeled "Squirrelly Bread." This label has to do with the extreme brown-ness of the bread. The bakery probably took a variety of nuts, ground 'em up, chucked 'em in the bread maker and crossed their fingers. As a result of such healthy ingredients, your sudden concern for the actual taste of the loaf is understandable. (I consider it a general rule that any time your parents tell you something is healthy, they either mistakenly establish a sort of mental connection with the idea that you will enjoy it, or they are actively trying to bamboozle you. I now regard anything 'healthy' with deep suspicion.)
This bread, however, is surprisingly tasty, even without being toasted. In the latter state, it is worthy of raptures. Of course, you'll understand that all rapture comes with qualifications - even toast-rapture. The perfect toast is an elusive creature. Once it cools, it will become too crunchy, a condition that even the most indifferent consumer of bread detests. It must be devoured before this happens, that is, with gusto at the opportune moment.
To provide context for this didactic little narrative, let us imagine my kitchen as it was this morning. You are expecting, at this point, a table, a counter, some cupboards, and perhaps a loaf of Squirrelly Bread accompanied by condiments and utensils. You are not wrong; they are all there. But sprawled sullenly between them are those most malevolent of manuscripts: textbooks. Selected Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson lurks behind a bloated Cross-Talk in Comp Theory, which smothers several binders. Course syllabuses* are scattered about, and Arthurian Romance is belly up nearby. You'll find it a distressing scene, no doubt.
In light of all this, it hardly seemed fair when breakfast turned out to be cold toast.** I crunched through it dutifully, but something snapped inside of me that day. Er, today. I immediately*** composed a threnody to properly convey my feelings. Here it is.
If you, as I
had swift unfurled
all the maps of all the world,
and spraying crumbs
and cursing, hurled
them from the lawn into the lake
this discov'ry you would make:
On our Earth
of all that's heinous
this is most:
a stone dead bread,
a chillèd toast.
As you can see, my grief was so great that I was required to do singular injustice to the English language and poetry itself. The moral is clear. What goes into a toaster must come out. Do not put in more than the family can scarf down in one sitting. Toast responsibly.
*I refuse to write "syllabi." It's a matter of principle.
**If I had risen earlier, I might've been able to prevent the crime. Let that be a lesson!
***This is rather a stretch. I didn't start writing until after three.
This bread, however, is surprisingly tasty, even without being toasted. In the latter state, it is worthy of raptures. Of course, you'll understand that all rapture comes with qualifications - even toast-rapture. The perfect toast is an elusive creature. Once it cools, it will become too crunchy, a condition that even the most indifferent consumer of bread detests. It must be devoured before this happens, that is, with gusto at the opportune moment.
To provide context for this didactic little narrative, let us imagine my kitchen as it was this morning. You are expecting, at this point, a table, a counter, some cupboards, and perhaps a loaf of Squirrelly Bread accompanied by condiments and utensils. You are not wrong; they are all there. But sprawled sullenly between them are those most malevolent of manuscripts: textbooks. Selected Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson lurks behind a bloated Cross-Talk in Comp Theory, which smothers several binders. Course syllabuses* are scattered about, and Arthurian Romance is belly up nearby. You'll find it a distressing scene, no doubt.
In light of all this, it hardly seemed fair when breakfast turned out to be cold toast.** I crunched through it dutifully, but something snapped inside of me that day. Er, today. I immediately*** composed a threnody to properly convey my feelings. Here it is.
If you, as I
had swift unfurled
all the maps of all the world,
and spraying crumbs
and cursing, hurled
them from the lawn into the lake
this discov'ry you would make:
On our Earth
of all that's heinous
this is most:
a stone dead bread,
a chillèd toast.
As you can see, my grief was so great that I was required to do singular injustice to the English language and poetry itself. The moral is clear. What goes into a toaster must come out. Do not put in more than the family can scarf down in one sitting. Toast responsibly.
*I refuse to write "syllabi." It's a matter of principle.
**If I had risen earlier, I might've been able to prevent the crime. Let that be a lesson!
***This is rather a stretch. I didn't start writing until after three.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Dahlias
I'm going to let you in on a secret. Today was supposed to be a poem day, but I don't have a poem ready. Poetry rarely comes easily to me. I have to be 110% gung ho for an idea before I can write anything good. And ideas are kinda hard to force. But occasionally, just occasionally, I sit down and force myself to write something good. So this is going to be a bit of an experiment. You get to be in on the creative process. I'll try to show as much of my thinking as I can. Anything could happen!
Step 1. Discard the urge to write a poem about the current weather. There's a window behind the computer, you see, and I stare off into space through it when I'm thinking hard. I've already written plenty of weather poems, anyway.
Step 2. Words, words, words. Consider locating my "Book of Words," a notebook that I write down inspiring words in, along with useful rhymes and their etymologies. So far, it has two words in it: indigo and estival. Not festival. Estival. Briefly consider writing a poem called "Estival Festival." Smile, but scrap idea. "Ode to Toad" comes to mind, but really, this is becoming ridiculous. Moving on.
Step 3. Make tea. Rummage through cupboards looking for something besides "Breathe Easy." Discover "Sleepy Time" and shrug. Put water on to boil.
Step 4. Eureka! Suppose Icarus (my moth character, not the Greek schmuck who plummeted to his death) wrote a lament? Love scorned, and all that...ah, but nah...not really feeling it. Think, think...run to check on kettle. It's boiling, but not whistling yet. Interesting. Bright yellow flowers sit beside it on the counter. They'd be a good subject for a still life painting. Heeeyy...suppose a person wrote a "still life" poem? What would that be like? (And yellow flowers are summery - maybe we could get estival in there after all!)
Step 5. Brainstorm a personality for the poem. Delicate? Abrupt? Outrageous? Google "yellow flowers." Turns out they're dahlias. Grab a pen and scribble some experimental lines.
Sock it to him, right in the retinas.
We're yeller, boys, an' we're gonna put some colour in that face.
Rise and shine!
Shudder. Drink some tea and grab a granola bar. Food will help.
These dahlias are cut:
they are still lifes in real life,
sunset photographs which never quite live up to splendour
like the genuine article did.
(in the making of those four lines, the dahlias were originally one dahlia, and everything was singular. "genuine article" evolved from "real thing", because I already have "real life", which is cliche enough.)
Rework the last two lines: sunset photographs that never quite lived up to the splendor/ of the genuine article. Change "genuine article" to the prototype flower. Delete 'flower'. Change first part of the second last line again: sunset photographs that never quite bloom/ to match the splendour of the prototype.
We now have:
These flowers are cut: (changed 'dahlias' to 'flowers' in order to save the more specific word for the title)
They are still lifes in real life, ('lifes' seems more suitable than 'lives', so we're keeping that)
sunset photographs which never quite bloom
to match the splendour of the prototype.
Add more lines.
still,
life in the kitchen,
in their corner by the kettle,
is nearly estival.
In the winter, I brew tea
and they brew memory in me.
Now we have a rough sort of poem! Huzzah!
Step 7. Add a fictional author (because guys aren't supposed to be emotionally affected by flowers.)
Example: "by Isabelle Castille, author of critically acclaimed Plante's Inferno and Chlorophyllis and Chlorophilip."
Step 1. Discard the urge to write a poem about the current weather. There's a window behind the computer, you see, and I stare off into space through it when I'm thinking hard. I've already written plenty of weather poems, anyway.
Step 2. Words, words, words. Consider locating my "Book of Words," a notebook that I write down inspiring words in, along with useful rhymes and their etymologies. So far, it has two words in it: indigo and estival. Not festival. Estival. Briefly consider writing a poem called "Estival Festival." Smile, but scrap idea. "Ode to Toad" comes to mind, but really, this is becoming ridiculous. Moving on.
Step 3. Make tea. Rummage through cupboards looking for something besides "Breathe Easy." Discover "Sleepy Time" and shrug. Put water on to boil.
Step 4. Eureka! Suppose Icarus (my moth character, not the Greek schmuck who plummeted to his death) wrote a lament? Love scorned, and all that...ah, but nah...not really feeling it. Think, think...run to check on kettle. It's boiling, but not whistling yet. Interesting. Bright yellow flowers sit beside it on the counter. They'd be a good subject for a still life painting. Heeeyy...suppose a person wrote a "still life" poem? What would that be like? (And yellow flowers are summery - maybe we could get estival in there after all!)
Step 5. Brainstorm a personality for the poem. Delicate? Abrupt? Outrageous? Google "yellow flowers." Turns out they're dahlias. Grab a pen and scribble some experimental lines.
Sock it to him, right in the retinas.
We're yeller, boys, an' we're gonna put some colour in that face.
Rise and shine!
Shudder. Drink some tea and grab a granola bar. Food will help.
These dahlias are cut:
they are still lifes in real life,
sunset photographs which never quite live up to splendour
like the genuine article did.
(in the making of those four lines, the dahlias were originally one dahlia, and everything was singular. "genuine article" evolved from "real thing", because I already have "real life", which is cliche enough.)
Rework the last two lines: sunset photographs that never quite lived up to the splendor/ of the genuine article. Change "genuine article" to the prototype flower. Delete 'flower'. Change first part of the second last line again: sunset photographs that never quite bloom/ to match the splendour of the prototype.
We now have:
These flowers are cut: (changed 'dahlias' to 'flowers' in order to save the more specific word for the title)
They are still lifes in real life, ('lifes' seems more suitable than 'lives', so we're keeping that)
sunset photographs which never quite bloom
to match the splendour of the prototype.
Add more lines.
still,
life in the kitchen,
in their corner by the kettle,
is nearly estival.
In the winter, I brew tea
and they brew memory in me.
Now we have a rough sort of poem! Huzzah!
Step 6. Remove all capitals to appear avant garde and voila:
Dahlias
these flowers are cut:
they are still lifes in real life,
sunset photographs which never quite bloom to match the splendour of the prototype.
still
life in the kitchen,
in their corner by the kettle,
is nearly estival.
in the winter, i brew tea,
and they brew memory in me.
these flowers are cut:
they are still lifes in real life,
sunset photographs which never quite bloom to match the splendour of the prototype.
still
life in the kitchen,
in their corner by the kettle,
is nearly estival.
in the winter, i brew tea,
and they brew memory in me.
Example: "by Isabelle Castille, author of critically acclaimed Plante's Inferno and Chlorophyllis and Chlorophilip."
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Big White
In a far away land, there is a collection of buildings called Kelowna. A little farther yet, there is a happy and magical place called Big White Ski Resort. With seven friends, I journeyed there. It was like Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, except that my friends aren't dwarves and I'm not Snow White. Since the similarity of the two tales is obviously so striking, I won't trouble you with all the details, but there are some that might excite interest. This conversation, for example:
This conversation was also rather interesting. I believe it immediately followed some uproarious singing along with Taylor Swift in the car on the way home. Note that Friend #2 is severely addicted to Tim Hortons' Iced Cappuchinos.
James: "Hey, feeling better now?"
Friend #2: "I am actually! I can't believe that singing Taylor Swift made me feel better and didn't make me want to puke."
Friend #3: "You just didn't have enough icecaps, that's all."
James: "Haha, true. He probably has icecap instead of blood."
Friend #2: "I had too much blood in my icecap system."
Funny conversations aside, the mountain was the best part. Conditions were a mite foggy, but the snowboarding was supremely fun, and some of us went night skiing. I was busy eating and sleeping, but by all accounts it was extremely fun. I gather there was more fighting with ski poles than actual skiing.
Useful contraptions, ski poles. If you don't have at least one, consider purchasing. They are very handy for such activities as fishing Coronas and Powerades out of the snow on your deck without freezing to death. Not freezing to death allows a much greater appreciation of the incredible scenery in these places: stunted trees bowed by huge clumps of snow (some so bent over that they form arches), the snow covered village center, and happy boarders and skiiers traversing the snow covered streets.
Conclusion: This trip was grand. We haven't hit Happily Ever After yet, but I prefer this story to Snow White and the Seven Dwarves - even though the two tales are so very similar. See?
Friend #1: "Ask me what I'm wearing."
Friend #2 looks confused and suspicious. Friend #1 is obviously barefoot and shirtless.
Friend # 2: "Okaay...what are you wearing?"
Friend #1 (to the tune of Just Dance, by Lady Gaga): "Just pants! Doodoodoodoo doo doodoo! Just pants!"
Friend #2 shakes his head.
Friend #1: "Hahaha! I've been waiting to do that all day!"
This conversation was also rather interesting. I believe it immediately followed some uproarious singing along with Taylor Swift in the car on the way home. Note that Friend #2 is severely addicted to Tim Hortons' Iced Cappuchinos.
James: "Hey, feeling better now?"
Friend #2: "I am actually! I can't believe that singing Taylor Swift made me feel better and didn't make me want to puke."
Friend #3: "You just didn't have enough icecaps, that's all."
James: "Haha, true. He probably has icecap instead of blood."
Friend #2: "I had too much blood in my icecap system."
Funny conversations aside, the mountain was the best part. Conditions were a mite foggy, but the snowboarding was supremely fun, and some of us went night skiing. I was busy eating and sleeping, but by all accounts it was extremely fun. I gather there was more fighting with ski poles than actual skiing.
Useful contraptions, ski poles. If you don't have at least one, consider purchasing. They are very handy for such activities as fishing Coronas and Powerades out of the snow on your deck without freezing to death. Not freezing to death allows a much greater appreciation of the incredible scenery in these places: stunted trees bowed by huge clumps of snow (some so bent over that they form arches), the snow covered village center, and happy boarders and skiiers traversing the snow covered streets.
Conclusion: This trip was grand. We haven't hit Happily Ever After yet, but I prefer this story to Snow White and the Seven Dwarves - even though the two tales are so very similar. See?
- A cornucopia of delicious food > Poisoned apples
- Eight charming fellows > One Prince Charming.
- Singing Dire Straits > Singing "High Ho, High Ho, It's Off to Work We Go"
- Zero wicked queens > One wicked queen
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
On Apples
Though some apples, I confess, are supremely delicious, it is my opinion that very few of them ever achieve such a state of perfection. They always seem to suffer some sort of imperfection that negatively affects their taste, whether it be sourness, watery innards, too thick a peel, or soft, over ripe mushiness (which your mother claims is "still good" when what she really means is that it is already bad and it would a waste to throw it out.) Let us bypass entirely the topic of worms.
My grudge against apples is particularly reinforced by a unique category of said fruit which, as well as being subject to all the aforementioned faults, is best described as "too appley". In apples, balance is paramount. Just as a watery apple is gross, an overly appley apple is disgusting. I was recently ambushed by one (dastardly blackguard!), and it ruined several subsequent glasses of milk. You see, appley apples linger. They cling to the tastebuds and interfere horribly with other tastes. Milk is, by nature of its exquisite beauty, rather delicate and therefore susceptible to their pernicious influence. If you can, stay well away from them.
- Four and Twenty Rooks in a Pie: The Essential Fairy Tale Cookbook by Jon Cook, Kitchen master and Chef-Marshall to the King
PS For those who were expecting even the slightest digression on "Gala apples", I must say only that the sternest remonstrances are reserved for you.
My grudge against apples is particularly reinforced by a unique category of said fruit which, as well as being subject to all the aforementioned faults, is best described as "too appley". In apples, balance is paramount. Just as a watery apple is gross, an overly appley apple is disgusting. I was recently ambushed by one (dastardly blackguard!), and it ruined several subsequent glasses of milk. You see, appley apples linger. They cling to the tastebuds and interfere horribly with other tastes. Milk is, by nature of its exquisite beauty, rather delicate and therefore susceptible to their pernicious influence. If you can, stay well away from them.
- Four and Twenty Rooks in a Pie: The Essential Fairy Tale Cookbook by Jon Cook, Kitchen master and Chef-Marshall to the King
PS For those who were expecting even the slightest digression on "Gala apples", I must say only that the sternest remonstrances are reserved for you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)