Currently, I am making boiled cider syrup, which is, apparently, a grand New England cookery tradition. The recipe said it might take forever, or that it would seem like it was taking forever. And it does seem like it's taking forever. It's time to go for a walk. Also, I have to go to the store. But not until that damned cider thickens.
Me: The world might end tonight.
The historian: That's right. (pauses:) Have you picked out an outfit?
Today I made pumpkin seed brittle, infused some honey with spices, wrapped some caramels, bought Christmas presents for a passel of grandkids, held my granddaughter, made little gifs with my grandson, chatted with my daughters, watched halves of two episodes of Everybody Loves Raymond with my son, discussed the merits of Lebron James, and boiled some cider. Which I am still doing. That's the end of the world, if it comes, in a nutshell. Hope I see you all tomorrow.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Planning for the shopping for the baking.
The shopping list I composed last night when I was too elated from having finished grading to sleep:
And this is the actual haul:
And here is the first step in the dance we'll call "The Christmas Baking Rhumba":
The baking/candymaking plan (this is the plan of an optimist/overachieving baker who is high on finishing her grading):
And this is the actual haul:
And here is the first step in the dance we'll call "The Christmas Baking Rhumba":
The baking/candymaking plan (this is the plan of an optimist/overachieving baker who is high on finishing her grading):
- caramels.
- brittle: pecan, almond, and pumpkin seed
- date pinwheels
- sugar cookies
- probably those little treasure cookies with a cherry or a gumdrop inside, because I heart them
- almond bread
- butterscotch crescent rolls (the dough starts with cooked butterscotch pudding and gets richer from there)
- fruitcake!
- two new things: cardamom-and-cinnamon infused honey, and boiled cider syrup, which sound exotic and time-consuming and perfect.
- probably some other European-style baked goods from a Martha Stewart Living magazine that is sitting around, waiting to be baked from.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
How close is it? A theme and variations.
I might be talking about the end of the world, or I might be talking about the darkest, darkest, darkest day of the year. These might be close to the same thing.
*
Only fourteen hours, give or take, till my son can talk again to the surgeon. Get the big wad of dressings taken off. Then just another week or so before he can shelve the crutches.
**
The window of student aggrievedness may be about to commence.
***
Colder? Or coldest? Or the very coldest?
****
The baking begins...tomorrow. Or at least the shopping for the baking. The planning for the shopping for the baking.
*****
How many movies will I see over the break? All the movies. And when does the movie-viewing begin? Soon, very soon.
******
The gift-buying? Not even remotely.
*******
--but the hour draweth nigh
Monday, December 17, 2012
Supermathematicophilosophication.
You've heard of Zeno's Paradoxes?
Yeah, me too. Although I only thought there was one. And I didn't remember that it had belonged to "Zeno," whoever he was. Actually, what I did was search for this:
Because that is how grading is right now. Zeno is a rat bastard.
I am super, super, super, super close. But the closer I get, the more infinitessimal the tasks get. Like: I have ten more exams to grade. (EXAMS. Didn't I become an English teacher so I wouldn't have to give exams? And of course I'm giving the type of exam where I have to be like Solomon and make judgement calls, instead of making a Scantronic-robofied (TM) test, where the Scantron reader would spit out the remark: 'HA! That is no f*@$ing object complement!')
Right: just ten more exams. But then I have to manually and delicately feed in the scores because I didn't set it up quite right in Canvas...and the comments that must be given to the people...I can see the end, I can see it, but I can only get halfway there with each step I take.
Right, that was a fun little escapade. Well, the grades will be in on time come hell or high water, as we say around here: so there may be a tiny bit of slapdashery involved. Slapdashery may be inevitable. But it will be infinitessimal slapdashery. No one will be able to see it, except me.
Yeah, me too. Although I only thought there was one. And I didn't remember that it had belonged to "Zeno," whoever he was. Actually, what I did was search for this:
Because that is how grading is right now. Zeno is a rat bastard.
I am super, super, super, super close. But the closer I get, the more infinitessimal the tasks get. Like: I have ten more exams to grade. (EXAMS. Didn't I become an English teacher so I wouldn't have to give exams? And of course I'm giving the type of exam where I have to be like Solomon and make judgement calls, instead of making a Scantronic-robofied (TM) test, where the Scantron reader would spit out the remark: 'HA! That is no f*@$ing object complement!')
Right: just ten more exams. But then I have to manually and delicately feed in the scores because I didn't set it up quite right in Canvas...and the comments that must be given to the people...I can see the end, I can see it, but I can only get halfway there with each step I take.
Right, that was a fun little escapade. Well, the grades will be in on time come hell or high water, as we say around here: so there may be a tiny bit of slapdashery involved. Slapdashery may be inevitable. But it will be infinitessimal slapdashery. No one will be able to see it, except me.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Saturday, December 15, 2012
What was beautiful today?
Making breakfast after waking up to snowlight.
Watching Revenge of the Sith with my son, agreeing that we both love this much-reviled film, agreeing on what our favorite parts are.
Reading my students' work slowly. Thinking about how to respond.
The snow.
Seeing baby Gwenyth, all swaddled in pink.
Chatting with my daughter while she folded the laundry.
Doing a hologram-ic puzzle of The Avengers, which was hella difficult and nonetheless sort of satisfying to noodle around with.
Taking Deacon on an outing. Listening to him whistle in the back seat.
Coming home. Texting my son (downstairs): "Home. Need anything?" His reply: "A hello and a Gatorade."
Watching the Jazz blow a 10 point lead to Memphis, and lose, pleasurable because of the company.
A walk in the clear night, the snow lining the trees, the snow everywhere.
Watching Revenge of the Sith with my son, agreeing that we both love this much-reviled film, agreeing on what our favorite parts are.
Reading my students' work slowly. Thinking about how to respond.
The snow.
Seeing baby Gwenyth, all swaddled in pink.
Chatting with my daughter while she folded the laundry.
Doing a hologram-ic puzzle of The Avengers, which was hella difficult and nonetheless sort of satisfying to noodle around with.
Taking Deacon on an outing. Listening to him whistle in the back seat.
Coming home. Texting my son (downstairs): "Home. Need anything?" His reply: "A hello and a Gatorade."
Watching the Jazz blow a 10 point lead to Memphis, and lose, pleasurable because of the company.
A walk in the clear night, the snow lining the trees, the snow everywhere.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Enough.
If you haven't read these things already, and you can bring yourself to read, they're all good.
James Fallows
ProPublica
Roger Ebert, reviewing Elephant
Harvard Injury Control Research Center
Too sad for anything more.
James Fallows
ProPublica
Roger Ebert, reviewing Elephant
Harvard Injury Control Research Center
Too sad for anything more.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
happy birthday.
So he, the historian, and I spent today at a hospital in Park City, where his surgeon prefers to do this particular surgery. As days spent in hospitals go, it wasn't bad. Of course the historian and I weren't the ones getting surgery.
We drove up the mountain first thing in the morning, got him checked in, then had conversations with many, many medical personnel, all of whom seemed smart and competent and great. All of us agreed that it was the left knee that had the ACL problem, an agreement that was cemented by the surgeon writing "yes" on that knee. It's kind of amazing what's possible these days, surgery-wise. I myself have never had any surgery of any kind, so I'm just an observer, but the fact is, there are splendid techniques and technologies in pain management, anesthesia, surgery, and recovery. I appreciated these techniques and technologies as we sat in a consulting room with my son, laying on a gurney in a hospital gown, cracking jokes, as one after another medical person came in to discuss this and that aspect of his ACL, the surgery, and the upcoming recovery.
And then, his knee thoroughly shaven and scribbled upon, the anesthesiologist wheeled him out, and we set about waiting.
We had some food in the cafeteria. We sat by a roaring fire (only one of several lovely amenities at this hospital, including a harpist in the main lobby, which was both lovely and possibly a little hilarious?). I had imagined that I might grade while I was waiting, a notion I should have dismissed from the outset. I did read a few e-mails. Tried not to worry. But of course, I worried.
We were called back into the consulting room to talk with the doctor. He showed us this:
 |
| [knee cap] |
 |
| [knee cap/femur] |
 |
| [medial] |
 |
| [lateral] |
These are pictures taken by the scope, I guess, various views of the pristine parts of his knee--all the parts, in fact, except for the Anterior Cruciate Ligament. To me, they look like views of far-off moons, or planets.
When the nurses wheeled him back in, they had already sung him "Happy Birthday," and he was making everyone laugh. "Hello, party people," he called to us from the hall, before we could even see him. He's downstairs right now with friends, holding court, his knee in a massive brace and elevated on pillows, so that it's higher than his heart.
Happy birthday, Walker. Wishing you a great year and a speedy recovery, and full use of your knee in a basketball league by next fall.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Today,
I answered a few more panicky student e-mails ("HTMS! I haven't heard from [group member] and I am FREAKING OUT!")(I may be exaggerating a little, but only the all-caps--the rest is verbatim). Then I gather'd my wits about me 'fore assembling my wherewithal and inner resources and whatnot to grade.
In other words, I am not yet actually grading. But by golly I am almost ready to grade.
Instead, today I read more manuscripts for the competition (for which I'm a first reader). I put some envelopes in the actual post at the post office. I took a long walk. I spoke soothingly to Bruiser. And I went back over to my daughter's, where both a little boy and a very little girl (my grandchildren) were available for a visit.
I held the little girl, whom I had inexpertly swaddled (but never mind, she was as cozy as a little bunny in her blanket), and played various games with the little boy. We played Superhero Memory. He beat me once, we tied the second game. He did some puzzles on the iPad, and then we made a little animated movie.
In the app for the animation, you can actually draw characters of your own, and scenes. Which is fun, and also a little humbling.
This figure below is a robot. I actually did this animation with another grandson on another day. He demonstrated to me, several times, the kind of robot he wanted: it had an arm that would reach up to touch its head, and then its neck would swivel to the side. He was not well-pleased with this robot, but I think you can see the reach and swivel. Can't you?
This is a screenshot from today's animation:
We agreed we would draw a character and also a scene (moon surface, obvs).
"An octopus," he stipulated.
I started drawing arms galore. "How many arms is that?" We had six, added two more.
"It's a vampire," he said. I drew fangs. (I'm particularly proud of those fangs.)
"Put sleeves on him," he said.
"Sleeves but no shirt? On all eight arms?"
"No, just sleeves. Long ones. That's enough," he said, while I drew and undid and re-drew and erased, and we ended up with the outfit you see on the vampire octopus: long-ish sleeves on three arms.
After the visit, which was quiet and sweet, and productive on account of the animation and octopus-drawing, I went to Costco with my son-in-law and grandson, and bought twelve pounds of ham, sliced, for a dinner for homeless men. I took the mighty weight of meat over to my son's house, because they're some of the shepherds of this monthly dinner at The Road Home. They were having dinner, and invited me to have a little with them.
So I put the ham down, and ate a bit of supper with my son's family. We talked about Christmas, and skeletons, and I watched the boys do the skeleton dance, because the older one has a little bit of a skeleton thing going.
As I drove home--it was 6:30, very dark in this darkest part of the year, the Christmas lights blooming on either side of the road--I felt calm. I still have a lot to do. I'm not worried about it, though. I'll get it done.
In other words, I am not yet actually grading. But by golly I am almost ready to grade.
Instead, today I read more manuscripts for the competition (for which I'm a first reader). I put some envelopes in the actual post at the post office. I took a long walk. I spoke soothingly to Bruiser. And I went back over to my daughter's, where both a little boy and a very little girl (my grandchildren) were available for a visit.
I held the little girl, whom I had inexpertly swaddled (but never mind, she was as cozy as a little bunny in her blanket), and played various games with the little boy. We played Superhero Memory. He beat me once, we tied the second game. He did some puzzles on the iPad, and then we made a little animated movie.
In the app for the animation, you can actually draw characters of your own, and scenes. Which is fun, and also a little humbling.
This figure below is a robot. I actually did this animation with another grandson on another day. He demonstrated to me, several times, the kind of robot he wanted: it had an arm that would reach up to touch its head, and then its neck would swivel to the side. He was not well-pleased with this robot, but I think you can see the reach and swivel. Can't you?
This is a screenshot from today's animation:
We agreed we would draw a character and also a scene (moon surface, obvs).
"An octopus," he stipulated.
I started drawing arms galore. "How many arms is that?" We had six, added two more.
"It's a vampire," he said. I drew fangs. (I'm particularly proud of those fangs.)
"Put sleeves on him," he said.
"Sleeves but no shirt? On all eight arms?"
"No, just sleeves. Long ones. That's enough," he said, while I drew and undid and re-drew and erased, and we ended up with the outfit you see on the vampire octopus: long-ish sleeves on three arms.
After the visit, which was quiet and sweet, and productive on account of the animation and octopus-drawing, I went to Costco with my son-in-law and grandson, and bought twelve pounds of ham, sliced, for a dinner for homeless men. I took the mighty weight of meat over to my son's house, because they're some of the shepherds of this monthly dinner at The Road Home. They were having dinner, and invited me to have a little with them.
So I put the ham down, and ate a bit of supper with my son's family. We talked about Christmas, and skeletons, and I watched the boys do the skeleton dance, because the older one has a little bit of a skeleton thing going.
As I drove home--it was 6:30, very dark in this darkest part of the year, the Christmas lights blooming on either side of the road--I felt calm. I still have a lot to do. I'm not worried about it, though. I'll get it done.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Notes to panicky students.
TO: Panicky Student
FROM: HTMS
DATE: the day after the deadline
SUBJECT: Your work
Yes, it's true: the deadline has passed. The deadline for everything, including the peer reviews for the position paper, which you did not do. Perhaps you remember that those peer reviews were due in October. As I understand it, you're asking me if you can do those peer reviews now, now that everything is due--past due, even. Peer reviews, which are intended to aid your peers. In revising their work. Which has all been turned in.
There is an absurdity inherent in your request. It's an absurdity that has now infected my own thinking about everything. Why peer reviews? Why points? Why not? What the hell?
I do not appreciate thinking these thoughts right now. I just want you to know that I am in a non-appreciative state as I approach grading. Grading your work, as it turns out. I hope you can see the paradox. It's an elegant one.
__________
TO: Panicky Student, another one
FROM: HTMS
DATE: the day after the deadline
SUBJECT: Your opinion of how my class was organized
I totally appreciate that you took the time to tell me that my class was disorganized. I have been contemplating this view of yours ever since I read it, a couple of days ago, when you were also asking for my help in finishing the culminating project of the course. Believe me, I think about the possibility all the time--your comment was not the first time I have wondered this about my course. I weigh your note seriously in the balance with the fact that most of the students in the class have already finished the assignment you are finding so puzzling, that you see as an indicator of my failures.
Perhaps you might like a short refresher in the ancient art of asking for help, which generally relies upon good will all around. I know, I'm your professor. It's my job to help you, and I want to help you, I really do. I admit though, that I felt infinitessimally grouchier when you asked, after having pronounced your judgment. Infinitessimally, yet measurably. Yep, when I think of you, I will always remember, s/he was the one who told me my class was disorganized. The one who reminded me of my failures. In fact, I'll probably never forget you, dear student. Ever.
___________
TO: Panicky Student, yet another one
FROM: HTMS
DATE: the day after the deadline
SUBJECT: what should be your priorities at this point.
That's easy: your priority should be the assignment with the most points.
Let me rephrase: that assignment which, without its associated points, will be the death of you and your hopes for a passing grade--that's the one, that's your priority.
To be clear: do not, as you attempt to glean last late points from failures to post replies to at least two peers in small-potatoes discussions, fail to remember the big-ass assignment weighing down the point distribution. The assignment sitting there, heavy and weighty and significant, worth 30% of your grade: don't neglect that one!
FROM: HTMS
DATE: the day after the deadline
SUBJECT: Your work
Yes, it's true: the deadline has passed. The deadline for everything, including the peer reviews for the position paper, which you did not do. Perhaps you remember that those peer reviews were due in October. As I understand it, you're asking me if you can do those peer reviews now, now that everything is due--past due, even. Peer reviews, which are intended to aid your peers. In revising their work. Which has all been turned in.
There is an absurdity inherent in your request. It's an absurdity that has now infected my own thinking about everything. Why peer reviews? Why points? Why not? What the hell?
I do not appreciate thinking these thoughts right now. I just want you to know that I am in a non-appreciative state as I approach grading. Grading your work, as it turns out. I hope you can see the paradox. It's an elegant one.
__________
TO: Panicky Student, another one
FROM: HTMS
DATE: the day after the deadline
SUBJECT: Your opinion of how my class was organized
I totally appreciate that you took the time to tell me that my class was disorganized. I have been contemplating this view of yours ever since I read it, a couple of days ago, when you were also asking for my help in finishing the culminating project of the course. Believe me, I think about the possibility all the time--your comment was not the first time I have wondered this about my course. I weigh your note seriously in the balance with the fact that most of the students in the class have already finished the assignment you are finding so puzzling, that you see as an indicator of my failures.
Perhaps you might like a short refresher in the ancient art of asking for help, which generally relies upon good will all around. I know, I'm your professor. It's my job to help you, and I want to help you, I really do. I admit though, that I felt infinitessimally grouchier when you asked, after having pronounced your judgment. Infinitessimally, yet measurably. Yep, when I think of you, I will always remember, s/he was the one who told me my class was disorganized. The one who reminded me of my failures. In fact, I'll probably never forget you, dear student. Ever.
___________
TO: Panicky Student, yet another one
FROM: HTMS
DATE: the day after the deadline
SUBJECT: what should be your priorities at this point.
That's easy: your priority should be the assignment with the most points.
Let me rephrase: that assignment which, without its associated points, will be the death of you and your hopes for a passing grade--that's the one, that's your priority.
To be clear: do not, as you attempt to glean last late points from failures to post replies to at least two peers in small-potatoes discussions, fail to remember the big-ass assignment weighing down the point distribution. The assignment sitting there, heavy and weighty and significant, worth 30% of your grade: don't neglect that one!
Monday, December 10, 2012
Target: another view.
I arrive home from an outing. It's 10 p.m. The historian is not home. He stomps the snow off his shoes about ten minutes later. He's been shopping for a birthday present for our now-2-year-old grandson:
Me: Hi there. Where've you been?
The historian: I went to Target. Lemme tell you, that was an ordeal.
Me: Yeah? (uncomprehending. But on second thought:)
The historian: I walked through aisle after aisle of . . . it was just full of wreck 'em sock 'em knock 'em fight 'em hit 'em . . .
Me: (thinking: if I had been there, I would have known how to lead him directly to all the gentle organic toys:) So what did you get?
The historian: This. (produces an enormous plush toy, a lion cub, pretty much as big as the kid in question.)
Me: Perfect.
Me: Hi there. Where've you been?
The historian: I went to Target. Lemme tell you, that was an ordeal.
Me: Yeah? (uncomprehending. But on second thought:)
The historian: I walked through aisle after aisle of . . . it was just full of wreck 'em sock 'em knock 'em fight 'em hit 'em . . .
Me: (thinking: if I had been there, I would have known how to lead him directly to all the gentle organic toys:) So what did you get?
The historian: This. (produces an enormous plush toy, a lion cub, pretty much as big as the kid in question.)
Me: Perfect.
Sunday, December 09, 2012
Saturday, December 08, 2012
A little bit abed.
I've seen a lot of my own bedroom, from a more or less prone position, lately. Yes, still the sick. But I can tell I'm getting better. I know this, because I was able to grade today. My eyes felt hot, but not as hot. My head hurt, but I wasn't sneezing my head off. I haven't seen the new baby yet except in photos, but I will tomorrow. So: better.
I am feeling hopeful about the grading. I can only foresee a few little glitches. And I have made up my mind that I will not be running after them, figuratively, begging them to give me the work they forgot, or decided to bail on, or are withholding, just for the fun of seeing me freak out about it. (That last part might not be literally true, ever. But it sure feels that way sometimes.) NO. I will not. They will have to take the grade I give them if their work isn't complete, and we will discuss it in the new year.
(don't hesitate to turn up the volume, if it's too quiet.)
I am feeling hopeful about the grading. I can only foresee a few little glitches. And I have made up my mind that I will not be running after them, figuratively, begging them to give me the work they forgot, or decided to bail on, or are withholding, just for the fun of seeing me freak out about it. (That last part might not be literally true, ever. But it sure feels that way sometimes.) NO. I will not. They will have to take the grade I give them if their work isn't complete, and we will discuss it in the new year.
(don't hesitate to turn up the volume, if it's too quiet.)
Friday, December 07, 2012
Posted with BlogsyThursday, December 06, 2012
Ill Christmas.
Man.
I hate getting sick at the ends of semesters. However, it appears that it is the way of my life. Via dolorosa de mi casa, as it were. I remember one time, I was so sick at the end of the semester, my first husband and I took to our beds for what seemed like days. We arose from our bed of affliction to go to the mall the day before Christmas, so we would have a present for each other. When I saw some people dressed up like reindeer (can that be right? I was delirious), and I thought, I wish I had brought Prudence (our cat)--she would have loved this.
I'm not that sick this time. But I am all DayQuil'd up and trying to overlap the doses so there's no complete experience of how sick I really am at any time. Because that would be horrible. I can't even bear to contemplate it.
I'm almost done whining about it, hang on.
I did have to go into school to "teach" my last class. Then there was a meeting I chaired. By the end, I basically was walking around like The Empress of Contagion. I considered, briefly, stopping at a store on the way home, but the last shred of reason still firing in my brain told me NO.
I hate getting sick at the ends of semesters. However, it appears that it is the way of my life. Via dolorosa de mi casa, as it were. I remember one time, I was so sick at the end of the semester, my first husband and I took to our beds for what seemed like days. We arose from our bed of affliction to go to the mall the day before Christmas, so we would have a present for each other. When I saw some people dressed up like reindeer (can that be right? I was delirious), and I thought, I wish I had brought Prudence (our cat)--she would have loved this.
I'm not that sick this time. But I am all DayQuil'd up and trying to overlap the doses so there's no complete experience of how sick I really am at any time. Because that would be horrible. I can't even bear to contemplate it.
I'm almost done whining about it, hang on.
I did have to go into school to "teach" my last class. Then there was a meeting I chaired. By the end, I basically was walking around like The Empress of Contagion. I considered, briefly, stopping at a store on the way home, but the last shred of reason still firing in my brain told me NO.
Wednesday, December 05, 2012
It's the end of the semester, so
it must be time for a cold. Christmas lights spectacular and other festivities resume tomorrow, but in the meantime:
Open letter to the word "gift" used as a verb.
Dear the word "gift" used as a verb:
Nope. You are a noun. As in, "My mother gave me a gift on my birthday. It was a fluffy new scarf!"
Or "Here's a gift! It's for your birthday! It's a fluffy new scarf!"
Or even, metaphorically, "My gift is the ability to be catankerous about practically anything."
But not: "I plan to gift him with a fluffy scarf."
Or "Hegifted me with a bucket of crawdads."
(Yes) "He is a highly gifted singer." (adjective)
(No) "Hegifted me with a song." (verb)
(Yes) "He gave me a song for my birthday." (via iTunes, or else he's a song writer--either way. The verb is give.)
(No! Not remotely!) "Why don't yougift your best friend with a fluffy new song?"
(Yes! By all means) "Why don't you give your best friend a song-y new fluff?"
Don't you even, the word "gift" used as a verb. Just quit it. You make me want to stop giving people fluffy new stuff altogether.
--and that would be unChristmaslike,
htms.
Open letter to the word "gift" used as a verb.
Dear the word "gift" used as a verb:
Nope. You are a noun. As in, "My mother gave me a gift on my birthday. It was a fluffy new scarf!"
Or "Here's a gift! It's for your birthday! It's a fluffy new scarf!"
Or even, metaphorically, "My gift is the ability to be catankerous about practically anything."
But not: "I plan Or "He
(Yes) "He is a highly gifted singer." (adjective)
(No) "He
(Yes) "He gave me a song for my birthday." (via iTunes, or else he's a song writer--either way. The verb is give.)
(No! Not remotely!) "Why don't you
(Yes! By all means) "Why don't you give your best friend a song-y new fluff?"
Don't you even, the word "gift" used as a verb. Just quit it. You make me want to stop giving people fluffy new stuff altogether.
--and that would be unChristmaslike,
htms.
Tuesday, December 04, 2012
Monday, December 03, 2012
All I want for Christmas
...is for everyone to blog more. Is that too much to ask?
I was talking about this with my Scotland daughter today. Well, chatting about it:
me: they're dead to me, the blog-giver-uppers. But that doesn't seem very Christmas-y. So I turned it into a wish. I just want a daily or almost daily shot of your stories, your images, your errant thoughts. Like this morning, I woke up and the sun was coming up. Even from a horizontal, prone position, I could see the warmth of the colors in the sky.
"It's glowing," said the historian, his first words of the day.
I got up and looked. Across the horse field the cars were on their various ways, to work, school, all and sundry. And in the horse field was an actual horse, just standing in the field, as they do:
(I exempt from this Christmas wish list all the people who do blog regularly or semi-regularly. You guys are good, and I sincerely do appreciate you. Carry on.)
I was talking about this with my Scotland daughter today. Well, chatting about it:
me: they're dead to me, the blog-giver-uppers. But that doesn't seem very Christmas-y. So I turned it into a wish. I just want a daily or almost daily shot of your stories, your images, your errant thoughts. Like this morning, I woke up and the sun was coming up. Even from a horizontal, prone position, I could see the warmth of the colors in the sky.
"It's glowing," said the historian, his first words of the day.
I got up and looked. Across the horse field the cars were on their various ways, to work, school, all and sundry. And in the horse field was an actual horse, just standing in the field, as they do:
(I exempt from this Christmas wish list all the people who do blog regularly or semi-regularly. You guys are good, and I sincerely do appreciate you. Carry on.)
Sunday, December 02, 2012
What to do with everything in your pantry.
If you have
Day Two, the Lights of Christmas Video Cavalcade!
- various, slightly shabby-shabby looking farmer's market potatoes
- some still virtuous greens, but looking back upon their day of sale from far away
- garlic
- leftover grated pecorino from a Thanksgiving day salad
- a red grapefruit
- some grapes
- pomegranates whose skins are leathery
- mashed potatoes with the skins still on, garlic (cooked with the boiling potatoes), and the pecorino
- greens, cooked at a rather high heat in the oven with olive oil and garlic and salt and pepper
- a lovely wintry fruit salad of the grapefruit, grapes, and pomegranates.
Day Two, the Lights of Christmas Video Cavalcade!
Saturday, December 01, 2012
Writing notes.
Today, I went down to the Salt Lake Roasting Co. for some magic writing time. I say "magic," because the Roasting Co. has been, heretofore, a location in which I have been able to wring drafts from dross, revise like a wizard, and even develop new material. Something about sitting upstairs in that building, looking down onto the street, makes me feel free of ordinary obligations and more focused, more intent, on writing itself.
Here are today's results.
First, yet again, I wish I were a person who wrote everyday. I always think, at the beginning of the academic year, that this will be the year I am a person who writes at least a few times a week--by which I mean that I would move my attention to writing that many times, and write some things down. However: I am not that writer, at least not at this moment in my life. Paul Lisicky observed that his once-partner, Mark Doty, considered to be a prolific writer, usually wrote in a couple of big bursts a year, and otherwise wrote only sporadically. That's me, too. So when I say, as I did a few weeks ago, I'm going to find some time to write for a few hours before the end of the year, it means either that I'm hoping for that kind of burst of writing (not likely), or that I'll be looking at things I've already written, hoping to add more to them, or transform them in some way, and maybe along the way I'll jot down a note or two that might become a freewrite that might become a draft that might become a poem. We live in hope.
Second, my friend Kim often says that for a poet, everything is writing. That fetishizing the sitting down at your desk part is just about the same as equating typing with writing. I think this is a healthy way to look at things. All the same, I do sort of believe that regularly experiencing the turn to write (or type), and acting on it, tends to prime the pump. Maybe. I sat down today and looked at the last set of notes I made. They were about a rabbit. And not much more than the word "rabbit." I keep thinking that if I were writing more often (typing), I might have more than this furry little word.
Third, there was a time when I felt moved to write a poem--a draft--often. That is not how it is these days, except for the lucky times when there's a burst. I had such a time this past summer. It was awesome. Now, though, I feel like I write in layers: I have a piece that I turn into a draft, and then the draft takes a long, long time to realize itself. I take the poem out and see if I can identify what it needs, and then I try to write in that direction. Or I've taken the draft to my writing group, and I have their notes, and I meditate on what those notes might say to me that I can use, and then I try to write or revise in that direction. The process is additive for a long time. And then it might be subtractive. Another poet friend talks about having the patience to stay in the writing moment when a poem presents itself. I get that. I'm impatient a lot these days. Sometimes I think, I'll just write the quick notes down and come back to it. But if a poem is on its way, that occasion warrants some patience. Not that any of this happened today at all.
Fourthly, sometimes you have to just feel the revulsion about your work. Just feel it, let it have its moment. And then get back to work.
Fifthly, sometimes your magic writing place won't really do the trick. You're just going to have to live with that.
In other news, I have decided that this month, each day until Christmas, I am going to post a short video of Christmas lights in my neighborhood. With comment. Sometimes my comment, perhaps occasionally the voices of others, and occasionally music. Here is Day 1 of the Lights Of Christmas Video Cavalcade:
Here are today's results.
First, yet again, I wish I were a person who wrote everyday. I always think, at the beginning of the academic year, that this will be the year I am a person who writes at least a few times a week--by which I mean that I would move my attention to writing that many times, and write some things down. However: I am not that writer, at least not at this moment in my life. Paul Lisicky observed that his once-partner, Mark Doty, considered to be a prolific writer, usually wrote in a couple of big bursts a year, and otherwise wrote only sporadically. That's me, too. So when I say, as I did a few weeks ago, I'm going to find some time to write for a few hours before the end of the year, it means either that I'm hoping for that kind of burst of writing (not likely), or that I'll be looking at things I've already written, hoping to add more to them, or transform them in some way, and maybe along the way I'll jot down a note or two that might become a freewrite that might become a draft that might become a poem. We live in hope.
Second, my friend Kim often says that for a poet, everything is writing. That fetishizing the sitting down at your desk part is just about the same as equating typing with writing. I think this is a healthy way to look at things. All the same, I do sort of believe that regularly experiencing the turn to write (or type), and acting on it, tends to prime the pump. Maybe. I sat down today and looked at the last set of notes I made. They were about a rabbit. And not much more than the word "rabbit." I keep thinking that if I were writing more often (typing), I might have more than this furry little word.
Third, there was a time when I felt moved to write a poem--a draft--often. That is not how it is these days, except for the lucky times when there's a burst. I had such a time this past summer. It was awesome. Now, though, I feel like I write in layers: I have a piece that I turn into a draft, and then the draft takes a long, long time to realize itself. I take the poem out and see if I can identify what it needs, and then I try to write in that direction. Or I've taken the draft to my writing group, and I have their notes, and I meditate on what those notes might say to me that I can use, and then I try to write or revise in that direction. The process is additive for a long time. And then it might be subtractive. Another poet friend talks about having the patience to stay in the writing moment when a poem presents itself. I get that. I'm impatient a lot these days. Sometimes I think, I'll just write the quick notes down and come back to it. But if a poem is on its way, that occasion warrants some patience. Not that any of this happened today at all.
Fourthly, sometimes you have to just feel the revulsion about your work. Just feel it, let it have its moment. And then get back to work.
Fifthly, sometimes your magic writing place won't really do the trick. You're just going to have to live with that.
In other news, I have decided that this month, each day until Christmas, I am going to post a short video of Christmas lights in my neighborhood. With comment. Sometimes my comment, perhaps occasionally the voices of others, and occasionally music. Here is Day 1 of the Lights Of Christmas Video Cavalcade:
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