when words fail me, which is often, I paint. When words work for me and are available on time, I am surprised.

Thursday, November 29, 2007

Still passing the buck

Let's try this again)
I am supposed to be working in the office right NOW. Instead I am trying to catch up on your blogs. Found this on Full Soul Ahead this morning and need to revisit it and integrate it on my site, but later. If you have time, check it out, I read it is addictive.Food for Thought

Friday, November 23, 2007

Turkey Ham

Talk about turkey? If this bird knew how uncool the Back Street Boys are, unless you are less than five years old, no. Not then either, but this is funny.

Saturday, November 17, 2007

A Thin Line

A few years back, Tate took me to see David Bromberg play in a small local theater. Besides being an enormously talented guitar player, singer and songwriter,David Bromberg is a pretty funny man. Funny if you appreciate a dry sense of humor, and I do. I don't remember how the story came up, but he said every time he asks his wife where something is, say his blue shirt with the hole in the elbow, she replies, "It's up your butt looking for a ham sandwich." Now that's a little gross and crass, I remember thinking when he told that story on stage. I think he named a song after the response, I don't remember. What I do know is this;every time Tate asks me where something is these days, even if I do not say it out loud, I respond, "its up your butt lookin for a ham sandwich." I can't believe the nerve of me, but its really funny for me.
Once he heard me, I said it out loud.
It's up your butt lookin for a ham sandwich, that's what David Bromberg's wife would tell you.
-She says that?
long conversation, he missed that part of the show, probably outside smoking a cigarette, but he understood and that's all that mattered at the time.

Now, we both agreed it was a rude and crass kind of thing to say. We were both puzzled by the gentle giant with his soulful acoustic yet cynical tone admitting to the fact that his wife said such things. We never agreed that it was funny. I have not fessed up to how many times I have thought the ham sandwich phrase in response to the famous "where's my. . . "question.
(As an aside, yes there usually is one, totally over hearing my kids ask me where their shit was, my old response was "Key word-MY!" this is way better)

Tate is the love of my life, you know that. He is also the only man who has ever cooked the majority, if not all of our meals and they are always delicious, I have ever lived with. This includes my Chef-brother. We lived together for years.

Last weekend he went grocery shopping at 7:30 am and prepped the majority of our Thanksgiving dinner. In triumph the next day he asked me, "Where do you think my twenty pound turkey is?"
God help me, I could NOT resist.

Saturday, November 10, 2007

Mailer, Miller?

As most of us slept
in our safe warm beds, last night
one more legend died

Henry Mailer died last night. His name is very familiar to me and so is Norman Miller. Wait, I think I have that backwords (sp. error intended because it makes more sense that way). Is it Henry Miller and Norman Mailer or the other way around? The Mailer one (who died last night) was quoted in USA Today as saying this:
Poetry: A "natural activity ... a poem comes to one," whereas prose required making "an appointment with one's mind to write a few thousand words."

That's pretty right on if you ask me. If I had space in my mental appointment book for anything other than nightmares and worrisome mind weeds these days, I make an appointment for those few thousand words.

I also heard on the radio that N or H Mailer said that writing while stoned on pot was a bad idea. Pot was great for editing because it is then the enormous feeling and sensitivity comes in handy. If a writer is in a state of heightened sensitivity and attempts to write, it is nearly impossible. He said this was due to the fact that a writer needs to define and state the surface, the big idea, but if they are stoned on pot, its as if each thought and feeling were larger than the universe and impossible to define.

I can't smoke pot anymore; I am hypersensitive to the universe as it is. I guess I will have to pay M@ to edit my writing or some other stoner writer, from now on.

I know he was considered a chauvinist; I don't think so. I think he loved women in the way a god worships a goddess, but I never met the man. I've never even read his books. I would have, but I could never remember who the cooler author was. Did I want to read Miller or Mailer? I am serious. Help me out here, if you can.

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

Words Cannot Express

Words cannot express or define the emotions this season. . . cool crisp morning air, the scent of woods and earth, and burning leaves, red cheeks, first infatuations... incites, in me.

Thursday, November 01, 2007

More From Rick, & the lower ninth

Good to know there are some real heroes left in the world today.Yes Rick, we do, need another hero.
Please visit Rick and org.