04 June 2011

A Fine Plate


Awwww, yeahhh...those were some mighty fine shrimp.  Monday dinner, simple, boiled and served up with some melted butter, corn and a colorful bowl of giardiniera including carrots, cauliflower, brilliant yellow peppers and banana peppers.  The shrimp I boiled with some bay leaves, cajun seasoning*, cayenne and some lemon juice in the water.  Oh, man, was it tasty.

This was the first meal of summer, even though summer hasn't started, if one is following the official solstice dates.  Doesn't matter, though, it suited me just fine.  I was hungry, really hungry, and all that goodness fit the bill.

I think it helped that I had earlier finished some rather involved brush removal and grass cutting operations on my yard.  I was sweating like a flash flood, I was hot, tired and speckled with bits of dirt and leaves.  Once done, I went inside to gulp some water and get the pot boiling on the stove.  Since it took a while to get up to temperature, I had the luxury of a cool shower before dinner.

That is the life.  Pleasantly tired, hunger in ma belleh and some fine victuals on which to nosh.  Yeah, man, summer is here, and the livin' is good.  In the here and now, its good.

Dig in!

*For the curious, I used Penzey's cajun seasoning mix. It made a good shrimp boil.

03 June 2011

Tigre Real: Awakening

The wet robe of the jungle close around the boulders, and in a moss-dappled hollow Godl lay in the embrace of a feline Orpheus, dreams of blood and heat swirling its blocky.  Massive paws twitched slightly, the tips of claws peeking momentarily out from under the leathery pads.  Godl followed the hunt, even in sleep.

Godl slept.  On a table-like slab of rough hewn rock deep in the Yucatan, the jaguar roamed far and away from the earth.  There was no hunger, here, in this dream.  Fat, emerald leaves brushed Godl on the shoulders, the voluptuous hands of the Moon Goddess caressing the spotted pelt.  Powerful muscles rippled and curled as the jaguar padded along a path through the undergrowth.  The wet air was dense with the sweet scents of flowers and the rough pungency of animals.  Of meat and blood.

A low grumble rattled in Godl's chest as another scent slipped almost imperceptibly into his nostrils.  It gave the creature pause.  He stopped, sides heaving, mouth opening in a half sneer as he drew deep breath in over his tongue.  It was there, again.  Not quite the raw smell of food on the hoof, but something deeper, muskier...familiar but as if through the filter of long absence.  A weak breeze came up and dispelled it.

Godl growled, louder this time.  A troop of black howler monkeys took offense.  They scampered off through the trees overhead, nervous and relieved to be away from the underworld in their midst.

Godl blinked with eyes that shone green-gold even in the deep shadows in between the burnished shafts of sunlight that stabbed down from the holes in the green canopy above.  The monkeys were trivia to the jaguar, to be caught and eaten as targets of opportunity.  Other, better meals were to be had.  Godl resumed walking down towards the stream at the bottom of the valley.  There, he would eat, he would drink.

The stream was a thin band of liquid mahogany, its oil-like surface a mercury mirror to the rampant growth crowding its banks.  Godl padded quietly to the bank, head turning from side to side to scan for crocodiles or capybaras.  Seeing none, he bent his massive head to the water and lapped it up in surprisingly delicate touches.  The tannins tightened on his tongue, but the cool water felt good as it travelled down his gullet.  He drank deep.

On his third mouthful, lifting his head to swallow, the scent he had smelled earlier returned.  This time it was much more powerful.  Earthy and with deep, musky undertones, it caught the jaguar by surprise.  He froze.  The water he swallowed hastily in order to open his jaw to better breathe in the scent.  As he did so, it was then that he saw the eyes in the undergrowth on the far bank.

Deep, large and lustrous gold flecked with jade.  They looked at him, unblinking.  He heard a low rumble, the eyes widened.  Godl felt his haunches tighten reflexively, as if about to spring.  The rumble got louder.  From overhead a flock of macaws that had been resting on a branch over the water burst into flight and screeching.  The sound startled Godl, and he let fly with a sudden roar.  He felt himself leaping forward towards the eyes.  They turned, vanished into the emerald earth with Godl landing on empty warmth among the leaves...

On his slab of basalt, Godl jerked awake. The sound that roused him from his slumber was echoing away into the surrounding jungle.  Birds or monkeys or...something else, he could not tell.  Sitting up, the jaguar could feel his heart racing.  The scent from his dream was thick in his nostrils.  He recognized it now.

Godl was awake.  He was hungry, belly and loins tightening as he breathed.  Heat and life were out there, and he would find them.  Godl growled in satisfaction, stepping off the rock and into the hunt.

02 June 2011

On The Quantam Entanglement of Flowers

Stop. Hold it. Breathe. Try not to think for a moment.  Then, think.  Consider where you are, where your family and friends are, consider (if you will) where lies your love.  In that time the Earth continued spinning at a speed too great to fathom, moving you and your neurons and the thoughts and impulses in those neurons long distances you didn't perceive.

You thought this completely normal.  Rather, you didn't think it normal, or anything at all, because you weren't thinking.  Right?

In that time of non-thought, millions of others were going about their lives, not thinking about the speed at which they were really moving.  No one was thinking about how something we cannot adequately grasp was moving us and the non-things in our heads.  Non-things moving non-things with our minds as the bridge.

How many people were not thinking about you?  How many people were you not thinking about?  That number, too, is almost incomprehensible.  Easier to ask, How many were you thinking about?  In that short space of non-thought and long distance of space-time, who was it that manifested themselves in the neurochemical biosphere of your synapses and gray matter?

Did you think of soul? Heart?  Did you think of Love?

The physicists speak of entanglement, theories abound and arguments ensue, nothing is testable and provable that does not have a loophole by which its validity can be questioned, yet somehow these entangled states persist.  Periods of being where one entity cannot be fully described without also consideration of the other in which it is entangled.  This is perhaps a useful description of Love.  Love, this unifying force that binds the flowers that grow, hearts that swell, minds that somehow connect without truly knowing how or why. 

The sun shines and flowers grow.  Beauty appears out of mystery, causing the breath to catch and the eyes to open and the ears to strain, trying to catch that whisper they know they just heard.  It is that moment of walking down the sidewalk and seeing bright blossoms sprouting from the spaces in between, with a sudden smile spreading across the face without discernible reason...and knowing serenity of place in the world that carries us.

So...stop.  Hold it.  Breathe.  Tell us:  Did you think of Love?

01 June 2011

A Discourse On DNA

I read somewhere, don't remember where, it was a long time ago, but what I read was that two things that separate us humans from them animals are 1) the ability to curse and B) the ability to write poetry, well, shee-it, brothers and sisters, how about that? Guess that makes me one of the most human-like human beings I know...at least if more weight is given to the cursing rather than the poetry Yeah, yeah, I know, I write stuff that at least resembles poetry, at least in the same sense that a house cat resembles a jaguar, but to my shame I seem to be better at cursing and really, cursing gets so boring after a while its too repetitive Too narrow-minded...although i do allow that sometimes? In the right circumstances? A well-placed curse is the only thing that will serve to make ones true thoughts and feelings known.  Hmm.  Trick, the trick is to know the Right Time and the Right Place, you know?  No sense in dropping an F-bomb in church, you get my drift.  Dig it? I knew that you could.  But hold on, back to that idea of poetry, really, I try and I scrape and I bow before the words and it seems like I never quite get them to say what I really meant, the idea in my Gray Matter seems so grand and powerful, like the sun, but the words hit the page or the screen and its only shadows.  You might ask me "Why do you care so much? What does it really matter?  Its word, only words, and you know a lot of them so if it isn't right one time, you can always write more, try try again, yes?"  Right, yeah, I know I hear what you are saying (at least, I hear what the voice in my mind that I imagine to be you, is saying) and I console myself with the notion of writing something again and again, always trying to find the right way to describe the sun or love or heart or whatever is on the tip of my (mind)tongue...but I confess, my lovelies, I do, even though I am far from a religious creature, I confess to you...

...that if I don't ever get the words right, if I don't ever really write that thing called a Poem...

...I fear I'll not be able to convince myself...

...that I am more than just an animal, who knows how to curse.