RAT KILLERS - a poem.

RAT KILLERS

"It's just a rat,
     man,
I don't see why,
     you're so disturbed,"
          Billy laughed

at me as I crouched
     so lowly
to wonder at, and to witness
     the senseless mess
          Billy made.

"You got birdshot,
     not ratshot, Billy
and still no dinner," I says,
     "none and nothing,
          even less, now."

"And you got buckshot.
     Shit.
          Who cares?"
Billy turned away,
     started walking down that path.

Didn't have to see his tail
     to know, officer,
I knew, and aimed, and fired.
     It's just a rat,
          man.

I Love Food and Intend to Discuss It. Probably Often. . .

. . . but today we will start simply with one of yesterday's scores: organic red and black plums for two bucks a pound. When midsummer fruits hit their peak and prices drop, I can't resist buying a heavy stash and preparing some to store. Peaches and nectarines are great for slicing and freezing -- I love to make smoothies in fall and winter with them when summer warmth and all it produces seem a distant memory -- but I've learned that dehydrating stone fruits at low temperatures yields a divine little candy that, for all my aims at keeping the food around a little longer, disappears rapidly.

Plums blew my mind the first time I dehydrated them because they end up nothing like prunes, or the dried plums you can buy from marketers who have decided that the term prunes frightens people baffled by the connotations of the signifier instead of concerning themselves with that actually signified, which is regardless of what you call it quite delicious. However, store-bought dried fruit--with added preservatives and other additives to maintain color, unnecessary sugars, all of uncertain origins--often pales in comparison to the brilliant stuff you can make yourself. This becomes most obvious in midsummer plums, with their tart little skins and luscious, delicately sweet centers. As they dry out the juicy flesh goes not black but golden and translucent. Most astounding, however, is the way that the tartness and delicate sweetness is not transformed but maintained in the finished product: the dried plum still tastes like a fresh plum! It lacks only the water and the mass, and without these things the result is a condensed, glorious plum flavor.

I cut these up to about a quarter of an inch thickness and dehydrated them in my Excalibur at 104 degrees or so for 16 or 18 hours, somewhere in there. I threw just a few nectarine slices in, too. And just so you know, I had a cantaloupe that needed to be dealt with or tossed the other day, so I sliced the whole thing up up and dried out slices of that, too, which also tastes like heaven.

On Darkness and Light.

Perhaps chiefly in order to energize and motivate myself, I like to fancy that I'm a warrior for Love and Light. Love, because it brings us all up; and Light, because it reveals the truth of things. I may not achieve victory in every skirmish I find myself in, but firm in a purpose I believe in, I will remain undaunted; though I may have to lick my wounds before I charge onward. And charge onward I must, because there are many beautiful things in this world that even my little torch might help reveal.

Of course, to reveal those beautiful things I must venture into the darkness where they remain hidden, and consequently an understanding of that dark territory is essential for my survival and success there. I point this out because some folks remain under the unfortunate impression that I am all butterflies, patchouli, hugs and sunshine. If I am, it's because of a conscious preference for these things as opposed to cockroaches, bile, stabbings and death. But let us not make the mistake of supposing that any of these things – light or darkness – are either bad or good, for they are neither. They are one, however.

I have always loved my name, though living up to it has been trickier than I thought it would be. Grey isn't a battle between black and white, but rather a balanced, homogeneous and harmonious union of the two. I embrace the shadow, because only then can I lift it into light. So if you have only ever known and imagined me as a Huggist, brace yourself. You aren't deceived, you just haven't got the whole picture. I've pointed all of this out so that you don't stumble upon some of the darker work I'll post here and think something has gone terrible with me. Of course something has gone terrible, for all of us, and sometimes it seems that things continue to go terribly. But I'll traverse those terrors hoping that the shine I keep will carry you and me back into the wonderful. That's the aim. So fear not! Let's play in the dark.


THIS TOO SHALL PASS

When I have a hissy fit

I quiet down, curl up, sit

and seethe, and in my minds eye see

my veins cascading out of me

through thick slits in my wrists --

like Spider-Man, to save the day! --

except I just watch my innards on display:

a scarlet array of so many branches

that grows as I waver and fall back on my haunches

and breathe, while the din of my heart

pulses the bloody tree into life, and into art.

Then, in an inevitable twist

the iron in my blood begins to rust

and the disemboweled tree of my life turns to dust:

capillaries crumble and arteries flake

till it's all small enough for the wind to take

away from me and into space

where, dear God, please grant me grace.

Words.

Consumed by other adventures for more than half a decade, I haven't maintained my writing as it used to be; my voice and style are not what they were. We improve by experiment and experience, however. I don't aim for perfect, friends, but for process, and progress. Hopefully, I shall make some in the coming days and years, but we all start (or continue) from somewhere.

FREEDOM DOES NOT WAIT

You are always arriving

     here and now, so

          be present

               and witness

     this never before seen

          or known

               moment,

     this newness

          of all things,

               the possibilities.

Do not get trapped, or deceived

     by meaningless fantasies

          of a dead past

               or an unmade future.

     You are a song:

          heard,

               and then gone.

     Play your music in time

          with the beat

               of your heart.

Welcome!

The fire within
that threatens to consume us?
Spirit. Stoke the flames.


Only when we've allowed our inner truths to blaze can they gut the structures of our lives, burn the defunct and dysfunctional to cinders, and let the wind carry death away. Purified, free of excess, the phoenix arises from cold ashes in dazzling glory.

I can try to abandon my love of making stuff, but that would be to abandon the stuff of making love. Instead I offer my work up to you, beautiful people, because I have nothing to give if not my art. Whether yarn craft, words, puerile illustrations, or a Sunday brunch I whip up for you, I make stuff with lots of love. I believe my creative process is fueled from some magnificent source which is much greater than myself, and yet which I have access to within. I may call it spirit, perhaps it is more accurately called nature. I have no idea, but when I ride that fire, it feels sweet. And I come up with a lot of shiny things. I frankly admit that my oeuvre to date amounts primarily to just so many hats and words. But I will share what I have to offer, because I can't imagine doing anything else.

Above all else I hope that what I have to give brings you something new, something useful, that lifts your heart right up.

-

If love ever seems to fail to be the answer, then your answer must be that you need to love more.

(Including yourself, perhaps).

-

Self-sufficiency involves having both a clear definition of “self” and “sufficient.” It also requires being able to survive one's self.

But the ego is such a devil. Just when I believe I'm near to some new enlightenment, the beast within whips its forked tail through my guts, sinks its claws and teeth into my brain. Such a bastard. It is usually in these moments that I do all I can do, which is give in, sob through my own worthlessness and failure for a while, and then make a cup of coffee and try to get busy with some stuff of life. Perhaps I am terrible, but in order to change that I must make myself move towards greatness. Even the smallest steps take me closer.

-

Say “good day” to people. Smile often. Enjoy meals with friends and family. Acknowledge the beauty and power in everyone you meet. Deny your own greatness to no one. We are in this together, and only when we can connect with one another on a personal level can we begin to connect as a society, as people, a planet.

-

We are one. 

Be well.