Oh, and for further note, I was unaware of the difficulty of commenting. If you have a GMail account or some other Google account, you can use that to log into BlogSpot in order to post comments. Sorry for the inconvenience, I thought that this format allowed for anonymous comments.
...
The night passed a little too rapidly into a blur. I thought perpetually of Mona, trying to touch her hands or shoulders, then later her cheeks or neck; I paid too little attention to Henry who floated anxiously between small conversations and vaguely familiar faces; and I drank too much after I discovered the brand of whiskey Jessica's brother served at the bar. My behavior was not problematic, but I can now recall only snatches of the evening. At one point, I stepped outside with Thomas to join him for a cigarette. The night air felt warm and stimulating now, my senses felt sharpened by a somewhat suspended appreciation for space and time. When Thomas exhaled, he breathed overhead, but it settled down on top of us again; I exhaled to my right, though I enjoyed the aroma and mystique of smoke as it came around us, clouding me all the more.
“Why are you thinking that we are influenced by foreign forces?” This question surprised both of us, as I had not expected to say it and Thomas had apparently believed the conversation concluded. He looked at me sharply, halting abruptly his smoking; then, as if he might slide the gesture under the carpet, he inhaled and breathed out lengthily.
“Why do you say that? You provided two interpretations of my argument.” He eyed me, as if I might surrender ground of which I was unaware.
“No. You clearly made your choice before the argument began. Maybe you didn't expect to have the argument turned back on you.” I stated it soberly, clearly, and this—I now believe—provided me my anchor to the moment, locking it into memory. An image came to mind when I spoke, of Thomas with a cigarette in his left hand, a flintlock handgun (I have always fallen back on their allure) borne in his right, only to have it flipped back and stolen from him; then, in the image, he laughs at me.
“You may be correct.” His tone was elusive, as if he was slipping out of character. “I have been able to see a good deal of the problems that surround this society, the ways we fight one another, the difficulties of organizing between party lines, the circularity of classroom arguments; they fascinate me but also frighten me. They ought to frighten more people, I suppose.” He sighed, looked forward and down, as if spying something at the edge of the garden before taking the final drag on his cigarette. The smoke from his mouth shot slowly but steadily forth, like a spear or stream carving into something hard. “This fracturing, this severing of one person from another cannot always have happened, or else we would never have succeeded at building societies of this scale, cities of millions, a planet of billions. I wonder, if something about our cohesion is breaking down, then how could it be something within us? Wouldn't it have to be from outside, the way salt interacts with water or a magnet on iron filings?”
I had stopped moving, listening intently, watching the clean, aggressive movements in his face. Now that he had stopped, it took me a moment to catch up, but all he did was see something at the edge of the garden that wasn't there, lost somehow in himself. I gathered my thoughts, considering the basis for his claims. My thoughts hiccuped and stuttered in my head, working their way around one another, as if in a dense stew, thick and slippery.
“What would be doing that sort of thing, though? You can't make a claim like that without defining the force that acts in such a way.”
Thomas turned his head, too fast for my eyes to follow, and I was struck with dizziness and saw some potency, some shimmer in his eyes that wobbled my already wobbly frame. My right hand, with the fading cigarette butt, slid behind me and caught the edge of a cool, iron table. When I gripped it, the cigarette ash brushed against my hand and I felt its painful heat on sensitive skin between my fingers. I loosened my grip, dropped the cigarette, and nearly fell. Something peculiar about Thomas and his eyes, his speed and his tone moved me and I could not turn again to face him for a long while. When I looked at him again, his eyes spoke of uncanny age, as one sometimes looks when a family member dies or a friend abandons you.
“I don't know what that would be. I couldn't tell you.”
He lied, but spoke as if to tell me he were lying to me; as if, had he spoken truthfully, I would not then have understood the truth out of disbelieve. Now, I reflect on his face, the lines of his expression, the depth in his voice and can intuit its meaning, its clarity; but then, with my dizziness and distraction, I could only let the reality of his statement percolate into me, like soil absorbing rain water. I hardly knew it was there, but the knowledge seemed to know where to go and I would later discover it the way one learns of a dream when one meets the waking counterpart to a character one dreamt.
Mona came out then and whispered, “You should go see Henry. I think he's upset.”
I looked at Mona, as if asking who this Henry person was, then I remembered everything and felt an intoxicated shame fall on me, the shame of abandoning your charge. I excused myself with mumbles and immediately caught sight of Henry, who was sitting at an upright piano in the far corner of the long living room. The room stretched out, surreal and terrible, as faces and bodies danced around one another. My head and eyes took a moment to adjust and the disparate pieces aligned and I found my way to Henry who seemed to frantically read the lines of music in each song. I reached out and set my hand on his shoulder, pushing on him with just too much weight to suggest my state.
“How you doing, there?”
He murmured, or perhaps spoke words I could not make clear.
“What was that? Speak up, its loud in here.”
“It's all wrong. They're all going about it wrong.”
I thought I smelled something strong on his breath, but it may have been from me.
“Henry,” I shook him gently and he turned to me, his eyes drawn long on his face, “do you want to get on home, to get out of here?” Henry stared at me, eyes dull and stupefied, as if cowed into simplicity. “Just tell me and we can go.”
It was obvious to me that Henry needed to leave. Something had perturbed him, had stirred or shaken him and I doubt even he could have then put a name or finger on it. I then thought of Mona and desperately wanted him to deny it, to say that he was alright, or even better, that he might leave on his own. These thoughts were followed by silent curses to myself which galled me sufficiently to act properly.
“Henry, let's get you home, okay? We'll make some tea and chat until you feel better, okay?” I spoke to him like a child, or perhaps a drunk, of which he was neither. He noticed this and stiffened.
“I can go, Lex, you can stay. I'm ready to leave but you're not.” Strength returned to him and he began to stand.
“No Henry, we go together.” Words I both thank and regret. I may have gone on happy and ignorant if it were not for those words.
Mona came over to me and rested her hand on my shoulder, I started at her touch, then leaned my head such that my cheek grazed the back of her hand. An electric shiver ran from my cheek through to my toes and I sighed. I busied myself with adieux and the light talk of future plans, found Jessica whom Henry and I both thanked, then Mona kissed me goodnight at the door and we parted.
Henry's anxiety gave his walk jolted and skittered, and he reminded me of my brother after he had been hit by a car while cycling. Then, like now, he had spoken in quiet phrases that did not connect into clear thoughts or sentences, but carried a strange, foreign poetry. Words about light and smells, about the strange odours (he said it that way, as if I could hear something old or unfamiliar in his voice) that people carried with them. For a while, he spoke almost clearly of the old characteristics of people, the way we once stayed in place and could identify one another by accent and smell; he sounded increasingly distant, as if he himself were traveling somewhere across a sea or a vast mountain range while his body remained behind, walking next to me in the cloud-laden night. It occurred to me—after we made our way to his apartment where I prepared tea and sat with him, wanting to focus on something besides Mona and the way her hands danced—that he sounded like the receiving end of a radio transmission, he spoke from a different setting, reporting to me what he considered about him.
I said very little and had difficulty discerning his words, hushed and garbled as they were. Eventually, he calmed down and began to look more directly at me before beginning to nod off. We finished the tea and I helped him into bed but he became anxious again so I left the room, confused and sobering, only then beginning to connect the worrisome behavior with something that might be wrong. I resolved to return the next day and check on Henry, hopefully find him in better, more explicable spirits. When I heard steady breathing in the other room, I made my move to leave.
Just outside the door, a young woman came out and looked around suddenly, wobbling somewhat. She had long, auburn hair that swung with her scanning movements.
“Have you seen a guy leave recently?”
“I just came out here.”
She looked far away down the street and whispered, a little loudly, “Too bad,” and she swung around and scaled the stairs again. I wondered at her concern, her comment, then chuckled to myself. I stumbled to undo the lock on my bicycle around the side of the building and heard someone leave the apartment, the door clanking back into place. This person whom I could not see ran, loudly, clumsily down the street away from me. I finally left, biking in the opposite direction than the runner, thinking lightly to myself that perhaps the young woman's pursuit was more earnest, or perhaps she and her quarry had missed one another and now he was leaving. Both, I later learned, were wrong.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
The Fate of Droplets (iii)
I want to apologize for the poor formatting that happens when I post these excerpts. They frustrate me as well as any readers. If it were a shorter piece, I would probably do something silly and painstaking to make it look better, but I am leaving it as is. A friend commented that she enjoys the story, so I am posting both parts iii and iv today. I hope they are well received.
...
Henry and I attended a party that Saturday. I eagerly shared the conversation I had had with George and it then occurred to me that the two might gain something from one another. It was obvious that Henry was distant, glancing frequently over his shoulder and peering down the roads where street lamps had burned out. I thought he jumped when one blinked out overhead.
The house was an old but well-maintained and recently refurbished estate. During the daytime, I might have fallen in love with its steeple roof-line and shutters, the way it stood in its happy, simple lot with the vegetable garden stretched all along the left-side iron fence. As it was, with the clouds flitting quickly overhead, casting moonlight eerily, and the murmur that the party-goers' talk made from outside alarmed me. Henry shared some of my concern, but it may have just been his condition at the time that set him off-kilter.
“Lex! How are you? Come on in.”
“Hey Jessica, this is Henry, a friend from high school.” Henry shook Jessica's hand and she leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. He received it, but seemed more uncomfortable afterward.
“Well come in! The clouds and cold are on their way, aren't they?” She laughed and led us in. She pointed out food and the facilities, but spent most of her time highlighting the flourishes of the design. I had met Jessica when I was home from school through a friend of a friend, and though we had never particularly bonded, we always tried to be amicable and welcoming to one another. She wore this wonderful, simple, knee-length dress that rippled in a soft red as she walked, some thin jewelry jingled at her wrists.
When I caught a glimpse of Mona sipping wine in the living room, I became exceedingly distracted. She and I had had dinner the evening following the day at the Buddhism Center with Henry and that had gone well, but closing abruptly due to a call to the hospital for nursing work. She was still a student, but only barely, and after some astounding work with traumatized adolescents the fellow staff treated her with great respect.
“Henry, I am going, um... over there,” adding a slight gesture. “Will you be alright?”
“Yeah, I'll be great. Something about the night was getting to me, but there's Karen and Gabby, and I saw Jason with Colin in the entryway.”
“Just let me know how you're doing, okay?” We had spoken a little on the way about how Henry was feeling, but it had been ambiguous; he had seemed to refuse to give whatever he was thinking about or feeling real shape, but not obviously hoping that I would give it one either.
He nodded and I spun off to find Mona. I picked up a drink from Jessica's brother who was happily gabbing away and mixing behind their bar in the study-gone-salon, which led into the living room via a tall, sliding door which could act as a false wall. Jessica had excitedly pointed out some of the clever crannies and flairs on the ground-floor, but I had paid little attention. The salon walls remained filled with bookshelves replete with ancient book spines and sturdy, red leather furniture on which familiar faces lounged and chattered. The living room was a lengthy and spacious affair that filled the back of the house, wide, tall windows revealed the flower garden behind, as well as a tidy brick patio where a few men and a women smoked amidst sharp gusts. Most guests had dressed up a little for the evening, but all of us were trumped for the fine air in the room made by all the furnishing and décor.
Mona wore this fantastic black, pin-stripe dress that seemed to shimmer despite its hue. Her hair was up in a tight bun with a few whispers of hair almost tickling her neck. She appeared heightened and statuesque, holding her glass primly but with a personal assurance. Her sharp features and tall neck seemed to set her up in contrast to her surroundings, or at least that is how she appeared to me. When she spotted me, she came over and hugged me, slyly kissing my cheek along my jaw and I absently shivered.
“Took you long enough to get here.”
“Well, if I had seen you before, I would have hurried up.”
Our fingertips lightly touched one another.
“Come over and meet some of my friends.” We joined her friends, our hands almost holding, and I made my way into their circle. I switched my drink to my left hand to shake their hands. “This is Jeremy and Amy, Anaïs, Thomas, Billie, and Owen.” I shook everyones' hands, leaning in to kiss Amy's, Anaïs's, and Billie's cheeks. I immediately felt underdressed, noticing some of the niceties that each wore, but their smiles and apparent genuineness calmed me.
We breezed through the small talk of introductions; school, work, some travels, family, and so on, before picking up on the conversation from before, which Thomas and Billie tended to lead.
“So Mona, how do reports from the frontlines go? Do you think your work is worse than it was a decade ago?” asked Thomas.
“Frontlines,” Amy explained in my ear, “is how Thomas refers to Mona's work.”
“Well, the trauma work is about the same, but we have more knowledge and skill with some subtleties of psychological health and care issues. We see more cases of neglect among children and the elderly, which was pretty unheard of even a few decades ago. Then again, we may just be more aware of what was going on.”
“I don't buy that,” chimed in Billie. “Generally speaking, people can tell when something is wrong with someone else. I know, for example, that Jeremy's grandmother lives with his parents. If I ask about her and he acts uncomfortable, or if no one sees her for a while, or if she acts funny when someone in the neighborhood does see her, it is easy to consider that something is wrong. What you're talking about, we haven't really seen before.”
Mona responded, “For the most part, I agree. Something is happening with our culture, our communities, our families that makes it possible or more likely or whatever for people to just set one another aside.”
“So, do you think we're treating one another like commodities or objects somehow because of our market-culture or because we don't see our family members like real persons anymore?” Thomas asked, pointedly to Mona, but for everyone to ponder.
“I guess I am too busy trying to take care of people, to wonder. I know that I have to see even the kid with gunshot wounds, even the abusive parent, and the neglectful mother as a person or else I can't do my work. Those are real people, no matter how we try to reason them into statistics or new articles or into TV shows.”
Anaïs noted, “What are you suggesting, Thomas? You talk like you already know the answer here and you just want to argue us down.” Thomas was finishing law student, and a nod from Amy suggested that this was the case.
“I'm not on a soapbox here or anything, but I do want to know if you think that this is an internal force of change, like that our culture or market is converting us into less feeling and more aggressive people; or if something outside is impacting the way we feel and act toward one another.”
“What do you mean, 'something outside?' That sounds like subliminal messages from the Soviets like in we're in the Cold War or something,” Jeremy added snidely, making the notion sound more astrological than sociological.
“Well, what about the way commercials and other PR campaigns indoctrinate us early, as children, into buying certain things or favoring certain styles or body types,” questioned Amy. Jeremy squeezed her around the waist supportively, warmly. I then felt how close Mona was to me and smiled quietly, dropping my hand next to hers so that the backs of our hands might graze against one another, though they did not right away.
“I'm skeptical at our inability to make up our own decisions the way businesses and politicians want to think.” Thomas looked right at me, coaxing a response as he continued, “We might get a few cues as kids, but our responses to advertising are fickle and chaotic, what worked yesterday is offensive today and passé tomorrow. And now we have more people trying to establish an anti-commercial counter-culture, like we're mustering our forces against something that's coming.”
“You present two options, then,” I said, “either our internal mechanisms of culture are more powerful and subtle than we have really begun to suppose, much more intricate than a soda commercial or fashion billboard; or some socio-culturally alien force is playing games with us to change how we react, something that we—we as a people—are increasingly sensitive to and have begun to combat.” I breathed slowly, happy that my thoroughly considered response had come out without a hitch, then added, “so what do you think, Thomas?”
Thomas smiled, somewhat maniacally, “I like to ask questions. I studied philosophy and now law, we aren't that good with answers.” To this, everyone besides me laughed, as if saying, “Oh, Thomas, that is just how you are.”
...
Henry and I attended a party that Saturday. I eagerly shared the conversation I had had with George and it then occurred to me that the two might gain something from one another. It was obvious that Henry was distant, glancing frequently over his shoulder and peering down the roads where street lamps had burned out. I thought he jumped when one blinked out overhead.
The house was an old but well-maintained and recently refurbished estate. During the daytime, I might have fallen in love with its steeple roof-line and shutters, the way it stood in its happy, simple lot with the vegetable garden stretched all along the left-side iron fence. As it was, with the clouds flitting quickly overhead, casting moonlight eerily, and the murmur that the party-goers' talk made from outside alarmed me. Henry shared some of my concern, but it may have just been his condition at the time that set him off-kilter.
“Lex! How are you? Come on in.”
“Hey Jessica, this is Henry, a friend from high school.” Henry shook Jessica's hand and she leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. He received it, but seemed more uncomfortable afterward.
“Well come in! The clouds and cold are on their way, aren't they?” She laughed and led us in. She pointed out food and the facilities, but spent most of her time highlighting the flourishes of the design. I had met Jessica when I was home from school through a friend of a friend, and though we had never particularly bonded, we always tried to be amicable and welcoming to one another. She wore this wonderful, simple, knee-length dress that rippled in a soft red as she walked, some thin jewelry jingled at her wrists.
When I caught a glimpse of Mona sipping wine in the living room, I became exceedingly distracted. She and I had had dinner the evening following the day at the Buddhism Center with Henry and that had gone well, but closing abruptly due to a call to the hospital for nursing work. She was still a student, but only barely, and after some astounding work with traumatized adolescents the fellow staff treated her with great respect.
“Henry, I am going, um... over there,” adding a slight gesture. “Will you be alright?”
“Yeah, I'll be great. Something about the night was getting to me, but there's Karen and Gabby, and I saw Jason with Colin in the entryway.”
“Just let me know how you're doing, okay?” We had spoken a little on the way about how Henry was feeling, but it had been ambiguous; he had seemed to refuse to give whatever he was thinking about or feeling real shape, but not obviously hoping that I would give it one either.
He nodded and I spun off to find Mona. I picked up a drink from Jessica's brother who was happily gabbing away and mixing behind their bar in the study-gone-salon, which led into the living room via a tall, sliding door which could act as a false wall. Jessica had excitedly pointed out some of the clever crannies and flairs on the ground-floor, but I had paid little attention. The salon walls remained filled with bookshelves replete with ancient book spines and sturdy, red leather furniture on which familiar faces lounged and chattered. The living room was a lengthy and spacious affair that filled the back of the house, wide, tall windows revealed the flower garden behind, as well as a tidy brick patio where a few men and a women smoked amidst sharp gusts. Most guests had dressed up a little for the evening, but all of us were trumped for the fine air in the room made by all the furnishing and décor.
Mona wore this fantastic black, pin-stripe dress that seemed to shimmer despite its hue. Her hair was up in a tight bun with a few whispers of hair almost tickling her neck. She appeared heightened and statuesque, holding her glass primly but with a personal assurance. Her sharp features and tall neck seemed to set her up in contrast to her surroundings, or at least that is how she appeared to me. When she spotted me, she came over and hugged me, slyly kissing my cheek along my jaw and I absently shivered.
“Took you long enough to get here.”
“Well, if I had seen you before, I would have hurried up.”
Our fingertips lightly touched one another.
“Come over and meet some of my friends.” We joined her friends, our hands almost holding, and I made my way into their circle. I switched my drink to my left hand to shake their hands. “This is Jeremy and Amy, Anaïs, Thomas, Billie, and Owen.” I shook everyones' hands, leaning in to kiss Amy's, Anaïs's, and Billie's cheeks. I immediately felt underdressed, noticing some of the niceties that each wore, but their smiles and apparent genuineness calmed me.
We breezed through the small talk of introductions; school, work, some travels, family, and so on, before picking up on the conversation from before, which Thomas and Billie tended to lead.
“So Mona, how do reports from the frontlines go? Do you think your work is worse than it was a decade ago?” asked Thomas.
“Frontlines,” Amy explained in my ear, “is how Thomas refers to Mona's work.”
“Well, the trauma work is about the same, but we have more knowledge and skill with some subtleties of psychological health and care issues. We see more cases of neglect among children and the elderly, which was pretty unheard of even a few decades ago. Then again, we may just be more aware of what was going on.”
“I don't buy that,” chimed in Billie. “Generally speaking, people can tell when something is wrong with someone else. I know, for example, that Jeremy's grandmother lives with his parents. If I ask about her and he acts uncomfortable, or if no one sees her for a while, or if she acts funny when someone in the neighborhood does see her, it is easy to consider that something is wrong. What you're talking about, we haven't really seen before.”
Mona responded, “For the most part, I agree. Something is happening with our culture, our communities, our families that makes it possible or more likely or whatever for people to just set one another aside.”
“So, do you think we're treating one another like commodities or objects somehow because of our market-culture or because we don't see our family members like real persons anymore?” Thomas asked, pointedly to Mona, but for everyone to ponder.
“I guess I am too busy trying to take care of people, to wonder. I know that I have to see even the kid with gunshot wounds, even the abusive parent, and the neglectful mother as a person or else I can't do my work. Those are real people, no matter how we try to reason them into statistics or new articles or into TV shows.”
Anaïs noted, “What are you suggesting, Thomas? You talk like you already know the answer here and you just want to argue us down.” Thomas was finishing law student, and a nod from Amy suggested that this was the case.
“I'm not on a soapbox here or anything, but I do want to know if you think that this is an internal force of change, like that our culture or market is converting us into less feeling and more aggressive people; or if something outside is impacting the way we feel and act toward one another.”
“What do you mean, 'something outside?' That sounds like subliminal messages from the Soviets like in we're in the Cold War or something,” Jeremy added snidely, making the notion sound more astrological than sociological.
“Well, what about the way commercials and other PR campaigns indoctrinate us early, as children, into buying certain things or favoring certain styles or body types,” questioned Amy. Jeremy squeezed her around the waist supportively, warmly. I then felt how close Mona was to me and smiled quietly, dropping my hand next to hers so that the backs of our hands might graze against one another, though they did not right away.
“I'm skeptical at our inability to make up our own decisions the way businesses and politicians want to think.” Thomas looked right at me, coaxing a response as he continued, “We might get a few cues as kids, but our responses to advertising are fickle and chaotic, what worked yesterday is offensive today and passé tomorrow. And now we have more people trying to establish an anti-commercial counter-culture, like we're mustering our forces against something that's coming.”
“You present two options, then,” I said, “either our internal mechanisms of culture are more powerful and subtle than we have really begun to suppose, much more intricate than a soda commercial or fashion billboard; or some socio-culturally alien force is playing games with us to change how we react, something that we—we as a people—are increasingly sensitive to and have begun to combat.” I breathed slowly, happy that my thoroughly considered response had come out without a hitch, then added, “so what do you think, Thomas?”
Thomas smiled, somewhat maniacally, “I like to ask questions. I studied philosophy and now law, we aren't that good with answers.” To this, everyone besides me laughed, as if saying, “Oh, Thomas, that is just how you are.”
Picking Up & Putting Together; Two Bread Recipes
I have been a bit on the outside of things. Nothing serious or melodramatic, but definitely lethargic and a tidbit removed. My weekend was spent with friends in Minnesota--The Twin Cities and St Peter--which was very much needed. On the return home, I considered getting myself together a bit and thought of a schedule. I almost immediately remembered that I loathe schedules. Then, on the tail-end of the return drive, I thought of compiling a short list of things I want to do everyday. Here is the list:
Write something (journal, letters, fiction, etc.)
Read something (fiction, essays, comics, news, etc.)
Do something with the bakery idea (bake, plan, research, etc.)
Bicycle somewhere
Yoga, Tai Chi, zazen (at least one of the above)
Clean (the house), pack (for leaving), or unpack (from college or elsewhere)
It all feels a bit like self-help, but it means I can get back on a sleep schedule and start getting things I feel are important done. This isn't particularly insightful, and it isn't intended to be, but two weeks ago, the bakery fired me for "conflict with Kevin" the co-owner and my boss. I am not going into detail, but I found how the situation was managed more perturbing than the actual outcome. All in all, I learned a good deal about baking occupationally and running a bakery while I was there, but am not exactly displeased (albeit, certainly frustrated) to no longer be there. I have been looking into graduate programs in my spare time and am planning on getting out applications relatively soon so that I might attend one next fall.
So, if you have been looking for thoughts and musings about my day, then I apologize for their absence. For recompense, here are two recipes I have been playing with, one from yesterday and one from today:
Honey Nut Bread
3 & 1/2 cups wheat flour
2 Tbsp dry yeast
1/2 Tbsp salt
3 cups warm water
1/4 cup honey
1/4 cup oil/butter
Mix dry ingredients, avoiding direct contact between salt and yeast. Then, blend in wet ingredients and let sit for 45-60 minutes.
3-4 cups white flour
1 generous cup of nuts (I used walnuts)
optional: 1-2 Tbsp cinnamon (I wanted to do this, but forgot)
Mix in and stir until making a firm dough. Do not add too much flour, so start with 3 scant cups and mix thoroughly before going further. Then, turn out on floured counter and knead until the flour and nuts are incorporated. Allow to rest for 45-60 minutes. Turn dough out onto lightly floured counter and knead until smooth. Separate dough into two to six pieces and shape. I made two large loaves, beginning with braids and then circling together like a cinnamon roll. Optionally, egg wash with one egg and a bit of honey, which will probably need warmed slightly to stir together. Allow shaped loaves to proof for 20-40 minutes while oven preheats to 400 F. Bake loaves for 20-35 minutes. (Note: My loaves took 25 but were still doughy in the very center, or at one of them was, at least. Smaller loaves will bake faster, round loaves will bake more evenly.)
The egg wash--particularly with honey--will brown beautifully, but be careful to make sure the centers are done. I will probably bake smaller loaves in the future, or baguettes rather than boules. Enjoy! This is my mom's new favorite bread!
...
Baguette (with cornmeal)
Note: As of the time of writing, this is still unfinished, so I am unsure of the final product. I need to work on a baguette recipe for an event Saturday and I hope this one works. I have played with a variety of this for a while, but haven't generally recorded it.
2 cups white flour
1 cup cornmeal
1 Tbsp dry yeast
1 Tbsp salt
4 Tbsp (half a stick) of butter
1 Tbsp honey
2 cups warm water (optionally, use milk for a richer bread)
Stir together dry ingredients, cut in butter and add honey next, then mix in water. If the butter is room temperature, the water temperature matters less. Let rest 45-60 minutes.
About 2 cups white flour
Stir in flour, turn out on floured counter and knead until smooth. Let rest at least 30 more minutes. Then, turn out and knead, divide into two, and roll out into long baguette shapes. The cornmeal makes it a little sticky, so use a very little bit of white flour every so often to tighten up the outer edge of the dough. I also made a simple two braid loaf for one baguette. Place on greased baking sheet (you can also make them in a large loaf pan, and they look pretty fun) and allow to proof for about 30 minutes before putting in the oven. You may egg wash with one egg and a bit of honey, warmed to allow mixing.
Bake at 400 F, but I don't know for how long. I'll start with 15 minutes and then check. I will update this later.
Write something (journal, letters, fiction, etc.)
Read something (fiction, essays, comics, news, etc.)
Do something with the bakery idea (bake, plan, research, etc.)
Bicycle somewhere
Yoga, Tai Chi, zazen (at least one of the above)
Clean (the house), pack (for leaving), or unpack (from college or elsewhere)
It all feels a bit like self-help, but it means I can get back on a sleep schedule and start getting things I feel are important done. This isn't particularly insightful, and it isn't intended to be, but two weeks ago, the bakery fired me for "conflict with Kevin" the co-owner and my boss. I am not going into detail, but I found how the situation was managed more perturbing than the actual outcome. All in all, I learned a good deal about baking occupationally and running a bakery while I was there, but am not exactly displeased (albeit, certainly frustrated) to no longer be there. I have been looking into graduate programs in my spare time and am planning on getting out applications relatively soon so that I might attend one next fall.
So, if you have been looking for thoughts and musings about my day, then I apologize for their absence. For recompense, here are two recipes I have been playing with, one from yesterday and one from today:
Honey Nut Bread
3 & 1/2 cups wheat flour
2 Tbsp dry yeast
1/2 Tbsp salt
3 cups warm water
1/4 cup honey
1/4 cup oil/butter
Mix dry ingredients, avoiding direct contact between salt and yeast. Then, blend in wet ingredients and let sit for 45-60 minutes.
3-4 cups white flour
1 generous cup of nuts (I used walnuts)
optional: 1-2 Tbsp cinnamon (I wanted to do this, but forgot)
Mix in and stir until making a firm dough. Do not add too much flour, so start with 3 scant cups and mix thoroughly before going further. Then, turn out on floured counter and knead until the flour and nuts are incorporated. Allow to rest for 45-60 minutes. Turn dough out onto lightly floured counter and knead until smooth. Separate dough into two to six pieces and shape. I made two large loaves, beginning with braids and then circling together like a cinnamon roll. Optionally, egg wash with one egg and a bit of honey, which will probably need warmed slightly to stir together. Allow shaped loaves to proof for 20-40 minutes while oven preheats to 400 F. Bake loaves for 20-35 minutes. (Note: My loaves took 25 but were still doughy in the very center, or at one of them was, at least. Smaller loaves will bake faster, round loaves will bake more evenly.)
The egg wash--particularly with honey--will brown beautifully, but be careful to make sure the centers are done. I will probably bake smaller loaves in the future, or baguettes rather than boules. Enjoy! This is my mom's new favorite bread!
...
Baguette (with cornmeal)
Note: As of the time of writing, this is still unfinished, so I am unsure of the final product. I need to work on a baguette recipe for an event Saturday and I hope this one works. I have played with a variety of this for a while, but haven't generally recorded it.
2 cups white flour
1 cup cornmeal
1 Tbsp dry yeast
1 Tbsp salt
4 Tbsp (half a stick) of butter
1 Tbsp honey
2 cups warm water (optionally, use milk for a richer bread)
Stir together dry ingredients, cut in butter and add honey next, then mix in water. If the butter is room temperature, the water temperature matters less. Let rest 45-60 minutes.
About 2 cups white flour
Stir in flour, turn out on floured counter and knead until smooth. Let rest at least 30 more minutes. Then, turn out and knead, divide into two, and roll out into long baguette shapes. The cornmeal makes it a little sticky, so use a very little bit of white flour every so often to tighten up the outer edge of the dough. I also made a simple two braid loaf for one baguette. Place on greased baking sheet (you can also make them in a large loaf pan, and they look pretty fun) and allow to proof for about 30 minutes before putting in the oven. You may egg wash with one egg and a bit of honey, warmed to allow mixing.
Bake at 400 F, but I don't know for how long. I'll start with 15 minutes and then check. I will update this later.
Friday, September 18, 2009
The Fate of Droplets (ii)
I have been trying to draw this story to its conclusion, but has been taking time. The writing has become more laborious, but I am excited about it all the same. Certain changes in conditions have allowed me some more free time. Later today, I will likely post a few recipes I used for lunch.
...
A few days later, on the evening before the party—to which Henry and I planned to attend—I visited Georgia, who goes by George. On her apartment door reads, “Here, the miracle happens.” She once explained the joke to me and, all said, I didn't find it all that funny. In high school, George studied chemistry intensely. In class, her teacher described a certain chemical reaction and left an intermediate space between the source and the product blank, then filled it in with a jagged box in which he wrote, “The miracle happens.” This was the point where something brief and significant occurs in the process but has not yet been explained. The idea is that a miracle is unscientific, but until we understand each step, we simply label the bizarre intermediaries as miracles. George was unperturbed when I did not laugh.
George came to study chemistry in high school following a strange series of passions starting when she was five when she cut her left handed ring finger on a protruding nail in her grandparents' barn. At first, she cried out, but as she was in the barn and unattended, no one heard. After a few minutes, she examined her small wound; she described the image in vivid detail: “The blood was rich and deep. I was amazed that it came out of me, out of my pale skin. I thought maybe this was where my sunburns came from, from the blood. It hurt, but I came to set aside the pain. First, I pressed the lips of the wound together and made more blood come out; then, I slightly pushed them apart and saw the layers of flesh inside me. I spat on my shirt and wiped away some of the blood with it. My pulse beat hard and I noticed that blood came out more quickly with each pound of my heart. I realized that inside of me was this whole world that I could not explore the way I wandered around my Grammy and Pa's farm, but it was there all the same. I stayed there a long time, just sitting and looking at my wound, using it to see inside of myself.”
Later, she returned to the farmhouse and hid the wound from anyone else. Each day, she would look at it for changes and wonder about revelations it might provide. She still played and it became infected. This, she understood, was not her own body but something else; though at the time it felt like neither friend nor foe. The infection spread and when she left the farm, her mother noticed and drove her to the hospital, her mother shouting much of the way. In the emergency room, George's finger was removed to the first knuckle and healed. Her mother expressed her gratitude to the doctor for saving what little he could of the finger so that she could still wear a wedding ring when the time came.
This incident established a deep fascination in the natural world and the inner workings of bodies. George's parents nurtured this, hoping to see their daughter go off to medical school one day; but George's interest was analytic, not practical. This led to discovering chemistry which suggested a finer view of the world beneath the world; and in college she began exploring physics which she hoped would prove an even finer tool. She finished college in five years, though she might have completed it in three. She had schemed her way into a long-term experiment that she was determined to perform, so with the appropriate rhetoric and administrative contacts, she made the whole affair appear a happy accident. With the frustrating closure of her project, she came to appreciate the role of mathematics throughout her scientific exploits and has since corresponded with various mathematicians as well as other scientists.
George and I became friends in high school and attended college together. For some time, I was infatuated with her. Her drive and intelligence struck me as otherworldly and enchanted, but I later saw how she responded to romantic approaches and realized my folly. She would regularly attract the attention of fellow students, who would ask her to out, to which she would blandly comply. During such outings, she was always non-committal and pressed her dates about subjects of research. She once told me about a sexual experience and I then, almost violently, understood that I was intrigued by her emotional distance from other people and even herself. She did not say if it had been her first sexual experience—I suppose it did not feel important to her—only that it suggested animalism and mechanics. I uncomfortably asked about feelings of pleasure, to which she had little to say except that, such sensations were present, but said in a tone reminiscent of her separation of herself from the pain in the cut finger.
I knocked on her door.
“Come in, Lex, its unlocked.” Though I was expected, her uncanny certainty perturbed me.
“Hey George,” said as I peaked in. Immediately, four chalkboards set about in her living room caught my eye, each riddled with incomprehensible gibberish, but something written in a tight scrawl on the one blocking her bedroom door intrigued me. “What is all this?” as I gesture to the note in particular.
“You know my work in the chemical corporation labs? This is what it has been on. I just want to iron out a few details now so I can use the labs when no one else is around.”
“Don't the have people watching to avoid misuse of the labs?”
“The guards don't know what we're doing, it is all Greek to them. Besides, even my supervisor would expect me to have to work on this stuff there, so if I do it now, no one will expect it done and I can take my time.” She is sipping coffee from a mug with her employer's logo on it in the doorway to her kitchen, surveying the chalkboards critically. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
This is how George works: Establish a question, find the means to answering the question, accomplish all necessary precursors (job, security access, research, contacts, etc.), and answer the question. In this case, she was well into the fourth phase. Seeing as her apartment space was too limited for her lab work—and likely illegal—she went about finding a job somewhere she could use theirs, even if it meant being sly about it. In order to answer her question, she had found the right people to talk to, received a reassignment, then went about fooling her new authority. George is brilliant.
In the kitchen, she poured me a cup of coffee. It wasn't instant, but it wasn't far from it.
“What are you researching?”
“For work or for me?”
“For you.”
“What do you know about quantum states?”
“Not much.”
“What about neuropsychology?”
“I missed that lecture.”
“The pineal gland?”
“Can it become inflamed?”
“No. That was actually a joke.”
“So was mine.”
She smiled as she drank heartily from her mug and set it on the counter. Her sharp, clear eyes peered at me.
“My research has to do with how an individual factor can explicate an entire system; in this case, the role of consciousness in dreaming and the neurotransmitters involved.”
“Wouldn't you need fMRIs for that sort of thing?”
“So you did go to class sometimes.”
“I earned a B+ average for my psych minor, mind you.”
“Well pardon me.” She wandered back into the living room and marked a few things on the boards, erased an equation and replaced it with something that appeared entirely different. “fMRI scans and their records for dreaming are pretty abundant.” She spoke with her back to me. “Others have done some significant if inconclusive work with neurotransmitters. I am combing through and combining what I can. Most of the lab work has to do with databases, software, and syntheses of the neurotransmitters so that I can figure out what they're doing.” She laughed sharply, derisively, and continued to work at the boards. “If you ask an astrophysicist about the least known frontier, she'll say space; ask a marine biologist, she'll say the sea floor; a neurologist, she'll say the brain.”
“Sounds like we don't know much.”
“Exactly,” she chirped, pointing at something only she saw but still facing the boards. “But wouldn't you put more emphasis on the people who are asking about the mechanics of knowing rather than those who might specialize in one thing or another?”
“So you trust the neurologists?”
“Not exactly. Every neuropsychological paradigm anyone has put forth gets blown out of the water a decade later. Some say we could establish a median between them, a means of splicing the different theories together. Some say we still know nothing.”
“And you?”
“Take an experiment, show me the methods and the results, then I can tell you what the writers think they know and what they think they have learned. The latter always depends on the former. Without the former, you've got nothing.”
“So all answers are dependent?”
“Yes and no. The issue is that independent answers are those that arise from any assumption we make in the pursuit of the experiment, but all the same it is impossible to surmise the experiment that assumes any and all possible assumptions. Therefore, all answers we establish are dependent on precursory assumptions, but the existence of necessary answers remains a possibility, albeit an unachievable one. Ah!” She erases a great swath on the board second from the right—the far right being the one with the alluring gibberish on it—and marks it with an unreadable, tight cursive. She sets the chalk down and sighs, smiling gleefully.
“How long have you been at this?”
“What time is it?”
“About three.”
“Oh, eight hours.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Hmm? No I guess not.”
“Let's get some food in you.”
“Let me finish my coffee.”
“No, don't. I'll buy you some real coffee.”
“This is real coffee.”
“Just, don't.”
“Fine.” We each were looking around for our jackets. I peered closely at the fourth chalkboard.
“What is this about?”
“Oh, that is a side project relating to my research.”
“But this, what does this mean?”
“I think it is a theory of some sort.”
“How do you pronounce it?”
“Oh, I don't know. I think it says I'Yog-Sototh. But it doesn't make a lot of sense. Some 18th Century physicists or mystics put it together to explain dreams as a physical phenomenon of the world, as events that occur through stimulation via natural and para-natural forces. Why do you ask?”
“It stands out. I don't know why. It has something familiar about it. Let's go.”
...
A few days later, on the evening before the party—to which Henry and I planned to attend—I visited Georgia, who goes by George. On her apartment door reads, “Here, the miracle happens.” She once explained the joke to me and, all said, I didn't find it all that funny. In high school, George studied chemistry intensely. In class, her teacher described a certain chemical reaction and left an intermediate space between the source and the product blank, then filled it in with a jagged box in which he wrote, “The miracle happens.” This was the point where something brief and significant occurs in the process but has not yet been explained. The idea is that a miracle is unscientific, but until we understand each step, we simply label the bizarre intermediaries as miracles. George was unperturbed when I did not laugh.
George came to study chemistry in high school following a strange series of passions starting when she was five when she cut her left handed ring finger on a protruding nail in her grandparents' barn. At first, she cried out, but as she was in the barn and unattended, no one heard. After a few minutes, she examined her small wound; she described the image in vivid detail: “The blood was rich and deep. I was amazed that it came out of me, out of my pale skin. I thought maybe this was where my sunburns came from, from the blood. It hurt, but I came to set aside the pain. First, I pressed the lips of the wound together and made more blood come out; then, I slightly pushed them apart and saw the layers of flesh inside me. I spat on my shirt and wiped away some of the blood with it. My pulse beat hard and I noticed that blood came out more quickly with each pound of my heart. I realized that inside of me was this whole world that I could not explore the way I wandered around my Grammy and Pa's farm, but it was there all the same. I stayed there a long time, just sitting and looking at my wound, using it to see inside of myself.”
Later, she returned to the farmhouse and hid the wound from anyone else. Each day, she would look at it for changes and wonder about revelations it might provide. She still played and it became infected. This, she understood, was not her own body but something else; though at the time it felt like neither friend nor foe. The infection spread and when she left the farm, her mother noticed and drove her to the hospital, her mother shouting much of the way. In the emergency room, George's finger was removed to the first knuckle and healed. Her mother expressed her gratitude to the doctor for saving what little he could of the finger so that she could still wear a wedding ring when the time came.
This incident established a deep fascination in the natural world and the inner workings of bodies. George's parents nurtured this, hoping to see their daughter go off to medical school one day; but George's interest was analytic, not practical. This led to discovering chemistry which suggested a finer view of the world beneath the world; and in college she began exploring physics which she hoped would prove an even finer tool. She finished college in five years, though she might have completed it in three. She had schemed her way into a long-term experiment that she was determined to perform, so with the appropriate rhetoric and administrative contacts, she made the whole affair appear a happy accident. With the frustrating closure of her project, she came to appreciate the role of mathematics throughout her scientific exploits and has since corresponded with various mathematicians as well as other scientists.
George and I became friends in high school and attended college together. For some time, I was infatuated with her. Her drive and intelligence struck me as otherworldly and enchanted, but I later saw how she responded to romantic approaches and realized my folly. She would regularly attract the attention of fellow students, who would ask her to out, to which she would blandly comply. During such outings, she was always non-committal and pressed her dates about subjects of research. She once told me about a sexual experience and I then, almost violently, understood that I was intrigued by her emotional distance from other people and even herself. She did not say if it had been her first sexual experience—I suppose it did not feel important to her—only that it suggested animalism and mechanics. I uncomfortably asked about feelings of pleasure, to which she had little to say except that, such sensations were present, but said in a tone reminiscent of her separation of herself from the pain in the cut finger.
I knocked on her door.
“Come in, Lex, its unlocked.” Though I was expected, her uncanny certainty perturbed me.
“Hey George,” said as I peaked in. Immediately, four chalkboards set about in her living room caught my eye, each riddled with incomprehensible gibberish, but something written in a tight scrawl on the one blocking her bedroom door intrigued me. “What is all this?” as I gesture to the note in particular.
“You know my work in the chemical corporation labs? This is what it has been on. I just want to iron out a few details now so I can use the labs when no one else is around.”
“Don't the have people watching to avoid misuse of the labs?”
“The guards don't know what we're doing, it is all Greek to them. Besides, even my supervisor would expect me to have to work on this stuff there, so if I do it now, no one will expect it done and I can take my time.” She is sipping coffee from a mug with her employer's logo on it in the doorway to her kitchen, surveying the chalkboards critically. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
This is how George works: Establish a question, find the means to answering the question, accomplish all necessary precursors (job, security access, research, contacts, etc.), and answer the question. In this case, she was well into the fourth phase. Seeing as her apartment space was too limited for her lab work—and likely illegal—she went about finding a job somewhere she could use theirs, even if it meant being sly about it. In order to answer her question, she had found the right people to talk to, received a reassignment, then went about fooling her new authority. George is brilliant.
In the kitchen, she poured me a cup of coffee. It wasn't instant, but it wasn't far from it.
“What are you researching?”
“For work or for me?”
“For you.”
“What do you know about quantum states?”
“Not much.”
“What about neuropsychology?”
“I missed that lecture.”
“The pineal gland?”
“Can it become inflamed?”
“No. That was actually a joke.”
“So was mine.”
She smiled as she drank heartily from her mug and set it on the counter. Her sharp, clear eyes peered at me.
“My research has to do with how an individual factor can explicate an entire system; in this case, the role of consciousness in dreaming and the neurotransmitters involved.”
“Wouldn't you need fMRIs for that sort of thing?”
“So you did go to class sometimes.”
“I earned a B+ average for my psych minor, mind you.”
“Well pardon me.” She wandered back into the living room and marked a few things on the boards, erased an equation and replaced it with something that appeared entirely different. “fMRI scans and their records for dreaming are pretty abundant.” She spoke with her back to me. “Others have done some significant if inconclusive work with neurotransmitters. I am combing through and combining what I can. Most of the lab work has to do with databases, software, and syntheses of the neurotransmitters so that I can figure out what they're doing.” She laughed sharply, derisively, and continued to work at the boards. “If you ask an astrophysicist about the least known frontier, she'll say space; ask a marine biologist, she'll say the sea floor; a neurologist, she'll say the brain.”
“Sounds like we don't know much.”
“Exactly,” she chirped, pointing at something only she saw but still facing the boards. “But wouldn't you put more emphasis on the people who are asking about the mechanics of knowing rather than those who might specialize in one thing or another?”
“So you trust the neurologists?”
“Not exactly. Every neuropsychological paradigm anyone has put forth gets blown out of the water a decade later. Some say we could establish a median between them, a means of splicing the different theories together. Some say we still know nothing.”
“And you?”
“Take an experiment, show me the methods and the results, then I can tell you what the writers think they know and what they think they have learned. The latter always depends on the former. Without the former, you've got nothing.”
“So all answers are dependent?”
“Yes and no. The issue is that independent answers are those that arise from any assumption we make in the pursuit of the experiment, but all the same it is impossible to surmise the experiment that assumes any and all possible assumptions. Therefore, all answers we establish are dependent on precursory assumptions, but the existence of necessary answers remains a possibility, albeit an unachievable one. Ah!” She erases a great swath on the board second from the right—the far right being the one with the alluring gibberish on it—and marks it with an unreadable, tight cursive. She sets the chalk down and sighs, smiling gleefully.
“How long have you been at this?”
“What time is it?”
“About three.”
“Oh, eight hours.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Hmm? No I guess not.”
“Let's get some food in you.”
“Let me finish my coffee.”
“No, don't. I'll buy you some real coffee.”
“This is real coffee.”
“Just, don't.”
“Fine.” We each were looking around for our jackets. I peered closely at the fourth chalkboard.
“What is this about?”
“Oh, that is a side project relating to my research.”
“But this, what does this mean?”
“I think it is a theory of some sort.”
“How do you pronounce it?”
“Oh, I don't know. I think it says I'Yog-Sototh. But it doesn't make a lot of sense. Some 18th Century physicists or mystics put it together to explain dreams as a physical phenomenon of the world, as events that occur through stimulation via natural and para-natural forces. Why do you ask?”
“It stands out. I don't know why. It has something familiar about it. Let's go.”
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Imbalance
Upon reflection concerning the notion of balance, I returned very quickly to the conclusion of Grant Morrison's run on Doom Patrol, a comic book series reinvigorated in the mid- to late Eighties. In it, Cliff Steele, a former racecar driver turned accidental superhuman thanks to a racing accident that crippled his body and led to his internment in a metal suit, experiences a fictitious world when presented with a powerful computer into which his neural circuitry has been sent. He discovers some of the imbalances, some of the fractured experiences the world he has created gives him before he is converted back into his metal body thanks to another character (who, proficient with sorcery, manages tor recapture his soul before it vanishes) sans brain, which the villain left callously on the floor. Cliff attempts to reconcile his now complete reliance on machinery with his personal sense of humanity (Alan Moore plays with this in the Swamp Thing series he, similarly, reinvents), but uses his irreconcilable notions of humanity and technology, his own imbalanced self as a weapon against a potentially globe-changing threat.
Imbalance, in this example and in others I have considered, proves to be the catalyst for reconciliation and resolution. If that is the case, I am hesitant to say that imbalance and balance are all that distinct. If imbalance is the means of re-establishing equilibrium, then the equilibrium is pre-existing or simultaneously coexistent with imbalance. If that is the case, then Zen Buddhism's (and notably in the writing of Eihei Dogen) breakdown of dichotomies, dichotomies we use to describe categories and organization in the world, is entirely in the right direction. Dogen focuses much of his writing on everyday tasks--cooking in particular, but he even writes on defecation--in order to appreciate way-seeking and meditation in the seemingly mundane chores of the day. It is through constantly practicing seeking and meditation that we are capable of understanding key aspects of the world and ourselves. Some of those are simply recognizing the limitations our own minds have on perception and experience--i.e. not extending our experiences into unsound conclusions. Beyond that, though, is the practical actualization of all things simultaneously, a key tenant for the tentative notion of enlightenment Zen tends toward. (Note: I am speaking out of my depth here, but do not feel that I am overextending myself in the wrong direction. I am not the best person to articulate these details, but am sort of feeling them out as best as I can.)
Personally, it is in the experiences of imbalance that we are spurred to grow and re-establish physical and mental stability. All the while, when--for example--a population of organisms is confronted with problematic instability, then that population's survival is dependant on adaptation and evolution. Homoestasis--the maintenance of bodily systems' stability to preserve life--goes through similar processes. Sickness is generally thought of as the instability of internal systems (the existence of pathogens, for example) which can be compensated by external modifications (taking pills, warming up, resting, etc.). Sickness can also take place the other way around, or they can be described in a reverse method: an unbalanced environment (the presence of dangerous chemicals, unhealthy food, anxiety-producing stimuli, etc.) results in a unbalanced internal stimuli; that is, the body attempts to respond in kind. The best response is to turn that around: we can function as positive actuators for environmental stability and the re-establishment of balance in our surroundings. I think of Thich Nhat Hanh with his advice to smile and maintain your breathing in order to respond to the gravest of environments, including his own wartorn country.
More and more I note the presence of imbalance in my world, the responses or interpretations of imbalance in the world around us (I just returned from seeing the film 9), the greater I feel the tug of that return to stability. I believe--rather seriously based on the aforementioned--that the something like the socio-psychic pull of our culture, ecology, and consciousness is in the direction of re-establishing homeostasis in ourselves and in the world, which is, after all, the same task. I am not overly optimistic about the success of such an endeavor, but I feel and encourage it all the same. It is in the work of practice and conversation, of meeting and cohabitation, of meditation and action that this wave gains energy, hopefully gains sufficient momentum to turn the tide. The tide, I will easily say, is potent and vast, widespread and also growing, but my own experience suggests that the growth has and will slow. Now, it is a matter of responding all the more powerfully with the abundant alternatives in order to halt that wave.
...
This may have gotten a little pie in the sky, but I have been spending a good deal of my time considering how my life ought to look, how I ought to live in the world and what that lifestyle requires. Reading Hope, Human and Wild as well as my travels of late have been key in pushing those reflections. Simultaneously, it is my time home again that allows me the space to consider the importance of that reflection. Perhaps I am more sensitive to the vibrations (as my brother might put it) surrounding me than I have usually been able to be, I am uncertain, but I do feel that I am speaking honestly, and that will have to be enough for now.
Imbalance, in this example and in others I have considered, proves to be the catalyst for reconciliation and resolution. If that is the case, I am hesitant to say that imbalance and balance are all that distinct. If imbalance is the means of re-establishing equilibrium, then the equilibrium is pre-existing or simultaneously coexistent with imbalance. If that is the case, then Zen Buddhism's (and notably in the writing of Eihei Dogen) breakdown of dichotomies, dichotomies we use to describe categories and organization in the world, is entirely in the right direction. Dogen focuses much of his writing on everyday tasks--cooking in particular, but he even writes on defecation--in order to appreciate way-seeking and meditation in the seemingly mundane chores of the day. It is through constantly practicing seeking and meditation that we are capable of understanding key aspects of the world and ourselves. Some of those are simply recognizing the limitations our own minds have on perception and experience--i.e. not extending our experiences into unsound conclusions. Beyond that, though, is the practical actualization of all things simultaneously, a key tenant for the tentative notion of enlightenment Zen tends toward. (Note: I am speaking out of my depth here, but do not feel that I am overextending myself in the wrong direction. I am not the best person to articulate these details, but am sort of feeling them out as best as I can.)
Personally, it is in the experiences of imbalance that we are spurred to grow and re-establish physical and mental stability. All the while, when--for example--a population of organisms is confronted with problematic instability, then that population's survival is dependant on adaptation and evolution. Homoestasis--the maintenance of bodily systems' stability to preserve life--goes through similar processes. Sickness is generally thought of as the instability of internal systems (the existence of pathogens, for example) which can be compensated by external modifications (taking pills, warming up, resting, etc.). Sickness can also take place the other way around, or they can be described in a reverse method: an unbalanced environment (the presence of dangerous chemicals, unhealthy food, anxiety-producing stimuli, etc.) results in a unbalanced internal stimuli; that is, the body attempts to respond in kind. The best response is to turn that around: we can function as positive actuators for environmental stability and the re-establishment of balance in our surroundings. I think of Thich Nhat Hanh with his advice to smile and maintain your breathing in order to respond to the gravest of environments, including his own wartorn country.
More and more I note the presence of imbalance in my world, the responses or interpretations of imbalance in the world around us (I just returned from seeing the film 9), the greater I feel the tug of that return to stability. I believe--rather seriously based on the aforementioned--that the something like the socio-psychic pull of our culture, ecology, and consciousness is in the direction of re-establishing homeostasis in ourselves and in the world, which is, after all, the same task. I am not overly optimistic about the success of such an endeavor, but I feel and encourage it all the same. It is in the work of practice and conversation, of meeting and cohabitation, of meditation and action that this wave gains energy, hopefully gains sufficient momentum to turn the tide. The tide, I will easily say, is potent and vast, widespread and also growing, but my own experience suggests that the growth has and will slow. Now, it is a matter of responding all the more powerfully with the abundant alternatives in order to halt that wave.
...
This may have gotten a little pie in the sky, but I have been spending a good deal of my time considering how my life ought to look, how I ought to live in the world and what that lifestyle requires. Reading Hope, Human and Wild as well as my travels of late have been key in pushing those reflections. Simultaneously, it is my time home again that allows me the space to consider the importance of that reflection. Perhaps I am more sensitive to the vibrations (as my brother might put it) surrounding me than I have usually been able to be, I am uncertain, but I do feel that I am speaking honestly, and that will have to be enough for now.
Friday, September 11, 2009
The Fate of Droplets (i)
In the absence of posting about imbalance, which I plan on doing shortly, I provide the first section of a story that needs serious editing. At the moment, it is titled The Fate of Droplets, which probably sounds too melodramatic, but that is what I have so far. It is another work of "weird fiction," but ought to be somewhat more palatable than others. Miss Kalisa has inspired me to work on it all the more, but I will not have the time tomorrow, so I decided to get some done on it tonight.
Also, I am thinking fondly of those friends of mine who have returned to Gustavus campus. If I have the time, I hope to make a few phone calls tomorrow.
And now, part one of The Fate of Droplets:
I was with him when he spoke with the monk at the Buddhism Center. The question Henry asked escapes me now, but the monk turned to the window, presented its rain-streaked pane with an open palm, before responding.
“We are water droplets, meandering down the sheet of glass, contacting our surroundings and moving in response to them. All the same, the droplet chooses a path in the same way we choose our paths even if it looks chaotic from our perspective.” He stepped over to the window and slid it open, jostling dozens of droplets loose, causing them to shudder down abruptly. Henry and I joined him on either side as the monk reached out and caught a fluttering droplet from the outside of the window. “Sometimes, despite all of our efforts, one amongst us is selected by forces we do not control and moved beyond what we know and into unfamiliar territory. Notice this droplet,” he raised his finger and arm, allowing it to race down along the inside of his elbow and into his robe, “its journey is unlike any of its companions, nothing it could have done prepared it for its new sojourn along my arm.”
“Brother James, What causes these changes in our paths? Do you mean like a death in the family or failing out of school?” Henry asked; I felt distinctly out of my depth and I glanced around at the simply furnished meditation room, with its stacked mats along the far wall and the undetailed, almost primordial Buddha statue in the center of the front wall.
Brother James examined the trail left by the droplet, seeing it fracture and evaporate off of his warm skin. “I believe that your thinking is like the droplet still on the window; what you are thinking of are the concerns of the window, now the concerns of the space beyond the window. In order to understand the influences from beyond the window, meditate on the pane of glass and how it is only a pane of glass, unable to reveal the nature of the room of which it is a part. Also, notice that the droplet itself reflects the room and other features of the window like the other droplets. We resemble one another through mutual reflection, but we also may reveal aspects of the world that we do not easily see. Through this, you may come to greater understanding.”
“Thank you, Brother, I will consider this.” Henry then bowed slightly, followed by Brother James's bow. Henry whispered, “Lex, stay here, I'll be right back,” as he found the restroom and so I stood awkwardly with Brother James, with whom I rarely spoke unaccompanied. I watched as he examined the retreating path of the droplet and saw a strange look cross his face.
“Brother James, are you alright?” I asked, attempting to practice the etiquette Henry had taught me.
“No, but my reasons are vague. Henry is very dedicated and I think that the answers to his questions are important. I can only hope that when he finds them, they are sufficient.” He finally let his arm rest. “Good day, Alexis, I hope to see you again.”
Brother James walked away and I puzzled over what he had told me. It struck me as cryptic and his tone, though moderate and mild, had sounded reserved and pensive. I looked out the window, hoping for a distraction from these thoughts, but could find very little. Gray cars raced about in the gray street, gray rain streaking down everything. I had expected a good deal more for my day off, but the rain and the Buddhism Center, pursued as part of Henry's routine, had cast me in a drowsy and disconcerted mood. Despite my best efforts, I continued thinking of the pane of glass, the droplets, and what Brother James said.
Henry returned and we left the Center by the stairs and out the side entrance. I opened my umbrella and Henry raised the hood of his crinkling, second-hand jacket, and in the act I stepped into a chip in the sidewalk, soaking my shoe. I shook it gradually, in meager hopes of drying it, as we walked the three blocks to Henry's apartment. He had moved out in order to be close to work, near enough to school, and had found a place so close to the Buddhism Center that he could not pass it up. I had gone away for school but was home now, determining some of the options ahead over the course of the year, while Henry continued to go attend classes and work, accomplishing his tasks a little more slowly but with plenty of interesting occupations in the meantime. I had hoped to reignite our friendship upon my return, but so far, I felt lackluster in the attempt. We had joined one another for conversations that always closed sharply, without the sort of happy resolution and smiles that I had experienced with him in high school or at college with others. All the same, I found his character insightful and forced my company upon him when time allowed.
Henry's apartment was simple and suggestive of his yearning for straightforward living, uncluttered and contemplative. His furniture was second-hand and sparse, often decorated in patters reminiscent of grandparents' homes, except for the floor pillows neatly set against one wall, which he favored himself most of the time. He maintained a tidy kitchen with store brand foods in the cupboards and fresh produce in baskets on the counters and table. He rarely ate out and only in the comfort of other friends who were determined to pull him out of what they felt was his bubble. I recognized that his lifestyle was not that of a bubble, but that of consideration, a life that would be confounded by the luxuries of regularly eating out or seeing films twice a week like his English, art, and film major friends. Nor did he keep alcohol around, a restriction picked up from studying Buddhism, though even the monks at the Center would join laypeople for drinks once in a while.
The one luxury he did allow himself was a queen-sized bed, acquired when his grandfather passed away four or five years ago. He kept it made and the blankets tightly tucked, but it comically filled almost the entire bedroom floor and had been a struggle when he first moved in. His mother had sternly decided that it would neither fit through the doorway nor in the room beyond, but his father and he had pulled and fought all the same and it fit, even if it did partially block the closet door, which Henry tended to keep open as a result.
When we settled in, Henry put water on for tea and we began to talk. He was enthusiastic about his conversation with Brother James and he spoke rapidly. The tea pot whistled and he made tea in a small pitcher with a sieve to keep the loose leaves out of the tea cups. The mild scent of the tea, mixed with a few drips of honey, enriched the room with a happy depth and sweetness. I decided to not mention what Brother James had said and we quickly moved onto topics somewhat less involving, like distant friends and music performances, then to a party that weekend that we may or may not attend depending on who we assumed would show up.
We sipped the tea and enjoyed the comfortable silences in between our snatches of conversation to similar degrees and I eventually checked the time. I had made dinner plans and a possible movie date with someone, so I finished my tea and took my leave. I was happy to have found a new sort of bond with Henry. The long afternoon reassured me, and I left excited for our next meeting and the possible attendance of the party that weekend.
Also, I am thinking fondly of those friends of mine who have returned to Gustavus campus. If I have the time, I hope to make a few phone calls tomorrow.
And now, part one of The Fate of Droplets:
I was with him when he spoke with the monk at the Buddhism Center. The question Henry asked escapes me now, but the monk turned to the window, presented its rain-streaked pane with an open palm, before responding.
“We are water droplets, meandering down the sheet of glass, contacting our surroundings and moving in response to them. All the same, the droplet chooses a path in the same way we choose our paths even if it looks chaotic from our perspective.” He stepped over to the window and slid it open, jostling dozens of droplets loose, causing them to shudder down abruptly. Henry and I joined him on either side as the monk reached out and caught a fluttering droplet from the outside of the window. “Sometimes, despite all of our efforts, one amongst us is selected by forces we do not control and moved beyond what we know and into unfamiliar territory. Notice this droplet,” he raised his finger and arm, allowing it to race down along the inside of his elbow and into his robe, “its journey is unlike any of its companions, nothing it could have done prepared it for its new sojourn along my arm.”
“Brother James, What causes these changes in our paths? Do you mean like a death in the family or failing out of school?” Henry asked; I felt distinctly out of my depth and I glanced around at the simply furnished meditation room, with its stacked mats along the far wall and the undetailed, almost primordial Buddha statue in the center of the front wall.
Brother James examined the trail left by the droplet, seeing it fracture and evaporate off of his warm skin. “I believe that your thinking is like the droplet still on the window; what you are thinking of are the concerns of the window, now the concerns of the space beyond the window. In order to understand the influences from beyond the window, meditate on the pane of glass and how it is only a pane of glass, unable to reveal the nature of the room of which it is a part. Also, notice that the droplet itself reflects the room and other features of the window like the other droplets. We resemble one another through mutual reflection, but we also may reveal aspects of the world that we do not easily see. Through this, you may come to greater understanding.”
“Thank you, Brother, I will consider this.” Henry then bowed slightly, followed by Brother James's bow. Henry whispered, “Lex, stay here, I'll be right back,” as he found the restroom and so I stood awkwardly with Brother James, with whom I rarely spoke unaccompanied. I watched as he examined the retreating path of the droplet and saw a strange look cross his face.
“Brother James, are you alright?” I asked, attempting to practice the etiquette Henry had taught me.
“No, but my reasons are vague. Henry is very dedicated and I think that the answers to his questions are important. I can only hope that when he finds them, they are sufficient.” He finally let his arm rest. “Good day, Alexis, I hope to see you again.”
Brother James walked away and I puzzled over what he had told me. It struck me as cryptic and his tone, though moderate and mild, had sounded reserved and pensive. I looked out the window, hoping for a distraction from these thoughts, but could find very little. Gray cars raced about in the gray street, gray rain streaking down everything. I had expected a good deal more for my day off, but the rain and the Buddhism Center, pursued as part of Henry's routine, had cast me in a drowsy and disconcerted mood. Despite my best efforts, I continued thinking of the pane of glass, the droplets, and what Brother James said.
Henry returned and we left the Center by the stairs and out the side entrance. I opened my umbrella and Henry raised the hood of his crinkling, second-hand jacket, and in the act I stepped into a chip in the sidewalk, soaking my shoe. I shook it gradually, in meager hopes of drying it, as we walked the three blocks to Henry's apartment. He had moved out in order to be close to work, near enough to school, and had found a place so close to the Buddhism Center that he could not pass it up. I had gone away for school but was home now, determining some of the options ahead over the course of the year, while Henry continued to go attend classes and work, accomplishing his tasks a little more slowly but with plenty of interesting occupations in the meantime. I had hoped to reignite our friendship upon my return, but so far, I felt lackluster in the attempt. We had joined one another for conversations that always closed sharply, without the sort of happy resolution and smiles that I had experienced with him in high school or at college with others. All the same, I found his character insightful and forced my company upon him when time allowed.
Henry's apartment was simple and suggestive of his yearning for straightforward living, uncluttered and contemplative. His furniture was second-hand and sparse, often decorated in patters reminiscent of grandparents' homes, except for the floor pillows neatly set against one wall, which he favored himself most of the time. He maintained a tidy kitchen with store brand foods in the cupboards and fresh produce in baskets on the counters and table. He rarely ate out and only in the comfort of other friends who were determined to pull him out of what they felt was his bubble. I recognized that his lifestyle was not that of a bubble, but that of consideration, a life that would be confounded by the luxuries of regularly eating out or seeing films twice a week like his English, art, and film major friends. Nor did he keep alcohol around, a restriction picked up from studying Buddhism, though even the monks at the Center would join laypeople for drinks once in a while.
The one luxury he did allow himself was a queen-sized bed, acquired when his grandfather passed away four or five years ago. He kept it made and the blankets tightly tucked, but it comically filled almost the entire bedroom floor and had been a struggle when he first moved in. His mother had sternly decided that it would neither fit through the doorway nor in the room beyond, but his father and he had pulled and fought all the same and it fit, even if it did partially block the closet door, which Henry tended to keep open as a result.
When we settled in, Henry put water on for tea and we began to talk. He was enthusiastic about his conversation with Brother James and he spoke rapidly. The tea pot whistled and he made tea in a small pitcher with a sieve to keep the loose leaves out of the tea cups. The mild scent of the tea, mixed with a few drips of honey, enriched the room with a happy depth and sweetness. I decided to not mention what Brother James had said and we quickly moved onto topics somewhat less involving, like distant friends and music performances, then to a party that weekend that we may or may not attend depending on who we assumed would show up.
We sipped the tea and enjoyed the comfortable silences in between our snatches of conversation to similar degrees and I eventually checked the time. I had made dinner plans and a possible movie date with someone, so I finished my tea and took my leave. I was happy to have found a new sort of bond with Henry. The long afternoon reassured me, and I left excited for our next meeting and the possible attendance of the party that weekend.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Balance
I am learning about the importance of balance. I do not wish to underemphasize imbalance, incoherence, and discontinuity, but for the moment, I have been meditating on balance. Balance, it seems, is one of the first notions we attempt to teach one another. A child learn to crawl then to walk, and walking is a great feat of balance. Placing any object on only two legs and maintaining it upright is difficult, and when that entity is wobbly and energetic, not to mention mobile, then the feat is all the more impressive. Cycling is another example of balance; any cyclist one sees--except, perhaps, those on three or more wheels--is not just showing mobility, but is practicing the first major aspect of cycling: balance.
These lessons, though, seem to predominantly go only very shallowly, because everywhere life and living is imbalanced. Immediately, I think of Francis Ford Copola's Koyaanisqatsi: Life Out of Balance, but I have also begun to read Bill McKibben's Hope, Human and Wild which chronicles the living examples of establishing balance, examing Curitiba, Brasil and the Indian state of Kerala. Reading Hope, Human and Wild is itself a practice in establishing balance. As I have recently mentioned, I am reading Wendell Berry's The Unsettling of America, which though fantastic, has turned into a rather powerful and frustrating read. On one hand, I am reading the nitty-gritty of America food policy, agriculture, and culture; on the other I am exploring the movement toward practiced, albeit difficult, examples of hope. I am interested and both but need one to temper the other in order to appreciate both.
Bill McKibben himself comments, in chapter one, on the role Hope has in building balance in his own life. His previous work, The End of Nature, McKibben explores the global impacts human beings have had on the world. If we understand nature or "wilderness" to be the antithesis of human settlement or knowledge (for example, the Wilderness Act calls for protection of the land "untrammelled by man"), then that sort of nature is over, because the world over is now impacted by the anthropogenic realities of global warming and pollution. Hope, on the other hand, is about moving beyond our current paradigm and into one that means living satisfactorily on less, about living more in tune to the needs of one another and the ecologies of which we are a part--not apart, as wilderness environmentalism may have you believe.
When I spend my own time meditating (zazen, yoga, tai chi, or--increasingly--intentional breathing), it is generally in order to establish an internal and external harmony. (Note: By saying both internal and external, I mean to suggest their relatedness, their similitude rather than their distinctiveness.) Yoga and tai chi are the most obvious examples because those are moving practices which, novice attempts make clear, are first and foremost exercises in balance. Yoga can be used for building physical proficiency (muscles, bones, flexibility, etc.), but what comes first for me is leaving the exercise feeling in balance and pursuing later activities in that mode. Perhaps unsurprisingly, martial arts, yoga, and tai chi mostly developed out of traditions of mental exertion (sitting meditation techniques) as a means to balance the body with the mind rather than allow practitioners' physiques deteriorate; that is, monastic communities that spent all day sitting were getting too weak, so they developed physical regiments that supported healthy--and often highly toned and powerful--bodies to compliment their increasingly agile and potent minds. In this way, one practice of meditative living--both physically and mentally strenuous--was established and continues to be practiced. (The book, American Shaolin has a little to say on this, but I am not recommending any book that contains two colons in its title, unless it is by e.e. cummings.)
Establishing balance right now, between working so early and recovering sleep, feels somewhat futile. It isn't, I recognize, and it may be that I ought to recognize the many ways in which I have succeeded in finding balance since I have returned home. Work and biking both provide me with the potential thought-space to practice way-seeking (I have been rereading Eihei Dogen's The Moon in a Dewdrop), I have been reading much more than I have been able to at school, writing for leisure is a common pleasure, and I am cooking when I am able to do so; then again, work is often strenuous and anxious, my reading is distracted and unfocused, my writing time is inconsistent despite my interest in continuing, and I am eating too poorly for my tastes, nor have I made time for much meditation. This post actually arose from thinking about how distracted my reading urges have been: at night, I frequently read a bit of H.P. Lovecraft or other weird fiction, my afternoons involve some Berry or McKibben, my evenings perhaps some writing or Mary Pipher's Seeking Peace--which my mother gave me and has been set aside for far too long--and some comic books here and there, too. I have managed to listen to David Sedaris's new book, When You Are Engulfed in Flames, and Terry Pratchett's The Wee Free Men on CD over the past couple of weeks. Something about my life is far too distracted and it shows up all over my reading list, which just grows and grows and grows; but, for the first time in at least a decade, I am engaged in multiple books at once.
Then again, imbalance can be enlightening, which I hope to write about soon, but ought to get to bed since work begins in six scant hours.
These lessons, though, seem to predominantly go only very shallowly, because everywhere life and living is imbalanced. Immediately, I think of Francis Ford Copola's Koyaanisqatsi: Life Out of Balance, but I have also begun to read Bill McKibben's Hope, Human and Wild which chronicles the living examples of establishing balance, examing Curitiba, Brasil and the Indian state of Kerala. Reading Hope, Human and Wild is itself a practice in establishing balance. As I have recently mentioned, I am reading Wendell Berry's The Unsettling of America, which though fantastic, has turned into a rather powerful and frustrating read. On one hand, I am reading the nitty-gritty of America food policy, agriculture, and culture; on the other I am exploring the movement toward practiced, albeit difficult, examples of hope. I am interested and both but need one to temper the other in order to appreciate both.
Bill McKibben himself comments, in chapter one, on the role Hope has in building balance in his own life. His previous work, The End of Nature, McKibben explores the global impacts human beings have had on the world. If we understand nature or "wilderness" to be the antithesis of human settlement or knowledge (for example, the Wilderness Act calls for protection of the land "untrammelled by man"), then that sort of nature is over, because the world over is now impacted by the anthropogenic realities of global warming and pollution. Hope, on the other hand, is about moving beyond our current paradigm and into one that means living satisfactorily on less, about living more in tune to the needs of one another and the ecologies of which we are a part--not apart, as wilderness environmentalism may have you believe.
When I spend my own time meditating (zazen, yoga, tai chi, or--increasingly--intentional breathing), it is generally in order to establish an internal and external harmony. (Note: By saying both internal and external, I mean to suggest their relatedness, their similitude rather than their distinctiveness.) Yoga and tai chi are the most obvious examples because those are moving practices which, novice attempts make clear, are first and foremost exercises in balance. Yoga can be used for building physical proficiency (muscles, bones, flexibility, etc.), but what comes first for me is leaving the exercise feeling in balance and pursuing later activities in that mode. Perhaps unsurprisingly, martial arts, yoga, and tai chi mostly developed out of traditions of mental exertion (sitting meditation techniques) as a means to balance the body with the mind rather than allow practitioners' physiques deteriorate; that is, monastic communities that spent all day sitting were getting too weak, so they developed physical regiments that supported healthy--and often highly toned and powerful--bodies to compliment their increasingly agile and potent minds. In this way, one practice of meditative living--both physically and mentally strenuous--was established and continues to be practiced. (The book, American Shaolin has a little to say on this, but I am not recommending any book that contains two colons in its title, unless it is by e.e. cummings.)
Establishing balance right now, between working so early and recovering sleep, feels somewhat futile. It isn't, I recognize, and it may be that I ought to recognize the many ways in which I have succeeded in finding balance since I have returned home. Work and biking both provide me with the potential thought-space to practice way-seeking (I have been rereading Eihei Dogen's The Moon in a Dewdrop), I have been reading much more than I have been able to at school, writing for leisure is a common pleasure, and I am cooking when I am able to do so; then again, work is often strenuous and anxious, my reading is distracted and unfocused, my writing time is inconsistent despite my interest in continuing, and I am eating too poorly for my tastes, nor have I made time for much meditation. This post actually arose from thinking about how distracted my reading urges have been: at night, I frequently read a bit of H.P. Lovecraft or other weird fiction, my afternoons involve some Berry or McKibben, my evenings perhaps some writing or Mary Pipher's Seeking Peace--which my mother gave me and has been set aside for far too long--and some comic books here and there, too. I have managed to listen to David Sedaris's new book, When You Are Engulfed in Flames, and Terry Pratchett's The Wee Free Men on CD over the past couple of weeks. Something about my life is far too distracted and it shows up all over my reading list, which just grows and grows and grows; but, for the first time in at least a decade, I am engaged in multiple books at once.
Then again, imbalance can be enlightening, which I hope to write about soon, but ought to get to bed since work begins in six scant hours.
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