Thursday, June 23, 2011

Vincenzi, Chapters 11, 12, 13, & 14

Preface

I have returned to Vincenzi after a lengthy hiatus. Miss Lauren's encouragement, as well as more general writing commentary from friends has me working at my writing more. The expectation to write in a more specific, placed way at the Northern Arizona Sustainable Communities Blog, which you should check out, has me simultaneously curious about my fiction. Also, I have finally made a point to read Kenneth Grant's work. For those who are unaware, Kenneth Grant was an occult historian (he died earlier this year) and magician (as far as I can tell) whose ideas peculiarly link the weird fiction of H.P. Lovecraft and the magick ways of Aleister Crowley. As an aside, I think Lovecraft himself would cringe at Grant's suggestions, but I am interested in understanding them in order to incorporate them into the fiction I am writing. I like to think that this continues Lovecraft's own tradition of weaving in actual works on the occult with his own fictional library. Anyway, I have just concluded the "dinner scene" in the Vincenzi story (a draft of it, anyway) that is intended to provide a firm and recuperative familial context for our protagonist that allows him to continue his work. I have enjoyed writing this a good deal and feel that, in some ways, it will eventually stand on its own as a story within the novel itself.

I hope you enjoy it.

Oh, and I am aware that there are likely shifts in tense. As the earlier chapters point out, this is intended to be a sort of journal kept by Lorenzo and ought to be in past tense. Such details will be worked out in revisions. Also, tabs do not translate easily and so you'll have to make sense of the indentations on your own.

...

Chapter 11

The bell of the phone split my head with each ring. I knocked it off its cradle reaching from beneath the covers.
“Hey Lo', you up yet?”
“Almost.”
“You going to make it to dinner like the rest of us?” The voice was familiar, feminine; it did not draw me awake, but I could feel in it the grooves of routine.
“Course. What time?”
“The usual, two o'clock. Ma's going to ask about church.”
“She always does.” A sister, that's who it was.
“Well, you go?”
“Not yet.”
“You mean not yet today, right? Or do you mean not yet, this year?”
“Cam, you know how I feel about it.” Camille, the baby of the family except for our cousin Alecia, calling to make sure I would make it to Sunday dinner. I thought back to rescheduling our trip to the Mansion with Junior. It must have occurred to me, family dinner is always Sunday, a tradition older than me and I was the oldest of our generation of Vincenzis.
“Well, she'll ask. Maybe you went last night.” She paused, stewing over some scheme to keep me in maternal good graces. “Are you hungover?” She must have given up.
“Hard night. Not exactly.” The words tumbled all out of order.
“Clean up before. Don't make Ma sour about your fall from grace.”
“I'll try to.” And chewing my lip I remembered last week's supper. “How's Gia?”
“Oh, Gram's alright. Mickey's hip flared up again and she's scheduled for surgery now.”
“She's healthy enough for it?”
“Enough. I guess. Long recovery at her age, though. And it has Gram all worried.”
“That's how she is. Anything else?”
“The Castevets are coming in this time. You missed their last visit.”
“What was that, three months ago?”
“Six. Aunt Lynn spits fire about Laurie being so distant most of the time, especially after having Alecia, but she's happy they're all coming in.”
“Even Michael?”
“Yeah, even Michael.” The whistle of Cam's breath catches in the silence of the line. “Let's cross our fingers.”
“No kidding,” I added listlessly. Christmas, two years ago, Michael picked an argument with Papa Al – my granddad and the uncle of Laurie, Michael's wife – about ceremony and ritual in the Church. Michael's the type that can't let himself out of an argument once he's in it and Papa Al, well, he just thought he was in the right. At least while Michael was in a Vincenzi household, I'd agree Papa.
It didn't help that Michael had one of those smug, patronizingly worldly faces that you just wanted to land a fist on. He had a faded scar below his left ear, just under his chin, where a bar patron in Singapore felt the same; and a slight kink in his nose from when a Brazilian businessman felt shorted. It seemed that, when plied, Michael had a hundred stories of coming up on the wrong end of a fist or worse in his travels and dealings.
“Shape up Lo',” Cam said, quietly and sincerely breaking the pause. “I'll see you in a few hours.”
She hung up and I let the quiet of the line hum for a minute before I set the receiver on its cradle. I glanced toward the patient click of the clock: 11:15. Later than I had hoped, but not bad for the momentum I had been riding and whatever it was that hit me after The Hook. Delle's visage hung over my lazy eyes, like the impression of the sun on eyelids, and I smiled at the sardonic care she took to get me home. Arrow was at the museum and I grumbled at the absence.
I wanted to make sense of the episode and tried running through it all again. Everything following the music store was grainy, but it fell together. The stop at the music store, Uncommon Sounds, and encountering Jakki's topsy-turvy manner; I felt in the pants pocket I still wore and pulled out the rumpled notepad leaf with her number and set it next to the phone, sliding the note under one of its feet. I chuckled remembering her and the way that already it seemed a week, a month distant.
Then the episode of the cell, the voices opposite the door, the monstrous weight of control and impotence. I shivered thinking about it, but dredged up the memory as my pen scrawled over the page that seemed, magically, to have showed up in my hand.
The Hook and the aggression, the violence brimming over the edge of me. I reflected on the gang of youths in the street, identifying an outsider, the way I must have radiated the not-belonging as I faked confidence and assurance. Inside, though, something had fractured, a chipped window let in the fog and obscured everything. Intoxicated, by the experience and the behavior, and the loss of control left me with an unwholesome richness that I couldn't shake.
Scooting along on Arrow, I couldn't quite make sense of how I had connected the dots, how I could have made sense of my state and ended up at the museum asking for Delle. Then, the dreaming, the abyssal ocean and its dark mystique, the confusion of voice and touch and surreal impression; it clung like brine to my skin, salt and sweat and the cold rot of seaweed swept up on the beach.
I water on the burner, low, and peeled what was left of my disheveled clothes off: one shoe, scrunched socks, belt-less pants, shirt with a tear near the top from some twisting maneuver in the night, undershirt. Steam from the shower began gathering as I examined myself in the mirror. I prepared to shave and shut the door to keep the heat in. My razor was that perfect level of dull, catching the whiskers and drawing at them slightly, leaving that roughened and faintly scratched surface behind; it felt like shedding a skin, shuffling it off like a snake.
After, I ran my hand through my hair, grimy and as knotted as possible. My stomach grumbled, empty and unhappy, but with that certain sensation of happy expectation, the spice of hunger lingering at the edge of my tongue. The steam from the shower wrinkled the edges of the wallpaper and I smiled with the sense of saturation, of loosening the grunge and anxiety of the day. I used a horsehair brush, once stiff but softened with use, to dislodge it. I rinsed it and applied it to my scalp, too, feeling childlike as its harsh texture bristled like a mother's firm scrubbing and the bubbling of simple soaps.
The tea kettle was stuttering when I shut off the water. I dried myself and threw the towel around me before stepping into the kitchen, shaking loose tea into the pot, and pouring out the rumbling kettle. A caffeine kick wouldn't due, I decided, on a day full of family; and I savored the pungence of jasmine rising warmly to meet me. I covered the pot and returned to the bathroom to finish up. I chuckled at my hair sticking out in all directions and left brushing it till the very end.
I always managed to set aside a clean and confident outfit for Sundays. Slacks, an unstained undershirt, a sharply fitting shirt, a jacket that matched the pants, black or brown socks; of all things Ma and Granny Gabby – both married into the family – argued about, they agreed that their children ought to dress well. “Looking like you're ready for the day,” they liked to put it, and if someone showed up on Sunday or at some other gathering underdressed, it was all the two talked about the rest of the day. Better, though, than the two arguing with one another all afternoon.
After so long out of the apartment, the air had become stiff and still, strangely odorless. With the tea brewing it seemed to fill up again and I savored it. Late morning light crashed in through the main room window, reflecting off the glass coffee table and illuminated the space warmly. I glanced at the door of the sanctum and intentionally moved my thoughts away again as if shuffling a joker into a full deck.
I sliced bread, already slightly stale in the dry winter air, and set it in the toaster. The tug of hunger in my stomach had its particular appeal, a familiar emptiness, something I could hold on to; but if whatever had come over me last night was intensified by my day of coffee and nerves, then something to tide me over seemed wise. Smooth warmth came over my hands as they held the porcelain mug, chipped on the inside lip just to the right of the handle. The plain clay underneath – simple, unadorned, uniform – made me chuckle. I mused, “Only something made by a person could be so simple inside.”
And gooseflesh came over my arms and up my shoulders. I was on the case, even with other responsibilities, and the befuddlement of all these mismatched pieces suggested complexity, potency, and means of manipulation that had begun to creep in on me. Other cases had kept me up nights, had me running on fumes, and none of them had caused me to collapse the way I had last night. Not to mention the episode on the bus when I glimpsed the cell from Adler's shoes. The potential for connection between the Vision and the wave of fatigue, but whatever notion seemed to arise dissipated as I attempted to handle it.
The tea washed me out from the inside just as the shower and steam had cleansed me outside. The toast, spread with a thin layer of marmalade, scratched sweetly down my throat. Grumbles of mellow satisfaction rose, but were not satisfied, from my stomach. In a moment of calm, I savored each suggestion of myself, my body in this familiar space, and wondered what about it reverberated in me.
I had not dreamed. Who I was, where I was stayed exactly the same. Realization brought another laugh, quietly transformed into a sharp-cornered smile.
It was after noon when I finished breakfast and my second cup of tea. Howard's bowl was empty and I filled it again. Howard knew when he was hungry and for what he hankered. A bowl often lasted a week, but with the come of winter, his occasional bird became nonexistent prey and for the most part he seemed to avoid rats. Once or twice, I had seen him with a frog in his maw, but I could not figure where he might have found it.
The case had its gravity, pulling my consciousness toward it over time, but with Vincenzi family dinner fast approaching, I decided my destination, though, and struck out. Even if Arrow weren't in the museum garage, the ride was too long for him anyway. The journey took a bus ride and a few subway changes on the “T,” all in all taking at least an hour and a half. With something in my stomach and the clarity of solid sleep, the crystalline Sunday afternoon felt crisp, refreshing, and certain. I could use certainty right about now.
The first section of the trip, my thoughts lazed about in the blue sky, the ripples of clouds waving westward, and the meandering recollections of family. When I was younger, Gramma Gia – great grandmother to be exact – told stories of Enzo Vincenzi, her husband and my namesake. She described him as a young man in small town Italy in the 1920s. Enzo was good friends with Gia's eldest brother, Joey, who was thin the way strong, quick young men are thin. Joey had gone to fight even though he was too young. No one, Gramma said, was too young in those days to do the fighting. Enzo envied Joey's courage but, when he didn't come home, Enzo began to take up some of Joey's work.
Enzo, Joey's junior by two years, claimed the errand-boy job Joey had had. He helped Gia's ailing mother with groceries and housework. Ma, Gramma Gia would say, never got over Joey's absence and became stuck. In time or space or memory, it was hard to tell. Sometimes she would look at Lorenzo, young and lithe and powerful like Joey, and you could see her thoughts get away from her, her eyes soften and the wrinkles deepen at the edges of her eyes. Gia – not even a young woman at the time really, but just a girl – saw Enzo not as he was with his awkward length and bumbling around the kitchen, his elbows inevitably banging into something or painfully brushing against a pot on the stove, but as the man he was becoming. She would say of Pa Enzo that he was a man even then, perhaps unconvincingly, but that something had become alive when Joey died and she was captivated by it.
When the fighting spread out of the cities, the politics and the combat mingled together just about everywhere, Enzo began staying up late speaking with Gia's mother. Gia couldn't make sense of it all the time – her own work, especially with her Ma seemingly coming to pieces, was more difficult every day – but one morning, very early in the day, Enzo was in her room with her.
“Giovanna,” he said, his voice scraping tenderly at her full name, “wake up. We have a train to catch.”
“Enzo,” and she remembers the flush on her cheeks when she heard her own quavering voice, the way it spoke his name familiarly, softly. “What are you doing here?”
“Soldiers are coming. I don't want to fight with them. Will you come with me?”
Her eyes adjusted to the uncertain light of the stars. The moon had set and everything appeared in inky smears. As the scene – her small room and peasant bed, the glassless window with shutters open, the small desk her father and Joseph had built together – assembled itself from memory, she saw Lorenzo's face, not clear in the least but somehow defined. She would describe the way his cheeks had thinned, his nose sharpened, his brow firmed; he was then, even as young as he was, the man she had seen in him for sometime. She knew, too, that this was a man she trusted.
Sometimes Gramma Gia would say she nodded, other times that she whispered agreement; either way, they left that morning to catch a train out of town. Enzo, who been speaking to Gia's mother for weeks about leaving the country, first with both of them and then, as Gia's mother sickened, just the two of them. Enzo carried with him a small purse, sewn into the inseam of his pants, that carried two rings and the silverware. The silver didn't make it with them, but they found family friends when they arrived stateside and he showed them to her. The trek, of which Gramma never said much, was difficult and after it all she decided that she was a woman, at least woman enough to say yes.
I changed to the trains and for most of the rest of the trip, the sky was blotted out. My fellow travelers were few on Sunday, but many of them smacked of a certain familiarity. I thought of dreams and the people one meets in them. I considered the woman with the Irish accent, the other who had given Murlough the parcel, then of Jakki and her fierceness. Their faces varied from assembled to forcefully recalled, but I felt that they were revolving around the other face, the one with such power to captivate Malcolm and eventually incarcerate him. How she did it, I had little idea; that she did it, I was certain. The incidental Vision affirmed that much.
The question that remained, splintered in my mind, was, “What am I left with?” and, after that, “With whom?”
As I stared out at the unfocused sky, clouds sweeping in from the sea, I saw human forms suspend themselves above. I could not make sense of them, wanting to define them as one person or another. Murlough hung heavily in my mind. He obviously knew a great deal about these unpleasant matters, but not enough to settle him or allow him to plan his own actions. Stiletto remained blurred and uncertain; I had not even seen a photo of her since taking the case and that reality stung me. What did I have of this woman I was convinced was culpable? Visions, a manic conversation with an unreliable man, the confessions of a secretive collector, and the uneven accounts of a butcher and a purveyor of music: These were not the things of a case, the texture of which remained viscous and unreal.
Somewhere high overhead winds shifted and the clouds bunched. I saw not one of this cast, but my cousin, Alecia formed in the clouds. Her parents, Laurie being the grandniece of my grandfather, had kept her from most of these family gatherings. She and her brother Matt had become estranged because of the particulars of Laurie and Michael Castavet. Grasping the more elusive Castavets was a persistent challenge. They seemed religiously devoted to nothing at all, nothing clearly spiritual at least. Never has any of us any reference for such devotees of atheism. It took on almost a violent degree in some of the conversations with our kin.
Alecia, though, was in the midst of that adolescent meandering and aggressively unaware of her own direction in life. While her father would seduce any available audience with stories of his travels and discoveries – discoveries one always felt he was usurping from another – Alecia would uncover an unlocked door into an attic or cellar. The previous time she had come to dinner, six months to Camille's count, she had broken into the wine cellar and wriggled her way into an unknown, laddered chute in the southern corner. No one could find her for an hour and only when someone checked the cellar door, normally locked tight since I was a toddler walking around, did we see her come out of the tunnel.
Besides the grime she came up with, all was well. Though unperturbed, she said nothing of the adventure and no one else was adequately dexterous, let alone sufficiently lithe, to follow suit. Instead, the lock was changed and a heavy, manhole-like cover replaced the upturned boards to discourage further wanderings. Even though it echoed his own exploits, her father fumed, red-cheeked and aggressive. My sister Franny's husband Paul – big, Nordic type with a preternatural calm and warmth – had checked his every move for the hint that he would get violent. Paul, a high school counselor, is always one to navigate feuds and his attention to Michael was unnerving to everyone.
I had heard all of this, after the fact, from Cam. She kept me in the know whenever I missed a ritual Sunday dinner. As it happened, I had been on a mundane stakeout the night before keeping a keen eye nearly around the block. But I tailed the mug – a family man dealing a little of this (narcotics from out of town) and that (child pornography from an online dealer) to make up for bad investments – through the morning and was held up, groggy but satisfied, at the police station until that evening. From Cam and Franny's perspective, who had been catching up with Laurie, Alecia had been practicing lockpicking as a sort of after school activity and wanted to try the ancient locks around the house. Considering that the key to the cellar had remained in the china cabinet, they were likely right.
Only recently had Alecia come out of a long, bashful childhood. Through her elementary years, Laurie and their circle of friends had arranged a homeschooling agenda that had evolved into a grudgingly recognized charter school. Matthew had been among one of the first to go through the whole formative process (Kindergarten through a senior year) before going onto an Ivy League undergraduate. Matthew, with whom I had shared a peculiarly bifurcated competitiveness, had excelled in academia and approached us, like his father, with a certain patrician disdain. He spoke in archaic and verbose ways that frustrated my sisters and increased the animosity felt between what eventually felt like clan-based tensions. He was so clearly Michael's son that the family elders – Gram Gia, Papa Al, Great Aunt Mickey, and Great Aunt Lynn – ignored him as best he could to avoid arguments.
According to Cam – keen to the family politicking of Ma and Pa and their siblings – Alecia had, upon finding her voice, protested the school and its young sophisticates. She would break out of whoever's condominium they happened to be having class in that day, since the week was broken into six days in six different families' homes, often by escorting herself along a fire route after subduing the alarm. Laurie, Michael, and Matthew had tried to persuade her back, then into tutoring and homeschooling, but she wouldn't have any of it. And it was her willfulness that eventually saved her because for the past several months she had attended one of those rarely spoken-of academies. Its exclusivity was enough, for the moment anyway, for Alecia and was adequately accredited for the rest of the Castavets.
Getting out of the train car, I felt the familiarity of place, that warmth which infuses places with personal history and familial presence. I breathed deeply and felt the pleasant tugging on my stomach. Whatever happened, the gravity of home would hold. That, for this day, would be enough.

...

Chapter 12

Everyone's already talking at once.
“No, no, no. Like this. Stir like this.”
“Oh look who's come in.”
“Lorenzo, come give your mother a kiss.”
“And don't forget about your grandma.”
“Give the boy some air, why don't ya?”
“Oh he loves it, look at him!”
“When was the last time you ate, young man?”
And the wave of oregano and parsley and tomatos hits me with the tumult of words and embraces. The scene glows with a sort of autumnal light from the gas-stove tops and warm yellow curtains that suffuse the light throughout the space. I am distinctly passed around between Ma and Gram, and the other women in attendance. Pa just leans against the door frame to the kitchen with a whiskey, the ice tinkling against the glass, in his hands, chuckling at me. He is clearly, if calmly excited to see another man in the house.
Words tumble out of my mouth to each sparkling smile. “Missed you” and “Love you, too” and “How long has it been” all fall into the jigsaw puzzle places. Aunt Tina is gripping my arm and feeling the tense muscle underneath as she leads me into the frontroom where my sisters sit, laughing warmly. Tina's has just recently had her hair dyed dark again, hiding even the roots of her graying hair, but it stands out against the worn, long navy dress that still smells faintly of incense and church-goers perspiration. It is rare, I realize, to see her looking fragile. The winter, I think, keeps her from the gardening that she loves. Frankie and Cam cradle glasses of red wine that look to have been hardly touched. Frankie stands up first and gives me a hug. Her wool sweater with its Scandinavian style itches my freshly-shaved chin.
“How's Paul? Is he going to make it today?” I ask, thinking about the pleasant, calm company Paul provides. I scoot onto the sofa next to Frankie, Cam sitting at the edge of one of the overstuffed chairs while Tina shifted off the center of the frontroom.
“No, he'll be working at the school all day. Some kids were fighting on Friday and Paul decided to put together a sort of workshop. The violence, it has been almost infectious these days. Paul's bringing in family of all the boys involved to talk it out.”
“Well, we'll play a game or two of chess next time he makes it. Let him know.”
“Absolutely. You look like you've been working a little too.”
“Sure sounded like it this morning,” Cam chimes in as I take my seat. Tina hovers nearby, listening and stretching the tender muscles in her legs. I realize that her hold on me may have been for her own support as she recovers from knee and hip surgery.
“Just the past couple of days.”
“Anything you're going to tell us about?” asked Cam. She's obviously prepared for a day of food and family, happy to escape her usual academic confines. She had removed her charcoal jacket to reveal a simple, highly functional black dress with silver threads. In high school she had begun wearing men's sports coats that managed to augmented her small stature, giving her a deliberate panache of power while grating our parents' sensibilities. She and I spoke about her classmates sometimes, and when I raised questions about her style, she would laugh and deride the boys' clubs she had somehow infiltrated.
“I doubt there's much you want to know about it.”
“That's true, I suppose,” and Cam smiles knowing that sooner or later she'll hear the story parsed together in some manner.
“And how's school?”
“Oh, I doubt you want to hear about it,” to which I chuckle and Frankie laughs. “I almost have a model finished for the colloquium. A firm's going to hire the best in the class for this synagogue project.” Cam's five year architecture and design program has kept her busy since she graduated high school with honors. She's smarter than any of us and the gem of Pa's eye, especially because the program offers internships and student employment that means she's paying for the whole thing.
“Do you think you'll get it?” Frankie asks.
“It's possible. The professor won't say how many students are eligible, but we're guessing two or three. I've made summer plans already, so I guess I'm not betting on it.”
Tina settles in next to me on the couch, not sure what to make of herself given her current state.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, turning to Tina.
“It's not fun, getting better. I have that to say about it.”
“Has it been painful?” Cam inquires, and I shoot her a look of disapproval. She just ignores me though, waiting for Tina's response.
“Not so much now. I just can't move the same and that really bothers me. These boots,”– her feet are wrapped in black plastic ties and straps, a glint of steel here and there –“weigh to damn much, that's for sure,” she smiles as she says it and we laugh at her intentional indiscretion. Tina likes to think of herself as one of the peacemakers in the family and has always been attentive to my sisters and me, wary to negotiate the waters of adolescence. With Cam recently out of those trying seas, she has become more of a friend than before, though these little experiments with profanity hint at her continued uncertainty with the role.
“It's good to see you up and about,” commented Frankie.
“No kidding. That's why I can't complain. Whatever I'm feeling now is sure better than sitting or laying around all day. I was getting tired of those romance novels and old movies.”
“Has Richard been much help?” Frankie asks, expressing our own quiet concerns about their marriage. Richard, Tina's husband, works with airport security and is away often. Sometime over the previous three or four months, a rumor had spread amongst us that Richard had had some form of infidelity. The concern remained vague and immaterial, never to be identified as anything substantial.
“He's been around more than usual. Even took a holiday from work to take care of me the week after the surgery. Since then, he'll stay home with me or do errands. He even ran out for ice cream one night. It reminded me of when we were trying to get pregnant.” This conversational turn, unwanted and unexpected, left a sourness behind. Tina and Richard had, for many years in my childhood, tried unsuccessfully to have a child and that time remained a dark, familial memory avoided as much as possible.
“Well, I'm sure it is good to have him around. A change of pace,” Frankie's cheer trailed off, but its effect was felt.
“It reminds me of the first time I got sick at school,” Cam said, clearing her throat. “Away and lonely. All I wanted was Ma or you,” referring to Tina, “to come and take care of me.” Cam took the reins of the conversation and told her story, allowing me a little getaway. As I stood, I kissed Tina's cheek in an attempt at solidarity with whatever weights she carried.
The smells and heat radiating from the kitchen pulled me in. Ma and Gram lovingly argued over the steaming marinara. A pile of fresh, chopped herbs – basil, oregano, parsley – lay on the walnut cutting board, next to that a series of small bowls of olive oil are dressed with dried herbs – thyme, tarragon, rosemary and others. My great aunt Lynn sits at the kitchen table, which hardly seems to fit next to all pots, pans, plates, bowls, casserole dishes and cutting boards scattered about. She sips at a glass of white wine and smiles knowingly at the tidal culinary rivalry of her niece and mother-in-law. Lynn sees me and nods her head to the empty seat next to her. I pour myself a glass of Primitivo before joining her.
“And how are you young man?” Lynn asks after I kiss her cheek.
“Busy, I guess. Went from one job to the next.”
“No waiting tables in between?”
“No,” I say smiling. “Don't think I'm personable enough for waiting tables. They'd probably stick me in the back doing dishes.”
“Don't say that. Can you imagine your father's face? He'd be red for a week,” she says with a smile. Her eyes and mouth are edged by laugh lines. Lynn – married into the Vincenzi's via my great -uncle, Big Joey – had so easily appreciated the vivacity and characteristic energy of the family, that her quiet, even meditative manner had become a column of stability in difficult times. We liked to tease her that it was the Presbyterian upbringing that did it, that getting mixed up in a bunch of Catholics provided her just enough distance to be ecumenical.
“Well, I've gotten through worse times without washing dishes.” I noticed that her wine glass was empty before asking, “Where are Laurie and Michael? Cam said they'd be coming.”
“Running late, I suppose. Michael, he always wants to drive in rather than take the train. This time of year, I'm guessing they got hung up somewhere. You know how he is with directions.”
“I'm sure they'll be here any minute. And they're bringing Alecia, aren't they?”
“They promised to. She's such a sweetheart, I'm glad they got her out of that little institute they have. She needs more freedom than that.”
“Do you want another glass of wine? I can get it for you.”
“I'm not that old, Lorenzo. Treat this woman with some respect,” adding a smile to her chiding. She stands and goes and pours herself a half glass of the Riesling. She notes my glass and tops it off herself, providing a small flourish to suggest her preserved finesse. “Just as capable as ever, young man.”
As she sits, we both turn to the parlay going on between Ma and Gram Gia.
“You know if you bake the lasagna at four hundred it'll be cold by the time we serve it,” Ma argues. She wore a pristine green and white apron strapped over her housedress. Despite being somewhat radical in her youth – as she liked to say, “Who wasn't?” – after marrying my father Jules, she adopted her mother's way and collected distinct outfits for home, hosting, going out, running errands, and the rest. Cam, Frankie, and I could always tell where she had been by peeking in on the smoothed clothes laid out on her bed. She had chosen a well-loved blue dress with white polka dots, the fringe of the skirt just slightly frayed. As far as I could recall, she had always had the dress and it held in its threads the smell of innumerable dinners she had prepared while in it. Later, I imagined, she would change into her dress for hosting; but without the Castevets or any other less familiar family, she was in no rush.
“The center will be cold at three fifty, Maria.” Gram was waving a large wooden spoon – that with her Italian accent constructed a caricature of the Italian Grandmother – dripping sauce on the floor and some had already ended up on her messy, white apron. It seemed to have absorbed a little bit of everything – tomatoes, green herbs, a smear of grease from prosciutto next to drops of green-tinged oil, a white and blue speckle of Gorgonzola – and it lent to her an air of distinct authority. Miraculously, she had kept her yellow dress underneath untouched by the delicatessen of ammunition. “We'll just set it underneath the oven where it'll stay warm while the lamb finishes.”
“If the lamb isn't too tough by then,” a statement my mother would normally avoid.
“Now, I've made leg of lamb more times than you can count. Trust me. It'll come out just as tender as can be,” she added a wave of her spoon for emphasis. “Lynn, you know my lamb. Has it ever been tough?”
“I am sure everything will taste wonderful,” Lynn responded diplomatically.
“It is all wrapped up tight, so it won't dry out.”
“You're right, you're right. I give up.” Ma throws her hands in the air and turns to the big bowl of leafy greens. She begins to slice red and orange cherry tomatoes and toss them in. “Where'd these come from, Gia? They look gorgeous.”
“Oh, those are from Tina and Richard's greenhouse. Aren't they just beautiful? I'm sure she'll apologize for them for one reason or another. They have something going where they compost a restaurant's food waste and it makes enough heat for them to grow through the winter. Smart of them.”
“I can't believe you get tomatoes like these so early,” Ma playfully pops half of one in her mouth and clearly enjoys it.
“Is Giorgy coming in?” I ask. My uncle is an inconsistent attendee of the suppers because of work. He manages a handful of small gallery spaces for exhibitions, small plays, conferences, and the like. Carole, who had joined Giorgy for a dinner before, was clearly his boyfriend, but anything overt about the two of them was quickly, politely swept away. Lynn had been in quiet participation to a handful of conversations about Giorgy and Carole between my sisters, Giorgy, and I – this had preceded the two renting a place together that no one openly acknowledged – but other than the five of us, the topic never came up.
“In time for dinner, but he wanted to drop off a few things,” Gram replied. “One of the art dealers he works with just came in from Italy and Giorgy had her buy some cheese for today. Gorgonzola and Parmesan. Isn't that sweet of him?”
“And its just delicious,” Ma added, obviously nibbling on the waxy rind of the Parmesan. With even Cam out of the house, Ma had allowed herself the handful of childish pleasures she'd always enjoyed but never revealed around her children. One of which was eating a little of everything as she cooked. I asked her about it once and she said it was such a bad habit when you want to impress someone, but that way you knew just how good everything was before everyone else. She liked to be in the know, she had added with a grin.
“What else is on the menu?” I ask, hoping to keep the two from arguing as much as possible while also easing the pangs of hunger the rich smell elicited.
“Mickey made her stuffed mushrooms. Giorgy says he has a foccacia he'll bring over. Frankie made a tart that'll bake while we eat. And, this and that.” Gram would say just enough to whet the appetite without dampening the excitement for the meal. Mickey might have resorted to any of a dozen mushroom recipes and Giorgy had at least three variations on his herb, oils, and flours he liked to throw together. Frankie's could have five different fruit tart fillings, and “this and that” generally referred to unnamed deserts. I noticed too that the ingredients in the lasagna went unnamed, though from her apron, I was sure that prosciutto was a dominant ingredient.
I sipped at what was left of my wine, surprised to see it nearly empty, as Ma and Gram began to fuss around one another again. They were cooperative again, suggesting that whatever tension between the two that had precipitated the criticisms of the lasagna had quieted. Each was calmly aware of the movements of the other. Lynn and I watched the knowing, womanly dance of the two, quietly smiling and nudging each other when Gram patted Ma's substantial hip so that she could provide her own approval of the gravy for the leg of lamb or the béchamel sauce leftover from fixing the lasagna.
“Lo, go tell your father to turn that down a little,” Ma ordered in a singsong tone. From the study, something vibrant and orchestral blared. My grandfather Papa Al had for over a decade worn a hearing aid and with my father getting into his fifties, those same symptoms were arising in him. Normally, Ma would allow the volume, but with everyone coming in she clearly felt the need to keep a more serene house.
The smell of pipe tobacco and cigar smoke hit me before entering the study. Though the Vincenzi men had made a habit of opening the windows before smoking over the past few years – Cam, Frankie, and I had complained about the ills of tobacco through our youth only to have Cam pick it up in high school and I in college – but the innumerable pages continued to emit the odor regardless of whatever changes in habit had been made. Papa Al was smoking his pipe near the window, blowing long streams of smoke into the chill air. He was dressed warmly in a faded black wool jacket and fingerless gloves, which he had picked up with the initial onset of circulation problems. Papa Al, despite his age, still had the remnants of a much younger, active, and muscled man. He liked to walk everywhere and though he'd picked up a cane about five years previous, he acted like it was more of an accoutrement than a tool. And his broad shoulders seemed to conceal a firm physique despite the wear of age and tobacco on his face.
My father enthusiastically listened to the bellowing player. The record jacket revealed Mahler, Symphony No. 9 and it seemed well into the first side. Its rich, fluid swoops produced a mirrored wavering in Pa. He seemed to feel it as much as hear it and like a charmed snake, the movements of the music were reflected in his own gestures. It was a shame, I thought, to halt him so abruptly in the middle of his small luxury. He told me it was not until his thirties, when I was just a boy, that he had been coerced into a classical performance of Mahler by the Boston Symphony Orchestra that had turned him on to classical music. Up until then, he had relegated to old, uppity academics. And though he had explored other composers, preferring live performances whenever possible, Mahler remained his favorite.
“Pa,” I said, tapping him on the shoulder, “you have to turn it down.”
“Lorenzo,” he exclaimed and stood up in order to give me a hug. “When did you get here?”
“Ma says you have to turn it down.”
“Oh, of course.” As he quickly spun the volume dial to something reasonable. As he peered at the set, I went over and received a hug from Papa Al as well. My father's own tall, slender figure stood out all the more next to Papa Al. It was always a matter of him hugging you, of taking you into his big shoulders and smoky clothes and scraggly old man scruff.
“How are you, Lorenzo?” Al inquired knowingly. He had worked for years in manufacturing and then in carpentry and retirement had treated him well. Without the rigor of handiwork, many of the small ailments – mostly tendinitis in his shoulders and minor arthritis in his hands – had lessened. Though he moved deliberately and gradually, it was always with the same assurance and determination. He seemed a boulder, a hill of a man; always moving at his own pace. And in the way of quiet men, he seemed to always have answers to his questions.
“Hungry. I've been in the kitchen.”
“How long did you last?” Pa said, chuckling. With Cam moved out, he had begun to think of himself as an old man. Investments he had made early on had paid off and he had for the past year cut his working hours in half. A pair of attentive assistants had assumed his responsibilities at the publishing house and often he was able to call in instructions or organize his department over the computer. He took pride in so masterfully arranging his life that he would, if left unchecked, fill your ear with labor-saving schemes and investment strategies.
“Long enough. Gram and Ma were competing for whisks, but they calmed down. Lynn's in a good mood.”
“She's happy that Laurie and Michael are coming in. She feels like she hardly know Matt or Alecia,” Pa said. Papa Al savored his pipe, letting the smoke billow slowly from his mouth, catch the flow out the window, and disappear into the bright, chill afternoon.
“I believe it. Cam said its been six months.”
“Sounds about right. Let's hope Michael keeps his smartass mouth closed this time.” Like me, Pa was recalling the Christmas incident. Al seemed unphased by the reference, perhaps placing himself above it. Or at least that is what I hoped.
I reclined in one of the smooth, worn leather chairs neatly bound with scholarly brass buttons. Though my father and grandfather were sharp, even elegant men with their words, in the comfort provided by a known place and familiar company, they preferred their silences. Frankie had studied in the Philippines for a semester and came back to tell me of long, silent nights sipping tea with hosts; she had said it reminded her of Pa and Al staying up with their tobacco and coffee, whiskey or wine. It must have been after earning my accreditation that I felt welcome into their club, though few nights allowed me such repose. Right then I felt it that openness a space and time allows for you, when you can sense the tidal flow of the world wash past, not preoccupied, not concerned, but satisfied in where you have found yourself. Somewhere in that satisfaction, I could sense the rhythm and dim radiance of these patriarchs nearby.

...

Chapter 13

“Look who I found out in the cold!” My great-aunt Mickey announced as she enters, followed by Giorgy who might as well be invisible. Mickey, exuberant and playful even in her sixties, gestured straight through Giorgy to the Castavets as they come in the door. Mickey has on a beaming orange and yellow sweater that may compete with or compliment her tone, her gray and black hair pulled back in a braid that rolls down the front of her, and orange, thin-framed glasses suspended at the tip of her nose. Giorgy is sharply attired in charcoal jacket over a pale blue shirt – something expensive but not showy – and is already explaining to Gram and Ma that he had to take care of something at the gallery before picking up Mickey. (Cam and I glance at each other knowingly at this tired but functional explanation.)
Behind them the Castavets, pictured like any harried Manhattanite family coming in from the blustery winter day, a serpent of blown snow shivering around their feet and the door. Michael looked just as he might coming out of a long business meeting, his pressed white shirt ruffled by too much sitting and the lazy sweat of a heated car, his hair has an odd cowlick in the back from the chair, and one of his left pant legs seemed to be tucked partially into his blue sock. Laurie looked superb: dark brown hair flows in a wave around her shoulders to her simple red dress that frames a peculiar gold necklace fitted with an amethyst that Michael gave to her just after Matthew – their eldest – was born, black tights met her dress just below her knees, and the absurd but dashing black coat lined with silver thread and buttons sitting on her shoulders just as if it belonged there. She was smiling; not with the halfway grin of a guest, but of the serene pleasure of returning to those who have known her for years.
Alecia acted meek and almost bookish next to her parents, shuffling in from the cold and squeezing as quickly as possible away from the entry and press of people. She held both her oversized and brimming bag and her mother's slim, almost unused purse. She wore a long, tight-fitting skirt of dark green and a long-sleeved t-shirt with some peculiar logo on it, the silhouettes of skaters or rock and rollers surrounding it, and a slightly too large leather jacket. By the way her eyes danced down at herself and then at the marauding, half-remembered family, I could identify that alarm at strangeness. Cam, Frankie, and I had talked about the sheltered world of the Castavets, its obvious impacts on Matt and its inverse manifestation in Alecia, not the least of which was her profound inability to read the dynamics of our family. She edged toward her grandmother, Lynn, who calmly wrapped her arm around the narrow and hunched shoulder of her granddaughter and allowed a modest, but rich smile filling her face.
Michael and Laurie were the subject to the same familial mayhem that I underwent. I took satisfaction in seeing Michael's discomfort at kisses on the cheek and enveloping hugs. Laurie, on the other hand, was an adept. She swooped from one embrace to the next, greeting everyone them all with an earnest smile. When she came to me – holding guard near the back next to my father – she paused, held me at arm's length and said, “Lorenzo, you look just fantastic. I wish Matthew were here, am sure that the two of you would be fine company for one another. You know, you and he are almost exactly the same age.”
“It is good to see you, too Laurie. And you tell me every time I see you how Matt and I ought to be better acquainted.” We were hugging all of a sudden and for a moment I wondered just how Matt had turned out such a prig. This woman was so keen to social conventions, her familial – if oft neglected – ties, and the comfort that one person can provide another.
“Lo, how are you?” Michael was suddenly in front of me holding out his big mitt of a hand to me. I took it and pulled him in for a manly, pat-on-the-back hug, knowing all the time that it would peeve him to be drawn in so close.
“Michael, good to see you,” I said in his ear and held him just long enough to feel a squirm in his shoulders. He had, on previous visits, made it quite clear he thought himself above me. “How is that son of yours?”
“Busy as can be. He and Tris sure are a pair. You should see them out for the night. He works and works, then plays and plays. I don't remember having that much energy, but Laurie still recalls how I conned her into marrying me. I must have had something going for me.”
“No doubt,” and I finally let go his head, which had become hot and sweaty in my firm but not unfriendly grip. I liked to place my dislike of Michael in my passive judging of people picked up from the work. One has to learn to develop a picture of someone that, even if wrong, might allow for swift control of a situation. That is what I told myself as Michael chuckled uncomfortably and shifted himself, wrapping his arm around Laurie's waist.
I looked over to Alecia who was being similarly accosted but also shielded from the worst of it by Lynn. The entryway was cramped beyond capacity and though I tried to wriggle toward them, I made nearly no headway. Before anyone realized it, Ma was tapping the bottom of a plate with a soup ladle.
“If you are hungry, dinner is ready,” she announced in her maternal authoritarian tone. As Michael and Laurie passed, she gave each a firm hug and hurried them toward the dining table. When Lynn and Alecia passed, she patted her ladle on Alecia's head softly, leaned in, and whispered something in her ear. Lynn laughed quietly at whatever was said and smiled generously at Ma.
While I had been in the study the additional leaves of the table had been added, extending it through the double doors of the frontroom where the sofa, chairs, and table had been scooted close to the front window. Everyone expressed his or her own excitement – hands rubbed together, tongues licked lips, smiles of approval to the chefs, fingers pointing dangerously close to sampling one dish or another – as they found themselves seated snuggly together. The unusual presence of the Castavets meant a tighter table than usual, but from where I sat myself – in the frontroom, just one seat in front the end – Michael was the only one straining to find his own space. Everything bustled with electricity and comfort.
Papa Al stood at the head of the table in the frontroom and cleared his throat. I realized that he hadn't said anything at all in the study, just listened and puffed knowingly. Though about to break his silence, he first looked at each of the familiar faces, each beaming with a grin or outright smile on his or her face. I followed his gaze: first me, Cam, Ma, then Frankie, Uncle Giorgy, Aunt Tina and her husband Richard (somehow sneaked in while I was in the study), my grandmother Gram Gia at the far head of the table, Great-aunt Mickey and Great-aunt Lynn who was still protecting Alecia (who had not yet said a word, as far as I had heard), Laurie, then Michael, and back around to my father buffering Michael from Al. I breathed deeply, taking in all these faces I would call family and who would call me family in times of joy and times of need.
“Family,” Al began once the table fell silent. His voice was low and garrulous, smothered behind years of persistent moderate smoking and steady, unquiet use. “You are all family. Sometimes that can seem the most inconsequential of bonds. No one asks for the bonds of family, yet here we all are celebrating them. We have four generations represented at this table. Each in our own way has traveled far to be here today. I am gracious for each step you have made to join us today.
“Not all at this table share my beliefs. This I recognize,” Michael shifted as if to speak, but Laurie's hand on his though hushed him. “But I hope all of you respect,” and he allowed the word to hover in the air, “the sacrifices made by others who have come before and those that are to come. A sacrifice, the sacrifices that have been made are not given knowingly. To those that have made them, sacrifices may always be for nothing. It is only with the grace of God that we can make our sacrifices unknowingly, uncertainly. We dine today thankful not just for what has been given by our family, but by the grace that we have received.”
Papa Al remained standing, as if he had more to say. His deeply lined face was clear, serene, but for eyes that looked into each of us and through us. As he lingered on me – so close to him – it became obvious to me that he was recalling his father whose name I was given. I could discern, too, that in the faces of each of us, he could see the shadows of those who were not present. After that keen silence he sat down; and following another long quiet, the clatter of silver on porcelain woke us all to the meal.
And what a meal. Once the forks and spoons and knives began whirring about there was no stopping us. On either side of the table were bowls full of a fresh green salad, leaves made dark by the sun of an unusually clear winter. Tina and her husband Richard tended a greenhouse through the winter, the early greens in which they swore by and refused to eat any salad fixings from the supermarket. It was tossed with basil, romaine, baby spinach, and shining cherry tomatoes (Tina added, “Now, the tomatoes are still young so they aren't as ripe as they should be,” though not one of us complained); and handsome crumbles of Parmesan topped it off, half of the block, roughly broken in two, sat at the base of each wooden bowl of salad. Olive oil and balsamic vinegar stood like decorative sentinels in slender glass carafes.
Strips of thinly cut garlic and olive focaccia, nearly coated in dried minuscule rosemary leaves and littered with glistening coarse salt, were scattered on platters all over the table. They seemed to be lounging wherever space provided And we all had small bowls already prepped with olive oil for dipping – though many had already swirled in the preferred amount of vinegar.
“I had to bring in something of my own,” Giorgy explained apologetically. “The Parmesan and Gorgonzola aren't even my doing. Shawna at Gallery 22 just got back and, the sweetheart, she just insisted on bringing us all things. Besides, with the breadmaker, I really didn't do much of any work. Honest.”
Near the center of the table was a round tray arrayed, two layers deep of Mickey's stuffed mushrooms. The stuffing was light and golden and flecked with paprika or cayenne – later I learned it was a little of both – with the green onions finely chopped and whipped. Gram had taken the liberty of sprinkling a fine layer of Gorgonzola over them and leaving herself a proud block near her plate which she seemed intent on adding to everything. Mickey jested, “I've made those so many times I doubt Erich would even eat them if he were here. I could do them in my sleep.”
Crowded in the center was the immense casserole dish of slow-cooked lamb's leg. Its cream sauce gravy had filled the whole house – save the smoky study – with its rich aroma, hinted with tarragon, parsley, and a small bundle of cilantro. The bone peered out, as if some overseeing central capitol to the whole table.
“I told you Maria, it would come out just fine,” Gram teased my mother.
“You were right. I never should have doubted you. It tastes wonderful. I can never get the gravy to taste like you do.” Ma replied, presenting her left palm out as if to surrender while her right forked out a cut of the meat.
“You have to burn the flour as you're preparing the base. It sort of caramelizes it or something, just makes it sweeter somehow.” She smiled through her words, and took a moment to chew. “You've still got plenty of time to master it, don't worry.”
Sharing the central seat of the table with the lamb was the overfilling and just perfectly burnt-on-the-top lasagna. The top had been halfway dressed with prosciutto – demarcating a meatless side for Alecia, Giorgy, and the patriarchs who were always encouraged but never deigned to partake – but it has been immediately lost its uniformity. A brilliant red chunky marinara peered out, its layers dripped over by the dark and creamy béchamel sauce. Layers of meaty portabello were balanced by slivers of zucchini and yellow squash; and over the bulk of it thinly sliced prosciutto. Chunks of Romano cheese and hot, almost flowing ricotta seemed to roll out at every exposed edge.
“Gram, I can't believe you're still making the lasagna leaves from scratch,” Cam said complimentarily as she shoveled out an over-sized piece that miraculously held together.
“Once you start making it, you realize it is just so much better to do it at home. Use real olive oil,” a persistent joke in our household was what constituted real and inadequate olive oil, “and a fresh egg or two. It is so far beyond anything you might find in the store.” Gram's smile gleamed out over the table, the outreached hands and passed around plates being dressed with the central dishes. “But compliment your mother on the marinara. It took me a while, but the Gentilis do know how to make marinara.”
“Ma, when do I get to learn this recipe?” Frankie inquired jokingly, Cam nodding in agreement.
“Well, when you start helping me in the kitchen,” Ma chided playfully, suddenly rosy and youthful with compliments. Cam laughed and with a sly, sharp look Ma seemed to cut her short; then all four laughed together. No one, Cam and Frankie told me, got in the way of Ma in the kitchen except for Gram Gia, and only because of her raw authority in the kitchen. Neither of the two were able to keep up with Ma's demands and strictures which often went without being said, and hence without being known until it was too late. Ma and Gram's laughter, seemed to reflect their knowing or at least kindly acknowledgement of this wise abstention, thus relieving Cam and Frankie (or I, had I been more interested in the kitchen) from culpability.
Conversation continued to ebb and flow around the food. Comments and apologies passed like salt and pepper, compliments poured out like olive oil. The crust of the focaccia had softened and it had dried somewhat, but it went wonderfully with the basil-flavored olive oil and coarse pepper; not to mention the slight bitterness of the greens. Each bite into the cherry tomatoes seemed to exploded in my mouth, commandeering my mouth by overcoming all other flavors. The Parmesan was tangy and briny and recalled eating whole chunks of Romano as an undersized twelve-year-old, just learning to explore the flavors beyond sweetness and salt-heavy snacks. Ma had wanted to be angry, but laughed so hard as I tried to drink as much water as I could.
Mickey's stuffed mushrooms had a meaty, almost nutty indefinable quality. Each bite I followed by a sip of wine, wondering and the interplay the two provided. The filling was loud with creamy sweetness and savory with the slow blooming of green onions, shredded almond, and the leisurely flavor of sage. I stood up, having finished my glass of wine in the midst of the three caps I had snatched from the tray, and made my way around the table, filling each wine glass with the each diner's preference. With a grin and a pat from Laurie, I provided Alecia just a fourth – or maybe a third – of a glass of Riesling from Alta Badia. I figured its chill and modest sweetness would not offend her palate and it had always been a Vincenzi policy to introduce alcohol in its proper setting: Friendly company, a meal, and a familiar air.
I set aside what remained of the mushrooms, but before I could cut into the lasagna and lamb taunting me – the gravy on the lamb seemed to ooze delightfully toward every other dish – Cam jabbed me in the side with her elbow. A crumb of cheese dangled from her lip as she asked, “Lo, how have your women been treating you?” I bought a moment by sipping at my water.
“Asking after anyone in particular?” Cam assumed a sort of romantic check on everyone in the family. I liked to think it was her youth, but she seemed determined to either encourage or protect any affectionate possibilities. She had, in private of course, dug from Giorgy his initial primordial interest concerning Carole. Cam had caught up with Giorgy for lunch at one of his galleries, it just so happened that Carole's friend was one of the artists and was being shown around. She determined that the two had been arranging for this sort of rendezvous for weeks and it was because of Cam that Giorgy had finally made a move.
“Lorenzo, I hope you're not entertaining a harem in the city,” Ma chided affectionately.
“You know me. Sometimes it's all I can do to keep them away,” but I could feel the blush rising, uninhibited by even the modest wine I had enjoyed.
“How's that librarian, Delle?” Cam prodded, blatantly pressing me.
“Shannon, you know well, is a curator and restorationist, not a librarian.” I distracted myself by nibbling on the lamb, though recalling waking up on her office sofa did not seem like appropriate dinner time material. “She's well. Working all the time. Ran into her the other night. She acted like I was just a big bother.”
“No dinner plans yet?” pestered Frankie from opposite Cam. She was leaning back to allow Ma a clearer view of me and to see around Cam. I sighed, thinking of the gathering storm of sardonic womanly advice and encouragement.
“You know how busy a woman like Delle can be.”
“Lo,” Giorgy called from the other end, “I bet she would just love coffee at that little nook you love.”
“Don't you go criticizing Sabeen's. Find me a better cup of coffee, I dare you,” adding a waving hand gesture.
“With you around, you're probably scaring off all her customers,” Cam jabbed. “It would do her well. Maybe you're bringing in the wrong sort of crowd, roughing up the joint.”
“She's a hard nut. I bet she likes the oddballs that follow me around,” I finish with a sharp bite into the lasagna, sending a gaze around incriminating the others as being as strange as anyone else I might see across a table. Cam, Giorgy, Frankie, and Richard chuckle, but Ma does not take criticism of the family as smoothly and sends an icy stare my way.
It didn't get to me. I shoveled in a second bite of the lasagna, a piece of the prosciutto rolls over my tongue and I dabbed at my watering mouth as the succulent peppery taste catches my attention. The pasta is just faintly firm inside despite all its treatment. The rich béchamel sauce hits first, but is quickly overcome by a modest but notably spicy marinara, tinged with arrabbiata herbs and peppers. A crunch into a copse of dried red peppers and it heats my mouth and brings the slightest hint of satisfied tears to my eyes. And like a signal was sent, the rest dissolves into the vegetable certainty of the zucchini and squash. I chew longer than normal, not wanting the bite to vanish despite the hunk still lounging on my plate.
“I don't know how the lasagna could be better,” I eventually say, inciting a second round of compliments to the chefs. Cam jostled me just slightly in order to acknowledge my shift in the conversation. I gave her a childish sideways smile and shoved a chunk of lamb in my mouth. Its flavor and richness hit with bullet celerity. It must have been slowly cooking for hours. The weight simply dissolved into a medley of warm intonations. My kid's smile was swept away by a sort of stupid grin as the tarragon and parsley and abundant even milder tones rose out of the certainty and satisfaction of the tender meat. I snorted with a sort of base gluttony after swallowing; just enjoying everything as if it were made just so. And I suppose in the case of the meal, it was.

...

Chapter 14

Somehow we had managed to clean our plates. Ma, Lynn, Frankie and Laurie were tidying up. The rest of us were playing musical chairs getting to the bathroom or lounging around. Fresh coffee was brewing and I smelled the familiar accents of Sabeen's coffeehouse. I took comfort in knowing the cache I provided Ma was still around. Though I noticed that a second pot was brewing in a maker and realized that it was decaf. I recognized the sleight of hand intended to cater to doctor's orders for my father, Papa Al, and anyone else with such preferences.
“Anything in New York that can compete with a meal like that?” I inquired pointedly toward Michael. He had remained rather subdued throughout the meal, smiling and nodding rather than openly complimenting the dishes or those who had prepared them.
“I don't know when I last ate so much, Lorenzo.” He let a smile roll over his lips. Michael was chronically indisposed to flattery, even when polite, and this sort of sideways line was the closest he would get.
“Lo,” Laurie chimed in, reaching between Alecia and Michael, to heft the lasagna dish of the table, “you know this is the best meal he's had in weeks.” After depositing the casserole dish on the counter, she came back and laid a small kiss on Michael's cheek.
“What sort of case are you working on?” Alecia quietly ventured. Her voice retained a high eloquence. It wasn't child-like but neither was it adult. I recalled that Laurie had been a member of various choirs and, once or twice, sang in amateur operas. That control and mastery of sound had enchanted me as a child and something of it seemed to have been passed on to Alecia.
“Talking business at the table? Isn't that dangerous ground?”
“It's after dinner. Talk away,” Frankie replied, as if suggesting that the meal was what was keeping us all here. She was cutting into some sort of tart that had been warming in the oven, setting pieces decked with raspberries onto trays. Despite not feeling like I could consume another bite, my mouth watered at the sight.
“A missing person,” I stated, looking directly at Alecia. Her eyes, brown tinged with flecks of green, stared directly at me. The green only seemed to come out now that the sun was set and we had resorted to the soft light of lamps; a Tiffany describing a boat sailing on the ocean in the frontroom cast beautiful cerulean, viridian, and white hues in all directions. For just the briefest moment, those eyes looked hungry and I shiver surprised me.
“Who? What happened?”
“I can't say. It might offend my client.”
“But why is he missing?”
“So far it seems to be of his own volition,” and this, I realized, was almost the truth. Adler had allowed himself to be swept up into Stiletto's game of hearts and flesh.
“Then why are you involved?”
“Sometimes people don't make the best decisions.”
“So he has to get out of something?”
“Well, he's a missing person, isn't he?”
“Why aren't the police involved? Why you?”
“You don't think I have a reputation that stands on its own?”
Alecia chuckled and I could tell she was imagining me being spoken of in the shrouded corners of good-for-nothing bars.
“Sometimes, especially when someone isn't making the best decisions, getting out of what you're in requires... discretion.” And the word sunk into her. Her brow knotted and cheeks flushed. I recalled the story of her getting out of the stay-at-home salons the Castavets and their socialite crowd had assembled. She had hated it and had managed, even if only into an absurd sounding elite prep school, to wriggle out of it.
Laurie set the saucer and coffee down in front of Michael and Alecia just enough to break my thoughts. It seemed to sing ever so slightly, to call back. I couldn't figure if everyone else had been listening or if Alecia and I had simply been so caught up to ignore everything else.
“Thank you, Laurie.”
“Thanks Mom.”
Laurie leaned down and whispered, “Decaf. You're not staying up all night.”
“Mom. You know I drink this stuff all day. Its the only thing you can get in the school that's not soda or milk.”
“I don't care,” she said, letting a protective smile shine down on Alecia.
Frankie balanced four cups, each with a spoon teetering at the edge. Richard half-stood and took one from each hand. She had been a barista through college and though Richard appreciated her deftness at a cappuccino or Americano – let alone a jackhammer after a three or four hour night – he was the type to protect her as much as possible. Some shift in he wait, some flash of recollection on her face I might catch suggested some knowing on his part, some fear of veiled fragility, but it had never been something she had spoken of to me. Discretion. We were inevitable practitioners of it.
“How long are you all staying?” Cam asks of the Castavets, though looking mostly at Alecia. The two, at least according to Cam, share a rapport and she is eager to get to know her cousin better.
“Tonight and the morning. Lynn is joining us for brunch. Then we're off again,” Michael curtly replies. His shortness comes off as punchy and disinterested. Perhaps he is deliberately avoiding what might get him into trouble.
“Where are you staying?” and Cam knows that it won't be here or with any of the family. She's prodding, as usual.
“Sheldon at the firm has a home out here. Borrowed the keys for a few days. Small, I guess, but it'll do.” His eyes glanced around as he said small, his condescension seeping out despite himself.
“You know, if Alecia ever wants to come down for a weekend, one of us,” she adds a coffee cup flourish to Frankie and me, “would be happy to host. She could catch the train after class.” All the while she looked almost exclusively at Alecia, though casting a glance at Laurie whenever possible.
“Oh, we'll have to see,” Michael began.
“That would be great,” Alecia spurts out, overeager but only slightly loud. “Mom, you think I could?”
“It sounds splendid, if someone has time to take you in,” Laurie adds, returning to her seat. “But what would you do? None of your friends are here. What would you see?”
“I could use it for a history paper, or an English paper. Write about the historic places here. Sightseeing and stuff. I could see what Cami's doing at school. What if she gets that internship? I could see the business and everything,” her voice got away from her, louder than she realizes, but Cam is soaking it up.
“Sweetheart, it is getting late. We can talk about this tomorrow,” Michael responds, trimming his words; a general smelling insurrection in the ranks.
“You all only just got here. It is just the dead of winter and it seems late,” I add. Everyone has gathered around the end of the table in the frontroom or has rearranged the furniture and tables for small talk.
“After the long drive, we're all a little tired,” Michael stated, wanting to end the conversation.
“Before you go anywhere, have desert,” Ma says, swooping in with plates of apple raspberry tart. “Lynn made it especially since you were coming in.”
“Don't tell them that. You're going to embarrass them.” Lynn was already blushing as she replied.
“Well you did. And it looks like I've embarrassed you,” Ma adds, taking a bite as she nearly collapses onto the sofa. “But it is just wonderful.”
“Thank you, Maria. I do try.”
And it was wonderful. The crust was buttery and light, but crisp as well. Its sweetness conflicted with the coffee, but I interspersed the bites and the drinks with sips of water. The raspberries were tart and fresh, the late ripening apples were sweet and crisp, just slightly caramelized in the oven. A almond flavored custard was the base and after so much rich food, it seemed like the straw to do us all in.
Everyone was in the mood for lounging and reflective, reminiscent conversation. The evening slipped away and so did all the attendees. Despite Michael's efforts, the Castavets were not the first to leave. Richard and Frankie complained of a long day cleaning before and an early morning to follow. Their departure foresaw the gradual exit of everyone.
“Laurie, Michael, I am so glad you brought Alecia with you,” Frankie said from the door. Though she had hugged and kissed everyone, Ma and Alecia came by for a second adieu. “We don't see enough of her, you know.”
“I'll come down and see everyone more. Don't worry,” Alecia added, just a hint of petulance in her voice. The affection surprised Frankie and when she turned to hug Richard, with peculiar force, he was taken aback.
I stepped back from the entrance toward Cam.
“What's gotten into her? She's just thrilled,” I whispered, expecting some caprice somewhere.
“I gave her my phone number. And yours. Told her, 'In case you end up at the train station.'”
“Love to cause trouble.”
“Lo,” and she leaned in close to say, “she hates it up there. The school, the kids, the parents. She's got to get away or else she's going to think that's all there is.”
I nodded and smiled at the mischief. Though Cam enjoys her games, it was clear that her concern for Alecia was genuine. Her brow was just faintly furrowed and it surprised me to see her so capable of restraining herself. Cam, having seen so many frustrations and crises, managed to pull together a more mature and sharper sense of the world than I ever expected. She was clearly capable and aware of her own capability. I thought of Alecia learning the ways of Cam, the good it would do her to see a young but potent woman. While Giorgy rousted Mickey and Lynn from their near dosing fatigue for the ride home, Mickey and Richard already had their coats on and were about to set out into winter's night. Yellow streetlamps gave the low rolling snowbanks an unwholesome tinge and I felt a protective impulse rise up, raising my pulse just before I could settle it again. Following more hugs and vague assemblages of plans for lunch or dinner or coffee, the other three were out the door.
“Do you want to stay here tonight, Lo? We have the space,” Ma asked. The house had four bedrooms and only two were in regular use for my folks and Gram. Papa Al, though not a regular guest, had already nodded off in one of the chairs in the study and would shortly be hauled upstairs by my father and I. Cam often slept there when the schoolwork and internships stacked up. Even if she were to stay, I recalled more than one night of sleep on the couch.
“Cam,” I asked, “are you planning on staying?”
“No. Too much to do. Asking for a ride?”
“I suppose so. I'd appreciate it.”
“Consider it done.”
“Lorenzo, you look like a night home would do you well,” my father called from the kitchen. He was already digging around, looking for more tart or other treat to pilfer. He hadn't seemed to notice the absence of caffeine in his coffee even with the rapid onset of the night.
“Too much to do tomorrow. Besides, I have more work I can take care of tonight.”
“Don't go out again tonight. You'll make us worry,” Ma added. It was her way to end any get-together with a call for caution. With her loving warning, my father and I ventured into the study to help my grandfather into one of the upstairs beds. My mother, though a more than competent chef, had never mastered the art of housekeeping. The bed was ruffled and the room stale smelling. It had, years before, been my room. I had given up that sense of ownership years before and had helped install new wallpaper. That act, that tearing down and covering over, had had an especially cathartic sensation attached. It was the putting away of childish things, but also the forgetting of traumas I had labored to place behind me. It was now simply a room, often for a guest and occasionally for family, but usually only occupied by the old rolltop desk and the Remington hidden within. It was good to be up here, as much to recognize what I had left behind as what I still had.
“Lorenzo,” my father began after we had removed Papa's shoes and shifted him under the blankets, “the work, it isn't something for us to worry about.” He stated it, unsure of how to ask this question that was also a demand and a request. His tone was low, subdued after the getting the Old Man upstairs. He always called his father that, Old Man, as if it might somehow stave off his own aging.
“You worried that it'll be like before.” Again, that balancing of tone between intentions. Was it a statement or a question? In the ensuing silence, neither of us were sure.
“Those were not good times.” Fear and anger bloomed like a spark in my stomach, but I swallowed and kept it down. I thought of the patterns behind the wallpaper – a simple series of vertical stripes, like bars of pleasant dull colors – and realized that I had forgotten it. Whatever it was, I knew I hated it and that Jules, my father, had somehow assumed he had the right to bring it up. Heat came rushed up into my cheeks and I struggled for words.
“Not again. Not like that.”
“That is all we ask. It was your trial and all we could do was stand by.”
“No more trials,” but it came out hoarse. I swallowed a breath like bitter medicine and cleared my head. “Let's go,” and I moved out the door before he could disagree. I felt a brush of air, perhaps he had reached out, but my back was turned and I was prepared to leave.
Gram was at the foot of the stairs waiting for us so that she might go to bed. She held three stacked containers of food and I could see that Cam, behind her, had the same. Cam wore a smile of quiet acceptance, knowing that she would hand off the lamb to a friend or roommate; it was only in the Vincenzi House that she ate meat, unable to explain her reasonings to the chefs.
“You and Cam, you let yourselves get so thin. If you need me to cook you a good meal, I'll be out there without a second thought. You know that, right?”
“Of course I do, Gram. I'm just busy these days. Off of one case and onto the other. I take care of myself as best I can. Besides, I've always been thin.”
“Don't tell me that. I know your mother fed you very well growing up.”
“I tried, at least,” Ma chimed from the kitchen, putting the last of the food away before setting rickety knob for the timer on the dishwasher.
“Oh, you did just fine Maria.”
“Here, here,” seconded my father, still standing a few steps up. “Gram, let's let these two get back into the city. I'll take you up to bed.”
“You know I can get up and down these stairs like anyone else.”
“I know. Just let me play the gentleman.”
“That, I guess, I can oblige.” Cam and I gave her hugs and kisses on the cheek, each of us feeling that extra tug of not wanting us to go followed by that push, that recognition that we would. Quietly intoned affectations and salutations and she wobbled only a little as Pa helped her toward her room. Cam looked at me, wondering if we should wait for a final adieu to him before leaving, and my look of readiness and the red still on my cheeks told her no, it was time to go.
“Now give me a kiss,” Ma said coming in while rubbing off the last of the marinara from her hands. She looked at us, wondering happily at her children, telling each of us in the silent language of mothers how much she cared for and thought of us. And then we were out the door, the cold mocking us for inadequate jackets and hats and gloves. We were in the car, a common petite blue two-door sedan, rubbing our hands together and firing up the engine and not even bothering that the music was too loud.
I had thought we would talk. That Cam and I had catching up to do, gossip to share, concerns about family and friends; but the music was never turned down and the streetlights seemed to draw me into the night, through the windshield, into an absurd close cosmos. Absently, I pointed down the proper street, mentioned something about construction and detours, but the words were surely lost in the lolling late evening radio. I spoke my thanks more clearly and looked at her; faint, tired smiles reflected on our faces and it was enough. I reached over and squeezed her shoulder, not knowing what it was meant to say, but when she set her own hand on my own I knew whatever wordless awareness had been conveyed.
She handed me the stacked container of food and before I made it to the door, she had driven off.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Grumbles

So... an aside.

I am researching for my thesis and realizing the limitations of the NAU Cline Library. Perhaps I long for the cramped, hunchbacked floors of Love Library at UNL; or the comfortable and nook-filled quaintness of Gustavus's Folke Bernadotte. Whatever it is, I am frustrated. First of all, in looking into housing issues, the most recent resources are inevitably other theses and dissertations. Unfortunately, these are almost exclusively limited to the universities where they were written. Not only that, but even if they were written in the last two years, let alone in the last ten, they are on paper only. Why? Why do we not have a digital compendium of theses that have not been privately published? Why do libraries not make the effort to store a few megabytes of for their theses on their databases? Bah.

So I am digging around with WorldCat (one of my favorite resources, I must say) and cannot shake the sense that I am pestering a half dozen librarians by requesting material from all over the continent, and even a conference proceedings from Stockholm. (Canadian grad students seem to be very interested in cooperative housing.) I recall reading about Ray Kurzweil's text-to-speech reader, an enormously helpful invention for the visually impaired. But with GoogleBooks raiding of libraries a bookstores - an endeavor I have mixed and generally critical feelings about - it seems that taking a thesis and putting it online would be fairly straightforward. Perhaps I am just asking GoogleBooks to support an immense thesis reservoir, a project I imagine would garner sympathy in the graduate student crowd.

Anyway, I can't let my session expire, but wanted to rant a little. If anyone has similar experience or solutions, let me know. Also, I have great respect for librarians and understand some of their various responsibilities, hence feel that whatever projects I partake ought to be as easily taken care of as possible.

Post-Script: I am using WorldCat to get ahold of some of Kenneth Grant's works to help me flesh out my Lovecraftian detective story. If you have read any of what I have written, or have spent a little too much time exploring Lovecraft and the like, Grant plays an important role. Grant links Lovecraft's writing to the occult revival in peculiar but interesting ways. I feel sort of silly about it, but also undeniably excited.

Monday, June 20, 2011

Strawberry Crumble

My mom sent me off with homemade preserves. It is sort of a tradition these days. The strawberry preserves were part of a pretty runny batch, though, and rather than try and dress some toast or oatmeal with it, I decided to make a crumble.

Strawberry Crumble
Line an 8x8 baking dish with parchment paper. Fill the bottom with strawberries (in lieu of preserves or frozen berries) and be generous.
Allow to warm in the oven if wet (350 F)

3/4 c whole wheat pastry flour
3/4 c oats
2 Tbsp sugar
1/4 tsp salt
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 Tbsp almond extract (or sliced almonds)
Mix with a wooden spoon until even.

1 stick (8 Tbsp) butter, cold and diced
Add to dry ingredients and rub by hand until you have a breadcrumb texture. If the butter starts to soften, allow to chill in the freezer for a few minutes. Pull out strawberries from oven and sprinkle "crumbs" evenly over strawberries. Bake until golden brown, about 25-35 minutes. Allow to cool and serve.

Note: This is a rushed and estimated recipe. I have yet to taste it at the time of posting.
Follow Up: It came out like a tasty ice cream topping. I have added parchment paper and recommend more strawberries. The "crust" is tasty, but it did not come out of the pan with anything like ease.

Monday, June 13, 2011

Emptiness: Reflection on Caves

Thirty spokes
meet in the hub.
Where the wheel isn't
is where it's useful.

Hollowed out,
clay makes a pot.
Where the pot's not
is where it's useful.

Cut doors and windows
to make a room.
Where the room isn't,
there's room for you.

So the profit in what is
is in the use of what isn't.

~Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching (Le Guin translation)

...

As I plumbed the depths of Entering Darkness by Sam Anderson I kept thinking about the roles of caves, depths, abysses, and the like. The most obvious to a philosophically minded type is Plato's Allegory of the Cave in which the inquiring and gradually enlightened soul frees him/herself (Plato was pretty progressive for the an Ancient Athenian) from the chains and illusions of a subterranean world. Anderson, though, raises the topic of ancient cave drawings and the ways in which caves allow for mystical encounters with the more-than-human or even the primally human world. (Anderson opens up with Werner Herzog's "Cave of Forgotten Dreams.") Just such a mindset shined a novel light on Plato's Allegory.

If caves are places of encountering the mystical - even Anderson points out the tradition, shared by Plato's contemporaries, of building shrines in caves - but are philosophically considered realms of illusion, then what exactly is Plato suggesting we escape from? Is their a historical subtext in the Allegory that Plato is stripping away not just the ever-changing reality of immediate experience for the "ideal forms" he propounds later in the Republic, but attacking a more foundational reality of his society? Anderson himself waxes about the magical experience one haves within a cave, fascinated by the artifacts and impressions of previous travelers (footprints and handprints captivate him) as much as the shrouded, dank world of strange life found therein. Does Plato argue that this is purely illusory? Are these experiences less than genuine?

But I think that either this reading or this evaluation - my fault or a critique of Plato - is misinformed. Or rather, it is rational but ill-advised. Lovecraft writes in "At the Mountains of Madness,":

It would be cumbrous to give a detailed, consecutive account of our wanderings in that cavernous, aeon-dead honeycomb of primal masonry - that monstrous lair of elder secrets which now echoed for the first time, after uncounted epochs, to the tread of human feet. This is especailly true because so much of the horrible drama and revelation came from a mere study of the omnipresent mural carvings.

The peculiar perversity of the "primal masonry" is mirrored by Anderson, "A cave is a paradox: a placed defined by its absence. It operates on a time scale that we can't even begin to coprehend - a time scale that is, in fact, obscene to any species that cares about life and tends to measure things in minutes and years and decades." Anderson even touches on the point of the Tao Te Ching - though I believe he misidentifies a paradox - in that emptiness is where function, where meaning exists. I think Lao Tzu (and Le Guin) would appreciate the cave as a place of peculiar meaning and clarity for this sort of emptiness.

Lovecraft, though, will not so easily be brushed aside. The magic that Anderson experiences, both in childhood memory and more recent recollection, taps into the abyssal, alien, even cosmic knowledge that torments Lovecraft's protagonist(s). The knowledge that is revealed by caves, why I believe that captivated Paleolithic and Neolithic humanity so much (Herzog's project is as much these people as what remains of them) is profoundly interior and potentially tormenting. Anderson writes, "A cave, in other words, is time showing off. Most geological features form slowly, of course, but caves seem extramiraculous because of the intricacy, the beauty and the delicacy of the structures — all created not by plate tectonics or giant rivers but by individual drops of water. It’s like painting the Sistine Chapel with an eyelash." This encounter with the near infinity of geologic time impresses one with the minuscule reality of human existence, one of the hallmarks of Lovecraft himself.

Lovecraft's frightful tension is the result, I believe, of a modern mind confronting the immediacy of a magical universe. Caves and how they reverberate in our psyches is in part because they place us simultaneously in ourselves and in our world. The travel inward, into the Earth itself, is an exploration of our world as it reflects who and what we are. In the alien, we acknowledge the unknowns of who and what and how we are. These are the foundational philosophical inquiries. (Anderson comments that caves remain unknowns, remain "deep" and "profound," the latter coming from the Latin profundus: "before the bottom"; which I'd like to add shares its root with to found, as in a city or building, and foundational, as in the bottom or bedrock.) I recollect Thoreau saying of Walden Pond, "A lake is the landscape's most beautiful and expressive feature. It is earth's eye; looking into which the beholder measures the depth of his own nature. The fluviatile trees next the shore are the slender eyelashes which fringe it, and the wooded hills and cliffs around are its overhanging brows." But if that is the case, what then can we make of a cave?

The cavernous opening is deeply startling. Anderson refers to one as "a black hole," which is scientifically speaking a gaping whole in the fabric of the cosmos. The cave mouth is the entrance through the our usual earthly world. From within, though, Anderson sees that the mouth becomes a mimic of the sun, a strange source of light in the distance. The mouth is a hologram, a play of light that from one side is Nothingness and from the other is Sky, is Cosmos. Spinoza writes of a worm in the bloodstream, unaware of being in a body that is its entire universe; from the vantage of the cave, we are able to explore the body of the world within the within. (An odd corollary to Bruce Sterling's blog, Beyond the Beyond.) Strangely, I think Thoreau and Lovecraft are in unknowing agreement about the anxiety beneath the skin of the world; it is within that our mystic connection, that our earthly cosmos is most intimately experienced and most obviously contradicting our contemporary rational minds. From within we can no longer tell ourselves we are outside - an objective world, an objective Nature, a spiritual landscape - and then as we resurface we know our own amazement at the world anew.

...

"(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)"
~from The Amazing Day by e.e. cummings

Sunday, June 12, 2011

Haiku - Pages, Walnut, Warriors, Lovers, Ghosts; Also, Pumpkin Bread

I
Lost flesh, like pages
newly turned, embodies
my sun-borne blessings.

II
Leaf & nut & bough
greenly interweave summer's
reborn tapestry.

III
The hundred-legged
warriors patrol their rich,
decadent domain.

IV
Deirdre's stolid
lovers have made a harem
of our street corners.

V
Ghosts strum guitars
upstairs & wonder where they
last knew their lovers

...

Summer is a wonderful time to be in Flagstaff. Even our dusty yard has become verdant, even if its bounty are weedy grasses and the like. The black walnut tree is brilliantly green, the slender branches - having regrown from a stump when the various, primary trunks broke in a storm years ago - are not yet full of little, woody nuts; but I love it all the same. My compost is dark from inattention, but full of its own rambling world. When I first opened it, the potato scraps had sprouted and were tall but frail. Miss Nina has already commented on the pollen that encases her bicycle whenever she takes it out for a ride - though I have been pretty immune to the allergens up here. After reading from Gary Snyder's Mountains and Rivers Without End, I felt inspired to return to my haiku practice, especially since friends have commented on how certain songs stand out.

I separate out I and V ("Pages" and "Ghosts") from the others, though I post them here chronologically. (I feel that names for haiku are not exactly needed and can detract from the unity a haiku suggests to me.) I have spent a good amount of time in the sun since getting out of school and it has treated me well, though it would be wise to be more respectful of sunshine. I have tanned and burned, more the former than the latter, and for the first time in probably nine months my legs have seen some blue sky. I wasn't especially conscious of it and the mild burn is concluding. I do not think of myself as macabre, but I have taken to the rather unseemly habit of tending to the peeling skin. I know, it is unpleasant, but I can tell the change in skin tone and new freckles and it has a strange sense of discovery. Also, the sense that the sun has played such an obvious part in changing my appearance, my makeup is weirdly exciting.

The last haiku - inspired by the playing of our new upstairs housemate - I feel is rather flat in terms of subject matter, but is a pleasure to annunciate. It has a clearer manifestation of poetic strategies (assonance, consonance, alliteration, meter) than most anything I write. I am reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance in which the narrator - a modestly fictionalized incarnation of the author - describes, among other things, the teaching style of a typical rhetoric class. He disparages the emptiness of imitative learning and systematic evaluation of writers' rhetorical methods. He is under the supposition that most good pieces can be evaluated in terms of style after the fact, but are not initially intended by the author to use one strategy or another. I include V, despite anxiety about it, because I recognize the pleasure of its sound, not so much the sense of its meaning.

Oh, and I made pumpkin bread this morning. The recipe would look something like this:

Pumpkin Oat Breakfast Bread (for Jo and her gardeners)
2 cups oats
2 cups whole wheat flour
2 cups white or whole wheat pastry flour
1 Tbsp salt
1 Tbsp baking powder (maybe more at lower altitudes)
2 Tbsp cinnamon
2 tsp nutmeg
2 tsp ground ginger (optional)
1 cup walnuts or other nuts (optional)

In a bowl, mix dry ingredients until even. Set aside.

1 large can of pureed pumpkin (or fresh if available, can replace with other squash)
1 cup plain yogurt (I like to bake with whole, but used low fat for this)
1 stick (8 Tbsp) butter, cut into small pieces
1-2 Tbsp honey
2 tsp vanilla or almond extract
1/3 cup turbinado sugar (or your preference)

Mix or blend together until even. Butter should remain obvious and unconsolidated. Will end up with a lighter loaf if blended. Gradually add in dry ingredients, stirring together constantly. Scoop into greased bread pan(s) (see note below) and bake at 400 F for 45-60 minutes; cover with foil if it starts to burn.

Notes: I remembered with this that baking with yogurt can be tricky because a toothpick or fork will come out clean even if the center is still... yogurty. I pulled mine out at about 35 minutes and wished I had covered it and let it bake the whole time. Also, I split this between two bread pans, but think it wiser to use either small bread pans or to put in one and cover immediately with foil to bake more evenly. Of course, every oven is a little different and, without eggs, a soft spot in the middle is perfectly edible. (I recall Miss Breanna rather enjoying doughy centers.) As with most of my recipes these days, the flour balancing is an educated guess and recommend dabbling and adapting.

Sunday, June 5, 2011

Dreaming in Italy

Throughout my trip in Italy I slept poorly. It may have been the foreign beds, the unfamiliar hotel rooms, my snoring father, the remnants of jetlag, or any other of minor concern. The result of which was recalled and vivid dreams. I don't know if it has to do with how I sleep when I sleep poorly or that I am sleeping poorly that makes dreams clear and more energetic for me. Normally, I do not recall much of my dreams even when I am well-rested and rise quickly, but I am often bothered by that elusive sense of having forgotten that dreams leave behind throughout the following day.

I recall, still, running into my (now former) housemate Sam in Flagstaff and catching up with him. There was a peculiar tension as if our landlord - full of his own problematic idiosyncrasies - had shifted his gaze from Sam to Tim and I. There was a sense of uncertain ground, that my housing situation was perturbed and ready to crumble. This may be, in fact, the source of my anxiety that my room would not be waiting for me upon my return to Flagstaff. It seemed a lingering possibility that my room would have been broken into as much by my landlord as by a thief. It is by no means a secure locale, but all of those details had been sorted before I left and I should not have really been so concerned. That said, a rather large number of my glasses, including wine glasses, are not where I left them and I ended up considering Sam the likely, if unintended, pilferer of them even though Sam does not have much preference from wine. How strange it is to be swept up into such assumptions by the ethereal weight of dreams.

Being on the road, and even in Lincoln, I have a strange dreaminess to my perception. Nothing is quite as it should be and nothing stays in place. (As a sidenote, it was the perfect mood with which to watch the Buffy episode "Restless.") Associated with that is the passing of familiar faces in a crowd of strangers - so common for me in airports. Commonly, my dreams will involve amalgamations of friends and family, which was not a trait of most of my dreams in Italy, but encountering strangers and dreamily constructing personae for them left the impressions like characters in a story in my recollections of Italy. Even the peculiar and sometimes painful juxtaposition of familiarity with strangeness, such as the imposition of a foreign language on the mouths of friends, seems a consistent quality of travel and likely played some role - though I often have a passing knowledge of dream-languages - in my dreams in Italy.

Back in Flagstaff, I am relieved by a sense of concreteness, a reality to this place that surprises me. Perhaps it is the crisp, high desert light or the regularity of my sleep schedule, of the return to a more defined sense of my place here that is gradually abandoning my perception of Lincoln. (Though I could say more on this, I have difficulty articulating how I feel both welcomed in Lincoln and both frustratingly misplaced. My life there always seemed out-of-joint with the lives of friends and family there.) What I find so winning about Flagstaff is not as much a quality or experience, but a sort of dialect of how I perceive this place and my presence here. Sensing a comfortable familiarity with a place, for me, is like finally pinning down some grammatical rule in a second language that you weren't even aware you were frustrated over. "Ah, now I understand the future imperfect sense and can say what I will be doing in the indeterminate future." In fact, that is what Flagstaff often is to me in the best of ways: This is where I am managing what I want to have accomplished but am in the process of learning.

Friday, June 3, 2011

Compilation, Letters, and Travels

So, I have been traveling and am returning to Flagstaff tomorrow. Good times on the roads and skyways, but looking forward to my own quarters again. I trust that I have not been bamboozled in the meanwhile. For you, I have made a mix CD. It is called Wonders of Auto-Liberation, which is a reference to travel reading material. Any guesses? If you want a copy of the mix, email me your address or comment with it or what-have-you. I would be happy to do so. That said, I would like a return letter (paper, snail-mail, that sort of thing) or mix or something other to return the favor.

Wonders of Auto-Liberation, June '11
1. Home (RAC Mix) by Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros
2. The End by Best Coast
3. An old song by Kiki Pau
4. Harlequin Bands by The Lonelyhearts
5. Daughters of the Soho Riots by The National
6. Beg Steal or Borrow by Ray LaMontagne & The Pariah Dogs
7. Same Old Train by T-Model Ford and GravelRoad
8. Sun Hands by Local Natives
9. Jungles by Holy Fuck
10. Mykonos by Fleet Foxes
11. VCR by The xx
12. Roll Up Your Sleeves by We Were Promised Jetpacks
13. Scared as Fuck by An Horse
14. Honey Won't You Let Me In by The Tallest Man On Earth
15. Geography by Thao Nguyen
16. Why Do You Let Me Stay Here by She & Him
17. Surprise Hotel by Fool's Gold
18. Only The Sounds You Made by Tender Forever
19. Poke (Live) by Frightened Rabbit

Projects:
1. Short story about walking, getting lost, and possible becoming found in a European city;
2. A playful, sardonic pamphlet somewhat in the style of The Zombie Survival Guide about passing as a native human while being para/meta/super/non-human (inspired, in part, by X-Men: First Class); and
3. Returning to the detective story I have allowed to fall out of my attention.

And more generally, I hope to spend more time cooking and baking (especially vegan, potentially gluten-free) and providing notes and recipes here. I will be looking for work upon my return to Flagstaff, but hope to accomplish that task promptly and become modestly employed. At the moment, though, I have to pack up for the trip.