Me Reading "The Gunslingers Invitation"

Because I realize some people "get" poetry better when it is read aloud, here it is, read aloud. Also, I was bored. Apologies for the dead space at the end. That was courtesy of my sweaty hands negotiating my touchpad.

The Gunslinger's Invitation

I have seen into the belly of the beast

and it is ugly 

I am Charon.

The el train from hell

is the ferry, midworld

 the river Styx

(and we are crossing it

fast, fast, so incredibly fast)

Flash fire on the tracks

ozone and brimstone.

There is char on

the el train from hell. 

Welcome home, love.

I have seen into the belly of the beast

and it is hungry 

This is the same 

rotting world

I brought you to before.

Before the cracks

had widened

Before their tricks

had started devils dancing

in your mind

Midworld is the river

and this is hell.

Welcome home, love. 

I have put paid to the beast

twin guns roaring thunder

in the mountains

on the plains

in the desert

on sandy beaches

in the forest

on your world

in my mind

on your conscience

in good time

I have put paid to the beast

but it will not die.

You do not need

to give me gold

All I need 

is your soul. 

We will cross the river Styx

Ozone and brimstone

speed on

the el train from hell

towards that black

bloodied 

horizon.

Welcome home, love. 

desertscape

Colcannon

Colcannon is a painfully Irish dish involving potatoes, cabbage (or kale), green onions (or leeks), mounds of butter, and sometimes milk. It is essentially a tasty variation on mashed potatoes, and after skimming a few recipes, this is the one I settled on (and only $5 for the veggie ingredients, say thankya).

Ingredients:

*An Irish number of potatoes. Now, remember there was a famine. Most recipes call for a pound of potatoes, but in honor of the famine, I settled for two large ones.

*An Irish amount of cabbage: about half a head (the other half of the Irish head is typically reserved and  filled with whiskey)

* An Irish amount of butter: That's a lot of butter, folks

*An Irish amount of green onions. Okay, I cheated here. I really like green onions, so I chopped up two stalks. The Irish like it bland, but I don't.

Instructions:

Boil dem potaties, then add in your cabbage just as the potaties are about done, so it all gets about finished at the same time. Drain out the water and mash up the potaties and the cabbage with a whole lot of butter until you have something the consistency of mashed potatoes. Once this is done, mix in the minced green onions. Serve with a melted butter-filled hollow of deliciousness in the middle.

Tranquility

After a hectic few days trying to get my affairs in order after getting back into the country following a fabulous two weeks with the man of my dreams (gag all you want, but I'm entitled to my occasional PDA), I thought it might be nice to post  a few images of tranquility, one I just GIMPed up, and the others from the aforementioned trip.

Without further ado, things that strike me as tranquil:

saskatchewan skies

canada

cat butts

wild roses

silver willow

sage

brown eyed susans (my favorite wildflower)

gates

horseshoes

country lanes

big rocks

sunsets

presents

texas sky

pretty flowers

water 

Food Fever

Having spent the day marathon watching Hell's Kitchen, I find myself wondering why I am so attracted to this show, and other "reality" cooking shows, when I have such a deep pre-existing hatred for reality television at large.

I think the reason I enjoy it so much is pretty straightforward. Its not because I think Gordon Ramsey is cool (though I think he is), its not because I find watching a group of poorly matched people flap around in a series of increasingly ridiculous petty arguments funny (though I do) and its not because I find it amusing that these experienced chefs cant seem to bend their heads around a risotto (lol). No, I think the real reason I am so bizarrely in love with this kind of show is plain and simple: I like food. 

Moreover, I like cooking food. These cooking competition shows, moreso than ordinary "this is how you cook dish A, B, and C" shows make the culinary arts seem absolutely achievable. I mean, if these clueless assholes can manage to put together beautiful, elegant, tasty dishes worthy of Gordon Ramsey (in between not being able to cook scallops and fucking up steaks), maybe there is hope for me. 

I love the little mini-competitions where the contestants must figure out how to put together an appealing dish with a set of totally random ingredients. Its sorta inspiring, for anyone who has ever had to deal with a fridgeful of mismatched foods. 

Good books, good movies, good television, makes you feel something. Shows like Hell's Kitchen successfully make you feel hungry, excited about cooking, and innately superior to the cast of dipshits they inevitably get to compete on these shows. And it is good. 

I think I might have just hit on the appeal of reality television in general. Making us feel better about ourselves through the folly of others. Human beings are terrible . . .

:D 

The Hollow Men

Sharing with you one of my favorite poems, which I just re-read for the first time in a year. If you hadn't guessed, I'm a massive T.S. Eliot fan. I am so very in love with the depth of his imagery, the breadth of the references he makes, and the sometimes harsh brutality of his language. Eliot's poetry (contrary to how we typically think of poetry, I think), is a cold hard smack in the face, forcing us to look honestly at our own human flaws through the lens of metaphor. The Hollow Men is, for me, a poem about the rampant loss of affect and meaning in the modern era. The speaker, who speaks for all of us, seems caught in the grip of a bone-chilling nightmare state, where he realizes the nothingness of his own existence and yearns for something more, some deeper feeling or meaning. However, he cannot possibly put up a fight against the encroaching forces of ennui, forces so strong they have turned society towards the dystopian. Ultimately, he folds ending "not with a bang, but with a whimper" . . . probably one of the most famous lines from a poem ever, oft quoted but rarely read within the context of the larger text. So here it is, the larger text. Now read it. Nyah! 

Mistah Kurtz-he dead
            A penny for the Old Guy


                       I

    We are the hollow men
    We are the stuffed men
    Leaning together
    Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
    Our dried voices, when
    We whisper together
    Are quiet and meaningless
    As wind in dry grass
    Or rats' feet over broken glass
    In our dry cellar
    
    Shape without form, shade without colour,
    Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
    
    Those who have crossed
    With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
    Remember us-if at all-not as lost
    Violent souls, but only
    As the hollow men
    The stuffed men.

    
                              II

    Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
    In death's dream kingdom
    These do not appear:
    There, the eyes are
    Sunlight on a broken column
    There, is a tree swinging
    And voices are
    In the wind's singing
    More distant and more solemn
    Than a fading star.
    
    Let me be no nearer
    In death's dream kingdom
    Let me also wear
    Such deliberate disguises
    Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
    In a field
    Behaving as the wind behaves
    No nearer-
    
    Not that final meeting
    In the twilight kingdom

    
                   III

    This is the dead land
    This is cactus land
    Here the stone images
    Are raised, here they receive
    The supplication of a dead man's hand
    Under the twinkle of a fading star.
    
    Is it like this
    In death's other kingdom
    Waking alone
    At the hour when we are
    Trembling with tenderness
    Lips that would kiss
    Form prayers to broken stone.

    
                     IV

    The eyes are not here
    There are no eyes here
    In this valley of dying stars
    In this hollow valley
    This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
    
    In this last of meeting places
    We grope together
    And avoid speech
    Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
    
    Sightless, unless
    The eyes reappear
    As the perpetual star
    Multifoliate rose
    Of death's twilight kingdom
    The hope only
    Of empty men.

    
                           V

    Here we go round the prickly pear
    Prickly pear prickly pear
    Here we go round the prickly pear
    At five o'clock in the morning.
    
    Between the idea
    And the reality
    Between the motion
    And the act
    Falls the Shadow
                                   For Thine is the Kingdom
    
    Between the conception
    And the creation
    Between the emotion
    And the response
    Falls the Shadow
                                   Life is very long
    
    Between the desire
    And the spasm
    Between the potency
    And the existence
    Between the essence
    And the descent
    Falls the Shadow
                                   For Thine is the Kingdom
    
    For Thine is
    Life is
    For Thine is the
    
    This is the way the world ends
    This is the way the world ends
    This is the way the world ends
    Not with a bang but a whimper.