> jumping into life.


This is the most beautiful thing I've seen all week.

And that even includes the trees changing on Mt. Abe.

[via wj]


(This time, we used a food mill.)

tomatoes and corn

sauce and cream o' corn


There beneath the bodhi tree
he cradled me in his lap.
Fed me yogurt and rice
from his fingers,
brought me back to life. I was starving.
I suckled those dark fingers,
dripping honey,
dripping salt,

I watched the sun
move through the leaves.
My eyes focused.

My eyes opened.
The creek was full of
clear water nearby.
It smelled of sulfur,
it smelled of citrus,
roses, incense, and death.

Fruit grew ripe, split
along its swollen skin, was eaten
by the screaming birds. Still he fed me.

Soon I could walk. Soon I walked
away. My belly rounded, my feet bare.
I was gone a long time. Then
came back to sit beside him.
Watched the moon move through the branches,
dripping nectar,
dripping blood. I was thirsty.
I drank deep.

He fed me from his fingers, gently.
We watched the morning star.


Starting work sort of screwed up my internal clock, so indulgently used to laze and impulse. Starting a workweek on Thursday shook things up a little more, so that today feels like a mid-week day. Switching between opening and closing shifts did me in, so that all day yesterday felt like evening even though I got off at eleven, and I feel like it should be about lunchtime now even though it's nearly dark.

The coffeeshop rhythm comes back easily, needing only a few tweaks to suit it to this shop's geography of counter, sink and machine. A few adjustments for their specific blends of milk and chocolate, espresso and foam. They're big on latte art, which I haven't done before, and that's been the only real new thing to learn. The manager told me today that she's very impressed that I've been picking it up so quickly, because it usually takes people "at least a week or two."

Apparently, my references all referenced my "quick learning," because they gave me two days to learn. I wasn't allowed to touch the espresso machine until yesterday, and tomorrow I'm closing by myself. They pride themselves on having the highest quality espresso drinks in the state.

I think it's going to be a little ugly, quick learning or no.


A few nights ago I had a conversation with my younger sister--she feels that most of her friends are male, and that most of them are friends because they were hitting on her but she's "taken" and they settled for friendship. She spoke of the tiring habit of constant flirtation, which she feels is obligatory, and equally-constant boundary-setting to keep the flirtation in line. She spoke of friendships with women that were based on competition and undercutting, of roommates taking advantage of her generosity, of roommates' partners doing the same.

I told her that I have found it more and more important to cultivate supportive, loving friendships with women; that while I have, over the course of my life, tended also to be surrounded with male friends whom I love, that some quality of resonance happens only with women for me. That part of being a feminist means building positive relationships between women. That part of being whole and happy means building positive relationships with women.

With men, too, of course. But friendships with men have always come easily to me--for reasons, I think, similar to the ones my sister cited--while those with women have not.

It was with this conversation in the back of my mind that I took a happy walk with Theriomorph and Gilly yesterday in the woods and to the lake. Later, we made a nice dinner of cheeses and tabbouleh and lamb, with fresh fruit and honey for dessert. (Gilly especially liked the lamb.) It seems a bit presumptuous at this point to say "friendship" based on a few months' blog-reading and one afternoon, but it was a nice start.


The afternoon was given to me: a two hour massage with chocolate-scented oil, during which he let me turn the heat on because my blood runs cooler than his. When he carefully rubbed each finger in turn I began to cry; the good tears, the happy ones.

Later, I read to him while he cooked, and after an hour he bade me close my eyes, then open them: a gorgeous plate of turkey slathered in rich mole, atop mashed potatoes, all flecked with golden corn, red and green peppers, and slices of orange tomatoes on top. Possibly the most delicious thing he's cooked up yet, and he is a good cook. Then maple ice cream and wine.

All is well.
All is well.