Peace of mind, only $1.49 at the hardware store

Had my first face-to-face encounter with 2 trespassers recently.


My general rule during hunting season is: never argue with hunters. This rule emerged from a common sense approach to managing the land. I’m never armed when I walk the property and I have no idea as to the state of mind of the hunters who are on my land. (Have they been drinking? Arguing with anyone? Do they have something to prove?)
Mostly I’m not opposed to hunting. Just do it on your own land or on land where you’ve got a permit to shoot: elk, caribou, mule deer, and whatnot.
I seriously doubt you'd be thrilled if I showed up at your house, uninvited, and started poking around in your backyard. Now picture me driving into your driveway, emerging from my car with a gun, and then I start poking around your backyard looking to kill something. Trust me: you’re hackles would be up at that point.



It was a Saturday and I’d been in town running errands (hardware store, the library, grocery store, etc) and I was in a good mood when I passed this one stretch of my land where there used to be a gate and an overgrown skid road but owing to a recent thinning by the state, the old skid trail is as clean as a whistle. I noted two large pickup trucks parked. It served to reason that the hunters were somewhere nearby, hunting. And that’s when it happened. A little blast of adrenaline. Snap. And I was done with hunters on my land. I raced to the house and grabbed a hammer, nails, a no trespassing sign, and an orange safety vest.
I rushed back to gate. A small anount of anger coursed through my veins but I vowed to hang the sign and get the heck out of there. The plan was to pin the No Trespassing sign on the tree right near the trucks so that when the hunters returned they couldn’t miss it. (And in the future anyone with any bright ideas wouldn’t be able to miss the sign either.)

As I approached the trucks, gulp, the hunters were seated on a felled tree, shooting the sh*t. (No bullets required to shoot the sh*t.) Their rifles rested at their sides.

“Be cool,” I told myself and knew that I couldn’t turn back. They'd seen me and I'd seen them. I was definitely going to be saying something but I wasn't going to "have words with them." There was a bit of a nip in the air but I din't feel it. At all. I was warm all over and there was a buzz in my body (sort of like a runners high). I know that I have a temper. Just hang the sign and head home, I reminded myself. Say as little as possible.

The two dudes, somewhere in their mid-50s, approached me. Their orange hats and vests contrasted against their camo and the scenery.


“Whatcha doin’?” one of them inquired.

(It was kind of obvious: the hammer, nails, and sign were unmistakable.)
“Hanging a sign,” I said and noticed my blood pressure go through the roof.

I pounded the first nail into the tree. It broke. I hadn’t realized it was a maple tree and the adrenaline was f*cking up my coordination.

“We came in over on [redacted],” the talkative one says.

As if his entry onto my land two miles from where we stood meant had anything to do with anything.

I replied, “There’s 175 acres between here and there. And you’re on private property.”

He asked, “Who owns the property?”

“I do,” I replied.

His eyes go big with surprise. “Oh.”

At this point I broke another nail and pounded the hammer against my thumb. (Holy sh*t that hurts!). Inside I did my best to control my temper. And the only response I had to anything he said, was to remind him that he was on private property. He made one other inanane comment. I avoided eye contact. I knew that if I turned my attention from the task at hand I could blow up. I got two nails into the sign, another one was all bent up and I could tell they were thinking I should never do any carperntry.

As I turned and walked away I made eye contact with each of them -- once. And they wore the most bewildered expressions.

As far as I was concerned they’d been put on notice and as adults they could chose to remain on my land, in violation of state law, or they could get the H*ll off my land and go poach somewhere else.

As I got back into the car and drove home the pain in my thumb screamed. And I noticed that my hands were shaking. But I’d kept my promise to myself and hadn’t argued with them.

The next day I put the gate back up and this past weekend I noticed there weren’t any trucks parked on my land. For the first time in years I didn’t hear the report of rifles being fired and didn’t fear a stray bullet entering the living room and killing me. They really do hunt that close to the house.

Who knew a No Trespassing sign, at $1.49, could bring such peace of mind?

No good deed goes unpunished (especially if you’re clocked doing 70 in a 55 mile per hour zone)

Late Friday I learned that someone was needed to get dressed in the Bad Kitty costume for an event at Books of Wonder on Sunday afternoon. I leapt at the chance. Seriously. Being dressed as Bad Kitty is the closest I come to being treated like a rock star. And kids are so much cooler than adults in this type of setting. It won’t be long until they decide to follow the pattern of their parents and become jaded New Yorkers. In the meantime, there is room for fun and joy. And picture books!


Unless I wanted to get up while it was still dark and drive the speed limit from the country to the city (something I have yet to do on both counts), I had to hold steady at 70 m.p.h. (which is something I can do in my sleep) and I’d get to the city in time to grab a snack and suit up. Thirty miles from the city I was surprised to look in my rearview mirror and see a motorcycle cop with his lights flashing. I pulled into the right lane and so did he. This is when I started laughing. I was getting pulled over. I had no idea how fast I'd been driving but I figured people got pulled over for going 80 or 90. And I was doing neither. Was this about something as pedestrian as 70?
I was all smiles and chatted affably with the officer.

“Why were you going so fast?” he asked.
“Bad habit, good mood, and I’m in a rush." I replied
“Where are you headed?”
“New York City.”


I asked, “Just out of curiosity, how fast was I going?”
He answered, “All of 70 when you flew by me like I was standing still.”

He headed to his bike with my license and registration.

I kept chuckling as I straightened up the interior of my car. I was about to get fined in the neighborhood of $150.00 on a lovely Sunday morning as I headed into the city to be Bad Kitty. (I’m sure Bad Kitty, when she becomes a teenager will be joyriding. I know I did my fair share of that as a teen.) There was nothing to do in this situation but laugh and I’ll try to keep that in mind when I get points on my license and my insurance goes up.

“And how was it being Bad Kitty?” you ask.

It was the star turn it always is. No pain -- all gain.

Midway through the reading of A Bad Kitty Christmas, Nick Bruel announced, “The part of the grandmother will be read by singer and actress Vanessa Williams.” (Say wha?) And Nick held the microphone up to his Mac computer and sure enough, via mp3, Vanessa Williams read Granny.
And Thank G*d that one of my dear Aunts always hits me up with a C-note at Christmas time so at least I’ve got the fine for the traffic violation covered.

Bantam Rooster Found

After an earlier incident in the rural town where I live, when an over-zealous sheriff shot a neighbor's pet as it ran away from him, killing the pet, an Action Alert Group, interested in safe guarding local pets was created. (Please excuse that run-on sentence...) BTW: the sheriff was a total d*ck. This dog had a collar and was super goofy and clearly not posing a threat to the officer or the community. But the cop had to go and get a rifle and shoot the dog dead.

The Action Alert Group sends out emails whenever a dog or cat is found or reported missing/lost. At least once a week a cat or dog goes on the lam.

And I don't want to be mean: but how do you lose a dog on a walk? I get that it's the country and a person might want to let his or her dog off the leash as owner and pet amble along a country road at sunset. Nice and romantic, right? Not if the dog doesn't come when you call it and ends up spending the night in the wilds (not where domestic pets belong) running from bears/coyotes/mountain lions or worse, shot dead the next day by the po-lice.

Today's alert is a classic.
>>>


Bantam Rooster Found

Friday, Dec. 2, 2011

If you or anyone you know is missing a rooster:
A rooster has taken up with [redacted] flock on [redacted]
White bantam rooster with leg feathers.
A silver bracelet tag.

[redacted] will read the bracelet tonight when they roost.

Please forward this to anyone you think might be interested or helpful in getting this boy home.
 
>>>
 
If I were that rooster and I'd taken up with a new flock, given that the new flock had a couple of cuties in it, I might be perfectly happy not to be found. I can't wait to learn who "lost" this bad boy. I might pop over to visit his new haunt to see how he's doing.

A year to the day (almost)

1 year ago I gathered up my belongings and headed to the house for an unpaid leave of absence from work and a month of writing. Once I was at the house I settled into a routine of sorts. The goal was to write for a minimum of 4 hours per day, whenever it struck my fancy. I tend to be a night person so it was very strange on the three mornings when I woke up and said, "It's time to write." And got to writing at 6 a.m.

Mostly I got up and headed to a Walmart a few towns over and walked the perimeter of the parking lot ten times, which I think was equal to a few miles. (It was hunting season and I was not interested in being shot on my land. (I can sit in my livingroom and listen as poacher fire their rifles at game. Get off my land you f*cking trespassers!)

After the morning walk I headed back to the house where I kept the temp at a brisk 55 degrees. And I'd write, eat simple meals, and watch movies on DVD.

I was back in New York City on December 12, returning to the office the next morning

My month of writing resulted in a First Draft. This was read by about 5 people who gave me awesome feedback. And sadly all seemed to agree on a couple of major points which meant it was back to editing.

In the Springtime of 2011 I commenced with revisions. Each and every weekend from April through September I wrote for about 4 hours on Saturday and Sunday. (Ok, when Hurricane Irene knocked out the power I didn't end up writing that weekend.)

At the end of September I concluded work on the Second Draft.

It was time to go hunting for an Agent. I have a friend who is somewhat famous and she was gracious enough to put me in touch with her agent. Her agent was not feeling my book. At all. I was told the characters were "unlikable." Fair enough. Thanks for your opinion. Next.

And now, G*d bless my weary soul, I've been in touch with another agent. Both he and his assistant were "taken" with the story and I'm set to meet with him soon to discuss moving forward. (Do I hear a small bird whispering in my ear? She's saying, "More revisions are on the way.")

At the rate I'm going, the book pubs sometime in 2013.

And so it goes

I am having an interesting week. One in which I search for a literary agent.

I work in publishing. That and $2.25 will get you a ride on the subway. Except it actually does have little perks. I was totally perplexed about creating this new relationship between me and the agent. (I love that this year has been filled with new things, eg: running 5k races, finding an agent.) And so I knocked on the door of a trade publisher and asked if she had 5 minutes. She said yes. For the next ten minutes I asked her questions about agents and she gave me really great answers. Oddly the one sentence that sticks out in my mind is: write from where the passion is. (Which has nothing to do with finding an agent.)

And as we talked I realized a couple of things. I'm going to use my guts. I'm going to follow my instincts. And above and beyond that -- I'm going to let the agent who is right for me, appear in my life.

And today, I received a rejection letter from an agent. Which is totally awesome! (Note: I might be one of the few people who likes being rejected.) The reason why I like being rejected: I don't want to work with you if you don't want to work with me. For real.

I learned this when I farmed. I did not want to do business with people (or retail outlets) who weren't in love with my vegetables.

My real customers loved me and I loved them.

I also don't mind that I was rejected by one agent because there is an ocean of agents and editors out there. And I have my book with another agent. And if s/he rejects me, it'll be onto another one.

Folks. It's all good.

So said Karen O

"Thank you for coming to our dress rehearsal." So said Karen O, last night, at the conclusion of Stop the Virgens at St. Ann's Warehouse. (Which opens to the public tonight through October 22.) It's too bad karen O has said the show is a "psycho opera" because that minimizes the show's cultural and artistic value. This could be the long-awaited riot grrl response to "Tommy" (by The Who). I didn't are for a second that there was no discernible plot although I would have like a play bill or hand out with the lyrics so I could follow along. I mean this is an opera. Can I get super titles here?

How would I describe the performance? In one word, "mesmerizing." Too bad I'm no good at reviewing music because I could go on at length about the catchy hooks, a seriously intense (and stellar) line up of musicians, and the chorus. Yes, the chorus, directed by Debra Barsha.

I might also characterize the show as "Bjorkian." But taken to a whole nuther level. There was something dark and luscious, primal yet refined.

If there are any women's studies/media studies phd candidates out there, you need to get your asses to this show. Your dissertation could be based on this one show alone.

More than anything I was stoked to see a female performance artist go the distance. I remember seeing Karen Finlay with the yams (way back in the day) and Karen O (whether she knows it or not) benefits from the foremothers (and aunts and nieces) of performance art. Marianne Faithfull? Suzie Quatro? Yes, Karen O needs to be sending them thank you notes but better still she's produced Stop the Virgens which could be viewed as a love letter to creation myth, feminism, and anarchy. Did I mention the catchy hooks?

I would have liked a smidge more movement from Karen O and a tiny bit more variation from song to song but overall the 9 songs hold up together individually and collectively.

And I was stoked to be on the 300+ guest list for family and friends. "Karen O thank you for having me at your dress rehearsal."

Last week I decided to emerge from my shell, for one week. It’s been a year of forestry and novel writing and I needed a break from both so I decided to turn up the heat on my urban social life.


Monday evening rolled around and with nothing better to do I texted a friend to meet for dinner. We ended up at Porsena. As we were catching up at the bar, I realized that we probably should have been in a locker room rather than a civilized dining establishment. (My friend M is almost as blunt as I am when it comes to conversation and he isn’t even a Sadge.) I looked up from the first of many glasses of sparkling white wine and noticed that Jim Courier had just entered with a good looking woman. I thought it was his gf but after googling realized it was his much younger wife.
I had a pleasant first-taste experience when I tucked into a bowl of nodi marini, sailor’s knot.
Tuesday night I met one of my former assistants, L, for bon voyage drinks. She’s heading back to the West Coast. She’s finally able to laugh about the night we went out drinking 5 years ago and she got so hammered she threw up on me. (This has become one of her favorite New York City stories). It’s her, “I threw up on my boss story.” I finally got to hear her side bc she didn’t used to have a sense of humor about this incident and refused to speak of it. I filled her in on what happened after she threw up on me and passed out in the cab -- I had to go through her purse to find her license and hoped that it listed her current address. (It did. Phew.) Her roommate was super-surprised when I came through the door with a completely inebriated L hanging on my arm.
Wednesday night I attended Let Us Eat Local, Just Food’s annual gala. If you haven’t been -- but you love food sourced from local farmers, prepared by well-known (and/or famous) chefs, washed down with local wine, beer, or spirits – you should go. 2012 will no doubt be as stellar as the previous three events. Let Us Eat Local does not disappoint.

Thursday afternoon I handled the distribution of the veggies and eggs at my CSA and then hopped in the car  to jet to the country.

Friday and Satuday were a mish-mash of country living. Getting the house inspected, removal of invasive species (plants), a visit with a contractor to bid on some repairs. In the evening I watched Dead Man and The Fly. (Purchased at KMart for $5 and $7.50 respectively.) It occurred to me that both movies were the directors at their best. Nothing like unwinding one's mind to Jim Jarmush and David Cronenberg. More like wrinkling one's mind.

Sunday was a day I had been looking forward to for some time. The Jack Kerouac 5K in Lowell. I was stoked for this race, mostly I was ready to see what I was made of. (The course in Lowell wasn't nearly as bucolic or hilly as the Granby Steeple Race.) I managed to take note of a few things along the way: the large hill between mile 2 and 3 that was treelined and the only part of the course in shade, a kid who appeared to be selling drugs out of his car, the fact that the finish line seemed to be too far away from the mile two marker.
Monday thorugh Sunday: enjoying myself and pushing myself. And that folks is how I spell LIFE.

Totally skipped the Sabbath last week. This week I will attempt to learn how to spell SLEEP.

9/11 Update: 10 years later

I could tell you every single thing that happened to me on September 11, 2001. But that would be an awfully long post. What I remember most was not that I couldn’t believe it had happened, people are killing each other every day, what I wanted to know was how would I live my life in the aftermath. Would I change? Could I be better? On 9/11 I stood on 5th Avenue hugging a total stranger (Trudy) and we watched and cried as the first tower collapsed.


As the years have worn on I have been surprised at how little the world has changed. If nothing else it all seems to be a larger mess than it was on 9/11/01.

At the time the planes struck the Twin Towers I was sick and dying but didn’t know it. I had been reading texts on Zen around that time and started to play around with putting what I read into practice. In 2005 my illness took a sharp turn and it became clear that I was in very bad shape. I ended up having life-saving surgery. After that I started to play around more with what was possible with my consciousness.

In 2006, a full 5 years after the towers were toppled and 1 year after I had surgery I finally started to figure out where I wanted to take my life.

2006 served as Chair the Board of Directors of the Ali Forney Center

2007 completed a certificate course at the Institute of Integrative Nutrition, completely altered my eating
        habits counseled clients in holistic health care. As I’m counseling people I realize that diet plays the
        most significant role in a person’s well-being, start to wonder if I should farm. Resign from the
       AFC Board of Directors

2008 decided it was time to head off the grid, saved money for some kind of new endeavor, volunteered
        at the Liz Christie Garden

2009 quit my day job, spent the growing season operating an organic market garden in W. Massachusetts
        and remained convinced that significant social change can be achieved through diet. In the autumn I
        earned money picking apples in Leominster, MA. Spent the year living below the threshold of
        poverty.
2010 returned to New York City, worked part-time, started to write part-time

       * While I was farming I kept thinking about Malcolm Gladwell’s book Outliers. He makes the case that to be really good at something you have to have spent 10,000 hours practicing whatever that something is. I realized the only thing I’m any good at -- and have spent 10,000 hours doing -- is writing.


2010 switched to a vegetarian diet, continued to allow my consciousness to expand through meditation,
        worked on forestry projects (invasive species removal and an improvement cutting on 52 acres)

2011 continue working part-time, writing part-time, forestry, and finally start long-distance running

September 11, 2011
This will be my day off for the week. I do my best to observe a Sabbath of sorts. Saturday I will have completed my first race, I will have written (I’m in the home stretch of completing the novel), and I’ll probably cook a nice dinner and have a couple of beers to commemorate those who were killed.

---
What I’ve decided is this: To be angry about what happened on 9/11/01 is to react. I have lived my life as a response. I want to die having attained the highest level of good that I can achieve. I want to die having done the best I could for myself and those around me. I want to die knowing that I did not settle.

I feel really bad for all the families who lost loved ones on 9/11 and I think we owe it to those innocent people who were killed to live full lives and to make the world a better place.

Sunday mornings

The second to last thing I want to do in the morning is get out of bed. The last thing I want to do in the morning is get out of bed and go running.

This might sound odd but during the heat of July I could not feature running. My body wasn't in great shape and I didn't want to hazard the ills of urban running (pollution and heat exhaustion). There was no way I was going to get up early to avoid the heat and pollution. Unh unh.

When I was in the country I decided that mowing the lawn constituted a form of training. Sunday morning I'd hop out of bed bright and early, throw on clothes and sun block, and get to work!

Keep in mind that my lawn is over an acre in size. After wearing a pedometer I came to find that I was walking 4 miles while mowing the lawn. I decided to make this an athletic event by doing it really quickly. The fastest time I ever logged was two and a half hours. I'd return to the house drenched in sweat and in much need of water, a shower, and a nap.

Now that the weather has cooled I’ve started my Sunday mornings getting out of bed (early) and going for a run. For a few weekends I ran in the country and I had sort of made a pact with myself that I would never race. (Spirit colors? Unh unh.) Then as I started running and reading about running I realized that the only way to bring the sport into focus was to have a goal, otherwise it was nearly impossible for me to gauge if I was making progress.

I’ve decided to specialize in 5Ks -- mostly because there are so many of them I can run at least one per month. I’ll run a few 10ks, just for laughs, and I hope to g*d I never run a marathon but I suppose it is within the realm of possibility. (I swore I'd never play golf and let’s just say, now I play golf.)
My training had been haphazard until I realized that I was going to run a race. I went from building up to running a mile (to get into shape) one week, to running three miles (looking to finish a 5k) the next. I’m not terribly concerned with my time right now especially since I’m not taking the most sensible approach. I’ve decided on a goal for this weekend’s race: finish in one piece. I’m running 12-minute miles but that includes some walking. I want to get a couple of races under my belt before I decide where I want my time to be. And I’d like to cut out all the walking. (There’s a woman in my age group, and region, who is running 8 minute miles – she’s set the bar rather high but at least I know what to aim for.)

This morning I was reading an article on Runner’s World and there was mention of running negative splits as the race wears on. Yeah right.

There’s only one crimp in my training program over the next couple of months. Hunting season begins, which means I might have to run in the city. The thought of running in the city makes me want to give up running altogether.

It looks like I’ll be taking the car to Jerzee to measure a 5k distance and a 10k distance and start commuting in order to exercise.  A couple of weeks ago I did some sprints on a high school track in NJ and I was beyond annoyed when I flew past a son and father who were seated on the bleachers and one of them said, “I think it’s a woman.” That comment brought me right back to my youth when I was given endless amounts of shit for nonconformity. In the near future I’m hoping to let my time speak for itself. I’ll drag my tranny ass across the finish line and let the clock do the talking.

It’s just amazing to me that I’m 45 years old and for the past, oh, 40 years I’ve had to listen to people speculate on my sex and gender. And most of the time other people are talking serious amounts of smack: judging me, trying to tell me who I should be, how I should dress, etc etc.

Over the past couple of years I was flying below the radar but I can’t feature that anymore. I’m not going to be one bit surprised when I get flack about my gender once I start racing. The big surprise will be when I don’t get any looks or comments. (I’ll be sure to let you know when that happens.)

In the meantime, my spirits are not the least bit dampened. I plan to race and get good at it.

more wild calories. oyster mushroom

I did not eat the mushroom with the rotten stem

Hurricane Irene Part III (the conclusion)

While I waited for Hurricane Irene to arrive I lost electricity at the house and decided to go on an extremely local adventure: I wanted to determine whether or not a weed in my back yard was edible, possibly yarrow. Turns out it isn’t yarrow, it’s Queen Anne’s Lace (or Wild Carrot). I used Edible Wild Plants by Lee Allen Peterson as my guide on this.

I’m going to cut to the chase here: don’t trouble yourself with trying to eat this root unless it is the last source of nutrition on the planet. The root smells like carrot, the stem is hairy, and there’s a tiny purple flower on the top of the cluster of flowers so you’ll know that you’re not about to bite into Poison Hemlock. As far as how Wild Carrot tastes, I don’t know and I may never know. I went to give it a chomp and could not penetrate the woody, fibrous root, which was a huge disappointment as I was hoping for some “wild calories” today. I thought that if I carefully removed the outer layer the yummy goodness would be made available. Unh unh. I thought if I boiled it in water that might soften it up a bit. Nope.

But this did make me think of an early form of man -- the hominid. These folks had primitive digestive systems and wandered around eating anything and everything they could get their hands on. Chances are hominids would’ve gladly accepted my offer of wild carrot. Of that I’ll never be sure.
I have, however, decided on a new naming convention. Wild edibles that aren’t worth the trouble shall henceforth be referred to as hominid snacks.

Another wild edible to be filed under hominid snack, Japanese Knotweed (or False Bamboo). I made a knotweed-rhubarb pie last year. It was disgusting. I’m a pretty good cook and I totally blame the knotweed for this pie as a failure.

However, Stinging Nettle Quiche (cooked by Lukas, a recipe of his own) is totally meant for Modern Man and Woman. Today I scoured the backyard hunting stinging nettles, while I harvested wild carrot, and none were to be found. Had I located that weed, I would have totally cooked, and snarfed that quiche once power had been restored.

Unable to let go of the need for wild calories I lucked onto a patch of mushrooms along the roadside when I went for a tiny drive to suss out the damage inflicted by Tropical Storm Irene. Lots of downed tree branches in my area, which is no doubt how we lost power.

A couple of days ago I was on a nature walk and came across tons of wild mushrooms. I was thinking with my head and not my stomach on that walk and I’m pretty sure I missed out on gathering a few chanterelle.
Today I saw the mushrooms and said, “You babies are coming home with me.”

After quite a bit of consultation in the field guide I reached the conclusion that I was looking at a variation of Voluminous Latex Milky. Gave the gills a slit and white latex sprang forth. Decided to cook ‘em and give ‘em a taste. Prayed to G*d that I wasn’t about to poison myself.

I cleaned the mushrooms, sliced ‘em thin, applied a little heat (medium), and slow cooked the flesh in butter until it was softened and delectable. I took a nibble. They were tasty, nothing acrid or “scary.” I waited half an hour -- which is my guess as to how long it would make for me to feel the ill-effects of a poisonous mushroom -- I felt ok and polished off the rest.

I don’t know if these are dinner-party worthy but I’ll be eating them again. Haven’t made up my mind if I’ll go back and collect the rest of the lot I stumbled onto today…

Mow it down or eat it? Perhaps, both?

Hurricane Irene part II

Before mowing the lawn I had to figure out if this one weed -- in the path of my lawn mower -- was Yarrow. I consulted Edible Wild Plants (Peterson Field Guides, by Lee Allen Peterson). In general I’m a lucky person and by consulting the National Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Mushrooms I’ve managed to avoid killing myself by NOT eating any poisonous mushrooms. And while Northern Tooth was nothing to write home about the oyster mushroom and the most recent culinary adventure which might have been Angel’s Wings both turned out to be delicious.

The plant in the backyard was not yarrow but could have been either Poison Hemlock or Wild Carrot/Queen’s Anne Lace. I was hoping for the latter and lucked out. It had both a hairy stem and the root when cracked smelled of carrot. Phew.

I poked around for a bit, harvested a handful of mature roots and my thoughts turned as they always do (while I’m foraging) to those romantics who think they’ll live off the land eating “wild nuts and berries.” Good luck with that. The notion of surviving in the wilderness is dreamy but that’s about all it is. Two years ago I made a nasty knotweed and rhubarb pie. It was disgusting. My friend Lukas turned me onto the Stinging Nettle Quiche but the only thing wild in an otherwise completely domesticated recipe was the pound of nettles. Everything else was strictly Safeway.

I like that there is an abundance of Wild Carrot growing in my back yard. I have no idea how it got there. I like including as many “wild” calories into my diet as possible and I never harvest more than what I’ll consume.

Once power is restored I plan to braise these tiny carrots.

Bad Kitty not so bad after all

Tomorrow morning I get to suit up as Bad Kitty. Only this time it will be to greet a kid named Timmy and this is in conjunction with the Make A Wish Foundation. I'm stoked. I'm not entirely sure how long I'll be hanging out with Timmy and, Bad Kitty creator, Nick Bruel but I think it's intense that we live in a world of video games, handheld entertainment devices, movies and movie stars, superstar athletes and Timmy wanted -- as his dying wish -- to meet with a character out of a children's book? As far as I'm concerned this boy's stock just sky rocketed. True there are over 3.2 million Bad Kitty books in print right now so it's not as if Bad Kitty is a cult figure but still -- Lebron James v. Bad Kitty and Bad Kitty wins? That cat has some serious prowess.

And I think there's a pizza lunch involved.

I'm totally looking forward to getting out of bed tomorrow.

A turning point, of sorts.

A couple of weeks ago I came across photos from summer camp (on facebook) from 1982. And rather predictably looking at these pictures has set my mind to ruminating. I'm not a sentimental person so it's not like I've grown weepy and want to reach out to everyone from camp. I still haven't been able to get in touch with 2 people from those days and I've been looking for them for 15 years. I'm sure they'll appear if/when they're supposed to.

The camp photos have brought into sharp focus the memory of an event that has caused me to reset a mental timeline.

For many, many years I have thought of a moment during the summer of 1983 as a "turning point." It was a sweltering hot night in July, in Harvard Square, and a friend of mine and I were trying to figure out how to get back to our suburban town as the last bus had left for the night. It must've been around 12:30 in the morning and S was on the pay phone making some calls. 

I stood a few feet from him and a teenage girl about my age walked up to me and started talking. While she was talking I realized that she was hitting on me and she knew I was female. This was terribly exciting as I felt that until that time I had always been pursuing someone or something and it was nice to be pursued for a change. We arranged to meet during the week. This was my first date.

All these years I have looked back on that night as the moment when things shifted. But. I was wrong. The moment when things shifted was really during the summer of 1982. We're still in New England and it's July and it's warm (but not too warm as camp was in the White Mountains of New Hampshire).

And a little context here will go a long way. I came from a horribly oppressive, totally abusive household. And while a lot of kids hated being shipped off to camp for the summer I was not one of those kids. The first summer I spent at camp was weird, I didn't make any friends, I was homesick, I was 12 years old and didn't know any better. But the following summers -- after I switched to another camp -- I figured out that being at camp meant not being around my parents, seeing friends from the previous summer, and having a lot of fun. Okay so structured activities and reveille can be a bit of a drag but a 5-day canoe trip on a remote lake in Maine, or a 3-day hike across Mt. Jefferson and Mt. Jackson; I'd do all that again tomorrow.

From time-to-time we'd be allowed an afternoon into the nearest large town where we could roam around, shop, then hop back in the van and head back to camp. In July of 1982 on the ride into town I decided that I was going to the barber to have him shave my head. I had $10.00 and at the time a haircut was $5.00. I knew I wanted a change and to make a statement. (I knew the haircut would freak the counselors out.) One of the younger campers (I forget who) tagged along with me. We walked into the barber shop and it was like stepping back in time to the 1950s -- a Norman Rockwell-esque scene. The barber was the only person in the shop and he was an older, clean shaved, no-nonsense, white man. He was wearing a white smock. His shop was immaculately clean. There were those barber chairs that look almost medieval. I took a seat on the red upholstery, resting my hands on the stainless steel armrests, planting my feet on the foot rest. The barber asked what I wanted. I said, shave it all off. In the mirror we studied at each other. There was no hesitation in my voice. He was rather stoic so there's no knowing what was going on in his head.

He flicked on the electric clippers. They hummed and within 5 minutes most of my (Jimmy Mcnichol inspired) hair was in a pile on the floor and I had a nice neat buzz cut.

At the time I wore a hooded sweatshirt and I pulled the hood over my head. Me and the junior camper roamed around until it was time to meet back at the van. We arrived at camp and as we were walking towards the cabins I pulled the hood down and one of the counselors yelled: You cut all your hair off! I turned and smiled.

Now I realize that it was that haircut that was the real turning point, not being hit on.

When I got back home at the end of the summer my parents picked me up at the Trailways bus station. We headed to lunch. Both of these events were customary.

After the waiter took our order my parents got serious. They looked concerned/upset and asked: Why did you cut your hair off?

I shrugged and said, I wanted to.

They didn't like my answer and remained silent for a while looking at me.

What I wanted to say (and it's nice to finally say it here) is: Because I hate you and the oppressive household you've created. I hate the control you exercise over my every waking minute when I'm around you. I hate that you hate each other and have remained in a marriage from Hell for 20 years. I hate being around you and I don't ever want to be small-minded and nasty like the two of you.

(Within 6 months my father would walk out abruptly on my mother (and my brother and I) and it was that wonderful, awful, liberating, intoxicating event that proved to be another turning point but one not of my making.)

When I returned to school for my junior year. There were a lot of comments. I really didn't care what my peers thought at the time. It wasn't for them, anymore than it was for my parents, to decide how I would cut my hair, who I would date etc. The distance between me and the critics widened but the distance between me and my real friends was shortened. And over the years it's been the people who have been my friends -- the one's who don't care how my hair is cut or who I'm dating/fucking -- those are the people I look on with the most fondness and have been eternally grateful that I've had friends that supported me in saying fuck you to the status quo.

Right now I'm loving that crotchety barber in New Hampshire. Big time. "Dude. Thank you."

baking muffins on a canoe trip 1982

Feeling inexplicably Boston rock, circa 1979.

stop watch + pedometer + running shoes = ?

Two weeks ago I had a hot flash. I worried that I had started to menopause and decided that I wasn’t ready for that. Instead I took up running. A couple of days later I realized I had a fever and was in the depths and throes of a common cold. The thing is I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tell whether or not I’m in menopause but I do know that I’m coming up on the halfway mark of life so I might as well keep running.


Bear in mind. I hate running and for 40+ years I have sworn that I would never engage in long-distance running. When I think of runners I think of people in brightly colored, skimpy outfits running along a marathon route in packs. (Blecch.) But a couple of years ago I started to dream about running and I put it on the list of things to contemplate.

My first run was in a pair of Vans skateboard shoes along an undisclosed tree-lined hiking trail. If you’re thinking: “Mosquitoes,” “Ouch,” and “Shin splints,” you’re right on the money. I knew better than to actually run the first mile. Instead I ran for as long as I could (I counted to around 100 seconds) and then walked quickly until I felt I should run again. I knew that I didn’t want to create resentment towards running. Based on trail markers the first run was probably about a mile and a half.

A couple of days after that I read an article about beginning runners and learned that I had taken almost the perfect approach. Now I’m running for 2 minutes, walking for 4 minutes for 5 sets. I purchased a pair of trail running shoes and a pedometer. Thirty minutes of “running” on a trail = (roughly) 1.08 miles.

The next time I went for a “run” on a country road, I took my roommate’s kitchen timer. (& I think I broke it. Oops.) My most recent purchase: a stop watch.

Probability indicates that I will run that first mile in about a month.

What I like about running is that I have absolutely no idea where it’s taking me. I want to eat and drink like a 25 year old and this is the only way I can maintain that lifestyle. I want to stay off meds and out of the doctor’s office.

The one thing I’m struggling with is pace and form. There was this 23 year old dude (already blessed with a decent physique) who trotted past me the other day (on the street) and he had the best running form I have ever seen. You could tell by looking at him that he wasn’t struggling in the slightest. And (I'm surmising here)he could easily polish off (in one sitting by himself) a pint of ice cream, several drinks, and a large steak without gaining an ounce. I want all of that.

The Agawam Diner. "Their pie will make you cry."

Each year my roommate wants to do something fun for her birthday. This usually involves a road-trip of some sort and as I’m always down for that sort of thing I’m happy to drive her to any far-flung corner of the Northeast.


Two years ago we headed here.

This year C wants to head here.

In much the same way that a marathoner trains for an upcoming race, we had to prep for the long-ass trip to Georgetown with a smaller, seafood oriented drive. We headed here.
I want to make one thing perfectly clear. I heard this place had good pies and that’s all I went for. I didn’t want to seem like too much of a freak so I ordered dinner to mask my craving for pie.

The fried clams were the best I’ve ever eaten. (The waitress assured us they buy theirs from the same folks who supply the Clam Box.)

But let’s talk pie. I’ve got my own personal bias around cakes. I don’t want to see or hear about anyone else’s cake. Ever. Seriously. I’m really picky and I’ve set a certain standard and that’s that. When it comes to pie I’m as openminded as the Dalai Lama. And let me tell you, the pies at the Agawam Diner just plain f*cking rock. We had the coconut, strawberry-rhubarb, apple, and blueberry and we grabbed a couple of raspberry turnovers to go. The pies I didn’t sample: lemon, chocolate, and chocolate mousse. (Those three flavors are not my thing.) I hear tell that folks eat pie for breakfast at the Agawam Diner and I can see why. After a slice of their blueberry pie I was ready to meet my maker with a smile on my face.

The waitress had a way of bringing everyone into the conversation, the chefs, her mother, and lard. The waitress surmised there was lard in the crust which made it flaky. I thought, so much for being a vegetarian. (More on why I'm abandoning that at a later date.)

But let’s talk dinner for two secs. I went with the clam chowder and C went with the fish chowder. Was the chowder worth writing home about? Nope. But it wasn’t bad either.

The fried clams however. Battered whole, fried, served up with lemon and tartar (tahtah) sauce. Dee-lish. Polish those bad boys off with a side of mac ‘n’ cheese and you’re all set.

But don’t take my word for it. The next time you’re in Rowley at the intersection of Rt. 1 and 133 stop in for nothing but the pie. You will not regret it.

Bad Kitty reads PW

today's highlight

Today I had my first taste of fame. Sort of.

I was asked to dress up as Bad Kitty and meet with Bad Kitty's creator Nick Bruel to film some promo footage.

It was a lot of fun and quite surreal. When I was getting into the costume most of the people on the floor got really excited and once I'd donned the head I looked out through the mesh eyes to see a row of people all with huge smiles on their faces aiming iphones at me to snap pix.

I never realized that the life inside a mascot or cartoon character was so interesting. The creative (read dark) part of me was thinking of all sorts of trouble to get into dressed as Bad Kitty but there was something in the way these people's faces radiated that made me realize some people are not that far removed from their inner 5 year old.

Nick told a mascot story. Back in college a friend of his worked as a mascot for a fastfood restaurant. The guy dressed as a lion. A little boy ran up to the lion, grabbed it by the leg and asked: will you eat me?

Now you need to understands its kind of hard to hear inside the costume and mascots don't generally speak, we're left to gesture.

The lion shook his head slowly no. He watched the boy's reaction: his eyes welled up with tears and the boy ran off.

Later someone approached the guy and said that the little boy had asked: do you like me?

I'm telling you the life of a mascot has a dark side.

Today was one of those days.

I got out of bed early to frost the second red velvet cake in as many days. I let the homemade food processor poured fondant sit overnight even though it was supposed to sit for 24 hours before being used in a recipe. (Have I ever mentioned that I'm impatient?)

No matter how much time I spent trying to chase down every last lump of cream cheese the cream cheese  tiny bits of cream cheese refused to be smoothed out. And I knew it was time to step up to the major leagues. I purchased this bad boy. Disgustingly gorgeous or what?

Next up I have to purchase a digital thermometer and a digital scale. And then maybe a couple of winning lottery tickets to help pay for what is turning into a rather epensive hobby.

Luckily that new wardrobe in XXL might not be needed as soon as I anticipated. I'm able to eat one or two slices and call it a day (or rather a week). My current wardrobe is not fitting as snugly as it was two weeks ago.

This afternoon I headed to Betty to sample their red velvet cake. I wasn't a fan of the icing but I like the texture and flavor of the cake.

Tomorrow I'm heading to Hell's Kitchen to check out Amy's Bread. Next week I'm going to give their coconut cream cake a whirl. I'd give it a shot sooner but I do have to get back to writing.

I know. Life is tough.

Breakfast. A thing of beauty.

white cake with mango frosting

my favorite: yellow cake with chocolate frosting

large icky pancake

It's hard to believe that it was only two weeks ago that I baked my second sorry-ass excuse for a yellow cake. I told myself that I wasn't going to fret over it and that I'd wait a bit, until the following week, and take another stab at nailing it.

It turns out I'm as impatient as ever. There is no waiting to be done. I baked the third cake three days after the 2nd one. And it came out all peaches and cream. (And by that I mean it rocked!)

I started baking to take my mind off the stress of writing (trying to write) a novel. But let's get real here. How much stress is there in trying to write a novel? Not much. How much stress is there in baking a cake? Not much.

How much privilege is there in all this? Tons and tons. So really I've got to just shut up and count my blessings, which is what I do most of the time. When I'm not trying to be a perfectionist.

Any who.

You can see from the photo labeled "large icky pancake" -- that my first cake bombed. Big time. But the following cakes. They are cakes of a different ilk and damn tasty.

The secret? I don't know if there was a secret. For the 3rd yellow cake I made sure the oven was at exactly 350 degrees and I used a little butter milk.

Shortly thereafter I ended a very bad habit. I'd bake a cake for someone and think that I should bake one for myself. After a week or two of this and having put on 5 pounds REALLY fast, I've decided only to bake a cake a for myself once every 3 weeks and to share as much of it as possible. (But that 3rd yellow cake, which happened to be the charm -- I managed to wolf that puppy down all by myself. God damn that was good!)

And the upside to all of this is that if I want to eat a double-layer cake by myself I'm going to have to start exercising. (Here I come elastic waistband pants and pedal clips!) I think I'll bring the bike back from the country and start to go on rides after work. You know, during rush-hour when I'm likely to inhale the most car exhaust in any given thirty-minute period during the day.

The most recently requested cake: white cake with mango frosting for a going-away party. I think I've got the cake part down but I'll have to play with the frosting recipe this weekend. (See the photo "white cake.")

And I keep telling myself to wait a bit and perhaps get some writing done before I make hamburger cup cakes... Methinks I'll be posting photos of them early next week.

"Please don't bake anymore," lamented my roommate yesterday.

A couple of weeks ago I baked my first carrot cake. It was pretty good but it's got nuthin on my chocolate cake. And as winter has not quite departed from the Northeast I'm stuck indoors for another weekend and I've decided to hold my own bake-athon. My roommate took half the carrot cake into work and one of the women there is paying me to make another carrot cake. So I'll do that. And I'm going to bake another carrot cake where I work on tweaking the recipe to see if I can't get it to be a little bit more "knock your socks off." I'm having serious visions of grandeur right now. Even though I've rarely baked anything beyond potatoes -- I want to out-do myself. I want to bake a cake that leaves me weak in the knees. Red velvet might be a bit out of my league (meaning it's above me, way above me). But the fact that red velvet seems romantic, delicious, and possibly out of reach makes it the ideal candidate for my overly ambitious, highly competitive self.

Time to consult THE CAKE BIBLE by Rose Levy Beranbaum.

Time for my roommate to buy some pants with an elastic waistband.

my first carrot cake

Waterbar?

I freely admit that on March 14th I had no idea what a waterbar was.

And if C hadn't received an email from the Commonwealth asking her to install a water bar to prevent erosion on a recently harvested tract of land, I might never have known what one was, much less have found myself creating the darn thing.

As we all know there's Google and the internet and as soon as I heard that a waterbar was needed two things happened. First I groaned, "More work?" Second, I Googled "waterbar" and the first hit was a pdf file explaining what a waterbar is, how to construct one, etc. Next thing I knew I was looking forward to heading to the land and getting to work. (Yup. The ditch digger in me is alive and well.)

Sadly my life is so freaking out of balance that I tore into building the waterbar with all the enthusiam I can't seem to drum up for sitting at a desk. I would say I overdid it but it felt great and what's a few sore muscles? Nothing a soak in a hot bath can't fix.

When the bar was done I felt renewed. I know that I'm not meant to be a Parks Ranger but I've spent so much time in the built environment this past winter (the office and the apartment) that my body is craving the outdoors and being more physically active.

Luckily warmer weather is around the corner. And there will be flower and vegetable gardens to tend.  And I just might have to be content with that for the next few months.

Not only does it seem like time is running out but time is actually running out.

Now that I'm over the hill I find myself having conversations like the following:

in the workplace:
me: I don't know about you but my time is important to me. I can't watch The Social Network because no one can give me back the 90 minutes it'll take to watch that movie.
co-worker: you can fast forward through the parts you don't like.
me: I have more years behind me than in front of me and I plan to go to my grave not having watched The Social Network.

lunch with vendor:
me: Life is short and I'm not going to spend one minute doing anything I don't want to do or spend time with people I don't want to see.
vendor: I agree.

And in the midst of this I've been thinking that I've been extra blunt with folks lately (this relates to the life is short philosophy). I checked Miss C's blog and had to laugh. She posted this quote from me to her:

"Did you wake up today and look in the mirror and tell yourself that you're going to be an idiot today, because that's what you are."

Does energy follow intention?

Friday I had an interesting experience which seems to be the result of one of my habits. Everyday I go through lists. Not lists of things to-do but lists of things have happened. (I know that sounds unhealthy but I can go through lists: all the ties I appeared on tv. All the times I was mugged. All the times I did something I wish I hadn't done. All the things I haven't done, that I wish I'd done. etc) WHat happens when I go thorugh a list is I end up retelling the story for each item on the list. In this way I can spend hours amusing myself.

Friday I recalled all the times I found lost things, going as far back as grade school. There have also been documents I've found, including a social security card and a driver's license. In recent years I've found and returned several cell phones. I recalled each found cell-phone story in the greatest amount of detail possible.

My favorite cell phone story (the short version) goes like this. I'm walking in the middle of the street, mid-town, around dusk. I see an object in the road. I pick up a cell phone, marvel at the fact that it wasn't run over by a car, truck, or taxi. I look through the contacts and call, "Home." A woman answers on the second ring.
Me: Hi. I just found this phone and want to return it to its owner.
Woman: Where did you find it?
Me: On 25th between Park and Madison.
Lonnnggg pause.
Me: Did someone just get in trouble?
Woman: No my husband must have dropped it on his way to the gym.
I gave my work address and said the guy could pick up the phone the following day at his leisure.

As a sort of relevant side note. I was talking with my friend Lesbiana the other day. She's Latina, sort of butch and we were discussing Valentine's Day. I said I didn't think that dudes or butches should expect to get something but they should give something smallish and that's the extent of any Valentine's celebration. She agreed, saying it was a B.S. Hallmark holiday. I said, If anyone brought me f*ckin flowers that would be deal breaker. She laughed. I said, it's not funny. I hate cut flowers and anyone who gives me flowers wouldn't a know the first thing about me and I'd have to call things off.

Soooo. Back in 2005 I'm at work and the dude who is coming to pick up his cell phone is on his way to my office. I didn't expect a reward or anything. I'm on the Universal plan. I return lost cell phons, ID cards, bank cards and such bc I want to be sure that if I ever lose any of those items the person who finds them will return them, not go on a spending spree or walk off with my phone.

The dude shows up and he's holding one yellow rose. Of course he was pretty surprised by my appearance and realized he should have brought me drill bits or a philips head screw driver or something.

My assistant at the time saw the yellow rose and was like, What the f*ck is that about? (See even she'd figured out I'm not one who likes cut flowers.) I told her the story and she laughed.

And I bring all this up because on Friday after I was done writing for the night I decided that I HAD TO GO FOR A WALK. I rode the train downtown, wandered around until I decided to enter a Barnes and Noble. I read a really funny book and all that giggling did wonders for my soul. It was getting late and I realized I wanted to so I could get as much novel-writing done on Saturday as possible and decided it would be prudent to head home.

As soon as I stepped outside the B & N I had a thought. "I'm going to find something." But here's where I get confused: did I set the intention that I would find something or did I have a premonition?

I walked a bit more, entered a train station and sure enough, right there on a bench was a brand spanking new extremely fancy cell phone and no one on the platform.

I picked up the cell phone. When I got back to my neighborhood I opened up the contacts folder and picked the first name under the letter A. Luckily, Adam answered up on the second ring. I said Hi and told him I'd found the phone and could he let the person who owned the phone know and gave him my phone #.

Now here's where I give Adam a ton of credit. The dude, like the good young person that he is, sent a message via facebook and within 15 minutes the owner of the lost cell phone called me. Saturday morning I met up with her at Starbucks and returned the phone. Turns out she's from out of state and a very nice middle-aged woman. She was super-happy I returned the phone. I was just as happy to return it.

But I'm still left wondering: did I ask to find something or did I get a hit?

If I "put it out there" then I really have to work on using my skills towards attracting larger payoffs. I'm not talking about money bc I'll take a long healthy, interesting life over material wealth anyday. Actually, I'll take a long healthy life and riches.

So. Does mindset create reality or does reality inform mindset? It must be a combination of the two.

"pet" project

As a child our household didn’t have pets. Okay that’s not entirely true. My very unstable mother had a habit of buying puppies and then when she learned she couldn’t control them she’d return the slightly older puppies to the breeder and then go back to controlling my brother and me with a vengeance. One summer when I was around 7 years old I left for a month-long vacation and in that time she managed to select, purchase, and return a (barkless) Basenji. What’s curious is that she had had dogs while she was a kid so I’m not sure why her affection and skillset didn’t transfer to her adult life.

Aside from limited pets and being extremely allergic to cats, I live what can be best described as a pet-free life. That was until last Thursday when my roommate asked me if I’d make blueberry sourdough pancakes. My roommate is wise to have made this request. Whether she knows it or not, I like to try new things and pancakes are a terrific way to start (& end) any day.

Being that I’m absentminded I had to pin a huge note to the kitchen wall “start sour dough starter” or else these pancakes would never appear.

On Saturday, using a basic recipe of water, flour, and rapid rise yeast, I started my first starter. (Now that I’ve done a little research I think I want to try “capturing” wild yeast next time I head to the country.)

In any event I’ve realized that sourdough is alive (with yeast culture), and needs to be fed. Ergo sourdough is currently my “pet.” Although a pet that is eaten seems more along the lines of a crop. (Have I ever mentioned how irked I get when hunters harvest deer from my forest? It seriously pisses me of. GD poachers. Go get your own forest and stay the f*ck out of mine.) Sourdough starter could almost be likened to a producer such as hens -- they yield eggs and the chicken itself can be eaten (if you raise broilers or feel like eating spent hens). Or cows which produce milk (and if you’ve got nothing else around to eat I suppose you could slaughter your milk-cow and dine on her?). What I’ve really got is a flock of cultures at my beck and call. Does this mean that vegans don’t eat sour dough? Is sourdough is a pro-biotic? Why does every turn of my life seem to yield more questions?

I was told a long time ago by my Tibetan doctor to avoid wheat. In recent years I’ve gone on wheat-fasts but I like artisanal beer and anytime someone at work brings in baked goods I’m all over that like a third grader at a birthday party in homeroom.

I’ve noticed that with artisanal beer I’m not hungover the next day. I can knock back 6 pints in a sitting, stumble home, and wake up the following morning feeling as fresh as a daisy. (Which is totally fantastic!) On my stumble home I stop by Shade To Go and get a crepe. (It’s a wonder I’m not the size of a double wide.) When I was last in my favorite beer store I mentioned that the micro beers never leave me hungover and another patron said that true micro brews haven’t had the vitamin B killed which makes it easier to digest the beer. I don’t know if that’s true or not but it sounds good to me.

Applying beer logic to sourdough I’m hoping that the fermentation process is going to create a wonder food and I’ll shed pounds eating this yummy living wheat-mess instead of growing wider and having to let my belt out another notch.

Surrender or Embrace.

While I was visiting M in D.C. last weekend our conversations traveled a great distance and covered many topics. I did my best to be the best friend I could be and naturally I asked him if he meditated. His answer, quote, I studied meditation, end quote.

Folks, let's look at this response a little more closely.

First of all he didn't answer my question. The answer to my question was either "Yes, I meditate," or "No, I don't meditate."

In essence M answered, "No, I don't meditate." But just so I'm clear, studying meditation is perfectly all right but in order to benefit from one's studies, one must practice. I'm not kidding. As someone who comes from the Great Intellect I can tell you that unless a person sits down and begins to figure out how to clear or quiet the mind, everything is just chatter and not much progress will ever be made. Mental activity lends itself to a great many grand schemes, to manipulation, and calculation but thinking in the absence of taking action (choosing to do something differently and then actually doing something differently) with have the net result of: nothing (or put another way: will just result in more mental activity).

Even though I wasn't sure that M was ready to hear my next thoughts, I said, "Many years ago I was stuck in my head but I knew I wanted to enter my body and live a heart centered life. I used to invite myself into my body and in my head I visualized myself walkng down a steep set of stairs that lead from my head into my body." Back in 2007 this exercise was one of my daily practices. Whenever I had a free minute and remembered to invite myself to take this little walk, I pictured myself walking down those steps and entering my heart.

M seemed to like this idea but I could tell that my suggestion was probably going to spend a while in his mental process. The dude is seriously caught up in mental activity.

M's sadness reminded me of the way I felt a few years back. There's something so lonely about residing in the Great Intellect. And lately, although I'm not entirely sure how I mangaed to accomplish, I've been feeling great. It has something to do with love. Being in it and not allowing my mental process to overwhelm that experience.

I suggested to M that he might want to surrender but he didn't like that idea at all and told me so. I can almost see his point of view, but surrender when it becomes Surrender is about letting go and having the strongest faith possible and truly believing that everything will be ok. I like that I've surrendered in both the relative and Divine sense. I know that no harm can come from loving someone else and by letting a greater universal love fill me I'm protected from depression. This new love is the best feeling I've ever experienced and there is no loneliness in it.

As I write this I'm beginning to think that perhaps Surrender isn't the best possible word choice. So let's try this: Embrace. Embrace your highest good, your deepest faith, and believe that in so doing you will be loved and cared for.

Part I: Facebook friend or friend?

This past weekend I had the very good fortune to head to Washington D.C. to visit a friend I hadn’t seen in close to 25 years. After trading messages via Facebook I decided I didn’t want to be “Facebook friends,” I wanted to re-connect as friends. Add to this that I hate talking over the phone, mix in the tone of M.’s messages, and it became clear that there was no way we could have a soulful exchange via Facebook so I invited myself over to his place. I seem to have a tendency to do that lately -- but I’ll tell you the last couple of times I’ve had sleepovers with my male friends I’ve ended up having the best time. Not that I’m not looking to play house with the right woman but until she shows up what am I gonna do, sit around the house bored? Nah. A few drinks, a home cooked meal, combined with a little couch surfing and it’s all about fraternity until Miss Right makes her appearance.


Now when M. and I met waaaay back in 1984 he was a freshman at Harvard and I was a homeless gay teen. Over the past 25 years I’ve often wondered why M. was able to offer me his bed in the Freshman Quad without him in the bed. Where was he sleeping? Over the weekend I learned that he had slept with a grad student, was then stalked by said grad student, and spent the spring term hiding in another undergrad’s room, hence the vacant bed. I was quick to thank M. for giving me a place to stay and taking me to the student union for meals.

In our message exchange when M. revealed that he’d turned his entire life upside down and felt “lost” that I knew we faced a weekend of long talks. And I was proved correct on this.

M. walked away from a career and a husband and a cushy life. While M. was doing that I walked away from my job, my life in NYC of 20 years, and put 200 miles between me and my friends. I felt that I could relate to M.’s confused state but I’ve managed to get myself squared away a little sooner than M. because I ask myself a lot of questions (nightly, at 3 a.m., while I’m staring at the ceiling, wide awake) and I don’t rest until I get answers. That means I rarely rest which is not the healthiest choice but what am I gonna do? Get a lobotomy? Nah.

When I uprooted and transplanted myself it didn’t much matter to me what the naysayers were going on about. But I think M. took the criticisms aimed at him and let the barbs sink into his heart. His friends said, of his impending life changes: “You’re not getting any younger.” “You’re being self-destructive.” “You’re crazy.”

Poppycock! Is what I say. Let’s pretend that M. had forced himself to remain: in a job that he detested, a relationship that wasn’t meeting the needs of his soul, in a town where he didn’t want to live.
That trinity is the recipe for disaster.

Who in his or her right mind forces themselves to live a life they know they shouldn’t be living?
Is M. happy right now? Nope. But he’s an incredibly intelligent guy (the Harvard degree and the law degree speak to that) and I have faith in him.
We talked a lot about coming from overwhelming intellectuality (my phrase). I used to live in my head and had no idea that I would ever connect with my heart. And I can’t say that surviving a life threatening illness caused me to become more heart centered. I believe that when we explore the territory of other bodies that make up the self (the emotional body and the spirit body) it becomes impossible to avoid integrating at least some small aspect of these bodies into daily life. I have a tendency to delve a little deeper into these things that the average person but that’s because experience has shown me time and again that I will be rewarded for this sort of spelunking. I may wind up with a few bumps and bruises but I never regret shedding the intellect in favor of having a deeper emotional experience.
I wanted to say many things to M. but kept myself in check bc I haven’t seen in him in 20 years and didn’t want to come off as preachy or judgmental. But he eats way too much fruit (which is really sugar) which will make it harder for him to become grounded. I think he’s so angry about a couple of things which renders him unable to forgive and move on. He hasn’t cultivated a fine enough sense of gratitude.
Let me tell you: with gratitude you can face all of life’s challenges with a smile on your face and in your heart. Gratitude should be in your personal arsenal, along with the breath.

The improvement cutting

Just plain gorgeous.

If a photograph is worth 1,000 words the photo (see above) is about 994 words shy of keeping up.

I figure most people see: forest, land, snow, sky, stumps, and slash. (Sorry GnR fans). Slash, in this case, are the tops of trees left on the forest floor after a cutting meant to return nutrients to the soil.

I doubt Deval Patrick is in a hurry to give me an award for this improvemnt cutting but my forester (who knows a thing or two about what's going on here) was quick to praise me for my invasive species removal (last summer) and to point out what an amazing job the loggers did.

And someday (not today or tomorrow) I might become smart enough to tell you a little bit more about what's going on here. Suffice to say: this improvement cutting accomplished exactly what I wanted it to.

I got rid of acres of scrub pine that was choking the forest, thereby allowing more light in so that all the really terrific trees can grow up to be big and strong. I know full-well that I might not live to see the next scheduled harvest in 30 or 40 years. But you can be damn sure that my heirs are going to be able to cash in on a seriously healthy and beautiful forest and if I've done my job really-well, he or she (the heirs that is) will follow in my footsteps and if we keep this up, this tract of forest will remain beautiful for another 200 years or so. And in 2211 ain't nobody going to be recollecting my back-breaking summer of bittersweet removal. And that's fine by me.

cupcakes and the NFL

I can never really figure out where any thoughts emerge from in my mind. Lots of ideas and notions and desires and questions are always swirling around. Basically I live in a world of non-stop mental activity. And this includes sleep, where my nights are filled with vivid dreams -- so much so on weeknights that I have to nap on the weekends or I wouldn't get through life.

And I bring this up because I've been, for no apparent reason other than to give my mind something to gnaw on, wondering about my identity and my masculinity and I've realized that I've no hope but to always be queer. Last Sunday I ended up in a hotel room watching tv. I don't have tv at home bc I think it will mess up my mind. Funny right? How do you make a bigger mess out of the mess my head is already in? I see tv as a substance that should only be used recreationally.

Ok, so I ended up at the hotel bc the house lost power and I wasn't going to freeze my ass off and I had to get the car to the dealer in the morning so I couldn't head to the city and I also had this inexplicable burning desire to watch the Patriots play the Jets (although I found that I couldn't really root for either side since I don't care about either team).

After a much needed very hot shower and writing down my dreams in my dream journal I settled in to watch the game. And during a commercial interruption I found myself surfing channels and stumbled on the Cupcake Olympics (not really, it's Cup Cake Wars). Then I flipped between the NFL and the cup cake ladies. And I was almost more impressed by the cupcake wars.

I was thinking, would a real man watch cup cake wars? (openly? secretly?) and why do I give a shit about what anyone thinks of me?

It was then that my mind turned towards my brother's health, or rather illness, and I contemplated his masculinity and was thinking about the way that a person might get way too caught up in either femininity or masculinity and if that person isn't careful it could actually lead to some serious health problems. (I'll have to ask my brother for permission to discuss his particular situation before I can go on about that.) And even though I hate being vague and since my own brush with death was long ago and harder to directly correlate, I can say this: people who don't: watch what they eat, watch who they spend their time with, watch how they love themselves -- run the risk of becoming miserable.

For a long time I was a curmudgeon around baking and cooking. It was cool when the former wifey was doing all that, I got to sit back and eat a lot of delicious homemade food and had free access to the wife for other pursuits. But over the past five years of not having a wife I started to miss the food and the goodies (and the sex) and then I realized I could do something about the food and the goodies.

Now I make a killer chocolate cake that my roommate takes into the office for birthday parties. And everyone moans and oohs and aahs over it. So I'm almost glad I've been single and decided that in the absence of a wife I could start to kick some culinary ass in the kitchen.

And then my mind turned the corner and started to contemplate legacy. When all is said and done what do I want to be remembered for? I want to have been known for being loving, bold, strong, fun, fearless, and successful.

And after the cupcake wars ended and the Jets beat the Pats, I returned to Justice Hall (which I didn't think was as good as say: The Monstrous Regiment of Women or Letter of Mary) and then when I couldn't sleep (bc I'm really a night person) I turned on the tv (since it was there) and caught some of the Australian Open.

And the next week to keep my queer persona intact I baked cookies and watched a dvd on motor cross racing. And then I had the craziest fantasy. (You know when you're just sort of staring at the wall and you realize that a little movie is playing in your head?) I was thinking I'd like to bake something (a pie?) and enter it into a contest at a county fair later in the fall. Why not?

I don't have many regrets but I do wish I could've gotten myself together a little earlier in life so I could've entered a motor cross race one weekend and entered a bake off the next. And of course been happily married throughout.

"If you don't stand for something, you'll fall for anything."

Until today at around 11:30 am -- as I was getting settled into my seat to sit back, "relax," and enjoy Black Swan -- I'd been pretty ambivalent to the whole steam punk subculture. Not that I have anything against steam or punks or subcultures it's just that I farmed for a year and if the steam punks took things to their logical conclusion they'd realize they have a cute aesthetic on their minds but nothing that's sustainable. After seeing the trailer for Sucker Punch I'm definitely thinking we should bring back dirigibles. Maybe for like a week. And even though I'd be hard-pressed to set foot in Disney Land (or World) or any 7 Flags Theme Park anytime soon, this movie could be transformed into an awesome ride. A la Indian Jones. 

Hot chicks with machine guns, slaying dragons. Yes Zack Snyder you can have my $13.00. (And Yes I liked Watchmen and the 300.)

"I refuse to give into that feeling of despair."

“To see good people like this hurt, it is so grievous and causes me such sadness but again I refuse to give in to that feeling of despair. There is light in this situation. I urge everyone, read up about those who were hurt or killed in this shooting. You will be comforted by just how much anonymous goodness there really is in the world…and you realize that people you don’t even know, that you have never met are leading lives of real dignity and goodness and you hear about crazy but it’s rarer than you think…” John Stewart, on the Daily Show 01/10/11

If you're going through Hell. Keep going.
-- Winston Churchill

No time for hate.

When I was young (age 4) one of my aunts was brutally raped and murdered and left under a porch in Roxbury. The next day a neighbor called the police to report this. The man who raped and murdered her was never identified. There was no trial. There was no closure. Decades of the question: “Who did this?” hovered over my family. (My hunch is that he died in jail sentenced for another crime.)
Here’s the thing, for whatever reason I have never hated the guy. Weird. I know.
And that probably sounds messed up but that’s the way it is. And I’ve thought about this over the years -- Why don’t I hate the man who killed my aunt? And in some ways I like that I don’t hate this guy because I’m not big on hating. (My hobbies include: eating, baking, cooking, brooding, reading, hiking, and such.)

My parents weren’t particularly friendly or loving -- to me, my brother, or each other. And for many years I was your run-of-the-mill self-centered, American, who consumed way too much of everything. As I got older I got a tiny bit wiser and I started to examine my actions/behavior and I wasn’t comfortable with who I had become so I set about changing that.

On September 12, 2001 – the day after I stood on 5th Avenue and watched the World Trade Centers collapse -- something in my mindset shifted. I refused to be afraid. (Not that I had ever been particularly fearful, I think I was more numb.) I refused to be depressed. (And I had spent many years very depressed.) I was really unhappy about what had happened – in particular that a lot of innocent people had been killed – but I took it as a wake up call.
Anger and hate can be catalysts of a sort but I don’t believe those emotions are sustainable. You probably won’t be able to remain angry or hateful for more than a couple of minutes at a time. And this is a good thing because if you were able to be hateful and angry for sustained periods of time you’d probably end up an extremely unhappy person.
I’ve been thinking about the kid who shot Representative Giffords and I’d like to be angry or hurt but instead I feel bad. And maybe a little bit powerless. But I’m taking this as another wake up call. And once again, I’m not going to give into fear. And once again, I figure the only thing I can control is myself. So yeah – it’s more vegetarianism, and public transportation, and looking to cause as little harm as possible.

I’ve been thinking about the ways in which a person could die: murder, disease, old age, accidentally, suicide.
And it’s occurred to me that I might actually have to reduce the emphasis I’ve placed on trying to have a happy-death and re-focus on having a deeper day-to-day life experience.
How can I live an honorable, valuable, interesting, fulfilling life?

The past couple of weeks I’ve been wondering about my writing. Now that I’m applying to Grad school I’ve had to think about writing not as art (something I do for myself, everyone can go hang) but as a way to earn a living (want to give me a chunk of change for that story? Thanks!). But that means that I’ve got to get published. And when I think about that and think about how fickle consumers can be I wonder if I’ll have the balls, the talent, and the luck to earn a living writing. But the funny thing is I can’t give up on it until I’ve given it a fair try. Seriously. If I’m not accepted to Grad school AND if I can’t earn money selling stories then I’ll give up.
Until then… life is a mixture of insomnia, visits to Good Beer, working behind the desk, writing, (writing some more) and refusing to hate.