Into contemplated shadow,
you step out of light.
You have designed
this plan,
your future.
In this fine room
the jazz fuses
the scene
while Cezanne glances over your left shoulder.
You begin to believe
that you are
tonight's King.
Two fingers
give you courage to place the ring
and make your claim.
Your jagged notes are brushed over
the edge of the brass and the snare
pulls your pulse.
Music mixes with the amber.
As you swallow them both,
you no longer
recall your doubt.
M. Scofield January 8, 2009
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Five Dollar Sentences From 2008
I’m not a plagiarist, not on purpose. I do, however, have a great ear for a great phrase. I’ve developed a habit of paying five dollars to anyone who says something so spectacular that his or her words drive me to look for a pen so I can make note of the proffered specialness. I tell the payee that I am tendering an offer for payment of their words, which I may very well use in the future, possibly paraphrased, but that the words they used are “just that good”. I usually have witnesses to this transaction. About half of the time the cash is refused. These occasions have happened in bars, in private homes, in the operating suite and on public transportation, among others. My friends have even taken to recognizing great words and, once in awhile (when I miss a beat) have asked me, “Aren’t you going to give him five dollars for that?”
I’m going to share a few with you from this year. Some of you will recognize your own words, or you’ll recognize the stories from which these were pulled. Remember, time warps all tales.
#5. “How’s that gray working for you?” My nurse asked me this while we had a moment of downtime in clinic. She was looking at my hair. I made an appointment with my hair stylist the next day.
#4. “Oooh! Your spleen is obviously quite sick, and I think your uterus needs work, too.”
#3 “I know it’s not BYOB, but I’d rather bring my own.” I didn’t want to pay for the words, but rather for the facial gesture of eyebrows raised. That was priceless.
#2. “Everybody dance, now!” I can’t pay myself. I would if I could. This is a great sentence. It can be used as a command, a request, or a plea. It’s a wonderful icebreaker and also cuts tension in a situation like you wouldn’t believe. Try it the next time your officemates are all bitching about something and see what happens. I bet something happens.
#1. “These pants are so constricting.” These five words have provided much entertainment, complete with action sequences and the legend only grows with the retelling. I can only dream of a screenplay one day. I can only dream.
I’m going to share a few with you from this year. Some of you will recognize your own words, or you’ll recognize the stories from which these were pulled. Remember, time warps all tales.
#5. “How’s that gray working for you?” My nurse asked me this while we had a moment of downtime in clinic. She was looking at my hair. I made an appointment with my hair stylist the next day.
#4. “Oooh! Your spleen is obviously quite sick, and I think your uterus needs work, too.”
#3 “I know it’s not BYOB, but I’d rather bring my own.” I didn’t want to pay for the words, but rather for the facial gesture of eyebrows raised. That was priceless.
#2. “Everybody dance, now!” I can’t pay myself. I would if I could. This is a great sentence. It can be used as a command, a request, or a plea. It’s a wonderful icebreaker and also cuts tension in a situation like you wouldn’t believe. Try it the next time your officemates are all bitching about something and see what happens. I bet something happens.
#1. “These pants are so constricting.” These five words have provided much entertainment, complete with action sequences and the legend only grows with the retelling. I can only dream of a screenplay one day. I can only dream.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
For Your Consideration - A Baker of Pies
I've been telling my friend, Laurel, for months, "I should write a review of your pies. You're the best." This weekend she reminded me of the same. She told me to hurry up and do so.
Laurel is an accomplished cook. She is accomplished at many things. It seems that she puts her mind to something and she achieves that goal. She is bright, pretty, and I count her among my small circle of friends. She has a saucy sense of humor that is a pleasure to witness in action. This isn't about the overall package that is Laurel, though. This is about her pie-baking abilities.
I'd ask you to close your eyes and use your imagination, but you wouldn't be able to read my words. Why should you close your eyes? If your eyes were closed you'd be able to dedicate your senses - your imagination - to the textures, the tastes, the aromas of one of Laurel's creations. If your eyes were closed, I think you might get a better experience out of this little essay.
She starts with her great-grandmother's crust recipe. She tried to share it with me once, but I admit that my pie-making abilities are limited by my patience and my tendency to eyeball measurements. Laurel is a stickler for ingredients and exact quantities. She is a self-described Kitchen Whore (yes, we need capitals) and she even has measuring spoons for dashes and pinches. I know her recipe is similar to that of my own great-grandmother's, I would simply rather let Laurel do the baking.
Laurel always chooses the right filling for the right occasion. I've had her pear tart in the fall and her pumpkin pie at Christmas. She makes a beautiful peach pie in summertime. You want a lattice top? Leaves, or fluted edges? She can handle it with ease.
Now that I've given you the basics, let's get down to the real reason her pies are so good. She has the timing down to a science. She knows - she senses - when they should come out of the oven. Because of this innate knowledge, her guests can count on...
...a perfect slice with filling that yields with just the right amount of tenderness to the fork as the tines make their way to the golden crust that is at the same time, tender and flaky. This is a marriage of science and art in a Pyrex plate. Layers of crust melt in your mouth, with just a hint of saltiness, their crispness playing off of the sweetness of the filling. (This would be a great place to close your eyes.)
She comes complete with her own marble rolling pin, mixing bowls and I've seen her fill out an apron in the most fetching manner. She also insists on whipping her own cream for the pumpkin and if this doesn't convince you, imagine one more thing. Imagine sitting at the kitchen table and seeing her smiling face as she opens the freezer door and asks, "Would you like Blue Bell Vanilla Ice Cream with that peach pie?"
Laurel is an accomplished cook. She is accomplished at many things. It seems that she puts her mind to something and she achieves that goal. She is bright, pretty, and I count her among my small circle of friends. She has a saucy sense of humor that is a pleasure to witness in action. This isn't about the overall package that is Laurel, though. This is about her pie-baking abilities.
I'd ask you to close your eyes and use your imagination, but you wouldn't be able to read my words. Why should you close your eyes? If your eyes were closed you'd be able to dedicate your senses - your imagination - to the textures, the tastes, the aromas of one of Laurel's creations. If your eyes were closed, I think you might get a better experience out of this little essay.
She starts with her great-grandmother's crust recipe. She tried to share it with me once, but I admit that my pie-making abilities are limited by my patience and my tendency to eyeball measurements. Laurel is a stickler for ingredients and exact quantities. She is a self-described Kitchen Whore (yes, we need capitals) and she even has measuring spoons for dashes and pinches. I know her recipe is similar to that of my own great-grandmother's, I would simply rather let Laurel do the baking.
Laurel always chooses the right filling for the right occasion. I've had her pear tart in the fall and her pumpkin pie at Christmas. She makes a beautiful peach pie in summertime. You want a lattice top? Leaves, or fluted edges? She can handle it with ease.
Now that I've given you the basics, let's get down to the real reason her pies are so good. She has the timing down to a science. She knows - she senses - when they should come out of the oven. Because of this innate knowledge, her guests can count on...
...a perfect slice with filling that yields with just the right amount of tenderness to the fork as the tines make their way to the golden crust that is at the same time, tender and flaky. This is a marriage of science and art in a Pyrex plate. Layers of crust melt in your mouth, with just a hint of saltiness, their crispness playing off of the sweetness of the filling. (This would be a great place to close your eyes.)
She comes complete with her own marble rolling pin, mixing bowls and I've seen her fill out an apron in the most fetching manner. She also insists on whipping her own cream for the pumpkin and if this doesn't convince you, imagine one more thing. Imagine sitting at the kitchen table and seeing her smiling face as she opens the freezer door and asks, "Would you like Blue Bell Vanilla Ice Cream with that peach pie?"
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Sublimation
"Don't change."
How do I follow
the directive
given upon
discovery
of traits
thought
to be desired?
I am your
object of affection.
I am target,
intent,
plan,
and goal.
How can I not change when I
am planted in a place where
I can only grow?
To loft into the realm
of the sublime,
to transcend
the middling
surprises me not.
Watch me change.
Don't ask for less.
How do I follow
the directive
given upon
discovery
of traits
thought
to be desired?
I am your
object of affection.
I am target,
intent,
plan,
and goal.
How can I not change when I
am planted in a place where
I can only grow?
To loft into the realm
of the sublime,
to transcend
the middling
surprises me not.
Watch me change.
Don't ask for less.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Thoughts on Change, Growth, Family
"Aunt Michelle!"
It didn't make sense. A tallish young man was calling to me from across the yard. He waved and shouted again, "Aunt Michelle!"
It couldn't be. He couldn't be. I watched my nephew stride toward me in long loping steps. He grinned to see the surprise on my face. Where was my Doren? Where was the little boy who used to play tricks on me, who would never sit still? Suddenly he was right in front of me, holding me in a bear hug. He smelled of woodsmoke and flannel. He was taller than me.
"What's the matter with you?" He stepped back and looked at me as I fought back tears.
"I'm fine. I just never expected to see you this grown up."
I don't know what I expected. It had been almost four years since I'd laid eyes on him. Certainly I knew that he would change, I just never dreamed that he would change that much. We sat down by the firepit and put our feet up on the stone ledge to warm them. I waited. He didn't say much else. He pulled out his cell phone and started texting his friends. He is, after all, a teen.
My brother and I continued our conversation. I couldn't help but remember back to the days when my brother wore his own letter jacket, to the days when he would sit next to me and we wouldn't talk much. Now he was asking me about my life, confirming that I was happy, that I was safe and cared for. Funny, when he was a kid, I didn't expect to see him this grown up, either.
Thirteen of us piled into several vehicles and made our way to a Tex-Mex restaurant last night. We enjoyed a meal together, laughing and joking, sharing old memories and building new ones. It was a joy to see my brother's wife light up the room with her vibrant personality and to see my brother recognize the same. There are times when "belonging" is more difficult to define than it is to describe.
Growing up, our mother used to tell us (me and my brothers) that we could always count on each other, even if we might not be able to count on anyone or anything else. The beauty of this (I think) is that - by extension - we are able to count on the love that surrounds our families. The beauty that lies in inclusion - in familial love - simply because we love the father, or the wife, or the sister of someone who is so very special to us is a gift which tugs at my heart each time I sit with it.
Today I am grateful for a sense of belonging. I am aware that I have had many opportunities to make choices which could lead to living life in a much different manner than I do today. I am also aware that others have chosen to include me in their lives, sometimes not even fully aware of how their choices might change my life. I want to be mindful of this as I move through my days.
It didn't make sense. A tallish young man was calling to me from across the yard. He waved and shouted again, "Aunt Michelle!"
It couldn't be. He couldn't be. I watched my nephew stride toward me in long loping steps. He grinned to see the surprise on my face. Where was my Doren? Where was the little boy who used to play tricks on me, who would never sit still? Suddenly he was right in front of me, holding me in a bear hug. He smelled of woodsmoke and flannel. He was taller than me.
"What's the matter with you?" He stepped back and looked at me as I fought back tears.
"I'm fine. I just never expected to see you this grown up."
I don't know what I expected. It had been almost four years since I'd laid eyes on him. Certainly I knew that he would change, I just never dreamed that he would change that much. We sat down by the firepit and put our feet up on the stone ledge to warm them. I waited. He didn't say much else. He pulled out his cell phone and started texting his friends. He is, after all, a teen.
My brother and I continued our conversation. I couldn't help but remember back to the days when my brother wore his own letter jacket, to the days when he would sit next to me and we wouldn't talk much. Now he was asking me about my life, confirming that I was happy, that I was safe and cared for. Funny, when he was a kid, I didn't expect to see him this grown up, either.
Thirteen of us piled into several vehicles and made our way to a Tex-Mex restaurant last night. We enjoyed a meal together, laughing and joking, sharing old memories and building new ones. It was a joy to see my brother's wife light up the room with her vibrant personality and to see my brother recognize the same. There are times when "belonging" is more difficult to define than it is to describe.
Growing up, our mother used to tell us (me and my brothers) that we could always count on each other, even if we might not be able to count on anyone or anything else. The beauty of this (I think) is that - by extension - we are able to count on the love that surrounds our families. The beauty that lies in inclusion - in familial love - simply because we love the father, or the wife, or the sister of someone who is so very special to us is a gift which tugs at my heart each time I sit with it.
Today I am grateful for a sense of belonging. I am aware that I have had many opportunities to make choices which could lead to living life in a much different manner than I do today. I am also aware that others have chosen to include me in their lives, sometimes not even fully aware of how their choices might change my life. I want to be mindful of this as I move through my days.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
All I Want is More. Forever.
Yesterday I received a package. So it's Christmastime and that shouldn't be unusual. I didn't recognize the sender, but the package was one of those cute little padded manila numbers. I could feel the bubble wrap inside and I opened the envelope before I tackled the mound of mail that had accumulated while I'd been out of town on vacation.
Well. A surprise. To be sure.
I have some stepsiblings that I no longer see, or speak to. There's really no animosity, it's more that our parents aren't married to each other anymore. One of those long-ago stepsisters sent me a CD, and a note. She thought I might want to have an audio recording of my mother's voice. She (the stepsister) had found an old cassette tape and converted it over to CD. The note said she hoped I might "find comfort".
Well. I wasn't expecting that.
I played it this morning. My mother apparently taped herself preparing for a sales training meeting. She was a manager for a large cosmetics company and she held meetings quite often. I remember that she'd be out late a lot of nights and would come home exhausted, even when she was going through chemotherapy the first time.
I sat on the couch this morning and listened to her. At first it didn't sound like her. She was certainly reading from a script. She talked about commissions and boosting sales. She talked about bonuses of pressure cookers and 8-track tape players.
And then. And then I heard her say it. "Bye!" A door shut in the background. She was saying goodbye to someone, one of her children as they left the house. The way she said it, the way she stopped in mid-sentence to acknowledge a child...
8 minutes. That's all there was. 8 minutes of my mother's voice. I'm doing fine after hearing it. I'm not sad. I'm not distraught. I'm simply wanting of more. It's what I've wanted all along - just more. All I want is forever.
Well. A surprise. To be sure.
I have some stepsiblings that I no longer see, or speak to. There's really no animosity, it's more that our parents aren't married to each other anymore. One of those long-ago stepsisters sent me a CD, and a note. She thought I might want to have an audio recording of my mother's voice. She (the stepsister) had found an old cassette tape and converted it over to CD. The note said she hoped I might "find comfort".
Well. I wasn't expecting that.
I played it this morning. My mother apparently taped herself preparing for a sales training meeting. She was a manager for a large cosmetics company and she held meetings quite often. I remember that she'd be out late a lot of nights and would come home exhausted, even when she was going through chemotherapy the first time.
I sat on the couch this morning and listened to her. At first it didn't sound like her. She was certainly reading from a script. She talked about commissions and boosting sales. She talked about bonuses of pressure cookers and 8-track tape players.
And then. And then I heard her say it. "Bye!" A door shut in the background. She was saying goodbye to someone, one of her children as they left the house. The way she said it, the way she stopped in mid-sentence to acknowledge a child...
8 minutes. That's all there was. 8 minutes of my mother's voice. I'm doing fine after hearing it. I'm not sad. I'm not distraught. I'm simply wanting of more. It's what I've wanted all along - just more. All I want is forever.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Decking the Halls
There is a yearly contest in our department. I have no idea what the winners receive. It's a holiday door decorating contest. Last year the theme was "Holidays Through the Eyes of a Child". I made a Dr. Seuss-ian fireplace and hung stockings. I asked each of my colleagues to bring in a photo of themselves as kids. It was a lot of fun. We didn't win any prizes, but we bonded a little and had a good time looking at our pictures.
This year the theme is, "Musical Holiday Memories". For some reason I decided to put Elvis Presley all over our door with blue snowflakes. It's a Blue Christmas. It's weird. I know this. I really, really doubt we'll win anything, but we got a lot of comments today, especially about sexy Santa Elvis peeking around the corner of our office door.
There weren't any decorations on our hallway until I put ours up, then suddenly there was a flurry of activity on our corridor. The secretaries don't have doors, so they can adopt a door of someone who isn't likely to decorate. Just such a thing happened with my boss who came storming out of his office this afternoon. I happened to be standing nearby when he bellowed, "Hey! Who is this girl on my door?"
His secretary ran around the corner. She and I both started laughing immediately. I had tears streaming down my face as she explained it to him. She pointed out the two turtle doves, part of "The Twelve Days of Christmas". The girl on his door was Danny Partridge...in a pear tree.
This year the theme is, "Musical Holiday Memories". For some reason I decided to put Elvis Presley all over our door with blue snowflakes. It's a Blue Christmas. It's weird. I know this. I really, really doubt we'll win anything, but we got a lot of comments today, especially about sexy Santa Elvis peeking around the corner of our office door.
There weren't any decorations on our hallway until I put ours up, then suddenly there was a flurry of activity on our corridor. The secretaries don't have doors, so they can adopt a door of someone who isn't likely to decorate. Just such a thing happened with my boss who came storming out of his office this afternoon. I happened to be standing nearby when he bellowed, "Hey! Who is this girl on my door?"
His secretary ran around the corner. She and I both started laughing immediately. I had tears streaming down my face as she explained it to him. She pointed out the two turtle doves, part of "The Twelve Days of Christmas". The girl on his door was Danny Partridge...in a pear tree.
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