Adolphus and Slungman discover that hills have two sides

Nothing has been left barren. Spring is in full swing. The days have been warm and after the sun has set the air becomes chilly, swaying silhouettes of trees to and fro on winding country roads. A storm left branches scattered on the road and the twigs scrape against my hands as Conrad and I go for a late night bike ride to stretch our limbs, expand our lungs, and escape the cabs of cars or the sterility of office buildings. A scent of honeysuckle on the wind and the lowing of cattle in the fields accompany the whirring of tires as we drift over the asphalt. I feel released from some imagined weight as we glide down hills, the sweat from pedalling hard to escape yard dogs drying as quickly as it came. The chain clinks slightly as I push the pedals back, positioning them in anticipation of the next upward slope. Everything is more beautiful when you can be a part of the scenery that you're passing through. Twenty-three miles of open sky and wind swept fields on either side; it's a painting that you soak in and appreciate, a panorama in which you are not the primary subject. To feel small like a speck of color on a canvas is to feel a sort of freedom. Stress from the week's work melts away at every mile marker. The strain of calves and thighs dissipates as we lean against a fence pole in want of water and a cigarette. A blanket of star speckled blue stretches further than imagination reaches. There was only the last stretch of road on the return home and that unfettered liveliness rising in my chest. It wasn't a song but the first movement of a symphony.

from ali : updating, and questioning

A handful of shifts at the Chateau and I'm getting a grasp on its rhythm, which is at times energetic and at others exhausting, but always interesting and educationally all-encompassing: I'm learning everything from tactfully handling disgruntled clientèle (comp the ticket, give them a free creme brulee, and smile them right out the door) to honoring restaurant code (soups must be 140 degrees, minimum) to tossing a salad properly (with your [clean] hands - anything else might bruise the delicate lettuce). Biggest challenge? Empty tables. The Chateau is inconveniently buried off a farm-to-market road in Emory, with minimal traffic exposure for any city folks who might be passing through and an intimidating aura of high-brow reserve to the locals, most of whom seem to be missing the majority of their teeth.

So. That brings me to the question part: Elle has asked that I not only dip back into my now-dusty experience writing restaurant reviews for local publications and whip up some words in the promotional vein, but also help her create and implement a more aggressive marketing strategy. There are endless possibilities, from a much-needed design overhaul (menu, website, and advertising) to generating awareness by realizing her dreams of cooking classes, a wine club, private parties, etc. IDEAS. Rack your brains, and creative resources, for how to first let people know about the Chateau, and then get them inside its doors.

P.S. Pictures from my own kitchen - because experimenting with food and photographing it is what Sunday afternoons are all about

"All work is an act of philosophy."

Project: Biochemistry

I just recently finished a book on intelligent design entitled Darwin's Black Box. Michael Behe presents his case against evolution centered around the concept of irreducible complexity. An irreducibly complex system is one in which none of its components can be removed without the system ceasing to reasonably function. These systems pose the biggest roadblock for Darwinian evolution.

In this book, Behe presents a number of incredibly complicated systems that, he argues, are irreducibly complex. He delves into great detail on each of these examples, stating that he does not expect the reader to be able to understand everything, but to at the very least, be able to marvel at their complexity. I struggled, in way of rereading particular passages and referring to the illustrations associated with each, grasp these systems with minimal success. Which brings me to my point.

Aside from teaching me about intelligent design, this book sparked a new interest for biochemistry. I was extremely fascinated by the extraordinary functions of these systems. I am in the process of buying a introductory biochemistry textbook. Who knows, I may even take a microbiology class next semester. I am very excited to be learning something so new, and hope this new interest may take me somewhere worthwhile, in any sense of the word.

A Challenge?

Lately, I have been thinking a lot about "forever". The thought of dying and going to a magnificent place that never ever ends is mind blowing. However, it is so hard to even begin to conceive. No amount of straining will bring you any closing to grasping it. Much like writing, two great tumblers must align. First, you must randomly happen into the proper state of mind, and then the thought must cross your mind.

You can say the words "eternity" or "infinite" all day and it won't bring you any closer. So my challenge is, in the coming days, just try to keep forever in the back of your head through your day to day activities. At least a time or two you will draw it into your conscious mind and be completely in awe.

This is not to say that I or any other human being can comprehend eternal life, but we can begin to have an inkling of an idea, and even that is a very overwhelming experience. It makes me feel very small and extremely thankful.

The Daily Drop-Cap

orry to drop such a simple post on you, but I found something delightful. I was looking for drop-caps (y'know, the big fancy letters at the beginning of classical or industrial text blocks) and I discovered that someone out there is daily meeting this need. The results are beautiful. I recommend giving their site a visit.

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{dailydropcap.com}

Evergreens Re-Do

...and one day we'll be evergreens.

We'll outlast Winter and breath in new life. We will bloom in Spring and lift our hands to hope and wisps of feathery clouds until Summer creeps in, washing the land in light, darkening our exteriors while brightening our disposition. The sun will bare down on open fields and the wind will be welcome to beat against moist necks and damp hair. The Autumn phoenix will again dance and burst with color before the coming onslaught of grey December days short and icy. So the seasons circular track goes and the years overlap as hairlines recede. Youth - for now under appreciated to the point of being virtually overlooked - will slip from groping hands and age will settle into our hearts and joints. Sometimes I feel the aging process when I tug at my beard and remember the thinning spot on my crown. Exhaustion sets in well before midnight and I battle for one A.M. to prove I'm still youthful. Will we welcome death and join our maker after deep sleep and the cessation of memory or struggle to grasp the life we once led? The last breath should be exalted and prayers whispered in earnest. Our final exhalation should be spent giving thanks for the time here and praise for the eternity to come. And one day we'll be those evergreen on the hillsides, those reminders of endless life and the vision of hope to those lost in the barren Winter.

Oh, I've been in a way

i've been in a way these past few days,
and since i've not much to say,
i'll continue on my way, in way, of continuing to sway,
for swaying is my way, today, delay, then sway,
though it's not much of a way, i'd say,
so avoid my swaying way,
but if you say, hey, to sway i may,
then sway, and sway away,
but when in the star's bay the moon does lay,
and your day is swayed away,
you will bay your foray of the sway,
and cease your swaying ways

True Stories I Just Made Up #1

I find that it is a lot easier for me to write vignettes, moments stolen from a bigger picture, but that I rarely sit down and attempt to tell a story. This series, therefore, will be about telling stories with beginnings, middles, and ends; even if, as is the case today, the story is told in a "vignette setting".

My goal here with the first story was to be at least 50% comprehensible, for that is, after all, the very first among a writer's goals: being understood. Nothing really intensely inspired this story, I just got a visual and ran with it as an exercise.

Celestial navigation

The truck, the old man and the boy would have seemed sorely out of place to anyone driving by the lonely cotton-field that night. The witness might have squinted her eyes and stepped off the gas in an effort to answer the question inherent: "Why so late, on this june night, would two persons be traipsing around in the dark?"

But as it happens, not a soul passed by and the "question inherent" was left to the contemplation of a lone raccoon crossing the county road.

The field had been in the old man's family for four generations. The Hendons used to own half the town, but now the field and the farmhouse was all that was left. The old man had been explaining this to the boy on the short ride over to the bumpy stretch of land he had referred to as "Sendow's Point".

The boy, 16, but tall for his age, was, of course, the old man's grandson. He was not, however, a Hendon; in fact it had only been that summer that he had met his maternal grandfather, or even passed through his mother's hometown. Throughout the duration of the ride from the two story farmhouse he had nodded along with each detail the old man had pridefully put forth, the big overzealous nods people use to express acknowledgment without words.

The truck, a seen-better-days Ford with a "made in america" sticker carefully applied to the bumper, was a sort of faded teal color, save for a white hood that had been recently, relatively recently, replaced. There was barely room for both of them in the cabin; if the boy was tall, it was very possible he was tall because of his grandfather's genes.

Eventually the truck quit the fight, the jostling in the cabin subsided and the two figures stepped out into the night. June nights in Oklahoma are the temperate result of two extremes. Without shade, the field had been baking in the furious summer sun all day, so come nightfall the cold North wind whipping through the cotton stalks was met with the release of the ambient heat stored in the tight-packed sod. So it was that night when they ventured out. It was several hours after sunset when at last the old man laid out the blanket and retrieved the thermos from the dashboard.

"Grandad, you said we were out here to see the stars right?"

"That's right Simon."

"I don't see any stars."

"No, I don't suppose I do either." He paused, exerting the effort necessary to lay out his old bones across the blanket. "But let's wait a while. Sometimes I come out here and can still see a few, scattered about."

They waited in a silence broken only by the occasional slurp of coffee from the over-sized thermos. What is only 15 minutes can seem to a youth like time upon time, and to a man closer to the grave like a precious fleeting breath, as fragile as a childhood memory.

Again the boy broke the silence.

"So why did you call this place Sendow's Point? Is that someone in your family, like that I'd be related to?"

"No, no." The old man almost smiled. "We weren't related to Sendow. Not in any sense of the word." He looked at the boy again, and his half-smile faded into the quietest, but most complete expression of disappointment. "I proposed to your Grandmother on a night like this one. Many years ago. Before the highway came through town, you could actually see a thousand different constellations. I was hoping we could see a bit of what I saw that night." He scanned the sky from zenith to horizon. "Even a tenth", he said with a sigh.

Instead, what he was seeing was the yellow artificial glow, incommensurable to anything in nature, that swallows up skies observed by all who came before; street lights every ten feet, and empty parking lots illuminated continually, who, without the slightest pause or reservation, undo epochs of wonder, purpose and beauty. It can only be surmised that throughout his life the old man had seen the town grow, and the sky shrink, and that now he held onto a fool's hope of sharing what this place, what his life, had been.

The warmth that the ground had stored for them was quickly being carried away and a more persistant chill filled the air. Perhaps he knew that this was his last summer, or that the boy would understand, or that some stories aren't stories until they are told, but on that night the old man spoke of what he considered the axis, the days upon which the rest of his life was secured.

"They saved my life once, you know", he started, tentatively.

"Saved your life? What, the stars?"

"Saved my life, I'd be dead. You'd 'ave never been born. I would've never married your grandmother, you'd 'ave never been born." He was gaining a bit more confidence now, as details rushed back to him across the sweeping wind-torn fields, across oceans dark and deep, halfway around the world they sped and told his tale:

" After December 7th, a bunch of us, my friends and I, started feeling real strong-like. We joined the army, every single one of us. We were patriots, and we were shipping out to basic within the month. Left your grandmother and I with no time to plan a wedding, no time to do it right. I wanted to do right by her, so I told her we'd be married the day I got home, but that we would plan it all out really nicely in letters and that everything would be perfect. I still have all those letters, in the attic.

War is a confusing thing, and a lot of what happened in that year of my life I don't understand. I ended up on a boat in the Pacific, a communications officer, when my unit was disbanded. I was only supposed to be on that boat for a week at the most, but, like I said, war is a confusing animal; I was on that boat for 3 months and 12 days. For 3 months and 12 days I wrote letters that I had no way of sending, I was miserable and alone, save for the one tolerable man on the whole crew. Private Sendow was our gunner, a mountain of a man, and a hell of a poker player. We worked a lot of nights together, floating around in the middle of nowhere. Jon was a college man before the war, he was going to be an astronomer, taught me all about how the seasons change the constellations around, and how I could always tell where we were going. We never really talked a lot about home, or about our families, our girls, but we spent a week's worth of hours staring at the Pleiades, at orion."

The boy was watching, listening carefully, to the old man. It seemed to him as if his grandfather's entire physiognomy had been bathed in the yellow artificial light and dissolved, leaving a face bare of wrinkles and a mind free of the weight of the years.

"Three months and eleven days into my time on the "saber", that was the name of our cutter, we passed by an archipelago to the south that was supposedly in hostile territory. Our Captain thought us unprepared for conflict and we headed out into open waters.

I woke up the next morning to sirens blarin' and fires blazin'. The Saber had been attacked, and our Captain was right, we weren't ready for conflict. I was almost overboard before I knew what had happened and after a few more wet, confusing minutes it was over. The Saber lie at the bottom of the pacific, the japs had made off, and I was left alone, a soldier dying a sailor's death."

The old man stopped for a while. A particularly cool breeze had rustled through his whispy gray hair and brought him back for a moment. He closed his eyes and described what he saw.

"I had a life-vest. I had a life-vest and that was it. I never have felt as small as I did then, tossed around, alone. For a while it was more than I could take, I closed my eyes and waited for it all to end. I was a coward, I wouldn't let go of that vest. I was waiting for fate and force to finish me.

For 16 hours I was lifeless, worthless chaff in the sea. The daylight burned out in a fire that consumed the horizon and then I was alone in the dark. I yelled for a bit, maybe a half an hour. I sloshed about and gnashed my teeth and was left with the fact that this vastness was going to swallow me one way or another. So I decided to let it.

I let go of the vest, and laid out, floating on my back. Then I looked up.

Then I opened my eyes and looked up.

I saw across stretches of space that make the whole of the ocean look like a step through a doorway. It was the exhaustion surely, or the onset of shock or the hopelessness I felt, but my eyes were lit. Every star, the whole sphere of the heavens, was visible. When I closed my eyes, they followed. I couldn't help but recognize the constellations Sendow had taught me to look for. Andromeda, the big dipper, Aries, I knew a sky that had order, that I had made have order, if you can possible follow my meaning... Well, it got me to thinking about your grandmother, about that night I asked her to marry me, beneath the same stars which were then nameless to me. I thought about all the things that had led me to that boat, of all the twists and turns of fate. I thought on all of this and felt something start burning in my chest."

The old timer opened his eyes and stared thoughtfully at the spellbound youth.

"Well I got this crazy idea in my head that I wanted to live. Not just that I wanted to survive, but that I wanted to get home, marry Celine and really live. I wanted a family to teach the names of the stars. I wanted them to guide me on a thousand journeys home.

I looked around for my vest, and found it to be, miraculously, a few yards away. Remembering that there had been a chain of island to the south, I used the techniques Sendow had taught me to divine which way I should be swimming. A queer thing, a thirst for life is; it'l fill you with a second wind. And thank God the current was with me that night.

I swam and paddled for hours, and the rest of the story must be no surprise for you. Here I am. I got to the islands and waited for a week and a half, but then I was on my way home. What a home it was. I married Celine, we had your mother and your uncle Stan. For a longer time than most, we were happy."

He stopped again, and again his smile melted into troubled reflection.

"One shouldn't complain when one has been blessed for so long, but after the car accident it was just me and your mom. I felt like those stars had lied to me, like I should have died that night, alone in the Pacific. I didn't see what I had left. I was so caught up in the unknowable dark, I lost sight of the bright points of light. I pushed your mother away from me, we lost touch, I lost touch. I gave up on finding my way home. I stopped looking up at night, and eventually they stopped coming out at all.

But that was many years ago; Time has a way of smoothing over bitterness, hearing he ain't got long left has a way of changing a man, and hearing he has a grandson has a way of softening the heart, making me remember why I am here. So here we are, trying to catch a glimpse."

He had never told his story before, never even written it out, so sharing all this was like letting the largest part of himself go. He was greatly disturbed. Turning away from the boy, he spent a moment collecting himself, banished the whole ordeal from his wiry frame with a heavy sigh, and announced: "We won't be seeing much of anything tonight. No I don't think we will".

***

The boat, the man and the urn would have seemed sorely out of place to anyone standing on the sandy shores of the lonely island chain that night. The witness might have squinted his eyes and stepped out into the water in an effort to answer the question inherent: "Why so late, on the night in july, would a sailboat be passing by this out-of-the-way archipelago?"

But as it happens, not a soul passed by and the "question inherent" was left to the contemplation of a lone hen, escaped from a nearby village, wandering the shoreline.

The boat, a 26 foot yacht, was a brilliant white form against the water. It had been painted recently, and though it was of an older build, thorough maintenance kept her sailing smoothly. Nothing was out of place inside the cabin, and a clear, uncluttered deck betrayed the orderly manner of her captain.

The man was, of course, Simon: the boy grown up. At 24 he stood even taller than he had that June night among the cotton. His features defined, his jaw set, he scanned the dark waters before him with the eyes of an experienced sailor. His three itinerant years on the water had taught him many lessons and so he employed his wits and strength with the vigor that the sea demands. His searching eyes met what they were looking for, and he dropped anchor.

The urn was a humble porcelain home for what remained of the old man. No etchings or painted patterns adorned the exterior. Simon liked to think that his grandfather would have appreciated the lack of what he might have called "frivolity". Simon liked to think that he knew what his grandfather would have thought about certain things. He often thought back to that summer in the fields, going out every night to Sendow's point to fruitlessly search for constellations. They had become close in those days. They had worked and lived together and Simon was there the day the old man died.

He had promised himself he would make this trip, and to him it was the most sacred and real commitment he had ever made. Here at the pivotal moment however, he felt no great stir in his heart, no sense of completeness, only a practical knowledge of what was left to do. Once the yacht was completely still he grabbed the urn and unceremoniously scattered the ashes into the water. It was done.

The man uncorked a bottle of wine and drank deeply straight from the bottle. With a pause to wipe his lips on his sleeve, he set about pulling up the anchor and rigging the sails. He was halfway through the process when he realized that he had not yet set a course.

"Where to now?" he asked aloud, half expecting a reply. He went through the motions of grabbing for the navigational unit in the cabin, but didn't have the heart to open it, for he knew in the deepest pit of his chest where he was bound. And he knew that there was only one way to find his way.

"Where to now?" he laughed as he put away the laptop.

The man hoisted the sail. Then he looked up.

Summer Feelings & Flora

"Are you like me? Is there just no such thing as too hot a day?"

"Oh yeah, there's just something about being miserably hot."

"I know. Like no matter how hot it gets, it just fills me up with energy."

"You know one of those days where you're sticky from the heat, you get in your car and it's even hotter so you turn on the a/c but for the first few minutes it's just blowing hot air. Like I said, there's just something about it."

"It gives me so much life."

"I swear, every year I look more forward to summer."

"Yeah, I mean just look. You have all these different shades of green already starting to come to life. And that purple stuff, I don't even know what that is."

"Me neither. I've always thought that it kind of looks like upside down Blue Bonnets."

"Yeah it really does. Look at that Post Oak. It's funny, a lot of people wonder why they're called Post Oaks, 'cause when you see them in someone's yard they just look like any other tree. But when you see a bunch of them together they grow straight up just like a post."

"I didn't know that."

"Yeah. It's all about competing for sunlight. When there's just one alone in a yard it gets all the sun it wants. Its lower branches can grow out wider and get sun too. But in a forest, it has to grow tall, the lower branches get blocked out by other trees and die and fall off. That's why all the tallest trees tend to grow in the most dense forests."

"Oh, so that's why when you see a random tree off in a field all by itself, it always grows really round and wide."

"Exactly."

From Gabe: A Tortoise Housekeeping Issue

Dear members of The Tortoise Initiative,

A continuing dilemma has arisen from the fact that this blog publishes to our individual online profiles. Click here for an example. You'll note that once our feed is published to outside sources, (no doubt a good thing) there is no way to tell which of us authored which post. The dilemma is then whether to allow the ambiguity to continue, or to manually delete posts from sites such as Google when they republish there.

But the dichotomy is false, in that it can be circumvented, as Ali has been doing, tagging her titles "From Ali." This is both a quaint and efficient way of addressing the problem, and I propose we all do the same. Title your posts with a "From," adding each your own name and a hardy subtitle set off by the punctuation-mark colon, as I have demonstrated in this post's title, from here on out. I recognize this demotes our flowery titles to subtitles of a dull series, but such is the cost of greatness, gentlemen and lady.

Just to keep this inspirational on some level, I will add that in my rather fruitless momentary attempt to look into the proper use and history of the colon, I inadvertently caused this timeline [link] to come into existence. As a communications designer and an old soul, I am instantly stopped in my tracks, a child who has found a minutely life-changing new toy. Trivia and distractions abound, branching off in thousands of directions, all neatly arranged for the eye while expansive enough for the curious mind. Enjoy.

The root of art and decline of faith

"He thought that fear of death was perhaps the root of all art, perhaps also of all things of the mind. We fear death, we shudder at life's instability, we grieve to see the flowers wilt again and again, and the leaves fall, and in our hearts we know that we, too, are transitory and will soon disappear. When artists create pictures and thinkers search for laws and formulate thoughts, it is in order to salvage something from the great dance of death, to make something that lasts longer than we do."

-Narcissus and Goldmund by Herman Hesse (an excerpt)

This particular passage does not mirror my own beliefs. I rather like to think that all creation is done to canonize the beauty in life but see so many examples that are summed up so well by this description. Take Guernica, for example, or every Carissa's Wierd* song you have ever heard. This weighed on me pretty heavily when I first read it and thought it would be worth sharing.

(*Yes, weird is spelled incorrectly but there's a reason this group was referred to by so many

music critics as "music's spelling bee champs".)

from ali : on coming home

“[Home] is the center from which we define and understand

the nature of everything we encounter in the world.

The home . . . is not one thing among many in a world of things; nor is it merely the product of a culture.

Rather, the world of things derives its sense,

and a culture its significance,

from their relationship to the home.

Without the home, everything else in the world or in a culture is meaningless.”

- David Patterson -

For the past four weeks my primary creative project has been piecing - and at times pulling - together a living space, and the process has me thinking about homes, about their all too-frequent lack - of the sprawling several thousand square feet structures passing through my office with vaulted ceilings more conducive to admiration than comfort, formal dining rooms designed to entertain rather than embrace. But as criticism is bloodless without conviction and conviction fruitless without action, I'm striving to start in my quite literal backyard, and struggling to grasp the essence of what a home should be when so many have become just another place.

from ali : gone French

I've been ducking my head guiltily at every mention of the Tortoise since my project was waiting on a return call from Elle / the cajones to initiate a follow up, but we finally talked and boom bada boom...

I start helping out pro bono at the Chateau next weekend, but it won't be just dishes - Elle offered to let me help with the actual food prep, and all that entails, including a crash course on knife work.

Now if you'll excuse me, need to go lock myself in the bathroom and scream giddily until I pass out.