from ali : kickstart to the new year?

(shamelessly cutting/pasting recent writing from the personal blog)

I am pecking this out with painfully slow consideration on my aging iPhone, a stuttering thumb war for remembrance on a doll sized keyboard. Each word, too, is jarred by the interruption of a nose thrust into my elbow with clockwork regularity - a wet nose, alternately snuffling inquiry or suggesting with various degrees of forcefulness an alternative activity in the form of a much-loved and consequently tooth-pocked rubber ball.

The damp nose and equally damp ball belong to Chester. They are essential parts of his evening routine, a routine consisting primarily of loose-limbed ambling from one room to the next, broken by sudden spasms of gymnastic, clawing energy aimed nose and teeth first at the unsuspecting ball or an unsupervised pair of rolled up socks or that most treasured of fleeting toys, the stray leaf snatched discreetly mid-toilet breaks or tandem walks. Acorns, too, and fraying bits of stick are smuggled in - and once, nearly, a dried out mud dauber nest - cherished contrabands, deliciously forbidden diminutive playmates to be tucked away innocently between paws and carpet when he raises a self-conscious gaze to meet my silently laughing one.

It is this almost human gaze that surprises me the most, seeing comprehension and strangely familiar emotions now flickering in mute eyes that were once just bright little brown buttons of generic puppy cuteness, as broadly adorable as those on a grocery aisle Hallmark card.  They have become pointed with personality, at times conveying unmistakeable boredom as he throws head down on paws and sidles out a heavy sigh and sideways shrugging glance towards and then immediately away from my deeply uninteresting human busyness; at others, taut with accompanying full-body alertness, following every sway of a toy dangling in mid-air before its inevitable fling across the room or field; illumined with utter unspoiled happiness too in these moments, and always roaming the hope of them at me later, offering the argument with a nudge and peaked eyebrows that surely there is nothing more joyful in life than playing. (About which he may be right).  To be fair, too, they can infuriate me, crackling with unmalicious but exultant defiance as he dances just beyond the reach of a confining leash or reprimanding hand - but when, or rather if, the hand has finally made its point, they are quickly downcast, only tentatively tossing upward the apologetic and heart-melting hope for restored favor... which is of course never slow to follow.

And lastly, the all important look - the one I am getting now, unwavering and urgent and often accompanied with vocal reinforcement if ineffective - the look that says it is time to visit the giant doggie toilet we humans laughingly refer to as a front yard.

The Baker Hotel

On July 4th, Taylor, Ryan and Ali broke into the condemned

Baker Hotel in Mineral Wells, Texas.

The following was inspired.

Mistress

taylor

Fingertips placed gingerly on the rim of his glass he looked up at the bartender who appeared as formal as his freshly pressed tuxedo. He imagined that his head would topple off were he to loosen the bow tie for him. He took a final, deep swallow of the whiskey sour. Nodding once when the bartender glanced his way he stood, turned with an over pronounced elegance, and made for the ballroom. He spotted her across the vastness of the room. She felt his eyes on her but would not meet what she knew all to well to be his solemn gaze; a gaze lacking invitation, deep wells of regret hidden behind a stern grey assurance. Regaining his composure, slackening the tightness he felt at the temples, he crossed the luxurious Oriental rug with an air of royalty. He brushed past her without a word or side glance and approached the lobby's front counter.


"I'll have a room for the night," he said in a rich, careless monotone to the clerk who promptly presented him with the correct key in a correct manner of submissiveness.

She was waiting in the elevator when he stepped into the compartment, languidly dangling a cigarette from her thin fingers.

The operator, in a cracked voice, asked, "Which floor sir?"

Her limpid eyes locked on the key in his hand for a moment and then onto the elevator attendant.

"Seven," she answered for him.

Her voice contained a hint of laughter, was so smooth and sweet that the operator almost overlooked the mocking sneer that played on her lips briefly. Theodore looked at the key in his hand and back to the numbers changing above the sliding doors as they slid quietly past the five floors that separated the lobby from the room. As the lavish compartment shuddered to a halt the young man announced the seventh floor and prompted the shining doors to open with a few well rehearsed flicks of his wrist. Theodore exited first, tucking a crisp, rather large bill in the pale-faced operator's front shirt pocket. She snickered softly under her breath at the tip as she crossed the threshold onto the rich carpet of the hallway. Theodore trembled with an anger absent in his face's unshakable demeanor and marched with military formality towards the room at the far South East wing of the building, his building. At the door he turned to face her for the first time. She smiled and took her own key from her handbag. With apparent fatigue he followed her into the room, modest in size but exquisite in its decor. He sank into a rocking chair of glossy oak and plush brown upholstery. From the side table he lifted his reading glasses and a newspaper.

She cleared her throat and lit one of the cigarettes she kept in the drawer of the nightstand. Refocusing strained attention from the column he had been pretending to read, his gaze fell on her leaning back on her palms, her fingertips pointing away from her, the cigarette dangling from the permanent smirk she wore when they were alone. She crossed her legs and assumed a sloppy pose made enticing only by the cut of the black dress she wore with absolute confidence.

"Why do you keep this up Teddy?"

"I couldn't tell you really. I've been made a fool and I've been controlled. Truth be told I loathe you. You make my skin crawl. The air is thick with some sort of evil when you're around and though I cannot for the life of me reconcile the wrong done when I'm with you there's some latent terror of what would happen if I broke it off and sent you packing."

The corners of her mouth turned sharply upward into a smile that revealed both her overly white teeth and her malicious intent.

"I've broken you. One day everyone will know that you gave to my every whim. They'll know that I owned you."

She rose quietly with unmatched grace from the bed and seemed to glide to him.

"Mr. Kennedy is even lovelier in person than on the television. Don't you think so?," she asked returning to her innocent tone, and settled into his lap.

He cringed as she kissed his temple, her lips brushing against the frames of his glasses. She removed the spectacles, taking note of the lipstick smudged on the arm, and proceeded to set them softly onto the side table as she leaned forward to lie her head on his shoulder. She felt him quiver with unease and smiled inwardly at her ability to make him do so.

"Get out," he said suddenly, "it's done."

He pushed her off his lap and stood straight with newfound courage. The part of him she believed to be broken stood snarling before her and she knew that very moment that she loved him this way. When he stood for something he was a god. When he approached life like he approached business, with a raw masculine ferocity that swallowed up any pretense of calm and the storm began in his eyes, he was the image of Ares before trembling masses. He was rigid with decision and his eyes were merciless. She tried once to meet his contemptuous gaze with a submissive glance but found that she was in fact broken despite her best efforts. Rising to her feet with all the dignity she could muster she said goodbye and leaned in to kiss him. Theodore side-stepped her attempt and strode to the door, swinging it open.

"Get out. Now."

She, without gathering her belongings, walked, crestfallen, through the door and faced him for the last time as he slammed the heavy oak panel in her face. Shame and fear washed over her as she stepped back onto the elevator.

"To the roof please Jim," she nearly whispered to the operator.

"Here you are ma'am."

She quickly and quietly removed her earrings, a gift from Theodore, and slipped them into Jim's front pocket with Teddy's tip. As she stepped off the elevator crisp air hit her face, streaming with tears, and she wept openly. She stared out over Mineral Wells perched on the edge of the cupola bathed in midnight moonlight.

World Enough, And Time

ryan

Viscerally

ali

Sixteen stories of stately brick call us back to an abandoned alley for a couple quick glances tossed across the shoulder before a deft scramble over the wall with its mute NO TRESPASSING frown, running low through weed-eaten courtyards and graffiti-streaked tunnels to lie bellies flattened against the cement spine of its bridge as a siren wails its presence by. Light foot dash forward to shimmy up a column and - pause, dangerously poised, before - jumping over the teeth of a locked iron gate, to squeeze through the slip of the top of a doorway, finally boots-first through a broken window, the kaleidoscope of dismembered glass and full-length mirrors and heavily sagging ceiling shifting underneath tenderly-placed steps into the unknown dusk of what we later learn was the once-swank Brazos Club.

Layers of unbelieving understanding starting to unfold as we creep reverently on past a forest of strangely sobered arches, through dense carved doors in a segue to the soar of the lobby, its chandeliers still swinging like a first loose tooth by one frail nerve, drapes still swooned across windows slicing light into mote-thickened arcs, rugs still smooth as a lick of pomade against the span of its echoing stretch - we fling our voices out in glee and pull them back in whispered awe.

Outstretched hands and feet now feeling out the staircase, pocket knife first, up by one swirl to the lobby's upper ledge, emptied out beside the blinded eyes of iron-lidded elevator shafts dropping silently to stomach-felt depths.

Rooms petal off by function only dimly hinted at, here by a densely rust encrusted typewriter in a jumble of otherwise unidentifiable machinery, there by glass doors folding inward for all the eye like phone booths, us gingerly pushing with our toes at a pile of chairs, running our fingers through the dust icing fitted marble counter tops, casting our questions up at the globed dome of what must have been another ballroom.

With our hints we gather artifacts, typewriter keys tucked in pockets and ashtray bowls carried under arms, the crowning find a lone rocking chair of scrolled arms rolling into curled legs holding straight the perfect line of a brown upholstered back - letting ourselves out the window, histories clutched tight to the chest in a shifty gait past the pit of the pool across the naked stretch of the lawn, our car and triumph a short leap over the chainlink fence beyond. Dangling precariously along the edge of discovery when a car turns the corner, slows, windows rolling down and heads popping out flinging questions - parried to find them harmless observers, envying our bravado and eying our treasures, parting with a word of warning.

Five minutes later sliding into a dinner booth, still dusted with asbestos and exultation -

"Do you know anything about that abandoned hotel around the corner?" we ask the waitress with barely veiling innocence.

"Oh yeah. It's famous around here... people are always trying to break in, but they have someone watching it all the time. It's automatic jail time, if you get caught."

We smile, and order our drinks. In the parking lot, in the dark, a chair rocks slightly.

from ali : census work

Fellow friends, family and tortoises:

Just a quick blip to let you know we now have Heather on board, that delightful Pennsylvania-dwelling journalist cousin of mine (as well as Alden's older sister - we're a big clan like that). Many of you know her, some of you don't, but hers is both a professionally developed and refreshingly genuine voice I'm thrilled to incorporate here.

... now play nice.

from ali : grabbing the light

So for all its sense of present longevity, I never can recall a past summer - attempting to fight that this year with some sort of rapid written restraint on the day. Will be recording it elsewhere, but wanted to share the undertaking and a sample here in keeping with the ideal of accountability inherent in the Tortoise.


We are carving out a corner in this forgotten jumble of scrub and cement: brined in sweat and sun, the ant-infested red earth streaking clothes and arms, hands and knees bug-bitten and shovel-blistered. I haul small slabs of asphalt and stone, building a wall at the open mouth of the rocketship pizza kiln to protect the dry thicket beyond, Ryan simultaneously shearing through its most obtrusive bulk by machete. We make it safe, mostly, so steady flames fill the kiln with heat and smoke but only a few slight sparks loop their way beyond its yawn. Ryan disappears in search of food - left alone, I eye night creeping closer on the firelight's failing circle, grabbing the machete to hunt out more kindling, stripping small branches and cracking thick pieces, darting a hand into the fire to stir up its embers and reassemble long logs that halved in the heat like a broken bridge. Proudly observing my handiwork, when he returns with meat, oranges, a jug of water - we squat on our haunches facing the smaller end of the kiln, turning the bratwurst-heavy spokes and watching them fester to final perfection, wiping the after-grease off on pants or just licking fingers clean.

Sated and rested, so over the potholes and out to the dock, a terrified tentative examination of the lurking nighttime lake. The first jump - Ryan - now bobbing in the black water, yelling urgently for me to follow so he's not a lone target, I strip off my boots and make a leap for it, splitting again the shocked calm that's shaking itself awake, now both of us striking out in shoddy speed for the barely discernible center dock. A perspective shift on people when the cluster of high school boys, obnoxious by daylight, show up as gladly welcome company in the night, fellow and further barrier of humanity against the water's stretch. Pale-legged floating beneath the wood through India ink pools and wan moonlit puddles, head craning back at the sky through the dock's gap-toothed grin, stretching my hands upward to grip its slats with my body struggling graceless but stubborn behind.

We part ways with the usual namaste, and me back to my snug little house, the lovely full relaxation of a swim-spent body and wet hair in loose dry clothes, drinking hot tea with milk and honey, carefully consuming Naguib Mahfouz's sparse Egyptian story and nag champa's blanket heavy scent. Some humming barefoot housecleaning alongside the washer's throaty murmur, then a gradual drift to sleep, loving my life & youth.

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

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.

from ali : on going MIA and going French

So, yes.

Saturday's slipped by and between the rain and the sleep and the lack of an internet connection, my posting deadline slipped by too -

but the bullet point version of my planned post is: I'm going to pitch an internship offer to local French chef Elle Maisdon [read: let me wash your dishes so I may watch your sauces], who owns and runs the French fusion Chateau Bistro in Emory. I'm calling her tonight and am more or less shaking in my shoddily-heeled boots over it, not because she's intimidating - in fact, she's the quintessential gentle French aunt - but because it's just too perfect. More on why, later, but there's the project simmering at the back of my plans...

from ali : housekeeping continues

For those of you not kicking it here in Canton (i.e. Alden and Gabe), we regionally consolidated Tortoises have committed to a scheduled output of content designed to both a) strengthen our own individual creative production and b) ensure consistent activity here. Gabe, I know you're already spread thin over multiple activities so there's no obligation to commit to timed posting, but you're welcome to as well!


Current deadlines, beginning this week and subject to change as needed:

• Taylor : Tuesday
• Ryan : Friday
• Ali : Saturday
• Conrad : Sunday

And a few notes:

• The days are not exclusive e.g. Taylor can still post on a Sunday, or Gabe on a Friday, etc. Anybody can post anytime, but everybody with a schedule will post something on their day.
• Content is up to your personal discretion as usual and there are no restrictions on what you choose to share - you can roll with a new design, a project idea, a project update, a well-turned line, a full-blown thesis, a song, an inspiration for a song, whatever. Again, the idea is to just post something.

Ideas? Criticism? Frantic preparatory scribbling mingled with thoughtful chewing of pen caps?

---

Oh yes, and loosing my fanatical white-knuckled grip on the virtual file cabinet for a moment...

• Someone (Taylor, perhaps?) had the bright idea to tag each post with the author's name in addition to its category in order to help us find our own or a particular person's posts quickly. Is everyone down with that?
• Gabe introduced the Junk Drawer tag for those miscellaneous items (like this post) which don't fall neatly into one of the three broad categories of Inspiration, Quotations or Creation. But so help me, if you people abuse it... *tightens lips*