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.

The Eye of Naturalism

A brilliant sun, shining through a hazy morning sky lights the tossing leaves that, by natural decree, don the translucent vibrancy of life. The wind is cool, but hardly cold. A vivacity of strength and newly discovered being seems to emanate from nature's every move. Through the narrow grid of the old french doors that let in the sunlight I see the world beyond. A poorly kept hedge, a gravel path, and an old country road that disappears into steep mountain trails. Beyond, the great sweeping course of the valley stretches towards the horizon, dotted with villages, towns, cities, and, just beyond the edge of sight, a glimmer reflected from the sea.


As night approaches, lights, like a luminous forest spring up among the shadows till, between the dark arms of the surrounding hills an illuminating river runs from some hidden source to the edge of the Mediterranean. There, the void of thoughtless infinity begins. On land, the last holdout of day stands, against all odds, to face the force of all-embracing night. Distinct, a million pin-point lights combine to fight reality. Then, as if subdued by an unseen hand, the lights go out. One by one, thousand by thousand, a chilling wind lays to rest all human breath. Alone, travelers pour along the roadways in a restless consciousness that, albeit unwillingly, remains to defy the call of mother nature. Passing -- ever passing -- soon they are gone. The night is cold. Above all else, the cynic's question resonates throughout the emptiness of time: "what is truth?"

Dromophilia (Love for the Road)

I will never end my affair with the curves of her California highway,
a strap casually hung over her spring green sundress, I-880 north.

Grassy laces that ripple with the breeze,

Bouquets of liveoaks cascade from her knees

She lies in the baby blue indigo sky,
Her hips and soft elbows rise on both sides,
And each bright white cloudlet is her whisped, loving sigh.

If she would oath never to stray, then by my oath, neither would I.

John Ballard 4/29/10

{ ed. note }

I originally wrote this spontaneously last Thursday while driving I880 N toward Sacramento. Downside of that is that I had to try to funnel my inspiration into a text message, while driving, that I intended to save as a draft. Carefully I word-smithed, with one thumb, glancing down frantically every half-mile, and pressed "Save as draft." My phone replied "Draft Box Full" and my poem was gone. I tried to recreate the moment through dictation, as a sound file on my phone, which was a terrible failure. I am afraid I am not a fan of my own speaking voice. So in truth this is a rewrite, not the original. But it is very, very close, and the differences are more in the articles and conjunctions than the adjectives, verbs or nouns, which my memory preserved nicely for me. So much to say, the spirit of the moment remains intact. It was one of the most beautiful days I have ever seen. Old friend Mr. Paul B.D. McNiel was my Sacramento airport arrival, and can corroborate the previous statement. ~J.G.B.

Planet

A Long Day

It was an arduous day and creativity of any kind was omitted as will be reflected here for the most part.

Frustration with a busted radiator and a dead end job has me a little rattled but I'll make an effort to give project updates.

Ali is making a home for our co-op garden in her backyard since we didn't start early enough and I, for one, am quite excited to see what we reap. More than being ecstatic about seeing the growth and production of the work scheduled to be put forth I am bubbling over with anticipation at the thought of the dishes Ali will concoct using the yield.

Finished working out lyrics and a basic guitar structure for a new song which will be added to the original set I've been working on and really need to start and finish the recording of said songs. The completion date is still set for mid-May which means I have work to do.

A great gift in the form of a classic Schwinn has resulted in several trips to the bike shop and a nearly finished product which has already provided me with great times and enjoyable exercise. Once it has been completed I will post photographs and gloat over the luck and yet again give excessive appreciation to Ali.

I sure hope William follows this up with something worthy of attention. I would love to see some more of everybody else's work here...

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