Sunday, November 17, 2013

The eye of the storm

For the last 22 hours I have been in bed, nursing my ridiculously sore feet.  The last 12 days wrecked them completely.  I think I'll use some of that overtime money to buy new shoes.  Sometime before the next 12 days of pre-christmas overtime insanity begins.  I am sitting in the eye of the storm that is my own life, these precious two days off, contemplating the eye of the storm that is dementia.

I lied about not going back into nursing.  It's not as though I meant to.  We were getting pretty hungry waiting around for the economy to relent itself enough for me to obtain the job to end all other jobs.

There's good news, though.  I'm doing things differently now.  I'm working in a lock-down unit for the demented. It's a dramatic shift from your typical long-term care or home-health environment.  Dramatic, I say.  This is the kind of work that changes who you are as a person, and maybe not necessarily in a "good" way.  Three months have gone by since I started there, and the burn-out is significant, but I feel the ability to carry on radiating from my liver.  These people are different.  These people are unique.  And not just because they are often quite violent, but because they appear to me as remnants of humanity's core.

They are constant reminders of our most basic emotions.  Joy, Fear, Pain, Anger, and Sorrow.  They will laugh uncontrollably for hours.  They will scream out in psychological agony until dawn.  They will fight you when you least expect it. They will kiss your face without warning.  They switch between moods in a matter of nanoseconds, and they do so without any apparent trigger.  They are evidence that we are more than a mosaic of memories.  They are evidence that mood matters.  They are the very soil that nourishes growth, and at the same time, they are the storm that destroys life.  These people are the very definition of poetry in motion.

They are the most random people on the planet.  And I have fallen madly in love with every last one of them.  And not just them, my co-workers too.

My co-workers are intelligent, hard-working, caring, and crazy.  I've yet to be partnered with anyone I didn't fully enjoy working with.  We seem to grow fairly close, fairly quickly.  There's something about being in an environment surrounded by disease, death, and dementia that calls for the quick bonding of co-workers.  It's been a hot minute since I've worked with such a large number of incredible individuals.      

The facility is something just beyond antiquated.  There are bugs of all types invading my space.  Centipedes, spiders, stink, and water bugs to name the most predominant among them. The building is in desperate need of an internal face-lift. Short of that, there is nothing notably different about working there.  The politics are the same.  The call-off policy cripples all other attempts to control infection.  No vacation or PTO for a year.  No insurance for six months.  Short of staff more often than fully staffed.  Ample opportunity for overtime.  Wavering overall morale.  Finicky time-clock.  The occasional nit-picking nurse.  The gossip hounds.  The ever-present feeling of being looked down upon, by family members and admin.  Administration that is so far removed from the daily grind that they initiate policies that are, at best, unobtainable pipe dreams.  From what I can tell, lower level staff feedback does not exist within the walls of that place.  Above all else, the most shamefully typical attribute of this facility, are residents whose faces ring with the bitter taste of institutionalization.

But lo, I think I will stay for a while.  If for no other reason, to bear witness to the weighted efforts of every day people attempting to untangle the fibers of existence from the darkest corners, in the murkiest waters, of this thing we call life.

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

Demented

When we put words together to form sentences
We often do it in search of truth
But the bullshit stories we tell each other
are never any closer to truth
than the space between our varied perceptions
Fallacy abounds, largely ignored
Because coping without it is impossible

And still we live for the hours
And still we stay alive for each other
And still we strive to learn some new trick or another
And still we smile
And still we laugh
And still there are nights that are absolute torture
And still the moon gets bigger this time of year
And still the sunrise blinds bleary morning eyes
And I can still see that last one in my rear view mirror
And I can still feel its beautiful sting in my veins
Every one of those precious minutes carries a hundred tears
Our ocean grows deeper
But never wider 
And always 
always
there

Monday, October 7, 2013

Not quite dejavu

It had to have been a day just like today
where the warmth of summer
gives into the dull ache of cold bones 
while the air attempts to suffocate
all living things
with it's thick decay. 

It had to have been a day 

exactly the same as today
when my soul ripped itself in two
and bid adieu
to ever seeing anything
just one way again.

It feels almost mournful. 
But beautiful. 
And dreadful. 
And lost.

This day is confused.
It can't decide
whether or not
to allow the sun to shine 
So she hides cowardly
behind those gray puffs
of risen feathered-fog.

This day is longing for the forgotten heat of summer.
This day is too tired to fight against the inevitable.
This day would give itself up for one more pleasant dream.
But this day can not sleep. 
This day assassinates the darkness
like each day before it.

This fucking day,
I can not put my finger on.
But this day,
in my history,
or one just exactly like it
Has been my undoing.
My terminal diagnosis.
My death.
My total destruction.

This day.
This brisk
This breezy
This perfect
autumn day

Left me beyond ruined

And yet
This day
This day, saved my life.

Thursday, August 15, 2013

2 birds: 1 glass of carbonated OJ

Hot minutes dissolve into the coldest hours.
 We stared down our tribulation
and designed a new jujitsu swing dance
Barefoot on the kitchen floor 
To murder that which held us down,
and threatened our existence.

The night passed quickly
through our clumsy choreography 
The dawn was something more brilliant than golden
Spreading itself across the horizon
Greedily eating up every corner of darkness
Dangling freely in the pit of every pupil daring enough to look
Profusely proposing the illumination of alliteration

Out of calamity creeps
such preposterous poetry

Tired tires try.
Taunted by trauma,
tearing tread, tearfully,
tracing tomorrow's triumphs.
Stretching space,
solidifying time.
Taking all debts to death;
Decayed dreams decieve
all forms of diplomatic decision.
Dynamic disbelief
disintegrates hope.
Harrowed heroes
hold heavy to the light.
Listening listlessly at length,
Learning to appreciate the fever,
Fervently finding love,
leaking in the fissures
of false frequencies
and fractured forevers.
Honoring horrors held hostage
by murky memory,
Humbly hammering hope

for a happy,
harmonious

End.








Thursday, June 13, 2013

Shooting the breeze

So I was browsing, snoopily, lazily, and half-heartedly the pages of the Internet where people use terms like "collective consciousness" "trancing" and "namaste".

No worries.  I'm still me.  I didn't trance out and join the collective of people so willing to ignore everything negative because not only is ignorance bliss, but apparently by ignoring bad things you help them to fade from the world like a dying star in the universe.

Or something.

Whatever gets you through it, floats your boat, tickles your pickle, or enables you to face another day.  I'm not convinced that it's practical, but I admire the resilience of those who practice this theory.  Kinda.

Anyway, some guy posted some thing and some other guy said it was full of ego.  Some other guy said, no sir THAT comment was full of ego, some other guy was like we're human we're all full of ego but that wasn't necessary, not one bit of any of it.  And I'm just over here staring into the fun house mirror room and wondering why people are so contrary and mean. 

Then it hit me.  Like a half-eaten bird at my feet in the mouth of a house-cat.  Namaste.

My stomach turned, and I think I might've thrown up in my mouth a little bit.

It could not have been any more disingenuous.  It could not have been any more out of place.  And it is the same automatic reaction that I have so very often at other phrases, like "god bless you" or "have a blessed day."  Because all too often they are just words.  Just filler.  Wind in the dessert of hopeless interaction.

Rhetoric.

You say namaste, I say - prove it.

You want god to bless someone, I say - you provide that blessing.

You want someone's day to be improved, then help improve it.

You say, you too.  I say, I don't say shit I don't mean.  I say, if those words ever escape my lips in the direction of some else's ears there will have already been action to back it, or at least an enourmous amount of sentiment.  It's a beautiful notion, and a wonderful word, the very concept could change the whole world.  I don't have a problem with namaste, or other related phrases.  I have a problem with their abuse, and their mis-use as a means to guide some people into an escape from reality or conflict resolution.

But I'm not perfect.  And I'm well aware that this post is "full of ego." And on some level, hypocrisy. 
But I am human.
And I am annoyed.
And I can say whatever the fuck I want.
So can you.
And we can all learn not to choke on our vomit together.

Namaste. :P

Saturday, May 11, 2013

editations

I have written well over a million words.  They all sit, cluttered in a heap of nonsensical gibberish on my flash drive.

Funny, I don't think the flash ever drove.

Of these million words, I can not find the first one that I like.

Not a single one.

I'm one of those language is a barrier moods, and as we've learned throughout all of this living stuff, there is no arguing with a mood.

So what it boils down to is a dirty pan and burnt sauce.   I was never very good at reductions anyway.





Tuesday, May 7, 2013

Unreality television

When comes to books I tend toward the non fiction almost usually, so it's strange that I would decide to be writing fiction in my "spare" time.  And probably kinda stupid.  I have no idea what I'm doing.  I'm just doing it. 

When it comes to television I tend toward the fiction.  I like stories. Doesn't everyone? 

I almost usually hate anything remotely related to what we refer to as reality tv.  But just the same I'd watch one where they put a bunch of smokers in a house without cigarettes. 

I don't remember who's idea that was, but it wasn't mine.  I think about it though. Every time I quit. 

I've decided not to quit.  At least in every negative connotation provided in that terminology.  I'm not going to quit smoking. I am, however, going to start breathing more cleanly.  Or something.  Seriously.  Brainwashing oneself is tricky business.  At this juncture I'm just beginning to feel like a pro.  Until it all collapses in again, anyway. ;) 

Saturday, May 4, 2013

Shampooing is to life as complacency is to death

Satiated. 

Sedated.

Samenessessessesssessssssssss.
Onenessessessesssessssssssssssssssssss.
Ooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Stop.
Wait.
Listen.

no.

Demolish.
Polish.
Hope.

Try.
Try Harder.

Striiiiiiiiiiiiiive!

Survive.
PUSH.
Harder, bitch.
Faster.
With conviction!

Hope.
Shit.
Both hands heavy,
Fullnessessessessssssss.
Caressessesseesssesssssses.
Satiated.

Ignore.

Scrub.

Rinse.
Repeat.


Monday, April 22, 2013

O, Morel, Where art thou?

A thin layer of earth still clinging to my feet,
and bits of forest lingering in my hair,
I arose from my evening slumber
a shallow shadow of hope,
twisting on the loose tension
of that muddied water's surface.

Smiling, I stretched myself awake
while remembering . . .

the long trek through those budding branches,
the seemingly endless sea of thorned bushes,
the places of new growth,
the places of old growth,
the places of obvious disease
and across the fallen, narrow logs
to cross the cool chatter of water over stone
the place where trust and balance meet.

The catapult jump I was sure I couldn't make,
wherein I summoned every bit of
courage, strength, and steadiness
within and around me
to land on dry land. 

The shoe swallowing swamp hops
in the contrasting heat of the sun through the trees
and the cold breeze beneath the freshly forming canopy of forest.

The occasional flower springing up
through a thick layer
of last year's decaying foliage.

The occasional carcass. 
The scattered bones. 
The birds. 
The silence. 
The not-so-distant gunshots.
The field of wild onions. 
The abundance of mandrake. 
The utter lack of morels. 
The silence.
The circle.
The idea of divinity.

The accomplishment.
The connection.
The joy.

Truth be known
I never looked once
To the earth
for a fungus

I hate mushrooms

and I love the sky.





Friday, April 19, 2013

The ugly truths, the beautiful lies, and everything in between.

So I've compiled a list of my ugly truths, not the least of which includes my hatred of motherhood.
Each truth on the list is countered with its own life-sucking paradox, not the least of which includes the fierce love I have for my children. 
Each paradox contains the beautiful lies I've been living in order to survive the paradoxes. 
Each lie contains a way to get the fuck over it already. 
Though, I can't say that each lie's method of getting the fuck over it is known to me yet.

I've also compiled a list of things I want. A goal list, as it were.

The how-to-get-there list is still in the works.

I really just don't have the first fucking clue.

The foundation phrase for every good agnostic, eh?  But you know what I think? I think, fuck labels.  I do know something.

I do know that I will never, ever under any circumstances (except perhaps starvation) step foot in scrubs, in a nursing home, ever again.  No more corpses to bathe.  No more adult diapers to change.  No more linens to roll, and tuck, and fold, and spread, or wash out.  No more giant hoppers with water pressure so intense you're lucky to walk away from the experience without shit water on at least 25% of your clothing, and/or hair.  Most of all, no more responsibility for people who like to split their heads wide open when you are least expecting it.  Also, no more having the shit beat out of me on the daily, for doing nothing more than trying to help.  No more working 16 hours shifts without a break.  No more expensive, ineffective inserts for my shoes.  No more.  I am done.

That's right.  No more nursing. No more "loving people for a living." 

With a huge chunk of my identity missing, I feel violently afraid and excitingly liberated. (Yeah, that's on the list, too.)  I don't believe the universal-magical-powers-that-be are going to hit me over the head with some super-awesome idea for my next adventure. So... trying to see through my fears and my wounds is all that I have left to figure out what exactly it is that I want out of this next chapter of my life.  A chapter that involves raising, not babies or children, but adolescents.  I don't know if you've met any adolescents lately, but they're a frightening bunch.  And they smell bad, too.

Filtering all the bullshit out of the everything to find the useful parts is exhausting enough, but come Monday I'm either going to have to start churning out some serious fiction, or some serious resumes.  Shame I don't have more time to really get to the bottom of it, but maybe I'm wrong, maybe the bottom will come surging up to greet me somewhere along the way.  Unlikely, but possible, I suppose.  I've always been more of a stuck in the undertow kinda girl.  That's all I'm looking to change.  Really.    ... and maybe reality too but that's another story entirely.

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Intensadentically

squashed words
shattered skulls

I did not kill her

I did not even mean to hurt her

but as I washed the last drops
of her blood from my hair that night
it didn't matter in the slightest

terms
coming to them
with stained clothes
and painted face

it wasn't even an accident
and
it wasn't even my fault

but it doesn't matter
in the slightest

Our futures dance on the horizon
Our eyes closed tight

The waves carry away
burning corrosive salts

and the hope
of helping
here:

Dissolved.

unlike the memory
of my crimson arms
around her
round face

Monday, April 15, 2013

Nature, yoga, meditation: In that particular order

Well, nervous breakdown 2013 was avoided happily by a long visit to the lake with my family after a long lunch with some old friends.  The monthly reconnection with my besties from high school is always refreshing, and the much anticipated return to springtime amongst the trees and near the water is always something closer to exhilarating.  Long story short: Yesterday was a really good day.

Today was supposed to be the start of a seven day juice fast.  The intent, to quit smoking.  It didn't happen. 

It all started at the library after my third juice of the day and a trip to purchase my poison.  I can't seem to stop coming out of my skin every time I quit, so I didn't quit, and as a result I found myself back at the library searching for answers.  I took home a few books on the topic and sat down to start gearing myself up all over again.  By the end of the first book I was stiff, and excited to learn that nicotine replacement therapy maybe isn't the devil I'd made it out to be.  I've been operating with a cold-turkey or nothing approach for the last year and a half. 

More than that, though, I discovered something profound.  I caught a glimpse of a most uncomfortable reflection of myself in the many stories offered up by the author, Daniel F. Sidman.  I began to realize what the real problem has been, and will continue to be, until I decide to face these wavering, fun-house mirror images of myself down. 

Enter, yoga.

Now, I've not done yoga in at least two years, but I desperately needed a good stretch after being curled in my armchair for so long, and I remembered well the almost intoxicating centering of self that it brings.  So down I went to the floor, pushing baskets of unfolded laundry and my daughter's very heated cat aside. 
Poses I could once do with a fair amount of ease are now much more difficult, and some are downright impossible, but that did not seem to change the transformation happening within the core of my being.  Opening myself up on that physiological plane did more for me in thirty minutes than a month's worth of juicing ever could.  Giving myself an hour after that to meditate in a way I haven't for a very long time, brought me much closer to some truths I've been avoiding for ages. 

Indeed.  I needed that.  I know that it's going to take a great deal more of the same to get to where I know I can go, where I want to be, where I need to be, where I ought to be.... which is here.  Now.  Not lost in the past, hung up on who I used to be, and not worried about tomorrow, either.  Seems like I used to know this.

In truth, I do know this, but my point is there is so much power in these small practices: In friendship, in nature, in movement, in breathing, in taking in, and letting go.  So much power, and yet seemingly so easy to forget.  Practice is the key.  I've always known that too.  I wrote a thing once that ended "practice hard your finest theories lest you forget them."  Never let it be said that I didn't warn myself first.

I'm breaking through it.  It feels good.  Dreadfully frightening, but good.  :)

Friday, April 12, 2013

Nothing better to do

I have nothing better to do than to sit here and idly allow my thoughts to flow.  Selfish.  Perhaps.  We all have to be a little selfish sometimes.  I have nothing better to do, because nothing could possibly be better than finding myself beneath all this made up make up fairy tale wanna be hopeful bullshit that I keep telling myself the things I need to tell myself to make myself continue. 

Not that I struggle to know who I am, or who I want to be, or anything that might reside somewhere in the midst of all that.  I remember who I used to be.  I don't ever want to be that again.  I remember who I was shortly after that, too.  I miss her sometimes.  She was adventurous.  She was lively.  She was fun.  When she wasn't suicidal anyway.

She unapologetically wrote terrible poetry, and she lived her life to the fullest.  When she wasn't suicidal that is.

Okay, she had her serious downs.  But her ups were incredible.  Much like that Rilo song, though, it does seem fucking cheap now.

Am.

Not that becoming a world class whore would change any of it.  My payment was always regret, and never monetary.  I guess that's the point of the thing.  Tear 'em down to build 'em up.  Not necessary in the slightest.  Just like it wasn't necessary to build me up to tear me down, but it made the fall that much more exhilarating.  And memorable.

I think I fear the depths now, mostly because to tread that blackened water means to face the rocky surfaces where I've built my new home.  Face it, rock foundations crumble just as easily as the sandy ones wash away.  I've seen enough destruction.  I dare not watch the news.  I can't even handle the weather report.

The weather report.  Ha! I prefer to be surprised. 

That's unchanged.  Unchanged, now there's a concept.  Not much doesn't remain.  Fear is the new adventure.  I don't drive much anymore.  I used to road trip all the time.  Every chance I got.

She was fun.  Not that staying home to dehydrate tomatoes isn't fun.  It isn't.

When the fuck did I get so old?  So mundane?  So normal?

I watch tv.  I didn't used to.  There's value there if you look hard enough.  But I stopped looking.  Isn't it enough that I'm still breathing?  That's the premise of my current argument for living. The conclusion is the same, for all of us, without regard to philosophy or belief.  Life's too short to even care at all. WoahoooOoooOooOoOoOoo. 

Change.  Change needs to happen.  Only I can make it happen.  I can't just keep sitting around waiting for it to find me.  It was supposed to happen today, only it didn't, because staying the same was too inviting.  They should invent a coinstar for this sort of thing.

Who knew? No one ever said it was easy.  No one ever said it would be so hard.

How many song lyrics enter my thought process on a given day, I wonder?  Probably hundreds.  It's probably not a problem, except I should probably write my own.

That's where it is, you know.  In the writing of my own damn lyrics, when you say that the lyrics are life and the writing is the ability to make decisions.

I admire the dominatrix.

I'm ready to get off the bottom.

And out from under all this made up make up fairy tale wanna be hopeful bullshit. And perhaps the terrible sex analogies.

I blame the new diet.  Seriously.  It's impossible to eat this way and not face life at it's very core straight on.  It is.  They warned me.  I didn't heed.  Now I'm pushing bat shit crazy AND starving, because fuck salad.

That's right.  I said it.  Fuck. Salad.

Unemployed.  In Ohio.  Not the best situation, not the worst either.

It never ceases to amaze me how tied our identities are with what we do for a living.  Most folks die after they retire because they lose that sense of identity, sense of purpose, their very drive.  How ridiculous?  You must be a slave to something, whether it's work or passion, to live?  I don't know.  Seems reasonable enough in terms of human understanding but completely unreasonable that we don't know how to just be.

Not as if I'm some shining example of knowing how to just be.  I'm clearly not.

I've got to start reading more.  My ability to floralize language is as dead as my desire to seek adventure.  That's to say that it ever lived in the first place. Yup. Lol.

I suppose the root of this heartache comes with the territory of almost having been the cause of someone's death.  That's new.  That's definitely new.  And the weight of it is incredible. 

Circles.  I'm starting to hate them.

Breakage

At what point does the human spirit break?

I don't mean bend.  I mean break. 
At what point is the damage too much to recover? 
At what point do you just stop trying to start over? 
At what point do you just stop trying to do anything but forget? 
At what point do you take your fragmented fleshless self
and bury it deep into the earth,
hoping to never see any semblance of what once was again?

Is it this point? 
Or did you reach that point long ago and are too spiritless to remember?

Is it recoverable?

I imagine not. 
Not if you don't want it to be anyway.
And why would you want it to be anywhere
but nestled in the warm earth
inches away from volcanic destruction?

So far removed from those moments.
Those vital, life-sustaining discourses.
So far removed from myself.  From yourself.  From everything.
Even the trees.

Somewhere between
unreliable knowledge
 moments
theory
 experience
and practice
 breath
there might be an answer
 love

Who are you to tell me I am wrong.
I am not wrong.
There is beauty in that fissure
There is beauty in that split dawn
In those bleeding seeds of life
In our brokenness
In our never togetherness
 but beauty is not an answer
 even if Mr. Lawrence was not wrong

It will all be over soon enough
so we do what we've always done

We carry on

And try to remember when forgetting is easy
And try to forget when remembering won't quit

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Love you madly carrot cake

Seriously, love this cake madly.  As madly as the band, and more than the "real deal".



I shaved about, oh, I dunno... 5 medium sized carrots.  Threw 'em in the food processor with enough walnuts to cover them, four dates (pitted, not peeled), a sprinkling of cinnamon and a slice of ginger.  FullyRawKristina used turmeric and about three times the amount of everything, but I didn't have a pound and a half of dates to spare so I cut her recipe drastically and it still made enough for a 9 inch pan full.

I also subbed a drizzle of maple syrup and some milled flax seeds to make up for the lack of dates.

No measuring needed.  I hate measuring, even with the cute nesting doll cups that my tall, dark, and handsome bought me last week. 

For the frosting I used some leftover cream cheese frosting I used on my raw cinnamon rolls Sunday.  Basically it was a cup of soaked cashews, vanilla, the juice of half a lemon, and the tiniest bit of maple syrup

Well that shit got hard in the fridge, so I put it back in the blender with the juice of two oranges, hoping to turn out a nice orange cream fluffisting.  No go.  I got an orange cashew smoothie with the consistency of milk.

Lesson learned.  I did some googling for thickeners suitable for raw foodists and turned up no great fix.

I spooned in some raw, organic creamed honey.  Local, too, so YAY.  and that did jack and shit to help.

So I tried coconut oil.  Jack and shit really seemed to be loving me, because they stuck around long after they'd over-stayed their welcome.

I said, "well... fuck it.  When all else fails turn to the cold."  *insert one of my depressing, more poetic lines here*

A half hour in the freezer and a good stirring later I had perfect frosting. 

Boom. Carrot Cake.  And I love it madly.

Tall, dark, and handsome does too, so the lesson-already-learned there is to eat fast while it lasts. ;)


No burrito, no cry

Sticking with the theme of naming my raw recipes after music, I made the most satisfying burritos last night after working 24 hours in a 32 hour period on a mere 5 hours of sleep in a 48 hour period.  Yes, I'm pretty sure my employer is trying to kill me, but I agreed to the ridiculous hours so I can't say that legitimately.

Needless to say I was wiped the fuck out, and STARVING.  I wasn't expecting much.  I figured it'd taste pretty much like a salad in wrap made out of more salad.  I'm happy to say, that once again I was wrong. I adapted the recipe from a youtube video by FullyRawKristina of Rawfully Organic in Houston TX. 

Credit where it's due, I'd've never, ever come up with this one on my own. 

A few weeks ago we had to make a super fun run to the apple store to deal with a broken Ipod.  Anyone who has ever been in an apple store can probably relate to the severe emotional draining we felt by the time the ordeal had ended.  Looking around the food court our options were limited so we settled on Chipotle and Smoothie King.  I was excited to make my cooked portion of foods for the week a burrito because quite frankly I'd been craving one since I kicked the cooked.  (I'm not shooting for 100% raw, I'm a realist and still quite the dairy addict). 

Smoothie King was awful by the way.  I'll probably never ever stand in line for one of their nasty, overly sweetened power protein, pre-frozen mushes in a cup again.  Anyway, I'd been somewhat obsessed with finding a good raw burrito since my old favorite left me feeling something just beyond sluggish.

Enter - No burrito, No Cry.  Thank you Bob Marley. 

And FullyRawKristina.

And my boyfriend's guitar.

And his knife wielding super powers.  He was my sous chef after all. 

First you whip up what Kristina calls "awesome sauce."  Now, I've been using awesome sauce for years, but it wasn't this.  I'll let you use your imagination here, just keep it near the gutter if you wanna get it right.  ;)

This version (which is awesome in an entirely different way) and altered to fit my kitchen meant blending a few spoonfuls of tahini, an orange bell pepper, an entire zucchini, the juice of three lemons, and a few shakes of cumin and Himalayan pink sea salt until it was creamy.  About five minutes in my POSter. 

While I was whipping up my awesome sauce I had my tall, dark, and handsome washing, chopping, and shaving things.  Lots of things.

Bell Peppers, cucumber, avocado, carrots, celery, lemony blend greens, purple onion, green onion, and tomato.

I don't care for cilantro so we didn't use it, but Kristina did.

I do care for hot peppers, but we didn't have any on hand.

She used some alfalfa sprouts, I used spicy sprouts, "a tangy blend of radish and clover" sprouts.


After de-stemming a few collard leaves, you simply throw down some awesome sauce and spread it around.  Then you pile on the veggies and pretend to be better at wrapping burritos than you really are. 

As Kristina said, eating this thing is a whole other experience.  She was right.  It reeeeally is.

And I really can't put it any better than that.

It was amazing.  This recipe will definitely become a standard around here.  You know, providing the world economy doesn't come to a screeching halt and leave us all fighting over the last cheerio.





Monday, March 18, 2013

Sunset strip bitch juice

Named this one after an eve 6 tune and the original (but slightly altered) recipe that I found somewhere on the interwebs and managed to jot down on the back of one of my student loan "pay up, bitch" envelopes and not lose.  Organization is still not my strongest suit.

Anywhooooooo It's not too sweet or acidic or tart or any of those other things I've been overdosing on lately.  It's just sweet enough to do a delightful power dance between my tastebuds while still packing enough veggies to make me feel like I could outrun one of the kids should I so desire.



It turned out a pretty orangish red, which is slightly different from reddish orange.  The lil' bit of foam on top was more orange than the actual juice, and really that's pretty much all you can see in the picture, but it's late and I have much more juices to make, and raw burritos to prep for tomorrow. In any event it reminded me of a sunset enough to stick with part of the original title and incorporate an old song that emotes pretty much the same hued vibe.  At least for me.  I still maintain that the most beautiful thing about music is it's subjective stronghold over individual experiences.

Enough yammering.  Here's what's in it.

1 Large sweet potato
1 Enormous Purple carrot
1 Medium Red Bell Pepper (minus several bites, don't judge)
1 Beet (I'd go with one medium, half a large, or two tiny ones depending on your tolerance for the taste of dirt... I still don't particularly care for beets unless they are masked heavily with fruit, usually pineapple)
3 Apples (of the sweet variety, unless you wanna tart things up a bit... I need mellow, so I used sweet)
and 1 orange.


Thursday, March 14, 2013

Letter to a patronizing nurse

Dear patronizing nurse,

I understand that your need to feel in control is out of your control, and I understand that belittling others makes you feel better about yourself.  I don't think you understand how convoluted either of these attributes are.  I'll try to keep your perspective in mind as I explain, but I must admit that will be a very difficult task because I've never shared a mindset such as yours, nor have I harbored a heart so excoriated that it simply must infect others.

When you exhibit your need to hold power over other people you do not actually hold any power at all, except for showing everyone how insecure you are underneath your impenetrable need to cling to control.  When you outwardly chide and ignore people who only want to work with you to create an optimal work environment you don't display authority, you display pettiness and immaturity and help to promote a work environment that is not enjoyable for anyone. 

While I recognize that you may derive some minuscule pleasure out of doing and saying things to other people that are rude, inappropriate, hurtful, and condescending I truly believe that your brain would release even more "happy chemicals" if you opened up the brick wall surrounding your heart and let a little love in.  You might find that you make real friends out of your co-workers instead of people who smile at you and then talk about how disgusted they are with you behind your back. 

As for the belittling comments you're always making either with a piercing giggle, or under your breath:  This is primary school behavior, and it's extremely unbecoming.  Putting other people down, or in a lesser position than you, even if only in your mind, to lift yourself up is one of the most counter-productive human behaviors, because everyone who sees you doing this automatically lessens their value of your character and integrity.  This is why most people grow out of it after high-school if not before.

We are all here for the primary purpose of earning a paycheck, but this is not any ordinary field of business, this is long-term care.  This is more than just another paycheck.  It's more than doing x to get y.  It's more than an assembly line, or a department store, or logistics firm.  This is a place where people come to receive CARE in the most difficult and trying times of life.  Often, this is where people spend the last few years, months, weeks, and moments of their life. For these individuals in particular, this place is their final act, and you play the role of the oblivious jester so well that I'm not sure that you even know that's the role you're playing.  I'm not saying don't have fun while you're at work, I'm just saying it would be prudent if you would find a more respectful and caring way to go about it.

If you intend to continue treating people with such blatant disrespect. that is your choice, but do so with the knowledge that every moment you live you are creating your legacy, and so far your legacy only resembles the fecal matter lingering in the dumpsters out back. 

Sincerely,
The universal law of unattractive bitches.

Monday, March 4, 2013

Timeless transformations

Poetry and I go through spells where we just don't get along.  It wrecks my life and I wreck its legacy.  This is one of those times.  In the meantime, I've gone raw.  By that I mean, I'm only eating raw plants foods.

So I was hunting a particular recipe this morning for a scrumptious marinara that I tried earlier in the month.  The search was futile, I turned up nothing useful in the rainforests worth of papers cluttering up my home.  So I decided to keep track of my rawnesses in a safer place... Enter The Internet. *insert forced, but maniacal loling here* 

Without the creative drive to invent a new blog, with a new title, and a new username, and a new everything I decided to use this barren wasteland for something other than a place to hang my darker side.

After all, I'm transforming my entire life, I may as well transform my blog, too.  It seems only fair.  Or right.  Or easier.  Or all of the above.

So far (about three weeks in) I feel great.  Physically I feel top notch.  Emotionally,  however, that's been another story. For the last week or so I've been so moody that I can hardly stand myself.  I've been hostile, irritable, bordering violent, even suicidal (as if that's unusual or something).  Anyway, it may have been delayed PMS coupled with detoxification, that's my best guess anyway.  I have no idea what really happened, or why, but I'm starting to recover. This morning I actually smiled for no reason, and it wasn't a terribly good morning, the kids were late to school for the first time this year, I'm bleeding like a stuck hog, and there was some super intense sibling conflict, too.  Sooooo.... we shall see. There's a certain amount of promise lingering in the air.

Anyway, the point is to keep track of shit.  So here's the shit I'm tracking today.

Modified Butternut Cous-Cous with Curried sauce.

I do *not* own a fancy pants blender that will turn even the hardest coconut meat to a fine puree, free from all chunkiness. So my sauces, puddings, soups, etc... all come out on the side of the texture spectrum that doesn't agree with my sensitivity to texture.

Despite this small problem, I made some soup.

I chopped up a butternut squash in my food processor, to a cous-cous like consistency.  Then I removed about 2/5 of that and put it aside.

One mango, 2 cups of fresh OJ, 2 cups of water, and 2 TBSPs of curry, and a few minutes of blending later I had "soup".

It was terrible, mostly due to the awful texture.

Then I threw a couple handfuls of walnuts and a a couple handfuls of pecans into the magic chopping machine until they were pretty much dust.  I mixed that in with the cous-cous looking squash I'd reserved from the pre-soupified butternut. Next, I threw in some craisins.

It was not too bad but it was D-R-Y.  I'm sorry, but even at my most suicidal I don't want to go out choking on some dry ass butternut/walnut blend.

So I thought, what the hell... I'll put them together.

And lo, it was good!  Not just kinda good.  It was a flavor fest of awesome.  Divine.

I've gotta say, my favorite thing about my new diet is that it's not an exact science.  I just chop, toss, blend, and juice.  It's earthy.  It's random. It's delicious.  It's awesome.  Not to mention, my skin's clearing up, my breathing is improved (despite continuing my nasty smoking habit), my intestines are happy for the first time in my ENTIRE life, my dizzy spells are GONE, my energy levels are off the charts, I need far less sleep, and apparently... I am already glowing.

Glowing is good, I think.  Unless you're radioactive, then it's only good if it comes with superpowers, but I'm starting to feeeeeeel like the hulk, so that's all good... until you make me mad anyway.  Then it's just as scary.

Thursday, February 7, 2013

platitudes

It's 4 am, I'm alone as the world sleeps in.
Somewhere there are tiny villages of nocturnal bliss
getting ready to close down for the day.

 A whispering voice
in this maddening silence
calls me there
with a spotlight gone astray.

I can't remember any more,
the sweet taste of your decay.
Your internal springtime
has long since
over welcomed it's stay.

Amazing how quickly a childish notion
can reign
and ruin
a life built on wishes.

Juvenile hope
strongly stagnates
the waters
of any innocent age.

Neither of us are innocent.

My smiles are safe now

and it's

finally

over

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

Word vomit

multi-tonal. 
black, red, orange, blonde. 
shortcake. 
reinvention is overrated. 
Nature knows best;
Hostile though she is. 
Violence unnerves,
Statements underestimate. 
Caught in a whirlwind of choice and change.
And love. 
Love, grounds;
Painful though she is.
mutational. 
blonde, orange, red, black.