Easter

(listening to "Children's Song No. 3," by Bela Bartok)
It's ironic that death pervades the news, even on and around Easter. The Pope's candle is guttering, Terry Schiavo's life is ebbing, and the usual din of explosions and strife fills the world.
("Just as Long as I Got You," Dimitri from Paris)
The Schiavo case and the furor around it makes me physically ill. It's already an unhappy situation, but it has heightened so much other human filth, as if you shined a police spotlight underneath your refrigerator. It's disgusting, and it didn't bother you until you looked. For example:
1)The media loves this shit. This is nothing new. They'll shovel up anything that the slack-jawed masses will watch, and human anguish is everyone's favorite. It seems the American public finds it impossible to avoid ghoulish staring into other people's lives, just like they love to watch court cases that are none of their business.
2)Family affairs. The Schiavo/Schindler family dispute is ugly and unfortunate. Each side can be portrayed as victim, opportunistic, or stupid. But guess what- It's none of our fucking business. The ugly squabble is the result of human nature being squeezed by unfortunate circumstances. Ugly family business happens 24/7; the difference is that this is on television. "But what if this happens to me?" you say? "This affects me!" Get a living will, and don't starve yourself into a heart attack. And mind your own business, if you've got any.
3)This reactionary, falsely pious government we have is despicable. They come in on a Sunday and pass a bill on an issue which has a long history of falling within the purview of the states, FOR JUST ONE PERSON, but they can't balance the budget, find ways to avoid war, or protect the environment (translation: do their jobs for those of us taxpayers that are undeniably ALIVE). It's grandstanding to throw a bone to the religious establishment that got them elected. Execrable.

The simple act of turning on the television fuels my problem of being an arrogant, condescending prick. I need to just stop. A week of fighting the flu has made me crabby. I tend to do better when I stick with writing about food.
("Tom Sawyer," Rush)

Blogging at Work

I am sitting in the cubicle farm, and visions of vast rows of wired-in, imprisoned humans from The Matrix flash in my mind.
Things here have evolved from hysterically awful to tolerable. Perhaps it is I that has done the evolving. I am sedated and bored. Perhaps calloused is the word. I'm still fairly busy most of the time, but I just don't give a shit. I'm just working for the weekend. Thus, I am diminished as a human being.

I need a road trip. I need to sit, scribbling in my journal, in unfamiliar bars in the middle of the day. I need to prod myself awake with surprises and uncertainty. I just need less morphine in the IV drip of daily life.

Sunflower Sutra, by Allen Ginsberg

I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and
sat down under the huge shade of a Southern
Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the
box house hills and cry.

Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron
pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts
of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, sur-
rounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of
machinery.

The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun
sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that
stream, no hermit in those mounts, just our-
selves rheumy-eyed and hungover like old bums
on the riverbank, tired and wily.

Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray
shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting
dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust--

--I rushed up enchanted--it was my first sunflower,
memories of Blake--my visions--Harlem

and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes
Greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black
treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the
poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel
knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck
and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the
past--

and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset,
crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog
and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye--

corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like
a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face,
soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sun-
rays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried
wire spiderweb,

leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures
from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster
fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear,

Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O
my soul, I loved you then!

The grime was no man's grime but death and human
locomotives,

all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad
skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black
mis'ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuber-
ance of artificial worse-than-dirt--industrial--
modern--all that civilization spotting your
crazy golden crown--

and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless
eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the
home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar
bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards
of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely
tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what
more could I name, the smoked ashes of some
cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the
milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs
& sphincters of dynamos--all these

entangled in your mummied roots--and you there
standing before me in the sunset, all your glory
in your form!

A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent
lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye
to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited
grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden
monthly breeze!

How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your
grime, while you cursed the heavens of the rail-
road and your flower soul?

Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a
flower? when did you look at your skin and
decide you were an impotent dirty old locomo-
tive? the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and
shade of a once powerful mad American locomo-
tive?

You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a
sunflower!

And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me
not!

So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck
it at my side like a scepter,

and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack's soul
too, and anyone who'll listen,

--We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread
bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all
beautiful golden sunflowers inside, we're bles-
sed by our own seed & golden hairy naked ac-
complishment-bodies growing into mad black
formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our
eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive
riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sit-
down vision.

Berkeley, 1955

Double-Secret Wellington of the Far East

 

This morning, I sliced a block of extra firm tofu into four equal slices. I pressed some excess water out of them, and I marinated them all day in soy sauce, white wine, sweet chili sauce, minced garlic, grated ginger and a bit of sesame oil. When it came time to start cooking, I took the tofu out of the marinade and placed them on my handy-dandy jellyroll pan (exactly halfway between a cookie sheet and one of those pans you get in a toaster oven). I put the marinade in a saucepan with some sugar and slowly warmed it. Sort of a spicy Teriyaki. I cut some carrots into matchsticks and put some on top of each hunk of tofu. I covered them with puff pastry. I made some sticky rice. I popped the wellingtons into a 400 degree oven and thickened the sauce with a bit of cornstarch. All the while, I was sipping Rosemount shiraz. 25 minutes or so later, they were done.


 
Inside view. They were pretty good, but no meat. Perhaps smothering the whole thing in fried chicken will fix that.