Friday Fix

There's a local farmer's market that I frequent. It is a Friday thing for me.  I don't shop there now since the weather has turned cold, but I still like to go there nontheless. Today I bought a vanilla chai latte with whipped cream on top from Silvia's coffee bean stand, the first vendor you hit as you enter from the back lot, and walked around. It makes me feel good...comforting. And I like the diversity of the place. It is like an international buffet but without the cafeteria trays, sneeze guards, sundae station and chocolate fountain. Karla sells Peruvian Spinach Pie and shrimp and mango ceviche. Georgina has the Mexican spot, and I eyed the pineapple salsa, but passed when I realized all that deep green stuff was cilantro. That and curry are vile, wicked flavors, spoke a little voice inside my head. Then there is Ali. As in Mohammad. He is Iranian and smiles often, flashing Chiclet-sized teeth that gleam like the top of a mosque at dawn.   His specialty is Middle Eastern fare, but his sign reads Mediterranean Cuisine, as to not invoke contempt or fear from the masses, I suppose. I had an interesting encounter with Ali once. After I shared that I was on a hunt for fresh saffron, he bade to to visit his "other" location, four miles down the road in a small strip shopping center where his neighbors included a check cashing place and a pawn shop. We arranged a set meeting time for the following day, which, oddly, was 15 minutes before the official opening time posted on the hours sign. It was a sunny, warm day with enough passersby to take away most of the uneasiness that I felt as he unlocked the door for me. He was in the throes of cooking an enormous vat of rice, there were four or five pots of softly bubbling shishkabob sauce on the massive stove top, and the aroma of it all hit me so hard it almost lifted me up as if on a magic carpet. He asked how much saffron I wanted, and really, I had no idea. "Enough to make a few portions of saffron rice, " I answered, and he laughed in such a way and with such a look in his eyes that we both knew this was going to be a profitable day for the Persian and his stash. I didn't care. I was so enthralled by the prospect of scoring genuine, elusive saffron … by the time he finished disappearing behind a exotically colorful curtain leading to a storage room, re-emerging with an old Jiffy jar filled with deep orange threads of herb, shaking two teaspoons of it into a small zip-lock baggie, bringing it to his face and deeply inhaling and encouraging me to do the same before sealing, then telling me it would cost close to $45.00,  I wasn't sure if I should cook with it or pinch it onto a Zig-Zag, roll it up and smoke it! It was the closest thing to illegal trafficking that I had ever encountered. Ali thanked me profusely and went back to business, cooking up a sandstorm, smiling as he did so. He has a passion for cooking and it shows. I left feeling excited and triumphant. I scored that day. Boy, did I score. The risk was well worth it. Most are.

On a sad note, the farmer's market is slated to close in the spring, after more than 30 years of business. The large, retail pharmacy next door wants to expand, and the building owner obviously sees dollar signs before long-standing community-based entrepreneurship. I signed a petition appealing to save the market. I watched others do the same. I have hope. And a shit load of rice and saffron. :)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LRRLTxIxNtM

Midnight hour almost over ...

The kids are excited about the prospect of waking to a snow day. I remember those times. There was a street light across from my house, and I'd stare out the bay window watching the flakes fall against the reflection of the lamp, waiting for them to intensify. When they fell fast and heavy and blew sideways it was a good omen. Sitting in a cold kitchen drinking warm tea, waiting with great anticipation as the announcer's voice rattled off school closing numbers from the crackling transistor radio. A collective cheer arose when the digits were confirmed. I remember it like it was yesterday. The snow day brought everyone out on our street. Everyone shoveled. The highway's din was muffled and replaced by the scraping sound of metal against concrete. Ultimately, a snowball fight erupted, and the memory of seeing dads versus moms versus kids trying to pummel each other, white bombs sailing overhead and smashing, the giddiness and laughter echoing all around, is one of my best. There is something about going home, even in these memories, that always feels right. I guess that is true for all things right. You are drawn to them. They never leave you.

Nag Champa

It is always there, the sadness. Even in moments spent with my kids, when they make me laugh or I just watch them from afar or listen to their conversations, when I feel great joy and comfort from that, the sadness hovers. Sometimes, the sadness feels insurmountable. It is physical, in my gut and swims through my veins, a heavy shroud like a second skin. I've been told to get help, too. What help is there? I help myself. I have only myself.

I see him sitting there in the same shadowy spot day after day, a blanket covering his head. It reminds me of the time I watched a caged gorilla in the zoo sit inside a busted cardboard box, looking stunned and stagnate, eyes fixated on nothing, repeatedly grabbing hay with his massive hand and flinging it onto his outstretched legs.

I burn another stick, watching the smoke rise. I want to lay in a ball on the floor, warmed by love, and drift off to sleep with visions of smoke rings rising, then twisting, then dissipating like effortless calm in a perfect world.

All the world's a stage … four.

I have been trying to make the house more zen. With candles and meditational music and shit like that. Weird but, every time I trim a wick, I feel like a Mohel.

I hate mornings. I hate getting texts in the morning in optimistic tones that use annoying words like "what's on your agenda today?"  What's on my agenda? Throwing myself off the second floor landing. Pooping. But not in that order. Or maybe in that order, depending upon the force of impact.

My father-in-law knows his time is limited. I think a lot about how that must feel. I cannot fathom it. Like a prisoner on death row, with invisible bars and RAI International for entertainment, he sits all day and waits for five hours to pass to take more meds. I asked him this morning, is there anything special you would like to do, anyone you'd like to spend time with? He said no. He just wants to die right away. I get that. I made him a pancake with chocolate chips and he liked it. It was a good moment.

The Mirror.

I took another barre class today. It is a form of exercise that combines Pilates and ballet moves. I used to take ballet and tap lessons as a kid. I was also a cheerleader. Not to toot my own horn, but I was voted Most Coordinated and Graceful by a panel of inner voices back in 1981. Every year since then, I renominate myself and am never surprised when, again, I am presented with the title. Anyway, I digress. The class was led by a very fit, 50+ instructor who resembled Annette Bening.  It was all women, except for one man who came with his wife. He had a bit of a male porn star look to him ... a good head of hair trapped in a David Hasselhoff 80s style, a cheesy calf tat, muscle shirt on thick, undefined shoulders, an unseasonal tan and large teeth.

Nix the Shar Peis, add 23 years, a wide, terry cloth sweat band across his forehead 
and head to toe nylon/polyester. Yep, that's the guy. 

He was next to me and made a lot of noises. (It is not an easy class.) Forceful exhales, grunts, squeaks, moans ... loud enough to be heard over the special dance mix version of Call Me Maybe blasting from the mp3 player. I tried not to close my eyes, in fear that images of Most Watched XHamster would pop into my head ... Carly Rae Jepson and the Squeaky Grunter going at it in the janitor's closet of a Starbucks ... and break my concentration.

So I kept my eyes open. And I watched myself in the wall of mirrors. I liked what I saw. Chop off my head, and I am looking at the body of a 26 year old. A coordinated, graceful, decapitated young woman who, for the moment, is free from her inner voices.  Then, a myriad of mirror images washed over me, of blissful abandon in shades of blue, blinding me with their energy. I felt alive and happy. Then the music stopped.

I came home, took an Aleve, and took a nap. I had a wicked headache.

Maybe some Jerry would help.

I deleted a recent post. After re-reading, I realized it oozed self-pity. I'm living with someone who knows they are dying. Who doesn't feel well enough to do much more than walk a few feet every couple of hours. Yea, it's tough seeing that. It's depressing and difficult. It sucks and this is only going to get worse. I must try not to dwell on that. Moments present themselves all too briefly now. The best I can do for him is to try to make those moments … less shitty.

This always lifts my spirits. Who knows, maybe I can get him dancing. Imagine that.
For all you non-Heads, try to get past the vocals. (hehe)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vK2dcofd-ew

"I don't want to fade away ..."

Whenever I hear Clapton, circa Derek and the Dominos or Cream, I think of Kathy S. She and I were besties in high school. We were inseparable, joined at the hip by teenage angst. She was the youngest of four, I the oldest of three. It was cool to stay at her house to experience a different family dynamic. Her two older brothers wore their hair long and both were intellects and naturalists and hippies. Rick and Joe shared a bedroom next to hers and from there we would borrow their albums and play them over and over and over. We would write down lyrics on the brown paper bag covers of our text books and in the margins of our spiral notebooks. We both worshipped Jackson Browne and wrote really awful poetry inspired by our unpopularity and unrequited love. Rick was studying to become a veterinarian and once Kathy stole pills from his room thinking they were Quaaludes. They were horse tranquilizers. She convulsed, was rushed to the ER, and got her stomach pumped. Her near-death experience yielded a three-month grounding, and only enhanced her poetry a tad. I still have notes we exchanged and poems we penned, stored in a box that I made in middle school Wood Shop. I lost touch with Kathy years ago, but am reminded of her in songs and whenever I see a reference to Yeats. He was one of our favorites. We were trying to be intellects, too. You try to be a lot of things in high school. I wonder if we ever stop trying.

I will share these with my 15 year old daughter. I know we will both pick them apart with abandon while enjoying belly laughs. I could stand a good belly laugh. Read at your own risk. Hope your urge to chuckle trumps your urge to vomit.