When you exit the city, much of the traffic is funneled north on an arterial that glides through part of an old warehouse district. The buildings that remain are immense, red brick and Medina sandstone structures that once held freighted supplies destined for greatness as machinery, foundation, or framework for a city that did not sleep. Archways large enough for a loaded cart pulled by draft horses are now fettered shut, infilled tight with masonry, the stone voussoirs and imposts blinded by courses of more red brick. The lake freighters, ironworks, and railroad lines that came after filled this port city to the brim with over a half million people by 1950. Changes have lessened the population by half.
But the buildings stand, some with ghosts of ads painted on walls, some with small businesses; few are maintained well. They shoulder next to each other blocking the sun as it rises in the east, dark behemoths silent and cluttered, as confused as dray horses without wagons, wondering what happened to reason. Along the curb run the city trees, all less than fifteen years old, with minor, sterile landscaping dotting trimmed grass. This is the route to the connecting expressway, the drivers shadowed by the tonnage of red brick gnomons. Today, I saw Hawaii.
It was on the back of a bus, an image of white sand leading into ocean ebb tide. No waves, but the photo was of the thinnest layer of aqua water eternally running forward over the packed sand in shallow, terraced formation, a single, upward bent palm tree to the left of center. I slowed the car down in order to stay behind the bus, so I could look towards the edge of the pictured horizon where ultramarine blue sky blended to phthalocyanine blue water, for that is the point where everything else disappears.
Whinnying problems evaporated into the memories of my feet being lapped by salt water, as tiny sand chimneys from breathing clams opened beneath receding wavelets. The air cleared from offshore breezes, beached ark shells strew themselves randomly amid strands of cast ashore seaweed, miniature crabs with Japanese carapaces played orchestral clacking musics. I was thinner. There were shrimp for dinner, with a nice white wine. Then the traffic light turned green, the bus snorted a deep heave forward, and the palm treed postcard turned right, heading up Genesee Street.
It was a long day spent in the space of two minutes, and worth every second. I forget how much ocean water revives, and sometimes think I should move in that direction, if only to Massachusetts. My gills need to be dusted off and submerged, saltily. I cracked open a can of clam chowder for supper: not a coincidence.
Tonight the sky is layered by remnants of rain clouds, you can sense the lowered ceiling for it closes the air a bit, making it thicker, moister. The red brick warehouses are locked for the night, darkened spaces mark where windows once shone with industry. It would not be farfetched to see them move ponderously out, in search of a city that could use their protective exoskeletal selves, a long line of elephantine rectangular beasts, nosing slowly in hope, trailing broken brick crumbles.
And do you have somewhere to belong? Is there a moment in time, a memory that pulls you out of the day, and into a waking dream? There may be more than one place, one person, who holds your world together surreptitiously, cloaked by years, or maybe you haven't found where or who yet. You will. I can tell. Sleep on it, tuck in, roll over rover. Splash through dreamtime, slip through years. Goodnight.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Duck Fries
Scotty was in town for a friend's sake, and we managed to cram in brunch between the serious business of his visit. Traveling down Elmwood Avenue offers lots of choices for food, and usually is discussed while walking and perusing the menus posted by the cafes and restaurants. The cold rain prevented this regular method of research, and so we drove slowly by several places, craning necks to see if they were open or packed to the gills with college graduation families.
The immediate neighborhood was overflowing with parents and adult children, a few in cap and gowns, beaming, roaring for plates of food to restore the strength used in the champion effort necessary to fulfill grueling coursework. Well deserved, well done. Scott and I headed then downtown, knowing that a certain establishment would have room and a decent menu, when signage that yelled BRUNCH snagged our vision. The restaurant was once a bar, redone very nicely and maybe a bit pricey but it was what I hoped for; I wanted a bit of graduate celebration myself, as I had skipped out on yesterday's ceremony.
The list of food was fascinating, simple, and not exotic in the least. Do not mishmosh ingredients together and congratulate the kitchen on being edgy, that sort of thing scares the cat and ruins good components. There were different ideas, but this menu kept food in it's proper place, as an accompaniment to conversation and table chat. No weird contortions or combinations, and no sauces were plopped out of a squirt bottle in abstract design around the edge of the plate.
I need to say: few professional kitchen habits irritate me as much as does the dolloping miniscule amounts of a good sauce around a plate in dots or crisscrosses. I don't want art, amusement, or that word that I hate the most, whimsy. You are giving me freaking whimsy on a plate when you scribble a decent sauce out of a squirt bottle. I want a puddle, a short ladleful to dip into without it drying like Elmer's glue; make it unctuous, more mass keeps the temperature longer and I don't have to chase around the plate for an apostrophe of Bernaise.
I have worked in many kitchens, and most of them reconstitute those little yellow envelopes of dried base just like you can buy at the supermarket. Sauces from scratch are temperamental and can curdle at the drop of a napkin, they are notoriously tricky to maintain in a steam table, will change texture by evening's end, and therefore are not conducive to proper restaurant work. Packaged mixes are mostly necessary since they can be remade in a rush. The point is, you haven't slaved over the thing, there's more in the pantry, so for heaven's sake find the right size ladle and nap the entree properly. Done. Even if made from scratch, be kind to the customer and let them marvel at the velvety glistening of butter solids suspended in warmed milk or cream, wine, beef essence, aged cheeses, lovely structures of fish bones, celery or onion. Have mercy, go home and paint dots on canvas if so inclined.
Scott enjoyed a well-made plate of Eggs Benedict where one could see the eggs were really poached in a pan of swirling water, and I opted for a slice of quiche made with steak and mushrooms which was quite good, with the steak somehow being a sort of medium rare. Following our waitress's suggestion, a plate of Duck Fries were brought to table and declared delicious. A curiosity at first, they are merely cut potatoes first fried in duck oil, then tossed in a bit of truffled oil; lord knows a duck certainly is loaded with fat, here is a good use. You could taste both the luxury of duck and earthy truffle, neither so overbearing to be the focus, but simply a pleasantry.
It was lovely, a treat, and refueled the brain cells used in deep thought over these past academic years. Thank heavens it is over, or, wait: why did I find myself digging through the college catalogue for a summer course, and looking for what entails a Fine Arts degree? Ach, so it goes.
Tonight is blessedly cool, and the rains have finally let go of their all day soiree. Gray clouds scutter low across the sky, the moon and stars will have to circle above, out of sight. For some reason, I arose at 5:30 this morning, and am feeling a bit gelatinous in the cerebellum at the current evening hour. Perhaps a sauce made of pillow and blanket will remedy this, and turning in will be agreeable. Tuck under covers. recount your accomplishments, you have done well and moved forward. Good night, dreamer.
The immediate neighborhood was overflowing with parents and adult children, a few in cap and gowns, beaming, roaring for plates of food to restore the strength used in the champion effort necessary to fulfill grueling coursework. Well deserved, well done. Scott and I headed then downtown, knowing that a certain establishment would have room and a decent menu, when signage that yelled BRUNCH snagged our vision. The restaurant was once a bar, redone very nicely and maybe a bit pricey but it was what I hoped for; I wanted a bit of graduate celebration myself, as I had skipped out on yesterday's ceremony.
The list of food was fascinating, simple, and not exotic in the least. Do not mishmosh ingredients together and congratulate the kitchen on being edgy, that sort of thing scares the cat and ruins good components. There were different ideas, but this menu kept food in it's proper place, as an accompaniment to conversation and table chat. No weird contortions or combinations, and no sauces were plopped out of a squirt bottle in abstract design around the edge of the plate.
I need to say: few professional kitchen habits irritate me as much as does the dolloping miniscule amounts of a good sauce around a plate in dots or crisscrosses. I don't want art, amusement, or that word that I hate the most, whimsy. You are giving me freaking whimsy on a plate when you scribble a decent sauce out of a squirt bottle. I want a puddle, a short ladleful to dip into without it drying like Elmer's glue; make it unctuous, more mass keeps the temperature longer and I don't have to chase around the plate for an apostrophe of Bernaise.
I have worked in many kitchens, and most of them reconstitute those little yellow envelopes of dried base just like you can buy at the supermarket. Sauces from scratch are temperamental and can curdle at the drop of a napkin, they are notoriously tricky to maintain in a steam table, will change texture by evening's end, and therefore are not conducive to proper restaurant work. Packaged mixes are mostly necessary since they can be remade in a rush. The point is, you haven't slaved over the thing, there's more in the pantry, so for heaven's sake find the right size ladle and nap the entree properly. Done. Even if made from scratch, be kind to the customer and let them marvel at the velvety glistening of butter solids suspended in warmed milk or cream, wine, beef essence, aged cheeses, lovely structures of fish bones, celery or onion. Have mercy, go home and paint dots on canvas if so inclined.
Scott enjoyed a well-made plate of Eggs Benedict where one could see the eggs were really poached in a pan of swirling water, and I opted for a slice of quiche made with steak and mushrooms which was quite good, with the steak somehow being a sort of medium rare. Following our waitress's suggestion, a plate of Duck Fries were brought to table and declared delicious. A curiosity at first, they are merely cut potatoes first fried in duck oil, then tossed in a bit of truffled oil; lord knows a duck certainly is loaded with fat, here is a good use. You could taste both the luxury of duck and earthy truffle, neither so overbearing to be the focus, but simply a pleasantry.
It was lovely, a treat, and refueled the brain cells used in deep thought over these past academic years. Thank heavens it is over, or, wait: why did I find myself digging through the college catalogue for a summer course, and looking for what entails a Fine Arts degree? Ach, so it goes.
Tonight is blessedly cool, and the rains have finally let go of their all day soiree. Gray clouds scutter low across the sky, the moon and stars will have to circle above, out of sight. For some reason, I arose at 5:30 this morning, and am feeling a bit gelatinous in the cerebellum at the current evening hour. Perhaps a sauce made of pillow and blanket will remedy this, and turning in will be agreeable. Tuck under covers. recount your accomplishments, you have done well and moved forward. Good night, dreamer.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Turntable Bridge at Black Rock
There is a section of the Niagara Thruway just before entering the downtown corridor of the city that is below the level of the Black Rock Canal. Pavement curves, buttressed by cement walls that keep the slow water on the other side of the embankment, dipping down for the reason that I witnessed for the first time in my life.
As I drove south along the route, the first part of the curve tipped traffic inland, following whatever geologic sense designed it as such. I remember a story from my mother of how my aunt almost crashed into this wall when her poodle attempted to jump into the front seat while she was driving, so I have a history of caution with this part. Imagine the astounded sensation when, today, a monstrous contraption swung slow above the traffic at this curve, an assemblage of knuckled ironwork that was one end of the International Railroad Bridge. I knew the bridge would turn to accommodate boat traffic, but had not ever been under the mass of iron geegaws that say so, or recognized that one Gargantuan iron arm was made to swing over the roadway.
Of course the road had to go lower into another stratification of rock, or we'd be without our heads. The bridge was constructed in 1873, long before President Eisenhower made his highways, so the bridge had first dibs. Like the Peace Bridge, the stone piers supporting the spans are pointed, with the apex lying towards the current, wider at the base; this permits the winter ice from Lake Erie to be broken up without the pressure of the frozen Great Lakes crushing the form.
The image of the great end of rust and bolts gyring from the center of the turntable was followed by one of a small sailboat motoring up this Black Rock Canal, which had been dug out to avoid dealing with the 12 mph current of the Niagara River. The immense bridge had shifted its tons for the sake of a single craft, completing a noble bow towards opening the way safely to calmer Lake waters. To signal your desire to pass through, sound one long; to ask for passage further up at the Ferry Street lift bridge which employs the idea of filling a colossal tank with water to lift the walkway, sound one long, two short. This is if there is no radio aboard.
The water pulls people to the banks of the river and the length of the Bird Island Pier, perhaps that will be a summer project, to get to know more about the freshwater engineering that permitted the City of Buffalo to be developed from swamp to arable land. Jetties of riprap prevent storm waves from battering us, and allow commercial and pleasure craft to safely enter. Recent engineering projects have bolstered Strawberry Island, an area larger fish spawn around, and funding has introduced a dredging project for the Buffalo River that intends to restore freshness, clarity, and fishing. There are good things happening, I wish there was more front page news published about them.
Spring has arrived indeed, for the large atomic spiders are spinning nightly outside the windows and lord knows, they get inside, too. I walked through a dark hallway, for it is never pitch black in here with all the traffic reflections, and I can mostly see where I am going, except: there was a brief tickle on my arm that descended to a leg that when I turned on the light revealed a brown, plum-sized object crawling on the tile of the bathroom. Plum-sized, my friends. Today, another was crouched in the frame of the inner window. Today again, one slender yellow dangly was gingerly picking it's way up the bathroom wall. They are, I am sorry, now dead. By the time summer gets here, I will be numb to spider mania and start catching them to release. Right now, it's still sudden squishment.
The promised thunderstorm has not appeared; maybe it will come tonight, for evidence of a temperature change is now roiling in a shapeless fog hovering over the water. Today was productive and sweet, the errands efficient and successful, and the patch of catnip by Chase Hall on campus replenished a bit of last year's stock for the cupboard. Can you sail upwind, past rougher currents and sandbars? Remember the bridge that turns and the drawbridge that seesaws upwards, both significant in metaphor and real time. Turn home to rest, tie yourself to your moorings, furl sails, coil lines. Let dreams come. Let dreams come. Good night.
As I drove south along the route, the first part of the curve tipped traffic inland, following whatever geologic sense designed it as such. I remember a story from my mother of how my aunt almost crashed into this wall when her poodle attempted to jump into the front seat while she was driving, so I have a history of caution with this part. Imagine the astounded sensation when, today, a monstrous contraption swung slow above the traffic at this curve, an assemblage of knuckled ironwork that was one end of the International Railroad Bridge. I knew the bridge would turn to accommodate boat traffic, but had not ever been under the mass of iron geegaws that say so, or recognized that one Gargantuan iron arm was made to swing over the roadway.
Of course the road had to go lower into another stratification of rock, or we'd be without our heads. The bridge was constructed in 1873, long before President Eisenhower made his highways, so the bridge had first dibs. Like the Peace Bridge, the stone piers supporting the spans are pointed, with the apex lying towards the current, wider at the base; this permits the winter ice from Lake Erie to be broken up without the pressure of the frozen Great Lakes crushing the form.
The image of the great end of rust and bolts gyring from the center of the turntable was followed by one of a small sailboat motoring up this Black Rock Canal, which had been dug out to avoid dealing with the 12 mph current of the Niagara River. The immense bridge had shifted its tons for the sake of a single craft, completing a noble bow towards opening the way safely to calmer Lake waters. To signal your desire to pass through, sound one long; to ask for passage further up at the Ferry Street lift bridge which employs the idea of filling a colossal tank with water to lift the walkway, sound one long, two short. This is if there is no radio aboard.
The water pulls people to the banks of the river and the length of the Bird Island Pier, perhaps that will be a summer project, to get to know more about the freshwater engineering that permitted the City of Buffalo to be developed from swamp to arable land. Jetties of riprap prevent storm waves from battering us, and allow commercial and pleasure craft to safely enter. Recent engineering projects have bolstered Strawberry Island, an area larger fish spawn around, and funding has introduced a dredging project for the Buffalo River that intends to restore freshness, clarity, and fishing. There are good things happening, I wish there was more front page news published about them.
Spring has arrived indeed, for the large atomic spiders are spinning nightly outside the windows and lord knows, they get inside, too. I walked through a dark hallway, for it is never pitch black in here with all the traffic reflections, and I can mostly see where I am going, except: there was a brief tickle on my arm that descended to a leg that when I turned on the light revealed a brown, plum-sized object crawling on the tile of the bathroom. Plum-sized, my friends. Today, another was crouched in the frame of the inner window. Today again, one slender yellow dangly was gingerly picking it's way up the bathroom wall. They are, I am sorry, now dead. By the time summer gets here, I will be numb to spider mania and start catching them to release. Right now, it's still sudden squishment.
The promised thunderstorm has not appeared; maybe it will come tonight, for evidence of a temperature change is now roiling in a shapeless fog hovering over the water. Today was productive and sweet, the errands efficient and successful, and the patch of catnip by Chase Hall on campus replenished a bit of last year's stock for the cupboard. Can you sail upwind, past rougher currents and sandbars? Remember the bridge that turns and the drawbridge that seesaws upwards, both significant in metaphor and real time. Turn home to rest, tie yourself to your moorings, furl sails, coil lines. Let dreams come. Let dreams come. Good night.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
You Can't Be Twenty On Sugar Mountain
Even though you think you're leaving there too soon. My friend, my friend, my dear, defenseless friend who is undergoing radiation treatment and receives morphine every three hours, my heart is breaking. We visited for hours yesterday, both of us, all of us, in shock; you can only pull up the boot straps and haul. Wait and pray, wait and wish, wait and feel hollow for the lack of power.
She is in Roswell Park Hospital, hooked up to tubes and monitors that drip sustaining fluids and record breath and pulse. The family is numb, as were the faces of the other families who were treading the linoleum floor, as were the mobile patients who walked in gowns, padding softly so as not to disturb the life force still inside them, in hopes of waking the lion of immunity for a good fight. The majority were close to my age or younger. Hell on earth.
So, I look at the entity who was my father, whose own mantra was me mine me, who wrote in his will which arrived last Friday in the middle of all other messes that my brother got the dilapidated house and I was to receive a dollar. Well, I knew that ahead of time after reading a note that he had written in Jesus' name saying such. The will, however, contained extra sentences, and I guess my naivete was in not understanding that a will allows you to get last digs in as part of its purpose. After doling out "numerous gifts and monies" to me, it states that I didn't show caring or compassion for him or my mother. It must be that parallel universe thing in operation again.
No, I don't care about the money, but the intent of his dying breath was to let me know how worthless and grasping he considered me. I was a parasite, a slut, a drudging sow. His alcoholic, crazed brain painted a world populated by duplicitous women, ready to attach themselves as leeches in exchange for food and shelter, and I have to remember that. The flush of anger has passed, but there is a pervasive sorrow for I often have to remind myself that there is value in who I am. I will get past this, it will not define my life. I suspect had he been diagnosed, he might have been labeled borderline.
He lived to be 85. My friend is a year younger than I, well loved, a guiding light for her family, a warm, loving human who should be here, whole and untouched by the illness that has grown like underground mycelium throughout her body. This event will change my own existence, this will become part of who I am. Jordan, Barbara, Nancy, Mom; each of you are in me, and resonate in the air, the water, the rains and the green shoots pushing upwards through damp earth.
I see my Mom in the grass blades that she taught me to blow on as reeds held between thumbs; Nancy is there when I remember the grubby young girl I was and how she pulled me forward; Jordan would make me a hot sandwich to put in my pocket to keep my hands warm while waiting for a bus in snow; Barbara is in my degree, for her counsel during a hard time got me to make a difficult decision. How can I be worthless, when I have their good will?
Night comes, the sounds of today are melting into a yesterday. Please sleep gently, gratefully, and in innocence. Sometimes it is all we have. Good night.
She is in Roswell Park Hospital, hooked up to tubes and monitors that drip sustaining fluids and record breath and pulse. The family is numb, as were the faces of the other families who were treading the linoleum floor, as were the mobile patients who walked in gowns, padding softly so as not to disturb the life force still inside them, in hopes of waking the lion of immunity for a good fight. The majority were close to my age or younger. Hell on earth.
So, I look at the entity who was my father, whose own mantra was me mine me, who wrote in his will which arrived last Friday in the middle of all other messes that my brother got the dilapidated house and I was to receive a dollar. Well, I knew that ahead of time after reading a note that he had written in Jesus' name saying such. The will, however, contained extra sentences, and I guess my naivete was in not understanding that a will allows you to get last digs in as part of its purpose. After doling out "numerous gifts and monies" to me, it states that I didn't show caring or compassion for him or my mother. It must be that parallel universe thing in operation again.
No, I don't care about the money, but the intent of his dying breath was to let me know how worthless and grasping he considered me. I was a parasite, a slut, a drudging sow. His alcoholic, crazed brain painted a world populated by duplicitous women, ready to attach themselves as leeches in exchange for food and shelter, and I have to remember that. The flush of anger has passed, but there is a pervasive sorrow for I often have to remind myself that there is value in who I am. I will get past this, it will not define my life. I suspect had he been diagnosed, he might have been labeled borderline.
He lived to be 85. My friend is a year younger than I, well loved, a guiding light for her family, a warm, loving human who should be here, whole and untouched by the illness that has grown like underground mycelium throughout her body. This event will change my own existence, this will become part of who I am. Jordan, Barbara, Nancy, Mom; each of you are in me, and resonate in the air, the water, the rains and the green shoots pushing upwards through damp earth.
I see my Mom in the grass blades that she taught me to blow on as reeds held between thumbs; Nancy is there when I remember the grubby young girl I was and how she pulled me forward; Jordan would make me a hot sandwich to put in my pocket to keep my hands warm while waiting for a bus in snow; Barbara is in my degree, for her counsel during a hard time got me to make a difficult decision. How can I be worthless, when I have their good will?
Night comes, the sounds of today are melting into a yesterday. Please sleep gently, gratefully, and in innocence. Sometimes it is all we have. Good night.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Pouring
Please pray for my friend Ginny. I know some of you don't pray for it's not something I do well myself, but she is ill, so ill, and to have her in such distress needs attention. What can we humans do when there is little else, except to pray. God help her be better, please.
The cancer is everywhere. How it got so far so fast is beyond belief, I just had Easter dinner with her and her family. She was in pain but ascribed it to a sinus infection and the sciatica that plagued her until the mid week morning that her tongue became swollen and her speech slurred. The emergency care unit sent her to the hospital where the MRI told another story of a mass in her brain and cancerous images in her breast, lymph nodes, spine, liver, kidneys, and skull.
I am not publishing this entry, but the notation is here, that a human being whose goodness and selfless ways which ripple out like waves reaching every shore is suffering, her family is in horrific despair, and we, her friends are trapped in thick folds of muffled emotion. The cracks to the core are beginning to show as each thud of news tells of another obstacle to overcome. Molten, searing sorrow is within, while we are still walking and functioning as best we can in daily routine, knowing that she is facing the worst enemy of her life, the faceless hell of the unknown. Ten aggressive radiation treatments are scheduled, she had two yesterday.
Stay with us as long as you can, and fight. You are the center of your family, the sanity that bridges between factions who says "C'mon over and wear your pajamas, I ain't getting dressed neither." No one ever goes hungry, is cold, is lost or is without a place to stay while you were able to give what you had. Oh world, oh damned world, what can we do but pray? Ginny, dear Ginny.
The cancer is everywhere. How it got so far so fast is beyond belief, I just had Easter dinner with her and her family. She was in pain but ascribed it to a sinus infection and the sciatica that plagued her until the mid week morning that her tongue became swollen and her speech slurred. The emergency care unit sent her to the hospital where the MRI told another story of a mass in her brain and cancerous images in her breast, lymph nodes, spine, liver, kidneys, and skull.
I am not publishing this entry, but the notation is here, that a human being whose goodness and selfless ways which ripple out like waves reaching every shore is suffering, her family is in horrific despair, and we, her friends are trapped in thick folds of muffled emotion. The cracks to the core are beginning to show as each thud of news tells of another obstacle to overcome. Molten, searing sorrow is within, while we are still walking and functioning as best we can in daily routine, knowing that she is facing the worst enemy of her life, the faceless hell of the unknown. Ten aggressive radiation treatments are scheduled, she had two yesterday.
Stay with us as long as you can, and fight. You are the center of your family, the sanity that bridges between factions who says "C'mon over and wear your pajamas, I ain't getting dressed neither." No one ever goes hungry, is cold, is lost or is without a place to stay while you were able to give what you had. Oh world, oh damned world, what can we do but pray? Ginny, dear Ginny.
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