Standing on line at the restaurant, suddenly I am next. It makes me feel like Friday after clocking out at work, where everything’s about to happen. And the waiter or waitress will at some point carry over my tray of food, and everything will be situated just so. There will be a rosebud in the vase on my table and I will snap a photo.
My great-grandmother’s woven basket—a trove the size of a bread loaf—brimming with spare buttons. The wood door to her sewing room ajar. Her threaded Singer perched like a hummingbird amid patterned fabric and spools.
The flour on her wood cutting board and maple rolling pin in the kitchen. The smell of confection, like gingerbread and breakfast muffins.
Her Sunday stroll to the corner store with her button-front smock, and her slow return to her apartment on the third-floor.
Mr. Mustachio is basically a walking / talking, bristly & dark-haired mustache who is debuting a cable TV show.
A round beverage coaster who wears a sombrero on occasion, his show will be titled, Drinks Are On Me. He will discuss cocktails and other mixed libations during segments, which will be filmed on a kitchen table.
He also will share stories about the times he’s had at the 24/7 dive bar in Las Vegas where he used to work, until a customer slipped him into his pocket and brought him home, where he is now, unfortunately, used primarily for coffee, tea and sometimes domestic beer when friends are over.
Overall, the show is a way for Mr. Mustachio to relive the days (and nights) that he loved so much while working at the bar.
You can see as I stir it looks like chocolate pudding before cooling and setting.
You can hear it sounds like water when you’re alone in a quiet tub (high-caliber audio via parabolic reflector).
What it looks like is this after it’s baked: (closeup of sedimentary rock, the color of clay pot).
As for texture, think of a hunk of banana-walnut bread.
It was something I enjoyed eating so much that I constructed this hut using this material.
And now I am sitting here in lotus position, passing it on like a sort-of Siddhartha.
Grackles engrossed in nonstop quibbles like tweens in a schoolyard. Their predatory clamber across tree bark, clawing like cats on carpet. Grackles and the way that they crow and cackle! Torpedoing from bush to rock to tree to fountain, dumpster-diving, whizzing past your head like P-140 bombers. Fluttering low like bats in Victorian homes, perched on hilltops and awash in fog and sickly lamplight, their nefarious flight charged with purpose, bulging from their green button eyes.
I am reminded of Bowie today as I walk about in mismatched spa socks. Wear clashing articles of clothing to work day should be a thing. At my job they have different themes for dressing down: They had one recently with go as your personal hero day. Which would be perfectly appropriate for me: my two different species worn with my blue genus.
Passing the fragrant pines, they seem episodic today
I am intoning for the clouds to stick around
A flycatcher makes swooping casts from a branch like a fly fisherman’s line
A male robin is at rest on a low bough while its mate babysits the nest above
Man on camp chair w/ obedient mastiff, unleashed and lounging in the grass
Finches on trees like holiday ornaments, branches bobbing like rafts in a rapid
The smoke & scent of BBQ and the sound of the Wailers
Bob Marley chirping about his single bed
In the distance, a Harley like an aboriginal didgeridoo & chant
New name, new domain. Oh, and on June 20, this blog will be two years old. Who knew? Seems like it’s been around longer.
I am taking forever and ever to eat my yogurt. The creamy substance is something to stir and stir with my teaspoon until homogenized and then remove gently with my mouth, using no teeth, only tongue and lips.
The pomegranate seeds are a bitter, crunchy counterpoint. Still, we must bear the unpalatable in order to be more present during the blissful — even if it is, in this case, bacteria that somehow rivals Reddi Wip
With the yogurt, the bottom of the cup is something to scrape and scrape — the spoon something to leave in my mouth as a I carry the cup to the kitchen and drop it into the trash, comforted by the thought of another and then another waiting in the fridge to be eaten.