Wednesday, January 15, 2003

. . . to come trudging home through the snow from the office, where the better part of the afternoon was lost attending to niggling bits of administrivia, and realize that one has a
refrigerator chock full of soup that simmered on the stove all Sunday evening until the kitchen windows were misted with a cool slick rime of steam. A quirky ox-tail kind of soup, the recipe for which was entirely made up on one's own . . . a hearty apres snow-trudging kind of soup thick with barley, corn, and cut green breans . . . seasoned with bay leaves, parsley, and liberal gritty splashes of coarsely-ground black pepper. It is the kind of soup that is suitable to eat with a very large spoon while amusing oneself by saying to the cats before each spoonful (a la David Lynch's Twin Peaks), "Garmonbozia! Gar-mon-boooo-zia!!"

After which it is very nice to watch an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on the iBook, sipping a strong pungent mug of Ginger Tea while the cats sigh and snore, grunt and purr, paws twitching, on the couch. Outside, the cars hunch and shiver under their inches of snow like strange, round albino buffalo humps along the street, and my footprints home have long since disappeared. If the evidence of one's journey has been erased, do you think it means that one has never left . . . or never arrived?

So many stacks of books . . . trying to weave together the threads for the next day's classes into something tantalizing. Or at least palatable. Or perhaps one would even settle for mildly coherent. And in between the sips of tea, and sips of class prep, sips of poems in new books that one can't help delving into . . . just a little . . . and sips of blogs here and there too.

This is the kind of night when Tsuru, the Japanese stork maiden, might arrive on one's doorstep, disguised as a strange pale woman with long, nimble fingers and tall awkward limbs. She might lock herself in the bedroom and weave a shimmering-white feather blanket softer than blood and light as breath. All night long the rhythmic clack and shuttle of the loom behind the door until one can't stand it anymore and wants to throw open the door, even though she's warned you not to, and see what's really going on in there. Tell the truth. Would you open the door?
Posted by Artichoke Heart | 11:38 PM |
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Books by Artichoke Heart
Beyond Heart Mountain
Year of the Snake

Poems by Artichoke Heart
Songs for a Rainy Season
Toothpick Warriors
Snake Wife
Happy Hour
Girl With A Bowl On Her Head

Pillow Book Courtiers Of The
East Wing
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Pillow Book Courtiers Of The
West Wing
Blogroll Me!

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