Labour of Love

So, when you are thinking about moving, you are probably better at looking around your house and actually SEEING the amazing amount of stuff you have. As much as I would like to find a place of my own where I stay for the rest of my life, I find that moving every five years or so helps me prioritize, and hopefully to simplify. Well, it helps me to clean out my load of physical stuff anyway. Today I looked in a closet and found my box of tapes, which I have kept for many reasons. One, making a mix tape was a heck of a lot of work. You had to have a quality recording, and time your spaces right. Music was much harder to come by back then. I didn't even get my own music until maybe my eleventh birthday (Violent Femmes and the sound track to Stand By Me. I think I got an OMD tape too- strange mix.) Also, acquiring the songs on these tapes was like collecting music knowledge and making your own life soundtrack. We would play those ninety minutes of music over and over while we drove around- singing very loudly, I might add. And then, someone would get a new mix and it would start all over again- one tape would be thrown in the back seat, while the new one was shoved in the tape deck and we were off on a new adventure.

These mix tapes were an introduction, an initiation and the establishment of a bond. There was no other way to get a lot of music, and there was certainly no other way to put your own commentary on them. Your flow meant something- something hard to explain here. The blends of these mixes capture a very specific life moment, and I love that. It was so great that they didn't have to be homemade either. During my first year in New Mexico, we played the soundtrack to Reservoir Dogs CONSTANTLY. We never got sick of that revolutionary mix. I can still see my friends faces, as they were- free and longhaired, dancing, you know, 'cause everybody did.

But, I think it is time for some of these to go- Who has Liz Fair on tape? I do not need those terrible recordings of Grateful Dead shows, or the endless stream of the Allman brothers anymore. I am even still carrying around those tapes that I found under the mailbox on Stuart Ave, which I have never even played because I feel so darned guilty about taking them. I am throwing away the ones that are damaged and sticky (eww...) but there are some I have to keep. Earth, Fire, Water and Wind- a theme mix on two tapes- definitely keeping that. I am also keeping one called Naked Backgammon and one called Stay In Bed 'cause they sound like fun. I am also keeping Sallie's simply named Tape For Erin because I can't wait to hear what is on it. When will I ever get to hear them again?

Spreading the love

Oh, this confusing, and violent world. What are we to do?






Sometimes the universe aligns just right and I can still hear the love behind all of the craziness. Friday I woke up to this amazing love story from StoryCorps. StoryCorps is, itself one of the best ideas incarnate, but this story is particularly gorgeous. I would recommend listening to it without reading the included text first, it is so... well, it is perfect really. That is grace if I ever knew it.

Call me crazy

I have found it. Out past the Gospel Chicken House and the Sod Farm, I found land made for me, and with a house more gorgeous than I could have hoped, or probably deserve. The place even has a mature wine vineyard, so lovingly cultivated that the man who planted it is moving to Oregon so he can have more fun with vines. It has a huge walnut tree among fruit trees. It has a tractor. It is a place where I am quite sure that you can see the stars.

But, do I dare move there? Do I dare give up this house which holds a heck of a lot of my blood sweat and tears? Can I give up my coffee shop and my three mile commute to work? Last night, I woke up worrying about copperheads. What if I fell out of said tractor? What if I don't know enough yet to run head (heart) first into this endeavor?

I swore I would never live in the middle of nowhere by myself again. And, every time I make those kind of declarative sentences (think fake Ugg boots, all purses, musicals) I wind up eating those words. Mostly with relish.

Amazingly erudite

I am oh-so- proud. Our KT has published an article in the beautiful, local food magazine, Edible Chesapeake. Her essay, "Chicken Love" caught the eye of the magazine's editor, and, I have to say, looks really good in print. Look at the link to the right if you want more info on the mag. It is truly a gorgeous representation of the local food momentum around the Chesapeake area. YAYAY KT!

The search goes on

The other day, a question was posed to an unlikely group. Why are the poor served differently than the rest by the church? Isn't there the same spirit for all? A well meaning, (but I fear, naive) intellectual answered that Jesus was a counter cultural figure, and the poor aligned with the church at that its beginning for that reason. The church has since become part of the institutional life that cannot abide such a rebellion. My (rather heated) response was that, for many of us, survival is work- that one cannot have the luxury of faith or love if one has to work so very hard to keep one's life together. Faith is work- as is love. Life is hard, hard work.

So many things have diluted themselves in order to get noticed by us- churches use power point presentations (who does not get enough of those at work?) and our political candidates watch every answer they make so diligently that I don't even know if they are actually saying anything anymore.

I do not want a u2-charist. I don't want a body politic that kowtows to the opinions of us, their television audience, and not to the truth for which they work, while they watch their words with analytical precision so that we do not 'misunderstand' them. Do not come down to me- I want to work my way up to you. I want you to be larger than I am.

I think that we are all the poor. Yet, still, we know and work less than we should for what we have.

Michael Pollan was right

Have you seen the film Sideways? It is a fantastic film, with wine and neuroses at its center. My favorite. Anyway, part of the absurdity that perhaps only an oenophile would appreciate (and who uses the word oenephile anyway?) is the poetic complexity the characters attribute to the Pinot Noir grape varietal. Their obsession truly borders on irrational, which, of course, adds to the charm and hilarity of the entire film because Pinot Noir lovers are really that way. Turns out, their Holy Grail quest is not so very loony. Yesterday I learned that a group of Italian and French scientists mapped the genome of the Pinot Noir grape and found that it has 30,000 genes in its DNA. How many genes does human DNA have? 20,000 to 25,000.

Who is domesticating whom?

Ahhhh....Mercy

Ok- I feel better. I made soup. And not just any soup- I made bisque. And, not just any bisque- I made tomato bisque. Really, you should try it. And since I cook like I have six children, I made enough tomato bisque to keep me happy for days. Oh, let us be thankful for those who share our food, as well as for those who make it possible.

I also got a tree. A sparkly, fat, southwestern pine has now taken up residence in my living room. It is covered in my lackadaisical, spotty and effervescent Christmas past. And I love it. I got up in the middle of the night last night to see if it needed water. I went and bought the last Christmas lights available at Kroger. (Now that I think of it, that wasn't so very kind of me. ) But, hey. It took a lot of consideration for me to get here, with a tree in my living room. I was staunchly opposed to the Christmas tree for way too long. Before I knew about productive agricultural land use, and carbon fixing, and how very happy those twinkly beings can make a person, I was appalled at the very idea. But I must say, it is awfully nice to come around.

Pleading

This week, the world turned inside out and upside down. Usually I am down with the dynamism of the universe, but lately it has been particularly painful and confusing. What I thought was real was not so, what I thought was good turned out to be less so. I am having a hard time finding something to hold on to. Thus, I have few words as I try to discern whether or not the truth is malleable. So I will rely on the words of another. Yesterday I listened to this song by a gorgeous band named Over the Rhine (think Hem meets Cowboy Junkies with a wee bit of Fiona Apple thrown in for sass) over and over and over again. 'Cause it was lovely. 'Cause I needed it.

Jesus in New Orleans

The last time I saw Jesus
I was drinking bloody marys in the South
In a barroom in New Orleans
Rinsin' out the bad taste in my mouth

She wore a dark and faded blazer
With a little of the lining hanging out
When the jukebox played Miss Dorothy Moore
I knew that it was him without a doubt

I said the road is my redeemer
I never know just what on earth I'll find
In the faces of a stranger
In the dark and weary corners of a mind

She said, The last highway is only
As far away as you are from yourself
And no matter just how bad it gets
It does no good to blame somebody else

Ain't it crazy
What's revealed when you're not looking all that close
Ain't it crazy
How we put to death the ones we need the most

I know I'm not a martyr
I've never died for anyone but me
The last frontier is only
The stranger in the mirror that I see

But when I least expect it
Here and there I see my savior's face
He's still my favorite loser
Falling for the entire human race