"The Rotisserie"

“François was right; I do have these tips that come down from my ass.”

I frowned at her, politely confused.

“It’s probably your panty-line.”

“No it’s my fucking ass... Do you think I would look better in a skirt?”

“Well, I think you do have really nice legs; so yeah.” This wasn’t me being honest either, but in comparison to her arms and torso, those legs were pretty amazing.

“You’re such a sweet girl...so my black skirt with this shirt would look nice right?”

“Yes.”

I was a puppet and Maria was the master; tromping me back and forth with my arms full of kitchenware, nodding my head approvingly after her every voiced idea. Of course she hadn’t asked me for a real opinion; I could never have told her, “No, those jeans don’t look good on you. They emphasize the sag in your bum too much.” But François could. François – who had spent 30 years in prison for robbing banks and now supported a medley of drug addictions – his conscience never stood a chance against cold, easy cash. When I walked into the take-out area he had been cupping the portions of Maria’s buttocks that pointed conspicuously towards the ground.

“There, right there. It’s no good. You see the tips? Ok – give me the money.” Maria opened the cash and handed him a twenty-dollar bill. Dumbfounded, I quickly returned to the safety of the giant espresso machine. Obviously someone who pays an employee an extra twenty dollars for an honest opinion about her ass can be considered insecure. But she was so inept that these occasional bouts of self-doubt tempered my distaste for her. It showed that she did have a vague grasp of reality. Most of the time she did no wrong, and every problem came as a complete surprise – like the sag in her ass.




The Hen was a Portuguese grilled chicken restaurant and take-out counter where I worked. Maria, an Italian Montrealer, owned and ran it with her lover, Farid. Lou, her husband, worked the barbeque. It was a bad soap opera – the kind where passion results in nothing but incessant bad-mouthing and all of the main characters have grandchildren. Complicated, no. Uncomfortable, yes. Though most uncomfortable, for me, was serving breakfast.

“What the hell’s the matter with me? I’m breaking all of the yokes,” Maria would say while pushing another pair of hemorrhaged eggs out of the pan and into the trash.

“Calm down. Take a deep breath,” I suggested once, helplessly, and decided that it wasn’t a good time to warn her against using a metal spatula on teflon.

“They wanted white toast right?”

“No, I wrote it down; she asked for brown.”

“Fuck. Well it’s too late now. Just bring it anyway.” And I did, keeping my eyes averted as I set the plate down in front of a friendly woman who had come alone and would therefore notice the mistake.

“Et voilà.”

“I asked for brown toast,” she reminded me perfunctorily.

“I know. I’m sorry, the cook...I’ll go make some brown ones.”

Maria was rummaging through the freezer. I made straight for the bag of whole wheat bread.

“Did they say something?” she asked with a quick guilty glance.

“Yeah, she wanted brown toast.”

“Bitch.”

I dropped two slices into the toaster and stood waiting for the ding, vulnerable.

“Bridget, you know that note that I was writing to Farid yesterday? Well, he told me that he ripped it up without reading it and left it in a cup in his car. Except his wife found it and put it back together.” This was Farid’s wife who, according to Maria, had attempted suicide on multiple occasions. I watched her remove a clear plastic bag of something from the freezer. “And it was all about how I know he doesn’t love her anymore and how he stays with her out of guilt and all of this stuff. Farid said to me this morning that if she dies, he’s going to kill me.”




She opened the bag and I realized with horror that what I would be serving was a plate of toaster waffles (you know, Eggos) sprinkled with confectioner’s sugar. It was dreadful. For the low, low cost of $9.95, we inserted frozen waffles into a toaster and took them out after the ding.

Most people learned after one ill-fated visit that The Hen could not provide a comfortable dining experience. The only time it was busy was during the World Cup final. Twenty minutes before the game was scheduled to start, Maria told François, the delivery guy, and a few other randos that she wanted a television put on the terrace. They quickly carried one down from her apartment above the restaurant, and before long dozens of fans came, took tables, and ordered iced coffees. Later they kicked themselves for giving The Hen this vote of confidence. We were never able to get the sound to work.

But I felt bad for Maria. The business was a last miserable attempt to survive. She had debts – big ones, to dangerous collectors – and she sold cheap food because she didn’t give a shit. And the ambiance was poor because she didn’t give a shit. Nightmarish paintings of roosters wearing aprons and carrying platters of cooked chicken and an inexplicable collection of knee-high ceramic elephants furnished the inside. On the outdoor terrace large parasols advertised beers we weren’t licensed to sell and an unpainted trellis was all that separated the tables from the trash and recycling keep. On especially hot days the area was inundated with thick wafts of rotting chicken carcasses. Luckily for Maria, there were enough tourists, optimists, and general passivity in the world to create a steady trickle of business.

Still, why anyone would come was a mystery to me. When Maria wasn’t “cooking,” she would hover around yelling in her deep gruff voice at Lou (who, as far as I could tell, was good humoured and a hard worker) or she’d sit on the patio complaining to her friends and bewildered customers about how terrible her husband was, how she needed to get laid, how she thought she was dying.




One morning after four blissful days at my leisure I walked into work to find Maria splitting chickens in the back and throwing them onto the coal grill. This was not normally her job.

“Good Morning,” I offered. Then, “Where’s Lou?”

“I kicked his ass out. If he wants to stay out to four in the morning gambling and fucking that whore, then he can find his own place to sleep.”

I wished I hadn’t asked. I also wished Maria would just accept that she and her husband were in an open relationship. Apparently Lou had a girlfriend with whom he periodically escaped to Martinique on vacations. But if Lou was no longer going to cook at The Hen, I didn’t know how I would cope. He was the last affable worker left. A few weeks earlier François had managed to get an advance from Maria for sixty bucks and was never seen again. I missed him. He had made me laugh with his mischievous winks and giddy whistling as he poured himself the day’s first paper cup of beer somewhere around nine a.m. He had also shared his life dream with me, namely “to get a money truck.” The thought of François sticking up a bank van with nothing but a taser (he swore he never wanted to hurt anybody) was one I returned to with a smile on many occasions, wishing wholeheartedly for his success.

But Lou, he was almost fatherly (in spite of calling me Brigitte Bardot); when I felt exhausted or angry or bored, he would sit at the bar with his cappuccino, listen, shrug, and say comforting things like “All men are dogs” or “Yeah, life’s a bitch, and then you die.”




I stood there looking at Maria’s heavily-lined, tearing eyes – mute. She continued, couldn’t help it; I was that good a listener.

“He’s been out since the beginning of the week. And you’d think that he would have spent some time thinking about things, about our marriage. But, no. You know what the asshole’s been doing?” She stormed over to the wall where photographs of Lou with his kids and a recent Father’s Day card were taped. “He’s been skinny-dipping with that ugly bitch in my son’s pool. The fuck!” She clawed at the mementos, ripped them from the wall, and shredded them maniacally into the garbage.

“I’m sorry, Maria.” I was sorry – sorry for her, for myself, and for her son, for whom skinny dipping in his pool would probably never be the same.

That night I drank with my friend Skylar and let her talk me into quitting. Then I talked her into quitting for me because I was too chicken. She added a bit of throatiness to her voice. We practiced saying “Hi Maria, It’s Bridget” a couple of times in unison. I was delighted and nervous and amused. She called.

“Bonjour, The Hen,” Maria answered in a weirdly sexual voice. I stood listening next to Skylar’s ear.

“Hi Maria, it’s Bridget,” Skylar said.

“Oh. Hi Bridget,” The voice lost its mellifluous character immediately, obviously disappointed. I was terrified but could barely keep from laughing.

“I just called to say that I can’t come in anymore,” Skylar said, painfully.

“That’s fine, Bridget.” Skylar hung up. Her worried expression softened to a smile. My smile sunk into a frown. Once again, I was unemployed.

Pidgie T's

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Surprising Oneself and Making Friends!

On my way to a friend's for a surprise visit I smelled coals burning. Down the block on one of the side streets the origin of this irresistible perfume revealed itself. A "Smokey Joe" bar-B-Q on a stoop. A boy and girl sitting on the steps by the flaming coal-pot.
I had to get in on this.
I asked if it was a "public bar-b-q" and then gently wove myself into the fabric of their evening. They were admirably open to my introduction. I shared my rasberries. They shared their grilled asparagus. A couple of them would be officially graduating in a week from university. A couple were older like me. One was from Oregon. One would be working in Cape May for the Summer. One was a freelance photographer. One was a theater major at BU. One was a history buff. It was neat to get a flavor of these people's lives in such an unrehearsed, informal way. I'm grateful for the friendly reception and also proud of my own unintimidated instigation of an acquaintanceship. Why doesn't this happen more often? Anyone?
Something neat is that one of the party works at REI, which is a type of outdoor/ adventure equipment co-op. I told him that I had been there the other day to buy a few specific things. He wasn't working that day but had he been I would have asked him questions and talked with him about my plans rather than this other fellow who is apparently called "Abel" and works the same position. The point is, last Sunday I had a helpful chat with one employee (Abel), and a few days later I met someone who knows the former personally and works the same exact position.....I love it when places shrink like that! It makes the world seem less like a mountain range and more like a large garden...People as the plants (native, exotic, cultivated)- traceable, recognizable, and worthy of observation.......

All I did was decide to take a walk!

Rant, rant, rant....time for bed.

Springtime scribble at the trainstation.

The solar noon angle is high.

To paint, to write, to blow a dandelion's orb of seeds; the sun's caresses and glances are invitations to creativity, to exploration, and trust in the mythical.

It is always in Spring that these expectations exist to feel beauty and meaning continuously, everywhere.

As the world tends to disappoint, it is also a season of violent polarizations in mood where Melancholy presides over a court of glees and glums.

Sixteen Years Earlier,....

"Race you to the hedges," shouted one eight-year-old to the other. And they were off, Edith's dress flapping against her little legs as she ran across the lawn. Tailing her was Robin. As he overtook her, Edith tried blocking him with her right arm. He thrust it down and sped ahead with a joyful shout. A moment later, just as he reached the hedge and would have slowed himself, a cat ran out, and with another yell, though not the victorious kind, he lurched head-long into the bushy wall. Edith collapsed in a heap of shrieking laughter. Robin extracted himself from the hedge with some effort and sat next to her, grumpily plucking tiny twigs and leaves from his clothes and hair. The hedge showed a fresh, boy-sized cavity which Edith could not lay her eyes on without crowing and flopping back onto the grass in hysterics. 

Once recovered, she quickly wiped the tears from her cheeks and said,

"Do not worry, Mama won't be mad. Oh, you're hurt! Let's get you to Mrs. Hornby. She'll treat those scratches!" Robin had a few lights cuts on his face from the collision. They walked back to house, Edith's arm wrapped around his shoulders. He was smiling again.

Chapter 3

In keeping with his promise to interview the gentlefolk of the area on the subject of the mysterious gem, Robin had commenced his efforts by paying a visit to Edith. After he had gone, she convened with her mother in the parlor from which, for the last five years, Mrs. Ockley had scarsley ventured but to dine and sleep.
Edith's mother was a very slight, elderly woman. Recently, her eyes had clouded over with cataracts. For this reason, Edith could often be found reading aloud or practicing the piano forte for her mother's amusement (most reliably when there was some social event taking place which her mother would otherwise have happily attended). Mrs. Ockley greatly appreciated this entertainment as before her eyes went out, she had been in the habit of paying frequent visits around the neighborhood and walking through the garden. Though her sister, who lived only three miles down the road, would call weekly and other neighbors also paid regular visits, there was now a great deal of time in which Mrs. Ockley had to be contented with those impressions that reached her in the parlor by the window. The maid often recounted the village gossip for her keen ears. Birds sometimes sat on the window sill and recited for her their honest poetry. Edith's company and personal reflection, however, were the most highly valued comforts.
Edith spoke of the extraordinary event of the previous evening.
"I wonder, my girl, why your cousin was given leave to traipse all around the county with it. The whole area must now be aware of his carrying it. Any miscreant would think himself foolish not to seize such an opportunity."
"You're right." Edith sat considering these notions. What else could be done to discover the gem's backround? If the inquiry became less intimate- say, an advertisement in the Times- a large number of individuals claiming to have lost an identical ruby could be expected to surge into the village with grandiose tales and performances intended to evince rightful ownership. That was not an option. Should it be sent to London to be investigated by the police? Perhaps, if Robin was unsuccessful, it could be handed over to the authorities, or a private investigator employed. However, the stone could not have suddenly trans-located from a vault or jewelry case. It had been either intentionally or accidentally left in the Engles' kitchen; intentionally or accidentally tucked by someone into the pastry. Seeing that the entire batch of fiddlehead tortes had been overdone save the one containing the ruby, it also seemed plausible to Edith that the certain torte could have been removed from the oven and "fiddled with" while the rest continued to bake.
What worried her mother also began to worry Edith, and she decided to send Robin a letter advising him to cache the ruby in a safe place whilst occupied by the business of uncovering its origins. He would have to change his approach and thoroughly describe the gem to those he queried. A giant ruby, after all, was a rare enough thing not to be mistaken or forgotten. It could not be safe for him or the stone to travel around as such an unguarded pair. She penned Robin her thoughts as Mrs. Ockley listened intently to the meaningful scribble.

Chapter 2.5

He collapsed onto the bed, an induced bleariness softening the threats of his unsure future. What's done is done, he told himself. Sensitivity had been temporarily shed through swills of liquor, but his mind was still trapped in the undertow of a certain subject. It was now by habit that he dwelt upon the problem. Day and night, thinking.
He had been there for weeks before identifying an opportunity, an innocent, public occasion for the task to move into its next phase. It could have been easier, too. His jaw clenched as he remembered how simple the plan was meant to be. Go to the county, find the family, and bring back the son of twenty-four years. But the surname of this family, the title disguising one's true identity, and the only clue for such an undertaking was permanently gone from his head. When it had been told to him, there were bottles being passed and loot being divided. He remembered the evening well. A mean fire with meat roasting, the sky spread over with orange and pink. Worth had patted his shoulder and motioned with his head as if to say "come with me", so he had followed along the shore a few yards, and there the business was laid out .
"You're the only one I would consider asking to go. You, unlike the rest of the crew, have wits as well as guts. I can imagine you leading your own expedition one day, commanding a crew, securing a real fortune... If you accept my offer and carry through, you'll possess all you need, except for that bit of luck, to become just as rich and feared a captain as I."
He was garuanteed two shares of whatever was taken while he was away. In addition to this, once returned, if successful, he would be given command of the Sapphire, a recently captured sloop.
"Ughf, three sheets, I was," grumbled Jasper as he kicked off his boots and pulled the blankets around himself. Many nights since had he spent with his head in his rough hands, cursing the surname he could no longer remember. He had located the nearest town, gone through the registry, but the space in his skull once occupied by the single, crucial word had collapsed. There was only a horrific blank.
"Take this," his Captain had said, holding out the large ruby, "and when you find the right man, give it to him. Tell him it's time to join Captain Adam Worth. But, don't let him out of your sight. You'll bring him regardless of what he thinks he wants. If you fail to return with him or with the stone, I'll find you and you'll die- squealing like a pig. " Captain Worth fixed him with a stare, grave and deadly, as the the ruby was passed between them, the offer accepted.
"Damn you, Worth," Jasper whispered in the dark. His familiarity with the Captain gave little reason to doubt that vengeance would be madly sought should Jasper break with his end of the bargain. Worth's threats, when unheeded, were always brought about- usually with more extravagant brutality than promised. No, Jasper would have to stay and wait. The ruby had already attracted someone he could easily suspect. He had heard the young man's keen interest expressed in tones of a most familiar rapture, and if he failed to locate the right man, any one near his twenty-fourth year would need do. Zeal for pretty prizes could only serve to convince his master, and if his master was convinced, his fate was secure.

Good happens,......

It's never the wrong time to be grateful. In this whirl of worrying, so many "if"'s and "but"'s tossing us around, there is a surface at which an awareness of life's comedy, peace, and beauty can be breathed. When I am calm and patient inside, things actually happen. Good happens......
There is a vietnamese man who covers my real nails with artificial ones (I don't bite them this way). His English is not there yet, but tonight, after only a few casual questions, I learned that he is a brand new father with a month-old baby girl. This man, who has never said a word to me without being queried first, recently experienced something so pivotal and wondrous, and though I have seen him three times in the last month and a half, I never would have known if I hadn't been calm enough to volunteer a conversation and patient enough to wait for the words to form. How glad I am with choosing to be open and observant rather than sequestered by my own concerns. Just when I start feeling hopelessly misanthropic, something like this happens, my heart gushes with compassion and I love people again.

Chapter 1.5

Mrs. Engle was mortified. She left her breakfast untouched and sat at the table biting her fingernails instead; fixated by the idea that her reputation was on the brink of collapse.

“You cannot live on fingernails alone, dear, and they serve a greater purpose on your hands than on the floor. Make a husband happy and eat some toast. ” Mr. Engle pleaded as he quit the table. How could she help feeling agitated when the banquet which marked her debut performance as hostess Mrs. Bethany Engle had resulted in such horror and humiliation? Mrs. Engle was sure that the whole community must by now be blaming her for the accident and strongly doubting her abilities to keep the staff in order. She could see them all rolling their eyes and shaking their heads at such novel inexperience. Or perhaps people would be wondering whether the ruby-ridden torte was a ploy to eliminate for her husband the temptation of Miss Rosewood’s attractiveness.
Mrs. Engle was so insecure and so obsessed with appearances that she insisted on planning another function in a few days time with the hope that impressions from the first of that season would be erased. She gave the invitations to be delivered, and admonished every cook and baker to meticulously inspect all intended ingredients in future, at the risk of instant expulsion.

Chapter 2.

"But how is it that you were given the ruby? If it wasn't claimed by anyone, shouldn't Miss Rosewood have received it as a sort of recompense for the trauma she experienced?" Robin and Edith had reached the Spanish Oak on the far side of the lawn and were enjoying a short respite.

"That would have been the end of the story, and who could settle for such an ending? Who could consider such an occurrence to be 'just another time when a mysterious gemstone materialized inside one's torte'? Of course, this was to be prevented at all costs. I announced that some effort must be made to discover the ruby's true owner and how the gem could have strayed as far as Mrs. Engle's kitchen. Mrs. Engle could not have tried harder to diminish the party's interest in such particulars (such an event was, no doubt, of great embarrassment to her), but her hushing was not to be supported. I was all curiosity, and set about interviewing everyone with a contagious level of earnest. Once a proper buzz was in effect, I made it known that I would be traveling around the county with the gem to make inquiries, and that, as they all knew I would be taking it, there was no risk of its suddenly going unaccounted for."

Edith was quite used to the her cousin's stubborn impulses, though they sometimes gave rise to concern for the futurity of his good reputation. He was well-liked by the other families in the area as he was handsome, well-mannered, and a sparkling confabulator. It was also common knowledge that he was next in line to inherit the family fortune. Therefore, his attentions were much more assiduously sought than those of the other bachelors in the area, and in this Edith found great amusement as he was liable to be awkwardly enveloped by an effusion of saccharine smiles and fawnings at almost every social function he attended.

"So, my dear madame, is this malevolent gem at all familiar to you?" Robin held it up with feigned formality for her to inspect. It was the largest gem she had ever seen, with a diameter of almost two centimeters. Its cut was stunning and when the gem caught a beam of light glinting through the budding canopy, it glowed a red so rich that for a moment nothing else was known to them

Edith smiled and shook her head. She had never seen anything like it.

Storytime......

The door opened and in blew Robin with enough enthusiasm to dissolve Edith’s reveries.

“I bring extremely good news.” Edith sat upright and cocked her head accordingly.

“Well,” he continued, “ I say ‘good’ because it is of the most peculiar kind.”
“Excellent. My imagination is long overdue for a good stretch. Let's here it."
“Last night, at the Spring Banquet hosted by Mr. Edwin Engle, (where I could not but notice your absence- after, you can explain this to me) Lady Rosewood was said to have been nibbling a fiddlehead torte when her front tooth was most shockingly broken off by the unyielding surface of a large ruby disguised therein.” He crossed the room to the bench where he often sat during his visits with Edith, and removing an apple from his pocket, contented himself with the ration while she stared silently into space.

“Am I to understand that this gem wasn’t claimed by Lady Engle and that it didn’t merely fall from its setting in Lady Rosewood’s necklace onto the torte? Also, I am surprised you should forget; my allergies to tulips are too severe to permit my joining any of Mr. Edwin’s Spring parties. He practically supplants his dining hall with his greenhouse. I would not have lasted five minutes.”

Robin nodded as he tossed the apple core into the fireplace.

“So no one has any idea where the jewel came from? The bakers were questioned?”

Robin replied that, yes, Mrs. Engle's entire staff was brought forward, but to no advantage. The servers, cooks, and bakers were all very puzzled. The party did learn, however, that it had been the only fiddlehead torte to make it to the table. According to the head baker, who seemed particularly angry with one of his underlings, the batch of tortes had been neglected while in the oven, and the one containing the ruby had only just survived. These details had failed to remove anyone at the banquet from a thoroughly nonplussed state. Though, Robin suspected that the one of Miss Rosewood’s teeth felt it the most.

“Poor girl," sighed Edith. "I can’t imagine this will help to expedite a proposal from Mr. Wallis. What an unfortunate turn for her.”

“Indeed. Every time she smiled at me thereafter I was tormented by the desire not to look away but to revel in the change a missing tooth has given her countenance. Though, she deserves credit for such composure; parting her lips in public at all! I applaud her self-assurance.”

Though Robin seldom made these sorts of remarks in public, he was at ease to jest in such a way with Edith whom he had known from infancy and who he enjoyed provoking without the fear that offense could be taken.

“And where is the ruby now?” Edith rose and opened the windows to the racket of a great many starlings pecking through the lawn below. It was a perfect day; Mild, dry, and bright, and on turning around to ask Robin if he’d care to go walking, she was astonished to see a glimmering red thing stuck in his face. He released the gem from his scrunched eye with a laugh, and Edith, who couldn’t help but giggle, attempted to scold her cousin as they made their way out of doors.

Getting back on the blog...or the pen.

It has been a while. I have still been writing; though, only in journals and on random slips of paper in my pockets. The style has been different. This is due to the fact that I rarely write short stories or lengthy descriptions for myself alone...especially when there are other formal tasks at hand.
Therefore, this blog will become more of a reflection of my thoughts lately.

This is a mind like a cloud. It never settles. It never resembles exactly the same shape to anyone.

It can't stop blowing to other vantages. So what.

I have difficulty understand how people can remain attached to a single idea for their whole lives. How can this be done and the thrill of discovery not be done away with? The glory of anything soon fades with too much attention. Like a star under one's direct gaze. For those like me, the peripheral is most often what is truly seen. Thank goodness that art of all kinds is allowed, and often revered. Rational behavior is one of life’s most unfortunate demands. If the freedom to express what lies outside of sensible boundaries was withdrawn, a smile would be a very rare thing.

The mind is not free anymore. It is minion to the gods of competition and money. Those that are brave enough to stand in the sunlight of their own imagination and ideas are considered lost, worthless, irresponsible. How is this? How have people learned such self-denial so well as to scorn self-love, self-acceptance in others? No, ……we all must work one another into the ground.

In the afternoon,.......

I stopped along the path to observe a male blackbird rummaging for his lunch under the frosted brown leaves that coat the earth. He snatched and threw them over his bird-shoulders, occasionally having to drag a larger, frozen clump away from his buried booty of wintering worms and insects. After each muscled throw of debris, he looked up at me. Without knowing better, I would have thought he were trying to impress me with such a display of brutish bird strength. ('Behold, poor human, the many leaves my mighty beak displaces! And do you have a bright orange beak? I think not!')
Of course, I am aware of my own dubiousness in the eyes of smaller creatures- even hearty blackbirds- even the predators of predators of hearty blackbirds. He was only keeping a wary, orange-encircled eye on me.
Now I sit on the marble base of an impressive metal statue featuring a robust male deer. He stands assertively on a kind of knoll between divergent roads amid the beech and rhododendrons. The cold stone stings my gluts to numbness, but the feeling of being watched over by an alert buck is a pleasant irony.
Having caught my fill of glinting sunlight, I slip along down the path of frozen leaf pulp to a certain artisan's shop where Santa follows vicariously.

Digging up the new roots...

"Are you for sure not coming back after Christmas," asks Ursula with rolled R's. She is Austrian, but the papers are Italian. Italy claimed a section of Austria in the beginning of the last century.
People are leaving Bergen. Ursula's contract is finished, as is Nicholai's.
But, others are here permanently. It seems like an early uprooting (for everyone), but it was wonderful while it lasted.

Ursula plays the violin, is 32, and has been moving around-working temporary positions and gigging since she was 23. Though she claims to "have nothing in life", she can turn a room upside down with laughter and overwhelm Ingrid Bergman's beauty any day. I hope to see her again sometime.

During the last few weeks, cordiality's chrysalis has been shed. A flock of freshly-winged friends flutter socially about. Polite dinner parties have become late evenings after the concert- sitting with wine or soup on the bed, which is Nicholai's and my only accommodating piece of furniture. I made a wreath last week to add a fresh scent to the entryway and elevate everyone's spirit with holiday hints. The mountain has plenty of kindly-needled firs. Our door is metallic, so the wreath is sneakily hung from the inside wall to dangle surprisingly in the air when the door has been opened. As guests depart they are informed that a glance from the inescapable hoop spells a long, happy life. Not living a long, happy life after getting into the hallway is, therefore, near impossible.
When I am home for Christmas we will dig up the young roots of our tree. For a while it will be inside, which doesn't suit trees so much, but afterwards it can continue to grow anew on the property. For people, I think that the roots are the others they bring into their lives. The loved ones. Family or friend. And it makes for a lush life when your friends are just around the corner or just that many more.

Bergen's Ancient Wharf and more....

Greetings, fellow Bottom-dwellers!

This cafe feels like it could be nestled in a tree far from the forest floor.

A single room of pine walls, floor, and ceiling with century-old ragged pine rafters to support its slanting structure. Bryggen is an over-underworld of planked alleyways and staircases in a hive of ancient housing built to accommodate the lives and goods of sea-traders.

The city of Bergen was founded in 1070 by a certain King Olav Kyrre. Bryggen, as the city's largest wharf and trading center, was the best-established area of Bergen during medieval times. By the 13th Century, Bergen was trading with many countries, but the black plague entered through its port in 1349 and annihilated most of the city's population. Half of Norway's population was wiped out. About a decade after this, a Hanseatic trading office was established in Bryggen's wharf. For the next three-hundred years, Bryggen life flowed to the rhythm of Hanseatic culture. Norway exported fish. Ships imported grains and textiles. After a fire in 1702, which destroyed the entire city, Bryggen was once again reconstructed. What I walk through today is all that is left of Bryggen and also of Hanseatic trade housing.

The trade offices, storage spaces, and boarding rooms from this archaic period have all been recycled into airy shops of handmade luxury items, pub-cafes, and a few discreet offices tucked away on some tilting third floor.

Having been brought up in a completely different context, this landscape of invincible heart wood, bare and weather-worn, through the open-air walkways of the second and third stories, reminds me of a tree house neighborhood.

To others of a saltier imagination, it could very well lend itself to revelry in the sea and sailor-beaten surfaces of an old wooden ship.

The gently restored cabin which hosts the cafe has been perfect for such an afternoon escape. Cars, Concrete, and city sounds are nonexistent in this harvested forest. Bryggen is an island of wood in a sea of cobbled and paved routes. The barista is wearing black, boot-shaped slippers. I, too, would wear slippers if wide, creaky boards lived under my feet as I moved through the day.

Back at the apartment crows appear outside of the windows, positioning themselves to be flung by the lofty gusts of wind at exactly sun-down. 3:54. The trees near the middle of the mountain seem to be a favorite landing spot. A pit-stop on the flight back to their roosts. Of course, we know that birds never make that kind of pit-stop. Otherwise, they might have a better reputation. There are no nests in the branches of these bare trees, but at this time of day the topmost twigs and branch-tips are weighted by dozens upon dozens of the vigilant scavengers. It is a coup d'air

Grieg Hall before the concert.

Perfumes and pressed clothes.

Showered people

Programs and polite laughter.

Greying hair

Coffee or wine.

Comfortability. 

Mild excitement.

Glancing men

Automated chimes.

Minds gathered to be carried elsewhere.

Unexplored thoughts to be temporarily visited.

Traditions to honor.

Images to maintain.

Ideals to uphold.

Monotony to break.

Generations to impress.

Loved ones to support.

So many reasons and whims for an audience to attend to

Mozart and Brahms.

Observations on a mountain walk and at the kitchen table.

Fireweeds of Autumn are no longer bright purple and pink. They stand solemnly with white curled hair. Seeds for next year. Fallen beech leaves on the flat sides of rain-slicked boulders spell out the philosophy of Autumn. Detachment. A necessary willingness to end. Freshness with each Spring's luminous new set of unfurling leaf-buds is only possible through the voluntary release of the previous year's leaves. Insects forfeit their lives at this "fall" bend in the cycle to ensure that the next generation may also make the same loop. I make the meandering loop up and down the mountain, descending just as my hands begin to tingle uncomfortably with cold. Glad to weather another approaching Winter.

Back at home, I sit at the table and wonder who I should be and what that person would be doing at this second. The old adage "Be True to Yourself" floats into my head wearily. Like an old clown. The clown seems still to carry some secret. I try and cipher its magic.

To be "true to one's self" is a quite popular directive meant to reassure people that they can choose to do what they feel compelled to -be who they feel compelled to be. Many of us, myself included, find it difficult not to be very "thoughty". If our thoughts aren't always repetitive- in a closed loop- new ideas often join the slideshow and shake us, skew the menagerie, but at the same time renew us. These new experiences and their "aftermath" can be comforting or traumatic, but we need it all to grow. Actually, we need it to be alive.

Being alive (which, in my opinion, doesn't mean sitting on a pillow with eyes shut) is all bonding and reacting. With every impression, there is a reaction. With every reaction, we live.

To be true to oneself isn't to be true to a single idea (of oneself) but to be true to a real, living self; a self whose image isn't the main concern and whose entire being is available and honest for the world. A living self is one with mental and emotional reactions taking place. 

It can be tricky when one's ideas of who his or her "real" self has proven to be in the past battle for the present title. However, being true to an idea of oneself- is different than being true to oneself.

This is why being one's "true self" is being aware of one's present surroundings, senses, and peers so that we can bond and react. When we react to what is going on around us, however we feel compelled to (without checking with some computerized hardware conception of ourselves) we reveal the self. So, self and thought should not be confused. Self is awareness, and in being true to that, all we can do is react.

Makes sense, I think.

With that, I see that this table needs tidying and feel that it is time for lunch. 

Enjoy yourselves!!!

Doing some drawings of late

Hello dear readersThis entry I ask that you quench the thirst for words with images. I sunk into a pleasant pattern of scratching some staedtlers across a pad this week. Here is some of what I came up with. The link is to one of the drawings which I submitted for a T-shirt contest. Thank you, Phil Puleo for your technical genius. Everyone please cross your little piggies.

A cat to spare and pre-concert scribble.

Today, cats rule the hill. Below my bench I emptied a cup of leftover pasta. I figured that some crows would discover it sometime that afternoon. Only a moment later, however, did a young tabbycat cross the leaf-carpetted street, following her nose to the clump of tomatoey noodles. They did not seem to suit her, though. Immediately after devouring one by my foot, she turned to the neighboring grass and nipped off a few of the most accessible vomit-inducing blades. I didn't think that batch of pasta was especially good either. Whole wheat is always too dense.

This all occurred without any personal acknowledgment from the cat until, like anyone trying to catch a skulking feline's attention, I hissed gently through my teeth. She froze, beaming the yellow lanterns of her gaze at me before swiftly jumping into my lap. 

The unexpected visitor enjoyed my puffy coat's warmth, cushioning, and concealment. Whenever a sniffing dog was ushered round the bend and down the road just in front of us, she shrunk lower into the space between my protective embrace and behind the blind of my crossed legs. 

I tried to write, but she attacked my pen and paper. She even tried to sneak a sip of my coffee. So I gave in to being an attentive massage-chair for the time-being.

Cats seem to live strictly from one sound to the next. And most sounds, judging by the way a cat's emotions pique from them, are heard as fate's knocking or the clattering of apocalyptic hooves. The wind blowing dead leaves around was treated as a serious omen for my candid cat friend. And the people rolling suitcases down the street or slamming their doors could all have been conspiring with the devil. A whole neighborhood of evil noises-makers. A large tree-trunk (which must also have created some type of disquietude-you'd think) was spontaneously attacked with a leaping assault of unsheathed claws. 'Shut up, you sinister tree!... or I will cut you down one scratch at a time!'

When the most fearsome canine was spotted zig-zagging his way up the hill with his obese keeper in tow, my accessory ran to the middle of the street some thirty feet ahead and crouched provokingly in full view. Are all animals with alpha-attitudes born under the assumption that they are the largest beasts walking the earth? I suppose that hiding from the dogs who had already trotted our way was done to prevent any association with those possessors of such short legs and dull teeth. Only the largest canines were worthy opponents.

The woman and her German Shepherd froze. The dog about to spring through his collar and the woman to turn back. My pen had just run out of gas, so I scooped the suicidal feline up with my free arm and carried her down the steps in a different direction. After a fair distance, I set her back on the ground and continued to our apartment where the door made an nasty slam behind me.

Nov 2

Hoping not to be removed from the church concert I have snuck into. At least two hundred other people  are crowded into this age-old church on a dark raining night. An introduction to the music being given by an unamplified speaker. I don't understand anything specific, but the sound of so many ears stirred by the single, acoustic voice is clear. The audience chuckles occasionally.

Painted white stone. It is suitable for a place of hope and sanctuary in the darkness of Bergen's Winter shadows. White walls, not grey stone or murky carvings. On this particular night, I can appreciate the sense which may not have existed in thought until now. Though, many other Norwegian churches are dark with a structure hewn only from bare wood. Staves. And they were once attended. 

This being has Love for so many others and so much!

This being has strength and grace.

This being is still learning and growing and always will be.

This being has touched both friends and strangers.

Her friends are also her family.

This being would do anything for her family.

She is loved by so 

many!!!!!

This Being has the Knowledge to be Humble and Grateful 

This being has the Wisdom of Forgiveness and Patience

This being only occurs every infinity years.

If this being wasn't such a good Mother, she wouldn't be such a good friend to me!

This being is   e x t r e m e l y    g e n e r o u s (or liberal)

Her love transcends form.

Her smile is never insincere.

Her sense of fun is contagious!!!:-) I love her giggles!!!

This being's creativity is boundless but sensitive.

This being's intuition is miraculous.

 This being's trust is a privilege.

This being is still a child in all the best of ways!!!!

This being happily has a while yet to explore, give, and feel.

This Amazing Being, my MOM!!

I Love you! Happy 50th!!!!! 

The Palette

Why couldn't I hear an account of the legend of the Flying Dutchman instead of Wagner's opera? 

 For over two hours- frustrated, bored, and bothered.

Sitting there, blaming myself, I thought, 'Love isn't an analyzed experience. Stop thinking and just witness it'. 

But, there was no gaining access to such pleasure.

 When the Opera sans intermission was over, I found myself on the street thrown against a brick wall of milk chocolate. Evening saved. Bravo, Chocolat! Encore, Chocolat!

Whether the weather is dryer or wetter....

The time taken to make a cup of coffee- for a spot of water to boil and a scoop of beans to grind is often too long for the sky to stay clear. It could be the escaped vapor from the pot tipping the nearest cloud off balance, or perhaps an unreasonable assumption that the weather can accommodate my caffeine addiction. Whatever the truth of the matter-If the sun is out, dally not! Go and bask in it! 

Being in such an obsessively rainy place makes me curious about never before considered subjects. One is the feeling of rain for small birds flying through the air or hopping on the ground. Do their hollow skeletons ring with every small thud of raindrop bursting against body? Or do their feathers double as a type of raincoat like a duck's; transforming the raindrop's epoch transfer of energy into the tiniest of taps on the anatomical rainfly? 

While hiking the mountain in front of our apartment yesterday, Nicholai and I duly received a most appreciated dosage of pure sunshine through the exceptionally clear atmosphere. This vitamin D and generally enlivening cast of energy has been much missing from Bergen as hail, rain, and shadowy winds hide the sun's beaming face day after day. 

Dogs trotted along the path followed by their keepers, and fellow strollers smiled generously through the fine weather. We sat on a boulder gazing down at Bergen. I always imagine what partially developed places would look like without their man-made structures. A wide arm of sea-water reaching in between a huddle of mountains fully clothed in tree. That is all Bergen once was.

An elderly man with a short, orange dog rounded the bend in the path. He was being conspicuously tailed by two hooded crows and a magpie. One of them was so focused on keeping up with the man that it flew to the next, closest tree but failed to choose a proper perch. The bendy twig comically dumped the crow who had apparently also dumped its own pretense of "wildness". Every ten paces or so the old man rewarded this behavior with a few dog biscuits from a pouch. I imagine that dog biscuits must be considered a delicacy by such scavengers. Never have they been so eager to snatch with their big, black beaks the stale bread I regularly distribute. 

The old man's dog was a shrunken version of a husky with a diet too high in carotene. Erect ears, thick, orange fur, and long, curled tail. Nicholai had expressed a liking for this popular breed, so I approached the old man to find out a bit about them. Actually, I approached the dog. My Norwegian isn't exactly good enough to articulate "Hello, Sir. I like your dog very much. Of what breed is she?" The little dog was keen on a nice petting, and the white-haired man, discovering I didn't understand any of his Norwegian questions, obliged me with his basic English.

The dog was a japanese breed. They really are everywhere in Bergen. The man said that she was fourteen (older than him if you believe in "dog-years"). Last year he took her to Oslo (around five hours by train from Bergen) to have the cataracts in her eyes removed by lasic surgery. I said as I affectionately scrubbed the dog, "What a lucky girl you are". 

"Yes, so expensive...," he said with the helpless smile of a "softy".

His English was probably the worst of anyone I've met here so far, but it was still good enough to understand me and communicate a few humourous anecdotes.

The crows have been following him for years. He walks the mountain Floyen everyday, and they pursue his biscuit-tossing hand the whole way. "They are practically tame," he said, "and if another dog comes by or anyone else, they fly away. They know me." It is true that crows are intelligent enough to recognize many individual friends and foes.

In his unexcercised mumble he asked, "You are from the United States?"

"Yea, New Jersey."

"Yes, I have many relatives from the mile-high city." It took me a second to remember exactly where that is (Denver, CO).

"And, what do you think about the election?"

This conversation has been standard procedure these days. Hell, if I were from a small country but still up to date on international news, it would be the first thing I'd want to know from an American.

"I think it's very important that we elect Obama. Really important." I said, thinking silently (or else this world is really done for).

My new friend nodded in agreement. "McCain is the same. He is the same as Bush.......And what about Palin," as though I didn't know,"the Alaskan?".

"Horrible! Idiotic." 

He said something to the effect of "Arpfkhffffffff!"

We then wished each other a good day -being pleasantly in agreement about the crows and politicians. 

Nicholai had remained on the rock, watching and listening. After I had sat back down next to him, he said, "Maybe I should start following that guy around so he could feed me and pay for my lasic surgery...."