She's calling

Mysteria calls to me
I started missing her before I’d even left
As I packed my car
I took a moment from the heat,
And sweat,
And frustration,
And missed expectations,
And fulfilled expectations,
To cry
For I was missing her already
And I hadn’t even left yet

Mysteria calls to me
As I return to my default life
Suited and tied
And buckled down
I tune-out the meetings, and the calls
And my mind wanders back
Back to Mysteria
And all she holds
And all she offers
I try to concentrate on work
And house, and lawn
And R E S P O N S I B I L I T Y . . .
But I’m called back to photos
And on-line posts
That pull my focus and return me
In my mind, anyway
To Mysteria

Mysteria calls to me
And I cannot explain
To anyone who wasn’t there
The joy of GIVING a mimosa
A ham sandwich
A bottle of bubble blow
Gifting a blouse and old slippers
Gifting a tiara and a scepter
Gifting some SPF 30
Receiving a quesadilla, just when I needed it
Receiving a peanut butter and banana sandwich, just when I needed it
Receiving a kiss, just when I needed it
Or a hug
Or a “welcome brother”
Being welcomed “home”
Being told “I love you” by a total stranger . . .
But then, are there any real strangers in Mysteria?
Or are they only friends we’ve yet to make
Mysteria calls to me,
And I am yearning to return
Why do I have to wait so long
To return . . .
To Mysteria

Om

“Oh my god . . . what is he doing?”
I heard her scream,
Just as I turned
To see him plunging into the fire.
Shock and
Awe
The flames seemed to jump higher.
His hair,
His face,
His hands,
Silhouetted against a wall of yellow,
Red,
And orange,
Someone ran from the crowd,
A naked guy
And then another, clothed
And another . . . and another . . .
To pull him out
The drummers stopped
Johnny Cash (droning on)
Stopped.
He was lead. . .
Main-stage
Hands, charred black
Held in the air.
“we need water” she screamed.
“we need water” he screamed.
“water.”
“water.”
“water.”
And out of the darkness they came
Women, and men
Running
With jugs,
And pots,
And bottles
Of water,
Healing,
Life-giving,
Water,
Shock, and awe, still at the bonfire,
Someone crying, someone tsk-tsking in disgust
And a cry for healing. . . we try to start an ‘om circle”
Chanting . . .
Trying to regain the moment.
“clear the area!”
“move to the Philadelphia Experiment”
and we do. . .
Shock and awe
We wonder. . . we wander. . .
Our expectations for the evening changed.
So much fun and final “blow out” - - - reduced
To “not making a scene”
“keeping it quiet”
lights dimmed
music muted
or silenced
quiet. . .
quiet . . .
we arrive at the Philadelphia Experiment
The fire boys are there,
Ready to “bring it”
Ready to perform,
With their usual bravado
And spunk.
But the energy is gone.
We’re broken.
There’s no music
No joy.
One young man, Brandon, starts, his poi flaming,
Burning,
He’s finding his beat,
It’s muted, but it’s there,
When a young woman steps forward and proclaims
“we need healing”
“we need a healing circle, and we need to chant”
and we do.
100 strong, we link hands.
And we chant.
“om”
“ooommm”
“ooooooommmmmm”
our voices rise and fall
in unison,
in harmony
and the boy, Brandon, with the poi,
changes from a strutting fire performer to a high Priest
he moves from each chanter
one at a time
circling them
dangling the burning wicks on chains
anointing each person
we’ve seen the destruction of the flame
this evening
Brandon is showing us it’s healing light
We are anointed
We begin to heal
We begin to heal
Om
Om
Om

“I gave my dollar”

A road trip to DC
For the True Colors Tour
In the advance photo, we look like Thelma and Louise
Plus two
Thelma and Louise and Betty and Wilma
The boy version

We leave later than planned, but spirits are high
And there are stories, with gossip and laughter
And Pringles, M&Ms, and Dasani
And demands like “I’ll pay for this tank”
And there are shared statements
That one or the other of us make,
Or that we collectively overhear,
That we find funny,
Or profound
Or strange
Those become our repeated exclamations
Of our shared experiences,
And the bond we have

The challenge made, to work the phrase,
“Smells like ass” into every conversation possible
And we do so successfully . . .
The drunken French boy at DIK bar, slurring,
“Life is short, tic, tock, tic, tock, tic, tock, tic”
Profundity from one so smashed . . .

There is the outrage one of us feels
Upon learning that only one dollar from our
One hundred and twenty five dollars actually goes to the cause –
Outrage that turns into humor, as each of us then finds
A myriad of offences that we may be excused for
“I am entitled” <Because> “I gave my dollar”

Pronouncements are made and locked in:
“We need to hurry, my gin is wearing off”

And the reflection from the newest of our group
Upon our trip home
“I’m so glad we have a common language now”
And adding,
“Doesn’t this car smell a little like ass?”

Memorial Day 2008

Fifty five minutes out of my other errands,
I dash into Wal-Mart,
yes,
I know,
I’m not supposed to shop there,
I know the socio-economic issues,
But Wal-Mart is close to the cemetery,
and there are things I failed to bring with me.

Let’s see, Silk flowers, check,
Four bunches of bright red roses,
Nothing subtle,
Subtle does not hold up,
In the wind,
In the rain,
Under the sun,
Two bunches of ivy for filler, check.

Okay, the cleaning section now,
Windex, all surface cleaner (with vinegar), check
Scrub brush, check
Paper towels, check
A bottle of water for me,
And one for mom, check.

The gravesite, It’s a beautiful day,
Other visitors in distant corners of the property,
Each undergoing her, or his, personal ritual,
I remove the faded branches of forsythia,
Empty the urn of stagnant, rusty water,
And sit,
And talk to mom,
As I remove the price tags
One,
By,
One,
From the roses and the ivy.

The marker is sprayed with my new bottle
Of Windex, all surface cleaner, (with vinegar),
And I scrub the urn, and each raised letter,
And I notice, how suds pool in letters like:
A,
And B,
But letters like:
C,
And U,
Are open-ended and release their suds.

I take a sip of my water,
And I open mom’s,
And use it to rinse away any of the remains of the
Windex, all surface cleaner, (with vinegar)
And then I pour a little more, over the grave
And say a little toast,
As though it was something
Stronger,
With a kick,
And not just,
DaSani.

The flowers are arranged,
The price tags,
And old forsythia,
And used paper towels
Are all gathered up, into a bag,
And on my way out, I stop at the trash can to
Drop them off
As I do,
I notice an arrangement, used
And discarded now,
But with some life still left in it -
With some glitter and ribbon
It will make a funny hat
Very “Pricilla, Queen of the Desert”
A craft project
One, I think mom would think funny -
It goes with me.

whom do you prefer?

Couple number 1:
Jude the Dude & Roxanne Gravel (Mordecai is a D-R-A-G)
or
Couple number 2:
Thunder and Julie (at Julie's birthday party)

I think we can all agree, I don't make a pretty woman. "Roxanne Gravel" is tall and stylish. . . but just not pretty. However, I'm shocked at how hot Julie is. Either as a woman, or as "Jude the Dude." I think that if she didn't already have a date at the "Mordecai is a D-R-A-G v.3" party, I might have had to try to drag her home with me. . .

I'm just sayin.

Paul's Birthday Party

So - last Saturday found me driving West to Chapel Hill to attend Paul's Birthday party. . . I could write more about the great music, good food, grand friends. . . but I think the pictures really, well, "tell the story" - - - yep, the last few shots were taken by others, as I'd had too much burbon and decided to nap. here's the link to my photos on Flickr:

www.flickr.com/photos/320...3824655027/

Oh, and just for the record, it’s a “vintage” tux shirt, it’s not a pirate shirt – although I can talk like a pirate if I have to – “argh!”

Thunder’s Best Summer Mojito Ever

It's cold cold cold outside. . . and I'm soooooooo wishing for summer. and getting naked and running in the tall grass. . . I thought I'd post my recipe for Mojitos -- they always make me think of nice warm days and the sun warming up my naked butt.

Mojito
(Mojito pronounced 'mo-he-toe')
1.5 oz Rum
1 stalk of fresh mint* from the garden (with leaves)
1 oz simple syrup**
1/2 lime
about 7 oz club soda

The mojito is the Cuban cousin to the traditional American and oh-so-Southern mint julep. Long has it been considered a classic cocktail in its native country, where Ernest Hemingway is said to have enjoyed more than one or two of the minty-fresh rum drinks. It is the coolest of the cool summer drinks. I build the cocktail as follows:

In a tall clear glass muddle the mint stalk, using a bartender’s muddle or pestle, (or in a pinch the back of a wooden spoon). Take care to crush the stalk only (releasing the essential oils of the mint) take care that the leaves remain as much in-tact as possible (this makes for a prettier cocktail and prevents small flakes of mint from floating to the surface of the cocktail and adhering to one’s teeth – which can give you a really un-sexy look, and guarantee that the cute boy at the party won’t give you a second look, as you’ll look like an old troll with green stuff on his teeth – but I digress. . . ).

Build the cocktail by putting crushed ice in on top of the crushed mint, pour in the rum, the simple syrup**, and squeeze in the juice from half a lime (I like to drop the squeezed lime half into the glass as well – I found some nifty hand-held lime squeezers at World Market but if you're really butch, you can squeeze the lime by hand). Top it off by filling the remainder of the glass with club soda. Gently stir before serving. You won’t need any additional garnish because the mint and the lime finish off the look so well in a tall clear glass – but a bright red or pink drinking straw can complete the visual pleasure of the cocktail. You can adjust you portions based on your tastes – I like more soda in my glass and less simple syrup – but folks who like a sweeter cocktail will like an extra little hit of simple syrup.

**Purists will tell you that the Cuban yerbabuena mint is the only mint to use in a mojito. But I’ve enjoyed playing around with a variety of mints that can be grown in NC. Spearmint, chocolate mint, and pineapple mint are some of my favorites. Mint is easy to grow and it’s fun to have a mojito party to celebrate a successful garden! – Note, if you do grow it, you may want to grow it in a sunken container or a raised garden, as some varieties can be very invasive and crowd out other plants in your garden.

**Simple syrup is easy to make. You’ll need water, sugar, and a stove. Heat about 2 cups of water to just about boiling (small bubbles beginning to rise and break) – keep the water from achieving a full rolling boil. Begin adding the sugar, slowly, stirring constantly. As the sugar dissolves, add more, until you’ve added about the same amount of sugar as water. Remove from heat and cool. You can make simple syrup up to 2 weeks in advance and store it in the refrigerator. I keep mine in plastic water bottles with squeeze tops. During the summer months you always want to have some simple syrup in the fridge. You never know when a mojito party might break out!!!

My Submissions For Nouns of Assemblage

I love words. I love the visuals arts, painting, drawing, sculpting, etc. But I have a special fondness for the art of written and spoken words. I love poetry, story telling, comedy, jokes, stories, novels.

Recently, while listening to “Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me,” (my favorite radio program of all time – broadcasting on a public radio station near you), I heard an interview with James Lipton. You may know of Mr. Lipton as the host of the TV show, *Inside The Actors Studio* – a show for which Mr. Lipton is often parodied and spoofed, because, well, he can come off as a bit of a pompous soul. That said, Mr. Lipton is quite funny, and really knows how to turn a phrase. And it was revealed on this broadcast that Mr. Lipton is the author of *An Exaltation of Larks*. For the uninitiated, this book was published in 1968 and has not gone out of print since. It is the most comprehensive collection of “collective nouns” – (also known as “group terms,” “company terms,” “nouns of assemblage,” and Mr. Lipton’s favorite, “terms of venery”).

I was reminded of the parlor game my mother and I used to play when I was a child -we’d attempt to match wits with who knew the largest list of collective nouns. At the time, resources where scarce for reference and research: the encyclopedia, the dictionary, and The Book of Lists (which was housed in the main bathroom of our house). I did not know then of Mr. Lipton’s book (and there was no internet). I was delighted when my Amazon.com order, (containing Mr. Lipton’s book), arrived just prior to Christmas. I’ve greatly enjoyed learning about the history of these terms – and having my attention drawn to another facet of how clever and poetic our English language can be. There’s more that I could say about collective nouns – I really, I highly recommend you run right out and get a copy of Lipton’s book. I think it’s an approachable and a fun read.

So how do these group nouns come into being? As with most of the English Language, what wasn’t borrowed or co-opted from other earlier languages – someone, somewhere, used the term, and it got repeated, and it fell into popular practice. Obviously, some nouns of assemblage have fallen out of use – and some are used today without giving much thought (“school of fish,” “pride of lions,” etc.). As new terms or groups have come into being – there are not any collective terms for them, as the habit of categorizing groups as such isn’t currently much in fashion. I think this is a shame. So, I’m offering some new collective nouns, that reflect some of my recent loves and groups. These need not be the last word – others may have some thoughts, and want to offer additional choices and suggestions. But I thought this would be a good forum to get this started. So here they are:

* An Escapade of Hoopers

* A Flamboyance of Burners

* A Vicissitude of Radical Faeries

* A Nuance of Drag Queens

* An Oblation of Pagans

Lime Frost Salad

A yellowed five by three index card
Stained and brittle
Pulled from a green metal recipe box
Catapults me back to my childhood
And Thanksgivings and Christmases past

The recipe is from that era of regrettable food
When marketers made their way into our kitchens
And “convenience” replaced time honored traditions
And yet, here it is, a recipe handed down
From one generation to the next

The writing is in my mother’s hand
(Is it really twelve years she’s been gone?)
But the recipe itself, is from my father’s mother
As is indicated after the title
And within parentheses, “Pauline Z.” it reads

I’m back in the kitchen, with my mother
Learning to cook, and prepare the "festival meal"
Learning to bring some ingredients to room temperature
Chilling some and boiling others
It is one part chemistry and many parts magic

And in-turn, as the years pass, it is I
Showing a younger sibling how to smash
Cream cheese with the back of a fork
How whip cream and drain pineapple
And the importance of reserving the juice – as it WILL be needed later

Did anyone ever really like this dish?
I remember everyone always politely taking some
But like mysterious loaves and fishes
It always seemed there was more at the end than at the start
Leftovers to haunt us for days upon days

And here I am sitting on the floor of my kitchen
Tears welling in my eyes
Feeling the loss of my mother - as though the hurt is new
And longing for Thanksgivings and Christmases past
And contemplating making myself some Lime Frost Salad

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lime Frost Salad (Pauline Z.)
1 pkg. lime jell-o
1 3oz. pkg. cream cheese
1 small can crushed pineapple
½ pt. heavy cream
1 c. boiling water

To jell-o add water + the liquid from pineapple + enough cold water to make 1 c.
Place in refrig. Allow to begin jelling;
then add pineapple, cream (whipped), + cheese
(mashed w/ fork after having been left @ room Temp.)
Return to refrig. Yield: 4-6 servings.