melbell51

Have A Blessed Labor Day, from Pennsylvania

May you find peace all around you…

…and peace in yourself.

Find pleasure.

Find company.

Find love.

Goat Cheese For the Soul

“Art is the lie that brings us closer to the truth.” -Jackson Pollock

I am facing that fact that for the first time in a very long time, I don’t know who I am. I thought I had everything figured out, and I always took pride in the fact that things were so clear to me, but I’ve never been so unsure.

So I am finding solace in the small things I can control, like cheese made from fresh farm goat’s milk and rosemary grown on our front porch.

And ratatouille, beginning with these slowly cooked onions

And ending up like this.

And chocolate torte, with eggs that you beat on the highest anxiety-relieving speed possible, with sugar, until they look like this.

What centers you when the rest of your world is shaken?

Lessons in English

#1: Food often looks like less in a container than it is in your stomach. Remember that. I’m talking to myself.

#2: There’s nothing that warm sun, a good book, and a pool of azure water can’t fix. Remember that, too. I’m talking to you.

#3: As fun as hyperbole is in writing, it can be exhausting in thought. Case in point: I spend a lot of time these days staring at the sky, half expecting an answer, half expecting it to fall down on top of me and crush me into dust.

#4: It’s been five days since I’ve been on Facebook. I’ve been tempted, when I find myself looking for an escape from my current task, or entertainment, or something stimulating (which Facebook is not). Keeping in touch with old friends? Great. Keeping in contact with job networks? Great. Running my life? Not so great. I’d rather spend my time outside with the real people. Ironically, I’ve spend most of my time in novels with other fake people. But these people I haven’t met yet.
Welcome to my head.

I am anxiously awaiting the arrival of my new cookbook, my shouldn’t’ve-but-I-did gift to myself for no reason in particular, other than I’m a freak when it comes to food. (See item number one). So I make lunch and eat while reading the newspaper, and in turn, eat too much.
I love baking in the sun like a tomato, but it dries out my skin.

What’s a girl to do?

My solution:

Love and Death: Woody Allen, 1975

Enjoy.
Incidentally, the whole film is available on YouTube. But this movie is worth whatever means necessary to watch it (remember the phenomenon of renting?)

"Every tear on every cheek tastes the same."

I’m learning.
Do you ever feel that life is so beautiful you can’t conceive it? It’s all some great mystery that you will never fully grasp, no matter how hard you try, it is always in vain. As I drive down the road in the dusk (apropos in its name: Pleasant Hill), the trees curling one by one on top of the next like some great dance and a swirling melody coming from the radio, I feel as if my cream colored compact car is the only thing holding my body in place, and my body the only thing holding my organs and blood in place. I want to burst. I imagined I would. The trees skirt above me like they know my name, and I am home. If only for a moment, I am home.
I will never get that back. But there’s my mystery. There’s more mystery for me to feel out there. Sometimes I wish I were simpler so that I could enjoy things without feeling as if I am a part of them. I feel as if I am a part of everything. I don’t just see the world around me; I taste it. I melt into it.
God help me! I can’t be normal. I can’t even be abnormal.
What am I supposed to do with that? I hate pressure but I love performing. I hate compliments but I crave respect. I hate reality but I love life. I don’t understand myself.

I know I know a nose to smell with
I see my sea from which I float
I flick my fingers nervously
I cannot cannot build my boat

I want I wish I try to listen
Listless as the thistles thicken
Chicken calls like cows at milking
Bravery is made to gloat

Thunder clapping heeds a lesson
Strikes a tired imagination
Staring far across the fields
The raining is my coat

It drowns into a moat
My castle on an island
Away from all you thieves
and goats; I say I stay
No note.