The culture of safe self-expression extends even to the corporate world.
But it spreads pretty far and wide in Berlin. So much so that this is the first place that feels like home. Forgive me for I have been born American: Home is English-speaking. My German is coming along slowly, because in Berlin, I can usually get away with feeble attempts and switching to English. And home is love and sweetness. So not everyday—not even every week in the era of keto-paleo-low-FODMAP-low-carb goody-goodness—but every once in a while, home requires the decadent sweetness of French toast.
Not real, American French toast—the kind made with gluten, stale imitation-French bread, and childhood disappointment. But German French toast, modifying the classic recipe of love and sweetness to suit the times and our tastes. If you can make French toast, you can make German French toast. Start with gluten-free sandwich bread, freshly freed from its airtight seal.
Toast the bread slices two by two while mixing five eggs, two extra egg yolks, half a cup of milk or rice milk, one dash of salt per egg, and a similar sprinkling of cinnamon and nutmeg. Then cook the soaked toast with extra egg batter spooned over the top and sides to spilling, letting the pairs of pieces brown on medium-high heat in a non-stick pan with a small bit of light cooking oil. It helps to have at least two and preferably three extra lovely people on hand for good company and quality control. I actually enjoy keeping on cooking while people are eating.
What is the opposite of YOLO you only live once? This is not a rhetorical question. Carpe the occasional glucose dump? Eat, drink, and be merry today, for tomorrow we may diet? German French toast tastes like sustainable indulgence.
Aber ich muss noch Deutsch lernen. From a series of five in which the best one was in the stolen batch, and another I just gave away. What is it about the road that is so like fire? What that means for my website is that now the newsletter sign-up on the side-bar is gone. Yes, I have carried many heavy stones. Sometimes the weight has made me stronger. Sometimes I could not walk any longer. What is it to you if I cannot put them down? Meanwhile the man who loves me sleeps. I cannot injure what he owns. I would like to lie like water in his ridges, grooving so softly the canyon of his chest.
What I love best is the bridges that over water and stones stretch solid, straight, and kind. They are beautiful without rains and troubled water. They are also beautiful when spring storms blind. A rewrite of and new riff on an older draft of a poem about being happy at home with my love. This is how we get there.
Home, into each other, every night. Home, still inside you, you still inside me, every sweet morning in the early light. I want to live where this peace flows over you from inside me and over me from within, over and around us like rushing water, the impossible stream gushing from the stone. Sleeping and waking in the rhythms of your breath, in the rhythms of my breath, in the flow of our dreams, never bursting the seams of time with rush and such. Free to be at home together free to follow the sun, making our own weather.
You feed my gentleness, and my fire with a love so listening, my savage squire. Your chest holds my face like a glass of wine—sweet, calming, and craved like a hot shower—warming my wearied wake and like a favorite poem, the cadence of your breath saying again and again how beautiful the world is and how it is my home.
From the undulating Elba to the port-pocked Rhine, we ferry our camper down to the sea in no time. We find the dunes just as we left them, swirling softly under the moon. And lie down in summer grasses, and float on soon. Free in love and place and time, to go where the wind blows. So soft the curling dunes at night, so sweet your pillow-chest.
After saying that I might a few months back, I have indeed been blogging some poems. My first poetry book is illustrated here. I might restructure it completely in a next editing phase, hopefully before finishing it in August. But so far I have just rejiggered it slightly in two main rounds this year of editing, cutting around 50 pages and rewriting a bunch. So now it looks like this—. New Arriving, Europe 9—done, e. Finding Berlin, Germany 7—done, e. Again all are edited and blogged; again I still know a few that want more attention or to be cut.
High Art 2 remaining, 6 done, e. Was 10, now is 8 poems on art. Back in the Colonies 7 done, e.
All edited and blogged; still a few needing another good edit or to be cut. Back for Forwards 9 done, e. Was 19, and then I broke this section into two parts—this section and the next. Now this section is on looking back…. One Step Forward 10 done, e. Relations 5 done, e. Was 10, now is 5 poems on family. Kill your darlings…. Nuremberg, 13 done, e. Was 10, now is 13 mostly from re-ordering the manuscript.
Envisioning future war crimes trials. All edited and blogged in fact many more blogged than made the cut; so it goes. Forgive me for being drafty on the Internet…. Vagabonding Anew 7 done, 2 remaining; e. Was 10, now is 9 poems on seeing my new Continent, mostly with my love in a camper van. I had blogged none back in January when I posted my draft Table of Contents, and now have edited and blogged seven; there are two remaining.
Newly Arriving Every Time 7; to be done. Others 4; to be done. Was 15, now is 4 poems on sexuality, still all needing to be edited into a form that I want to blog them, or cut. Sweet Home 4 remaining, 2 done; e. Might combine well with the section before last. Yes, yes, that happens now. Sweet Roam 2 remaining. Was 5, now is 2 long trip sequence poems.
With many parts. I really have to hold it and see it, to see it. A rewrite of an earlier draft of a much older story. If it makes the cut…. But then you put it away like a security blanket and face facts. There will be no eagles. With the help of baby Jesus, who aims. So at least not all art is fantasy about over-coming powerlessness. Some art is fantasy about magical breast-milk.
Which I guess is a male fantasy about over-coming the powerlessness of not being able to lactate, by getting to direct the lactation. Oils on 40 x 50 cm stretched canvas, or so, web store. You know how it is when you lay with the goddess of lulz and wisdom, and have second thoughts. So you swallow the bitch— the available plan B. Or it feels that way. So you have your closest friends open your head with an axe. The fully armored, battle-crying goddess leaping out. The mind of god becoming woman with a shout. Why are the fighting, fucking, meddling gods waiting to jump in and save the coast?
Did they get distracted by their social media stats? Are they working their second jobs? Are they busy watching cats? Or did we anger them so much that they left for good this time? Never again to grant a foolish wish for golden touch? Nor to settle injustice itself—instead of crime? Stop waiting for your hero to pop out of some pompous dude.
Oils on 40 x 50 cm stretched canvas web store. Anyway, literally this is a poem about the shrine that survived the nuclear blast in Hiroshima. Bring me your despair—but only a bit. Resistance is a marathon, not a sprint. Every day I pour myself out—sometimes by pouring in. Every day the great works of the ages wear a little thin. Time ravages everything. No one knows what will happen. Everyone dies. Empires fall.
Our brains tell us stories, day and night. If you had seen Rome crumbling, what would you have done? Written a friend, retired to think, sent away your only son? Toward the end, it must have been clear to everyone. Maybe fiddling on the roof is all there is to be done. Madmen have ruled the world before. The blasts thus far have been contained. But not the fear— the blanking mind, making threats; the will to fight, flee, and follow.
It hits us all—soft skins, soft cells, soft atoms, mostly hollow. This is a poem in my happy vagabonding series e. Here is pink! Begonia bound and gate crepe myrtle. Olive upon olive tree to cook and lather you and me. Vineyards for the sweetest wine— and of the ending, not a sign but these stone ruins on the hill. No reason, either, crossing this pagan blue sky they touch and kiss. This morning, we can build them still.
But we had better write it down in some form other than a town, before that old collective rot starts in and we forget again how it had been to build and be fulfilled by what they built with trig, not guilt , after we lose the muse of what we got. In spite of its limitations there is something powerful and human about arguing this way—as a creative human being rather than a fighter or a machine. Something worth the work. But the rest has yet to spin out for me, if it ever does. Often music is like this for me.
I feel I have a job to show up to, but I show up and the flow gets stuck. The same thing happens with speaking sometimes, but I manage. Poems have always had melodies in my mind—to the extent that I used to assume they do to everyone. Peace might seem at first to love a wall— to be left alone, quiet at home, with no visitors. But people are animals—need contributors, friends and fellow-travelers, and inquisitors. Nor understanding, its cozy nest and catchall. What loves a wall is fear.
What loves a wall is degradation. What loves a wall is panic and its blindness that makes more blindness. What loves a wall, loves the shame of a nation. What loves a wall is wrongdoing.
Rigel Ailur - Shore Leave 41
What loves a wall is wealth that has no mercy on the suffering. What loves a wall is shame. What loves a wall, loves pain. But what loves a wall most of all is the sea, making modern sea walls crumble with post-modern holes and speed. We were rosemary breeze we were soft pink flowers we were walking on blisters and talking for hours. What was the world while we were paradise?
What glaciers melted while we were fresh ice? What forests burned down while we played nice? What cities flooded, what droughts drilled what dirt? Though we missed many train-wrecks— failed to feel all the hurt— we were trees and seas and needed breeze. We were flowers and hours and apricots on the beach. Unless you count Barbies, which have many uses… Clearly my embarrassment threshold has grown three sizes since then. Which reminds me of how, at one time before the current era of bliss—and before the immediately preceding era, in which I only stopped working to apply calories to body to avoid problems—I also enjoyed cooking.
A lot. In fact, as a little girl I enjoyed it so much that I tried various cooking-centered businesses, like selling brownies or giving them away to the neighbors age 8? But I like what I like.
Also Germany. Germany is nice. What if I get a quick online degree in nuclear physics? What if I marry a Dutchman who speaks really good German? Wait, is quid pro quo for citizenship illegal? Recently a dear friend asked for my chicken recipe. As I only keep secrets that need keeping, I wrote it out for her. And they took it!
I was so excited that I wrote another review immediately, which the editor kindly pointed out was lovely but longer than what they normally publish. So I cut it by half, and the editor kindly pointed out it was more of a straight-up recipe than what they normally publish. That was when I realized I had forgotten to review in my reviews. I do, however, really like writing straight-up recipes and wonder if people might want them, too. So I wonder if that sort of a gluten-free, oddball cookbook project might be it. This is mirepoix. It goes in almost everything.
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All happy families, Tolstoy wrote, are happy in the same way. But all unhappy families develop their own reward systems for surviving each other on summer vacation. There in paradise, my dad would get as drunk as possible as often as possible, my mom would walk the pristine white beaches trying not to cry, and I would collect dozens upon dozens of purple shells that looked like painted half-moon fingernails.
Then we would all reconvene for a special dinner at a special club over a Japanese bridge over a man-made pond with snapping turtles that my dad joked would be in my soup, and eat luscious seafood bisque cream soup with diabetical Southern sweet tea. Times have changed. But of other people one says little, except that they have managed heroically to leave the shared muddle of our past and be whole, although it has required becoming wholly different and wholly apart.
My brother and I independently changed our names during one of the stretches of months or years when we were not speaking. It is sometimes said that a son grows up and leaves you, while a daughter is forever; so I spent a long time being a good daughter, after which I became a happier son. I am a pre-op trans-Continental. And as I moved about as far away from the U. South, culturally speaking, as you can get without learning Norwegian, I have learned to make my own soup—my way. This learning did not start with old recipes, or other things I carried. The things I did not leave at first fit in a backpack.
I did not miss anything else.
She slept on the sofa with mysterious bruises and rages—a different person than the mom I knew. I missed her too much to love her. No one said lupus never presents without neuropsych problems. No one said it was lupus; we figured it out. My flatmate moved out. The flirtatious older professor saw his opportunity. And there went my 20s. Leaving everything behind was something I tried to do many times, and finally managed only under that great expatriating duress that turned out to be much more blessing than curse. Lists with This Book. This book is not yet featured on Listopia. Feb 17, Jeannie and Louis Rigod rated it liked it.
This is about a married couple that travel across the United States and help persons along the way that catch their attention. I should have read the first story as I was lacking the 'behind the scenes' knowledge the Author assumed I had. A young girl has inherited a mansion and fears there are ghosts there.
The couple meet her at a diner and offer to come and figure it out. I will look up the first story and read it This is about a married couple that travel across the United States and help persons along the way that catch their attention. I will look up the first story and read it though. It was well written and plotted. Sep 03, Junassicpark rated it really liked it Shelves: This was a quick, fun read. Close to Ceiling Lights Pendant Lights. Body Lotions Face Creams. Tents Accessories Lights Camping Bed. Billiard Fishing Toss Games. Business Writing Skills.
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