Another homage to Indian food...I just wandered through some more blogs:
The Spice Who Loved Me
Dining Hall
Mahanandi
Tonight, with encouragement from my wife, I went beyond my tried-and-true chana dal. I made the basic recipe, then at her urging added an enormous amount of chicken stock, followed by a good 1/2 pound of mostly dark-meat chopped chicken (the generator of the stock), and then 3 links of Aidell's corn and red pepper sausage, sliced into 1/2 inch pieces. The spices in the original recipe were muted too much for my taste, but I corrected the problem by using a tablespoon or so of a very, very hot red pepper sauce, which is notable for its hunks of pepper, seeds, and other conspirators of heat.
So much for vegetarian tonight. Oh, well, I'm carnivorous, I suppose. I've just read an article in American Way about Locavores, people intent on eating locally-produced foodstuff. I like the idea. It supports my belief that we can turn back the clock on misery by buying only what is produced within easy range of where we live. Easier for me to preach it than for anyone to live it, I realize.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Frida
This is a photo of a wooden chair back, obviously embellished with an image of Frida Kahlo. A sister-in-law is quite a fan of Frida...even her dog is named Frida. And when I learned that my friend Bev at Burning Silo also finds Frida Kahlo intriguing, I promised I'd dredge up this photo and post it here.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Endpoint
I do not watch televised awards shows. They have never interested me, though I sometimes have been pleased to learn the outcome. I was pleased, today, to learn that the Dixie Chicks had run away with lots of awards at the Grammys. I have always liked their music. Their political position on George Bush sent me over the top, making me want to donate to their legal defense fund, should they have been incarcerated for their 'deeply anti-American' comments.
On Saturday, I responded to being tagged for a MEME and used my response to tag others. The response, to date, has been less than overwhelming. In case you didn't see it, you were probably tagged...you can read it here.
My Australian employee tendered her resignation today, a ruinous way to start the week. She and her fiance are heading back home, having had quite enough of the USA. (Actually, they love it, but they have had some family issues recently that make the call home more imperative.) With her pending departure, we're now looking for 3 new employees. Since our entire staff, me included, is only seven, an impending 3-person turnover is horrible. I'm damn near conceding defeat, seeking a job elsewhere, and living a more abundant life that gives me more time of my own. If you know any strong administrative types who want to live in Dallas, send them my way.
I'm weary, again, and need to rest. I need to be back at the office by 6 tomorrow morning. This has to stop. There has to be an endpoint.
On Saturday, I responded to being tagged for a MEME and used my response to tag others. The response, to date, has been less than overwhelming. In case you didn't see it, you were probably tagged...you can read it here.
My Australian employee tendered her resignation today, a ruinous way to start the week. She and her fiance are heading back home, having had quite enough of the USA. (Actually, they love it, but they have had some family issues recently that make the call home more imperative.) With her pending departure, we're now looking for 3 new employees. Since our entire staff, me included, is only seven, an impending 3-person turnover is horrible. I'm damn near conceding defeat, seeking a job elsewhere, and living a more abundant life that gives me more time of my own. If you know any strong administrative types who want to live in Dallas, send them my way.
I'm weary, again, and need to rest. I need to be back at the office by 6 tomorrow morning. This has to stop. There has to be an endpoint.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
MEME-Time
Several weeks ago, The Fat Lady Sings tagged me with a MEME I said would willingly accept. I've been noodling it over since then and have decided I should have deferred to another one but, having said I would do it, will respond to this one, nonetheless. I now will ask some other bloggers to do the same. If any or all of the following are willing to tackle it, I'd be delighted to read their responses to this MEME. If they would rather not, that's OK, too. I think all of us recognize that MEMEs are not everyone's cup of tea. Tag, you're it (or not):
Perils of Caffeine in the Evening
What Do I Know
La Pajaro
Burning Silo
Morning Martini
Learning to Sequence
A Curmudgeonly Crab
Come to think of it, anyone who reads this blog, consider yourself tagged!
So, here it is...the questions and my answers:
Name a book that you want to share so much that you keep giving copies away.
I don’t give copies away, but here is a tiny smattering of books recent and long-since read of which I am particularly fond:
The Perfect Storm, Sebastian Junger’s book about the 1991 storm that hit the eastern seaboard and how . As usual, the film version paled in comparison to the book. Junger is a journalist whose journalistic skills really melded well with the subject matter to produce a piece of amazing impact. The story focuses on the crew of a fishing vessel, the Andrea Gail, which is based out of Gloucester, Massachusetts. They were lost at sea during the storm.
The Shipping News by E. Annie Proulx. This was my introduction to Proulx, who I now consider one of my favorite writers. The book relates the story of Quoyle, an unimpressive journalist from New York, who returns to his ancestral home in Newfoundland to cope with the bizarre implosion of his life in New York. His reintroduction to his past in Newfoundland and his capacity to deal with both his past and his emerging present make for a great story. The book won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction in 1994.
The Year of Magical Thinking, by Joan Didion. This book follows Didion’s life during the year following the death of her writer husband, John Gregory Dunne. Her recollections and what they meant to her and what they say about how we deal with grief and personal attachment are extraordinary.
Isaac’s Storm, by Erik Larsen is a true tale of the 1900 hurricane that devastated Galveston, Texas and the meteorologist who played a pivotal role in predicting the storm and in dealing with its aftermath. The 1900 hurricane was one of the most devastating natural disasters to ever befall this country, and the story Larsen tells about it is riveting.
The Songlines by Bruce Chatwin is a book that I have not read in years and years, but is still one I remember as having been fascinating and provoking in me an odd sense of spirituality…or something…that gives me a sense that we (as in humankind) have the capacity to be, to communicate, to inform beyond the familiar physical world. I’m not a mystic, I am not religious, I do not believe in a power beyond us, so this strange sense of spirituality is contrary to me. But it’s there, buried deeply. I sometimes have a sense it’s just untapped intellect and physical capacity in humans that I sense.
Name a piece of music that changed the way you listen to music
I think Johann Pachelbel’s Canon in D made me realize, many, many years ago, that I listen to music as a means of comprehending my own emotions, rather than as a form of entertainment. For reasons completely beyond my comprehension, the first time I heard Pachelbel’s Canon I was almost instantly moved almost to tears. Ever since that time (whenever it was, in my youth), I have treated music as therapy, almost a form of self-medication. Other music of a completely different stripe that has had a similar impact on me is Angels in the Snow, a haunting piece of music written by Eric Andersen, Jonas Fjeld, and Ole Paus and which appears on an album entitled Danko/Fjeld/Andersen, a collaborative piece of Rick Danko, Jonas Fjeld, and Erik Andersen. The piece is sung in a mixture of English and Norwegian. It is an astonishingly good and moving piece of music. I’ve written on this blog about Leonard Cohen’s Tacoma Trailer, an instrumental piece that has the same impact on me as Pachelbel’s Canon in D. Other music that moves me in ways I cannot explain includes Dentro la tasca di un qualunque mattino, by Giannamaria Testa. Missing You, by Loudon Wainwright III, is another one that hits me in my heartstrings. Dimming of the Day, written by Richard Thompson and sung by almost anyone, is yet another.
Name a film you can watch again and again
There’s only one, and almost no one knows it (at least no one in my sphere): The Shout, with Susannah York, John Hurt, and Alan Bates. It is the story of a traveller, who has acquired through his travels an ability to use an aboriginal shout. He uses this capacity when he encounters a man (Hurt) and his wife (York). It is an odd, utterly unconventional film, but I could watch it a dozen times per year.
Name a performer for whom you suspend all disbelief
There are two. First, I'd say it is Judi Dench. I think she is a spectacular actress and she seems to have very good taste in the roles she takes. The next one will probably surprise you. I can watch Tommy Lee Jones in any film, playing any part, and I immediately believe he is the character he is playing. Regardless of his Texas twang.
Name a work of art you would like to live with
I will have to change the question slightly…I will recast it to be “Name a work of art you would like to live in.” The answer to that question would have to be any home designed by Frank Lloyd Wright and which had been subsequently updated to correct the inherent flaws of impracticality that I believe were designed in to virtually all of Wright’s architecture. I love the look of Wright’s houses, especially the flat-roofed, boxy-shaped homes that evoke in me a sense of chic 1950s wealth, designs that, all his “everyman” design sense notwithstanding, were available only to the wealthy. I like Wright’s work so much that my wife buys me coffee table books of his work and we buy our annual calendars with photos of his architecture.
Name a work of fiction that penetrated your real life
This is a hard and dangerous question to answer, and so I will leave it for the imagination of the reader.
Name a punch line and/or a sight gag that always make you laugh
The response attributed to Dorothy Parker, when asked by a reporter to use the word 'horticulture' in a sentence: “You can lead a horticulture but you can’t make her think.” Come to think of it, there are so many things attributable to her that I find hilariously funny.
Perils of Caffeine in the Evening
What Do I Know
La Pajaro
Burning Silo
Morning Martini
Learning to Sequence
A Curmudgeonly Crab
Come to think of it, anyone who reads this blog, consider yourself tagged!
So, here it is...the questions and my answers:
Name a book that you want to share so much that you keep giving copies away.
I don’t give copies away, but here is a tiny smattering of books recent and long-since read of which I am particularly fond:
The Perfect Storm, Sebastian Junger’s book about the 1991 storm that hit the eastern seaboard and how . As usual, the film version paled in comparison to the book. Junger is a journalist whose journalistic skills really melded well with the subject matter to produce a piece of amazing impact. The story focuses on the crew of a fishing vessel, the Andrea Gail, which is based out of Gloucester, Massachusetts. They were lost at sea during the storm.
The Shipping News by E. Annie Proulx. This was my introduction to Proulx, who I now consider one of my favorite writers. The book relates the story of Quoyle, an unimpressive journalist from New York, who returns to his ancestral home in Newfoundland to cope with the bizarre implosion of his life in New York. His reintroduction to his past in Newfoundland and his capacity to deal with both his past and his emerging present make for a great story. The book won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction in 1994.
The Year of Magical Thinking, by Joan Didion. This book follows Didion’s life during the year following the death of her writer husband, John Gregory Dunne. Her recollections and what they meant to her and what they say about how we deal with grief and personal attachment are extraordinary.
Isaac’s Storm, by Erik Larsen is a true tale of the 1900 hurricane that devastated Galveston, Texas and the meteorologist who played a pivotal role in predicting the storm and in dealing with its aftermath. The 1900 hurricane was one of the most devastating natural disasters to ever befall this country, and the story Larsen tells about it is riveting.
The Songlines by Bruce Chatwin is a book that I have not read in years and years, but is still one I remember as having been fascinating and provoking in me an odd sense of spirituality…or something…that gives me a sense that we (as in humankind) have the capacity to be, to communicate, to inform beyond the familiar physical world. I’m not a mystic, I am not religious, I do not believe in a power beyond us, so this strange sense of spirituality is contrary to me. But it’s there, buried deeply. I sometimes have a sense it’s just untapped intellect and physical capacity in humans that I sense.
Name a piece of music that changed the way you listen to music
I think Johann Pachelbel’s Canon in D made me realize, many, many years ago, that I listen to music as a means of comprehending my own emotions, rather than as a form of entertainment. For reasons completely beyond my comprehension, the first time I heard Pachelbel’s Canon I was almost instantly moved almost to tears. Ever since that time (whenever it was, in my youth), I have treated music as therapy, almost a form of self-medication. Other music of a completely different stripe that has had a similar impact on me is Angels in the Snow, a haunting piece of music written by Eric Andersen, Jonas Fjeld, and Ole Paus and which appears on an album entitled Danko/Fjeld/Andersen, a collaborative piece of Rick Danko, Jonas Fjeld, and Erik Andersen. The piece is sung in a mixture of English and Norwegian. It is an astonishingly good and moving piece of music. I’ve written on this blog about Leonard Cohen’s Tacoma Trailer, an instrumental piece that has the same impact on me as Pachelbel’s Canon in D. Other music that moves me in ways I cannot explain includes Dentro la tasca di un qualunque mattino, by Giannamaria Testa. Missing You, by Loudon Wainwright III, is another one that hits me in my heartstrings. Dimming of the Day, written by Richard Thompson and sung by almost anyone, is yet another.
Name a film you can watch again and again
There’s only one, and almost no one knows it (at least no one in my sphere): The Shout, with Susannah York, John Hurt, and Alan Bates. It is the story of a traveller, who has acquired through his travels an ability to use an aboriginal shout. He uses this capacity when he encounters a man (Hurt) and his wife (York). It is an odd, utterly unconventional film, but I could watch it a dozen times per year.
Name a performer for whom you suspend all disbelief
There are two. First, I'd say it is Judi Dench. I think she is a spectacular actress and she seems to have very good taste in the roles she takes. The next one will probably surprise you. I can watch Tommy Lee Jones in any film, playing any part, and I immediately believe he is the character he is playing. Regardless of his Texas twang.
Name a work of art you would like to live with
I will have to change the question slightly…I will recast it to be “Name a work of art you would like to live in.” The answer to that question would have to be any home designed by Frank Lloyd Wright and which had been subsequently updated to correct the inherent flaws of impracticality that I believe were designed in to virtually all of Wright’s architecture. I love the look of Wright’s houses, especially the flat-roofed, boxy-shaped homes that evoke in me a sense of chic 1950s wealth, designs that, all his “everyman” design sense notwithstanding, were available only to the wealthy. I like Wright’s work so much that my wife buys me coffee table books of his work and we buy our annual calendars with photos of his architecture.
Name a work of fiction that penetrated your real life
This is a hard and dangerous question to answer, and so I will leave it for the imagination of the reader.
Name a punch line and/or a sight gag that always make you laugh
The response attributed to Dorothy Parker, when asked by a reporter to use the word 'horticulture' in a sentence: “You can lead a horticulture but you can’t make her think.” Come to think of it, there are so many things attributable to her that I find hilariously funny.
Collective Footprints
I've been up for well over an hour, reading blogs of people who understand the impact people are having on this planet of ours. There are lots of people who are deeply aware of what we have done, are doing, and who are doing their part to change their behaviors and convince others to change theirs, as well. I think back to my odd thoughts from yesterday, wondering how many human hairs there were on my airplane and how many heartbeats are left. We're so insignificant, individually, but our collective footprints have such a horrific potential if we don't take care.
Friday, February 9, 2007
How Many Heartbeats?
I flew back to Dallas today, leaving Tucson just before 10:00 am. As the very full aircraft was winging its way back home, I noticed the two people sitting in front of me (I was on the A-B side of an MD-80, in an aisle seat). What I noticed most about these two people so close to me was the fact that their heads were full of truly thick hair. Straight, dense, hair. Probably thousands, if not tens or hundreds of thousands of strands of hair on their heads. For reasons unbeknownst to me, I began wondering how many strands of hair were on that plane.
My imagination turned to wonder. Wow, the number of strands of hair on that plane must be beyond my comprehension, truly outside my ability to understand. Then, when I started expanding the scope of my wonder beyond that tube of steel hurling through the air, I began to wonder how many strands of human hair there are in all the airplanes currently in the air...and from there, it just grew.
I've never had a particular attraction to numbers, but the scope of what I was imagining began to twist my brain into a tight spring, ready to explode with enormous power when whatever was restricting its ability to expand was released.
And then my fixation with the number of strands of human hair there must be on this earth dissolved into another number obsession: how many heartbeats will I have in my life? That curiosity made me keenly aware of the sound and feel of my heart pumping. And then, of course, my thoughts turned to my double bypass a couple of years ago. But that was brief. Back to the puzzle: how many heartbeats, not just in my life, but in all human lives, and not just those who are alive today, but all who have ever lived.
How many people, since people walked the planet, have experienced their last heartbeat? How many people have died, since humankind got its foothold on the planet?
The answers, if there are answers, tell one story more clearly than any other. Every one of us is insignificant. Not just insignificant, but astonishingly insignificant, so amazingly insignificant that any attempt we make to suggest otherwise is pure unadulterated hubris. The arrogance to think that any one of us has a truly meaningful impact on the universe is almost impossible for me to comprehend.
That's in the broad sense, of course. We're all significant to someone, sometime, for at least awhile. And, thanks to our collective arrogance and utter lack of compassion for other living things, we're having an impact on our planet from which the planet may never recover.
All that said, sometimes I'd like to know how many heartbeats I have left. If I knew, maybe I could force myself to slow the number I use every day. Maybe I could make myself take note that there's a limit to how much time I have left to enjoy the people I love and the places I go and the things I do.
We should look at our lives, what's remaining of them, in terms of the number of heartbeats we have left. My brain cannot wrap itself around millions or billions, so I will try to break it down into numbers that have more meaning to me. If I have 1000 hearbeats left, how many would I use spending time with my wife? How many would I use spending time with my siblings? How many would I use spending time at the office?
I need to call the office to let them know I won't be coming in so much anymore, unless that's the only place I can spend time with my wife.
My imagination turned to wonder. Wow, the number of strands of hair on that plane must be beyond my comprehension, truly outside my ability to understand. Then, when I started expanding the scope of my wonder beyond that tube of steel hurling through the air, I began to wonder how many strands of human hair there are in all the airplanes currently in the air...and from there, it just grew.
I've never had a particular attraction to numbers, but the scope of what I was imagining began to twist my brain into a tight spring, ready to explode with enormous power when whatever was restricting its ability to expand was released.
And then my fixation with the number of strands of human hair there must be on this earth dissolved into another number obsession: how many heartbeats will I have in my life? That curiosity made me keenly aware of the sound and feel of my heart pumping. And then, of course, my thoughts turned to my double bypass a couple of years ago. But that was brief. Back to the puzzle: how many heartbeats, not just in my life, but in all human lives, and not just those who are alive today, but all who have ever lived.
How many people, since people walked the planet, have experienced their last heartbeat? How many people have died, since humankind got its foothold on the planet?
The answers, if there are answers, tell one story more clearly than any other. Every one of us is insignificant. Not just insignificant, but astonishingly insignificant, so amazingly insignificant that any attempt we make to suggest otherwise is pure unadulterated hubris. The arrogance to think that any one of us has a truly meaningful impact on the universe is almost impossible for me to comprehend.
That's in the broad sense, of course. We're all significant to someone, sometime, for at least awhile. And, thanks to our collective arrogance and utter lack of compassion for other living things, we're having an impact on our planet from which the planet may never recover.
All that said, sometimes I'd like to know how many heartbeats I have left. If I knew, maybe I could force myself to slow the number I use every day. Maybe I could make myself take note that there's a limit to how much time I have left to enjoy the people I love and the places I go and the things I do.
We should look at our lives, what's remaining of them, in terms of the number of heartbeats we have left. My brain cannot wrap itself around millions or billions, so I will try to break it down into numbers that have more meaning to me. If I have 1000 hearbeats left, how many would I use spending time with my wife? How many would I use spending time with my siblings? How many would I use spending time at the office?
I need to call the office to let them know I won't be coming in so much anymore, unless that's the only place I can spend time with my wife.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
Smell the Saguaro
Tonight, after a long but productive day in a board meeting, I went to dinner with a group consisting mostly of the people I had been in meetings with all day, plus a few spouses and significant others. We went to a restaurant called the Terra Cotta, a southwestern fusion spot in Tucson near the resort where we met. It is comfortable, not over-the-top-pricey place with an interesting menu and a very nice outdoor dining area.
At my end of the table were several people with whom I enjoyed conversation. The fiance of a board member is a pilot for a major airline. He (the pilot, and probably his fiance, lean toward republicanism but they show signs of progressiveness from time to time. They, as well as another couple seated at my end of the table, were very interested in movies. My wife would have enjoyed the conversation and would certainly have known more about the movies they discussed. I enjoyed the conversation, though, despite my illiteracy of film.
I think I could enjoy exploring Tucson. Too bad I leave so early in the morning. I scheduled my flights so that I have no time, whatsoever, to play. Lesson to learn: take time to stop and smell the saguaro.
At my end of the table were several people with whom I enjoyed conversation. The fiance of a board member is a pilot for a major airline. He (the pilot, and probably his fiance, lean toward republicanism but they show signs of progressiveness from time to time. They, as well as another couple seated at my end of the table, were very interested in movies. My wife would have enjoyed the conversation and would certainly have known more about the movies they discussed. I enjoyed the conversation, though, despite my illiteracy of film.
I think I could enjoy exploring Tucson. Too bad I leave so early in the morning. I scheduled my flights so that I have no time, whatsoever, to play. Lesson to learn: take time to stop and smell the saguaro.