“The act of writing itself is like an act of love. There is contact. There is exchange too. We no longer know whether the words come out of the ink onto the page, or whether they emerge from the page itself where they were sleeping, the ink merely giving them colour.”
(Georges Rodenbach, The Bells of Bruges)
image: E. Phillips Fox, The Letter
A new story of mine, "Garam Masala," has been published by The First Line (Volume 28, Issue 2).
I tried at least four other versions of this story, given the opening line as a challenge, and gave up on all of them—for no particular reason. Finally I started once again, simply instead of adding lots of plot contortions, and added in what was fresh in my mind—Van Gogh's paintings of wheatfields which we'd seen a lot of recently during the production of Vincent by our favorite company, downtown. Finally the story moved compellingly along, without going off on impossible tangents. It had its own quiet direction, and a heart. My happening upon the wonderful cookbook, 660 Curries, added the final ingredients needed (in this case coriander and cumin and my mother's favorite cardamom).
"She liked that it would last her a very long time, all of the years she could picture ahead. She liked that the colors of the dishes she prepared and the spices she learned to grind were rather like Vincent Van Gogh's. A lot of yellows and oranges. The flavors varied, as the paintings did in mood, while following a common and familiar thread."
"Late in the afternoon, sun on the patterned tiles of the worn kitchen floor, Alex made Lamb with Yellow Split Peas, Salmon with Garlic and Turmeric. Cardamom-scented Chicken. Green Pea Croquettes. She tried both Chunky Potatoes with Spinach and Chunky Potatoes with Golden Raisins. Blended twenty spices—all of the fragrant seeds like pigments, crushed and ground, used to create something other. Something with ingrained radiance."
I must spend some of my own summer cooking, as well as looking at art . . .
image: Vincent van Gogh, Wheat Field Behind Saint-Paul Hospital with a Reaper, Google Art & Culture
only that residue
of hope left in the jar,
shimmer of cinnamon
rumor of cobalt blue
sheen of annointing oil
answering her
unquenchable asking
image: Odilon Redon, Pandora
“My soul, be satisfied with flowers,
With fruit, with weeds even; but gather them
In the one garden you may call your own.”
(Edmond Rostand, Cyrano de Bergerac)
Today, my soul is mourning many great things and some missing things that were once or seemed pure and innocent, without subtext.
Great, first—
• Langston Hughes, "Let America Be America Again"
(see here)
• Joseph Fasano, "July 4, 2026"
(see here)
Then innocent (and also great, in their own quiet way)—
• espadrilles
• laundry hung like prayer flags on an outdoor line
• waking to innocence
• festive cakes and other festive fare
• tables set in a garden
• gardens of wonder (and their inhabitants) long ago
• gatherings of friends
• peace without sharp reminders of guilt
• joy and light, the same
• words that make us feel other than impotent
"We forget about the spaciousness
above the clouds
but it's up there. The sun's up there too.
When words we hear don't fit the day,
when we worry
what we did or didn't do,
what if we close our eyes,
say any word we love
that makes us feel calm,
slip it into the atmosphere
and rise?
Creamy miles of quiet.
Giant swoop of blue."
(Naomi Shihab Nye, "Over the Weather")
“You see, I want a lot.
Perhaps I want everything
the darkness that comes with every infinite fall
and the shivering blaze of every step up.
So many live on and want nothing
And are raised to the rank of prince
By the slippery ease of their light judgments
But what you love to see are faces
that do work and feel thirst.
You love most of all those who need you
as they need a crowbar or a hoe.
You have not grown old, and it is not too late
To dive into your increasing depths
where life calmly gives out its own secret.”
(Rainer Maria Rilke, from Rilke's Book of Hours)
images:
Christie Cochrell
• espadrilles, Dome, slatki dome
• laundry, Colin Page, Laundry Lines
• waking, Dome, slatki dome
• festive cakes and other festive fare,
Buttercup Cakes
• tables set in a garden,
• gardens of wonder long ago,
• gatherings of friends,
Keimpe van der Kooi, Garden Party
Kristina Hovhannisyan, Cafe Street
Witold Wojtkiewicz, Garden Party
• peace, Marie Hamamoto Photography
• joy and light, Ethan Hoover, Unsplash
In the Abstract
And now,
the Sumatran tiger.
Care
in the sanctity
of your own home.
The clarity
of natural waters,
unblemished stone.
Not too much,
really,
to ask for.
The slightest
corner of my heart.
Things going, gone,
so in the abstract
taking up no space
at all.
image: Tony Kershaw, via SWNS (South West News Service/Media Group, UK)
