DOWN ON THE FARM

Ah, the pets of yesterday: Cooder at the foot of our bed, Albert dozing in the sun in the hallway, waiting for his peeps to get up and get rollin'. 

The pets of today are Emmylou Irene Patsy Clownpaws and Tupelo, the Mighty.

And now back to Cooder and Albert. Yes, I am bouncing between Brooklyn and Brewster quite a bit.

Did not sleep for shite last night. Fortunately, or unfortunately, M had brought me the new Tana French, Broken Harbor, so I had something to burn through instead of mere tossing and turning. 

Today, besides making a marinated green bean and tomato salad, M, J, and I went to an open house at the nearby Ryder Farm which has been owned and operated by the same family since 1795. We got a tour of the original home (substantially altered, but the flavor of it was still there) and even took a hay ride (a wagon pulled by a tractor) around the property. 

A lovely feather-legged chicken and her cute chick.

Been on the farm for a long time.

Stunning day.

They grow flowers, too.

View from the back porch.

Near the back porch.

One week's worth of a farm share.

Farm machinery and a little guest house.

Farm.

Chicken area there next to the building.

Looked as if it might get cloudy.

It is not my intention that this blog degenerate into just mindless photos. I realize the only yoga connection here is that I am still trying to do some kind of practice, as loose and imperfect as that is.

STAYING INSIDE

Afternoon nap Cooder

Oh goodness, how it rains. We here in Brewster were awakened at 4:00 a.m. to the cannonade of thunder and lightning for a good, solid hour. It was the loudest storm I have ever heard. Cooder would have no part in cuddling me, either, preferring to stay under the bed. Probably should have gotten up to sit on the screened-in porch and watched the sky. Jay says that lightning is conducted here because this is a particularly iron-rich area.

This did no good for drying out the basement either.

Photo from My Persian Kitchen.

Not entirely because it is Julia Child's 100th birthday anniversaire, but also because it is Farmer's Market day, I reached into my cookbook/notebook to make Persian Carrot Soup. This was a New York Sunday Times Magazine recipe in 1994. Those cooks among you should take notice of this one. There is a lot of chopping involved, but it is easy beyond that and floor-stomping-damn-good. I lifted this photo from another site's recipe for Persian Carrot Chicken Soup, but you get the idea. 4 whole onions = a lot of crying. (Now, if we only had some mergez on the side!) And for your listening pleasure while you cook, I might recommend Lyle Lovett's tribute to his Texas-singer songwriter brethren, Step Inside This House. And here's a link to some Julia cooking tips on Epicurious.



There is not much else to report on. Cooking cheered me today. As did the sight of all those vegetables at the Farmer's Market. As I was perusing several kinds of potatoes, I noticed this sign just behind the truck. Hmmm ... quite a bit different than the Brooklyn Public Library Farmer's Market or Union Square for that matter.

'ROUND HERE

This is K's house on the Housatonic River in Connecticut. I went up to have dinner and lots of wine with one of the Bs on Saturday night. This is what I woke up to.

By about 8:30 or 9 a.m., I wasn't able to do any more sleeping, B and AJ were still dead to the world, so I decided to just head back to Brewster. As some of you have expressed interest in what the world looks like around here, I stopped a couple of times to snap some flavor.

And LST was mentioning the Appalachian Trail to me the other day. Just so happens it runs through this neck of the woods. It is fairly prosaic around here.

FAST FOOD FRIDAY

About to pack up Lil' Carl and head back to Brewster. As this is one of the Summer Saturdays that Bloomberg closes down some major streets for pedestrians and non-automotive travel, I took the subway to therapy thinking the streets might be congested. I likely could have driven and parked, making a clean getaway, but I did not. Emmylou needed a good 15 or 20 minutes of face and head petting anyway, but now I am about to take off.

Melinda didn't feel like cooking last night, so John took us out. I suggested we go afield, to the Red Hook neighborhood of Brooklyn, as there was no place to park in Park Slope anway. We ended up a bar called Hope & Anchor, where the karaoke was hostessed by a former Warhol Factory denizen by the name of Kay Sera. We were all so hungry, we ordered a too much fried food and lived to regret it.

Kitten sittin' near the rain.

A SATISFIED CAT

A quiet day in Brooklyn, mostly spent reading and sleeping and hanging out with, well, Melinda in the morning, but then Tupie and a happy-napping Emmy later. We had a lovely lovely cool two-hour snooze. Mostly relaxing.

Martha secured the new novel about Edith Wharton, The Age of Desire, for me, and I am more than halfway through it. (Essentially pedestrian, and not recommended for any but Whartonphiles.)

The Olympics continue to be excellent evening amusement. How will we go back to the dullness of regular television next week, without the thrills and chills and Bob Costa (is that is name?) Our inner sports critics only now fully kicking in? I am a four-year-fair-weather-sports fan, for sure.

More tears today, but no music. Although the weather is supposed to get wetter, I hope to be feeling more like moving around. I do need to go to the Brooklyn Public Library, pay some fines, and renew my card. Well, the car needs to be moved anyway as it is in a Friday spot.

I did get a terrific photo of Tupelo who joined me on the couch for a bit.

Now, that's a cat. Emmy will never sit still long enough for a proper "portrait" kind of picture, never has. It is coming up on the anniversary of losing Miep and soon thereafter getting Emmylou Irene Patsy Clownpaws, (although at the moment, it scarcely feels as if she is mine). Lots of loss lately. And I am extremely grateful for what I do have as clearly it could easily all be gone.

John and Melinda are quite fond of her and she is adjusting to life with Tupelo. She is always glad to see me, though, visiting me for facepets during the night, and sleeping by my side on the coffee table next to the couch here.

A CREATURE NOT IN RAPTURE

My friend/brother, Manuel, rejoined my celebration of desultory with carpe diem cras: seize the day tomorrow, make the most of tomorrow. Gotta love that. Manuel is also the author of the concept of Grump Stump, upon which I awoke this morning.

It's Farmer's Market Day in Brewster. I go to ogle the vegetables and often to eat a reasonably good almond croissant. We don't really need any more veggies, and I am off to Brooklyn for a couple of nights, so no cooking from me. I am trying to curb my I-can-eat-anything habit and was, for a change, able to remember that last week's almond croissant made me feel not so well. (A banana was the better, satisfying choice for a change.) I settled for onions and some local honey, very dark, for my morning reminder to be sweet to myself. Dark honey to start the day; that seems fitting for me.

I was thinking of that, being sweet to myself, this morning as I drank my-welcome-to-another-day hot water and honey. Some days, I barely taste it. I recall that I am missing the point in those cases. Today, the drink tasted quite good and I had a few moments of calmed and soothed spirits.

Irritation, grumpiness, frustration, and sorrow re-entered. (Hey, at least despair wasn't in the mix today.) I popped in an RT cd in the player as I headed out (the Farmer's Market is close enough to walk to, maybe 15 minutes, but it is all in direct sun, there being no trees shading the streets in that direction. There are plenty of trees around, for which I am grateful.) I wasn't ready to head back to my desk and the Sisyphian tasks that make up my current existence, and as I do have the car, I thought I would indulge myself in one of my favorite, albeit ecologically incorrect and not fiscally responsible, pasttimes: driving through the countryside. There really aren't too many places to go 'round here.

There is something potentially deadly, although quite freeing, about driving too fast and listening to killer guitar solos. RT's song Valerie has a manic, repetitive quality to it, but the version on the player was particularly so. I must have played it about 10 times, through the curves and shadows, stopping, starting, downshifting, leaning. Oh, and crying. I'll admit I wasn't the safest of drivers, but I am a pretty darn good driver in general, so there were no near misses or anything.

I find myself started to tears often these days. Guess crying is always just below the surface. Watching the Olympics brings tears of awe, which kind of embarrasses me. But is is a reflex, a response to the awesome and holy, very little of which I feel these days. I think those Olympians as well as those Olympian musicians reflect a wholeness and personal presence that I lack these days. Oh, and the ability to do something wonderful. (I might settle for less than wonderful right now.)

And music, too, when I am focussed and really listening, or sometimes when I least expect it, cuts through the thick hide of "getting through the day" I currently sport. (Probably good that I don't have actual horns. I feel more like a rhino than any other hooved critter. Not that I know what a rhino feels like. From the outside, ungainly, not very pretty, and not all that useful.) Good thing I found my headphones and the plug for the computer speakers, too! That Rodney Crowell-Mary Karr disc is getting a lot of play.

At any rate, back to RT: You can download this version here and hear for yourself. I would that the mix and mastering were better, but lordy can that man play. I really hated hearing those 'hood SUVs with their bombastic bass capabilities crusing down 8th Avenue (or anywhere else for that matter), but I could see the appeal of blasting through a neighborhood not your own and proclaming who YOU are. I might have disturbed suburbia a bit, but I don't have a very good nor loud music system in my car, so there was likely little discomfitting on that street.

This drive reminded me of another I took through Tilden Park in Berkeley about 12 years ago. Another soul-searching sojourn. Sometimes, I don't even know I need to drive and think. I was moving out of my Berkeley apartment and hence giving up my foothold and home there for New York. I was in a difficult romantic situation. Many things in motion, much at stake. And although I had a lot to do, (and anyone who has ever helped me move knows the truth of this: hello John, Melinda, Carol, Louise, Jay(s), Martha, Bryan, DMF, Laura, B, AJ, Dave, etc.) I put on some Van Morrison and hit the backroads.

(And tangentially, because that seems to be the structure du jour, Valerie was the song my romantic entanglement most associated with me. Yeah, that was the jangly, can't-wait-to-jump-some-bones period. )

The song that I hung onto as I swept around the corners and hills of Tilden Park, and along the ridge roads above Oakland and Berkeley was Van Morrison's In The Garden. As I sit here and write, I remember that I wrote about that song fairly extensively when I started this blog.

Turns out this is still true:

"Reading those words, "you had the key to your soul/and you did open" makes me weep. Every time."

This is like visiting someone I am not anymore:


A realm beyond ordinary expression ... or experience. Why that sounds like transcendence! Transcending the you that is uncomfortable and maybe outside of yourself. And the you that doesn't quite know where you are or what to do. And then you feel that deeper parter of yourself."

Right. Where you are or what to do. That sums up my life pretty well.

Well, here I am now, having listened to In the Garden for the past 30 minutes and cried my eyes out.

Melinda was kind enough to send photos of Emmylou this morning. Can't wait to see her. Enough circuitous nattering. (Moving to Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah.) Back to ... well, all of those things.

DESULTORY AND CIRCUITOUS: A LAW FIRM IT'S NOT

Oh back in Brewster now.

Louise, Erik, and I had a kind of lazy day in Rhinebeck; well, Erik worked on the syllabus for his class, and Louise did some gardening, but it felt lazy. I sat and watched the Olympics desultorily (and why don't more of you use that word? you know it's a good one. I mean, you can let me corner the market on using it, but I think you are passing up an opportunity there ...) while I played solitaire (still at it, three years later) and snorkled around the net. Louise made lobster salad using the cubanelle peppers I had brought along as she was out of celery. Worked pretty well. There was a short and crazy rainstorm, but this photo doesn't show it well. That dark-leafed tree is quite beautiful. I should have snapped a shot in the morning when the light was better.

Zucchini and tomatoes from Louise's garden.

I drove home via a highly circuitous route. Very beautiful. I have so often promised myself that I would drive around upstate New York that I saw no compelling reason to put it off any longer. Well, my extreme depression did dampen my enjoyment, but it was great scenery. I didn't have the enthusiasm to stop and take many photos, but I did get a few. Imagine a SallyAnne who does not brake, stop, nor turn-around for tag sales and antique stores. So is my state these days.

For those of you who are interested and handy with google maps, these landscapes were on Route 22 in eastern New York, not far from the Berkshires and the Connecticut border, between Amenia and Dover. Farmland dotted with many historical markers. Maybe I will shoot some if I ever take such a drive again.

 After stopping at a farm stand to buy an oregano and a marjoram plant, I cruised by the Big W Barbecue in Wingdale only to recognize two humans getting out of the car and heading in. One of the B's and her daughter, AJ, regularly stop there on their way home from their summer rental in Connecticut. Just remarkable timing that I happened to drive by as they were getting out of the car. I couldn't quite see them, but as there was a pretty good chance it was they, it was worth turning around. AJ's face dropped in astonishment when I pulled up. 

Back at the ranch, I hung out with J while he prepared penne with vodka sauce. The kitchen and family room are air conditioned and it was sticky and stifling up in my room. As the doors were closed off to the rest of the house, I thought perhaps it was a good time to try to get Cooder to hang out downstairs and perhaps get a bit more acclimated to Albert. She didn't fall asleep or anything, but she did tolerate it. I made her watch True Blood and The Newsroom with me, too.

So, trying trying trying. CB and Yoda say, "There is no trying, only doing." Yeah, right.

The title comes from an ad in the LA Times for Crosby, Stills, and Nash in the early 1970s. I just repurposed the tag line.

ON TO AUGUST

One of my reasons for heading to Brooklyn this past week, was that the reading group was planning to meet to chat about Proust again. I am enjoying this section much more than the last but alas! the meeting was postponed.

As I sat on the F train on heading back to Emmylou from therapy the other morning, an older man spotted my volume of Proust and just had to talk to me up about the wonders of Marcel. That's one of the things to love about New York and the subway: I have had some lovely and spontaneous chats with strangers about books. I asked this fellow, who was German and must have been somewhere in his '70s or so, what he did. He was currently working as an art model, he had been a book seller and dealer, but he was born to be a reader, he told me.

Too bad there isn't much of a living to be made there.

I drove up to Rhinebeck yesterday afternoon, after a mid-morning nap with Cooder who is likely wondering where the hell I am these days. I finished listening to Rodney Crowell's memoir, Chinaberry Sidewalks (he talks about it in this link). I am glad to have listened to it as hearing it in Rodney's own voice was a treat. And as a bonus, Rodney has recently teamed up with poet/memorist Mary Karr (of The Liar's Club renown) as a songwriter. The resulting cd, Kin, is quite good and just the thing to follow the book.

Now for some more sleep?

WHEN WILL MY SORE HEART

Both Tupie and Emmylou were happy to see me when I got to 8th Avenue on Tuesday. They sat on the leather couch with me. Both of them are accustomed to having their people around most of the time, so with me in Brewster and John back at Charlex, they have to entertain themselves a bit more. And then there's the problem with the weather.

I had dinner with Becky and Devin at their place in Billyburg. I finally met their kittehs, Bubble and Ricky (not sure if that is the correct spelling of Ricky). Bubble's original human had died and she had spent a year in the shelter. Devin couldn't resist. She is pretty large. And sweet. Becky told me Ricky's story but all I really remember is that she had been on the verge of buying a $1400 Burmese kitten when sanity returned to her. Ricky is a nice kitty himself. Very friendly, these two.

Becky has won or placed in a couple of cooking "take-downs" so one is always thrilled to be fed by her. She can't participate in this year's Bacon Takedown as she will be having a baby boy, currently named Clarkity.

The weather is foul again. 77% humidity right now, at 9:37. Tomorrow will be worse. I am driving up to Rhinebeck to hang out with Louise, Erik, and Cosmo. I haven't been up there in months.

I write this blog in my head all the time, but when I sit down to write these days, I sort of fade away or blank a bit. I think the truth is that given that I don't quite understand my life, I don't quite know what voice or attitude to jump in with. I'm pretty sure that most of you aren't all that interested in all this cat business. I find the kittehs reassuring. Maybe I look to them for guidance.

I'd really like to go to bed, but I think it is too early and that I wouldn't even fall asleep or I would wake up at some ungodly hour and face just that ... the ungodly strangeness of my life.

There are aspect to being back in Brooklyn that are ghostly, walking around my old and not-quite surrendered 'hood, I feel vestigial: traces of me and my life that are disappearing or no longer exist. It might be that I am in my former building too much, smelling the fresh paint going on the walls of my old apartment. I practically run by it as the superstitious might avoid a cemetery. But besides my dear friends, there is Emmylou to see and her delight and pleasure in my being around makes me hang out there, even when it is sad or uncomfortable. And I nearly choke up when I say goodbye to her.

Emmy looks quite a bit like Cooder in this picure.

RT has a beautiful song, Ghosts in the Wind. There aren't any versions on you tube, but I think of this verse quite a bit:

!'m empty and cold, 
I'm empty and cold like a ruin
The wind tears through me, 
The wind tears through me like a ruin
Ah, ghosts in the wind, 
Oh ghosts in the wind
When will my sore heart ever mend
Ghosts in the wind, 
Ah ghosts in the wind

If you don't know it, trust me. Beautiful and evocative.

So, although I am not writing all that much, I am thinking. I think I feel a bit better in general, emphasis on "a bit." Although I don't feel I have a direction or a plan, I do feel as if I can add them onto the to-do list (and it is still quite long).

Today is the one-month anniversary of Cooder and I being here in Brewster.