Rambleblog: Foodstuffs and poetry

This will be a random blog, about whatever pops into my head, or is stuck in my head. Not much point to it, really, other than to get into the habit of writing more often.

I'll ask forgiveness in advance for any discombubulated and/or incoherent thoughts, any ramblings that lead to nowhere from nowhere, and any sarcasm that simply falls flat rather than being witty; I took a Melatonin pill to help me sleep last night, and am still a wee bit fuzzy from it.

There; see? That was a run-on sentence. Bad dragling, bad. And I'm not altogether sure of the punctuation of "There; see?" Should it have been a dash rather than a semi-colon? Should I feel bad that it's a fragment, especially since it was used right after that run-on? Should I just give in and go to Starbucks now?

No.

I've been bitterly good the last week or so- I've made salad a staple of my diet, I've been walking almost daily (jogging, even, here and there), and I've attempted to avoid caffiene altogether. I did have a two-day falling out with the diet last Thursday and Friday. Friday was a co-worker's last day, and Thursday being the roughest day of the week, the boss ordered pizza, which can really only truly be appreciated with soda or beer- and while we would all very much have appreciated a cold one, soda had to suffice. Then it was burgers the next day, with fries; more soda. My stomach complained Saturday morning and it was back to the blandish stuff.

Ohh- there, see? (I'm trying different punctuation for that one now.) It's "BlandISH" now, instead of straight-up "bland." I'm converting, slowly. I still want chocolate. Damnit.

And in the end, said co-worker decided to pass up the $16 an hour (just for trianing!) job she was going to, so that she could move back up to this lil' hick town from the big city to help take care of her very ill younger brother. He has Mono, and it's one of those horror-story cases; it hit him harder than anyone I've personally herad of, and much harded than t hit me when I got it a year and a half or so ago. He has so little energy, and is so weak, that he can barely take a shower without falling down. He is fed meals and medications by his family (including the co-worker) and when not attempting the should-be-simple acts of washing, eating and drinking, he sits, or lies down, all day, too out of it to move. His neck is swollen and lumpy, and he has contracted Bronchitis, but nothing beyond medications can be done for it because of the swelling. The swelling makes it hard for him to swallow, and breathe. His temperature has been a steady 102.4ish for weeks, and last Thursday spiked up to 103.something, promting my co-worker to break down crying at the news. He has an ear infection in his right ear, as well. On top of all that, he may also have caught pneumonia, which, with such a very weakend immune system right now, could kill him.

The job my co-worker gave up would have had her working 16-hour days, far from her brother. When she explained her brother's situation, her new employers were entrirely unsympathetic, and when she asked to at least be able to go to him if he was taklen to the hospital again, they said, and I quote, "No. Wer'e looking for someone with more motivation than that."

It never ceases to amaze me how incredibly heartless people can be. So, my co-worker is still here, and her brotehr is still not doing well at all. We're happy she's sticking around, and in the end she is as well, but the sting of such a heartless rejection due to a desired of someone "more motiviated" has all of us here in our deparment angry and a bit shocked.

Her little brother could die. Anytime. And they wanted someone "more motivated" than a person who actually gives a damn about things like that. It makes me sick.

That aside, her going-away pizza bash that turned into just a "Thursday Sucks" bash was fun, and divinely flavorful. It was almost worth the angry tummy two days later. Almost. Round Table Pizza, like Starbucks, is evil.

Quick: Allow me to interrupt myself to bring you a quick version of Animal Planet that just took place in the twenty-gallon fish tank here at work. In said tank I have one Senegal Bichir named Little Foot, one Tirger Barb, nameless, and one albino Tiger Barb, also nameless. I also have a Betta vase with Betta (named Frost) in the tank, but since there's the glassof the vase between Frost and the other fish, he has no part in the little drama that unfolded.

I've had Little Foot for a little over a year now, the Barbs for a couple of months. The Barbs were, until today, the only fish I could keep with LF that he didn't try to eat. Bichirs are carnivorous, and will try to eat anything they can fit in their mouths, including parts of other fish that, as a whole, are too big to eat. They even take on Bettas, hence Frost being in his own vase in the tank; he can still flare at the other fish and "chase" them around and around the cure of the vase, but no damage can be done.

Today, despite having been heartliy fed at his usual time in the morning, LF decided the Albino Barb was just too much temptation to pass up. The tank went, in a matter of seconds, from being calm and serene to similar to the scene of a shark attack. LF grabbed the Barb by the belly and hung on, shaking it wildly from side to side in the intervals wherein the Barb was not trying to shake HIM wildly from side to side. The Barb is just big enough that LF can't eat it whole, but he was determined to get that belly flesh. And so a morbid aquatic dance ensued.

The above-mentioned co-worker and I watched, horrified, fascinated, entranced, as the battle raged. We called to our boss, "Dude! Come check this out!" I wondered if I should try to break it up, but well, how do you break up a fish fight? On top of that, I think the only reason LF finally went after the Barb was because the other Barb continually picks on it, and it's therefore a little smaller and weaker. Maybe the temptation to end it's daily struggle with it's non-albino cousin was too much. Maybe the Barb bubbled something offenseive to LF, like "Dick-nose" or something (Bichir nostirls stick out in two tiny short tubes - kinda like thick whiskers, only they stick outof the front of the face, rather than the side where whiskers normally would be on a fish). I don't know.

The scuffle lasted all of about four or five minutes, until LF finally gave up on that tempting belly flesh and let go, or the Barb managed to break free. The Barb, although shaken and probably scared poo-less, is fine. No blood, no squished belly from LF's jaws, nuthin'. And so far, LF's leaving it alone now. In fact, things seem perfectly tranquil again.

And so ends - unless there will be a round two - the Animal Planet special brought to you by the dragling's fish tank.

Now, before that morbid bit of watery ballet, where was I? Ah, yes. Salad, pizza, and Mono. If you have a few spare moments, it would be beyond cool if you could maybe say a quick prayer, light a candle, send positive healing vibes, whatever, fro my co-worker's little brother. He needs it.

Salad. Yes. Well. I'm learning. I'm trying different ingeredients, and have decided that aside form the usual lettuce, I greatly enjoy these things in a salad: Grilled chicken. Shredded mozzerella cheese, or a very small amount of crumbled feta. Corn (that's the German-influence kicking in). Chopped black olives. Baby spinach. Cucumber slices. On the rare occasion (becuase of that damn stomach-thing) bell peppers - green, red and yellow. Again only occasionally to keep my insides from hating me, chopped tomatoes.

I'm still experimenting. If anyone has any super kick-ass salad recipes, please do share.

Once I can get a little electric grill, I'd like to try grilling various veggies, possibly stuffing them with all kinds of yummy stuff (mostly more veggies, but I'm going to get away with as much white meat as I can). Patrick from the wonderful blog Blowing Shit Up With Gas suggested I try more raw foods, and that sounds like a good idea; it's not a fad diet where you cut out things that supposedly you don't need (but actually you do, just in smaller amounts), just a sensible one. So'll try it, starting with much more fruit, and the nice summer dinner of veggies and cottage cheese. Those are just what I can think of off the top of my head, aside from veggies and fruits fro snacks, but I'm sure I'll find more combos on the Net.

I've just realized, right now, that this is turning into a smal novella, but I don't really want to stop rambling. I suppose I could at least change the subject, yes?

Um.

New. Subject. *Thinks* *Waits* *Opens a dictionary*

Inner-directed: adj: Directed in thought and action by one's own scale of thought values as opposed to external norms.

Well, that just about sums up my ramble-blogs. Let's try somethig different. Here's a poem I wrote quite some time ago - one of my favorites actually:

"Charcoal"

Leave the window open to the bedroom,
Dare the rain to come inside,
Step out into the dripping night,
Wrapped in velvet and lace-
An enticing cover to draw the eye-
Huddle head down through the dark
To favorite back alley café.
Hungry eyes shimmer under charcoal lids.

Step past the lighted candle walk,
Around the drunk man singing softly to himself,
Through the wooden cob-webbed doorway into
Softly back lit gothic den:
Round tables clad in velvet black as night
‘Round which souls sit with thoughts blacker,
Candles pooling ‘round vases with white roses, red,
Sparkle of liquid in glasses cupped in black nailed hands,
Rustle of paper: poetry, songs, callings-out without speaking,
Tinkle of laughter, low, real, hidden behind lace-gloved hand.
Teeth flash in a shy smile behind charcoal lips.
Sit, quiet, at empty table, and ponder the single rose petal by still hand.

Sweet dark lyrical agony flows from lips flirting with the mic-
Tale of woe and self, pain and love and misunderstandings,
Misgivings,
Cry for some sort of acceptance, hidden behind need to be untouchable.
Haze of smoke, soft, blueish-grey, hovers like mist around nodding heads.
Tremble in the voice now –it’s the person inside shaking- at the end,
At the last of it, and
A traitor tear escaping rouged lid,
Making the face turn away, the shoulders hunch,
Hands digging into pockets and boots shuffling, shy, off of the stage.
Scattered shattered sympathetic applause.

Down the rum brought by the bronzed bare-chested one,
Tuck the petal between the breasts in a rush of sentiment,
Stand, shakily,
And move through murmurs and perfumes, glances and drinks and fanciful dress,
Weave up to the stage, face the mic and the music and the minds silent waiting,
Deep breath, and speak the words
In a calm rage of emotion, demanding and explaining, yearning,
Hoping
Reaching for another mind to feel the heat
The need for all this fancy fairy-tale pretending:
All the leather, the lace, the spikes and chains
The black
The mourning of the state of love, the fate of love,
The way of life chosen in light of life’s ways.
Head down,
Eyes down, charcoal lidded,
Tease with the tongue over charcoal lips,
Lean into the candle light, casting shadows charcoal over black lace and white skin.
Pause, applause, turn away and step down,
Walk back through the murmurs and nods and perfume,
Sit at empty table and keep hands in lap to hide the trembling.
Softly smile, and smell the rose-crush sifting up,
A remembrance of innocence, a memory,
A waking up.

Listen to the fabric of voices, some timid, some softly commanding, at ease.
Sip rum and let eyes go unfocussed, seeing bright oval of dancing candle flame.
Smile sweetly at the kind sad eyed one in black turtleneck sitting near,
Talking,
Watching, answering the call for a like-mind, waiting
For some hidden meaning, some reason or justification
For the charcoal shading covering the blushing red of lips,
Smudging the life-glow of eyes full of life,
Pooling in the shadows of curves, which move, shift with the shrugging of shoulders,
Too shy to speak.
Charcoal smile, keep the mystery.

Give him once last velvet glance,
Inhale- rose, body heat, perfume and rum and paper, velvet and leather and lace-
Rise and turn and walk away, slowly, out the wooden cob-webby door
Into the rain, past the drunken man weeping, singing to himself,
Along low-burned candles and pooled, rain-channeling wax.

Escape back into storm-cooled house, set aside the finery, the fantasy,
Slip into something softer- white and lace and innocence-
Stand at the open window looking out, feeling the breeze, the rain,
Call out to the kind sad eyed one in a silent plea,
A culmination of the fantasy.
Slip into bed in a resigned acceptance, of aloneness, of quiet,
And dream all those dreams
Those visions, that poetry,
And say all those things you couldn’t say
At the mic, at the table, to the drunk man singing in the alley, to the kind sad eyed man
Sitting patient and knowing at your table.
Sing, and feel anew the heat,
The need for all the leather, the lace, the spikes and chains,
The reaching for another mind,
To dance this dance,
To speak this dark need,
Cover all the things that show too much in a sweet, smudged irony:
Charcoal.
Know that, caught up in the words you couldn’t speak,
All those kind sad eyed ones won’t be surprised
To see you, smudged, again, tomorrow night.


And with that, I bid you a fuzzy-brained adieu.