Treetops

What I assumed was an owl (what I had always assumed was an owl--maybe not the same owl, but an owl) whoo-ing in the distance turns out not to be an owl at all. It is likely a dove. This was explained to me by my significant other who is really good at delivering correct information. That is to say, the kind of information that might turn another's world and their assumptions about it upside down. He does it in such a whatever-your-idea-is-funnier-I wouldn't-have-a world-without-your-funny-ideas way. He is kind even when it is not necessary to take the extra step of being kind. He treats people well. He does this because he is a genuinely happy, strong, mentally sound person. I mention owls and get told, no, doves. It's hard, but like I said, there's always laughter with my significant other. Laughter followed by cake and coffee. You can imagine how I laughed, ultimately, when I realized just how long I had thought a dove (or doves) was an owl. It's true. We aren't in the forest. I kind of thought we were. It was the three or four pine trees that threw me off. The woodpecker noise, however, is real. That has been confirmed. I hear woodpeckers everywhere, so this is a relief. I like the specific hollowness of the sound that woodpeckers make. It reminds me of the few wooden instruments that wait to be played on the percussion-person's percussion table at the symphony. Some of these instruments are used only rarely. Some of them are used just once during a performance. But, oh, when they do use the wooden percussive instruments, it's always perfect. Such woodpecker sounds (whether real, musically reproduced or imagined) make me feel both grounded and transported. Transported to somewhere exotic like maybe Michigan or even Ohio. And, it brings the word 'treetops' to mind for some reason. In a font that's probably called Twiggy Sans. I'm picturing just about any Great Lake's region summer camp T-shirt: 'Camp Something Or Other'. The words are rendered from twig-shaped letter with a graphic of pine trees in the background. Camp Something Or Other. Pine trees. Tree houses. Owls. Birds. Twigs. Great Lakes. It's been a strange, unprecedentedly early spring this year. All of the ubiquitous symbols are jangling around in my winter-brain like a box of coat hangers trying unsuccessfully to un-puzzle themselves. At this rate it will be summer by Tuesday. And I am, as one might expect, very confused. 

Square One

You have brain fog and can't express yourself. At least not in the manner you did before. Over the course of months the brain fog lifts but, unfortunately, old modes of expression do not return. Instead, you start over from square one and awkwardly learn other modes of expression. And, although it sounds fairly frustrating, and is fairly frustrating, in the end you state that you'd 'not have it any other way'. Meanwhile, vague, wordless impressions of struggling at being new in the world silently bubble to the surface. It's almost like getting a whole new life. Only, no one tells you that it's like getting a whole new life. Or, maybe they do, but when they do you automatically tune out such messages as 'unlikely'. 

Blue Apple

I had a dream that I was in a produce aisle. At some point I noticed a blue apple. At first I was surprised by an apple being blue but then I remembered, 'Oh, of course, blue apples! How could I have forgotten?'. Then I looked around and saw that there were whole bins of dark green and white apples. Then I woke up. I felt rested. But the question remained: Why a blue apple? Could this dream have something to do with finally admitting to myself that I really don't know that much about apples? That apples, like most fruits and vegetables, are full of surprises? The thing is, I was really happy about the apple being blue. I felt certain that I had simply lost track of such apples and was mildly shocked by my ability to completely forget such a thing. It felt almost careless on my part. And I felt a tiny bit guilty for the carelessness. And something about the blue apple corresponded with a pair of faded navy blue leather shoes I had in the fifth grade that I loved and wore with everything until they literally disintegrated. The colors in my dream were vibrant and occurred in strange and interesting combinations. It felt symbolic of creativity and ingenuity. Of endless possibilities on many, though wordless, fluent fronts in what is probably my lizard brain. Or is it my bird brain? So, in summary, my dream was good and it was about apples. Personally, I like mine cut into bite sized cubes mixed with some baby spinach and tossed with homemade balsamic vinaigrette. Delish!

A Sideboard of One's Own

Our house? Shoes. It's shoes strewn about pointing every-which-way. That's how I'd describe it. And creaky floors. And streaks on a mirrors and surfaces. And stacks of things. And old things. And good things. And things that were never really ours. Things that either of us inherited. And some things still in boxes that are forever infused with an on-the-cusp smell of plain, unscented yet to be burned candles.  


It's the way that one cabinet always smelled. The one where we kept the cloth napkins. Best. Luncheon. Everyday. In that order. All ironed. All folded and awaiting duty. It contained the paper napkins, too. A few stray Raggedy Ann birthday napkins sat forgotten and waiting in vain for over thirty years. And there was the never opened package of cocktail napkins that were older than me. The napkins themselves embossed with the letter J in a font that no longer even exists. One wonders what happened--why were these J napkins never used?


It was a sideboard. It contained table setting items. Napkin rings. Tasteful trivets--trivets so restrained in their design that it left one frozen, speechless then weeping for the pure incredibility of it all. It contained boxes of long wooden matchsticks with gold tips used on Christmas to light luminarias, gorgeous teal and gold peacock motif matchbooks just 'because' and special retractable forks for the polite skewing of olives and pickles--as well, jewel colored glass swizzle sticks, mother of pearl petit-four servers, silver sugar cube tongs, and every kind of glassware imaginable.


It was like some unspoken goal that I had always had, that I knew I had always had but that I had never acknowledged that I had always had: I wanted a sideboard. A sideboard of my own. Filled with items just for the purpose of entertaining. Filled with things like tea sets, hand painted autumn leaf centerpieces, varieties of birthday candles (pastel colored, primary colored, numbers, roman numerals, letters in comic sans and helvetica), baby shower cupcake decorations, little tiny vodka glasses, lobster themed salt and pepper shakers, cupid bow and arrow themed paper plates. And, all the way in the back, a set of six mortgage burning themed martini glasses.


Not to mention the notebook. Neatly handwritten personal notes and sketches--with pages torn from magazines of coconut covered cakes elevated on antique milk-glass pedestals, of ladylike floral arrangements in yellows and golds, of white-on-white winter table-scapes, of recipes, of seating arrangements, of china patterns.


Yes. It was all there. Existing somewhere in the back my mind. A sideboard. A cabinet for the singular purpose of table setting. Never opened for any reason other than for a hostess to prepare to host. She--kneeling before her sideboard, considering her choices. Probably while wearing a long, dark pink velvet hostess gown with empire waist and oval neckline. Probably while wearing matching gold pave ring and brooch. Probably with her hair half-up. Probably with a daub of Shalimar behind each ear. 


And when you arrive the hostess throws open the door and says, Hellooo! and gives you a lipstick side kiss and hands you a scotch and a little plate because this party is a buffet. There are miniature meatballs in a caramelized grape-jelly sauce, artichoke dip, cheese fondu, sliced beef, pasta in lemon shallot. Lots of delicious things. All in special matching buffet dishes that are kept warm via the flame of utilitarian candles meant for that very purpose (hence such candles having a thick, more rough-hewn appearance than a normal votive might; hence such candles being kept quite apart from the other more decorative candles). 


Later, maybe even the next day, with windows wide open and abundant sunshine coming through, after all the dishes have been done, after all the bins have been emptied and all the bottles have been taken to the curb, after all the candle holders have been given a warm soapy soak, and all the floors have been swept and mopped and dried and the guest towels have been replaced and fluffed--later, perhaps while listening to some soft music--all the items used to set the table, used to entertain (now clean, now dry, now lined up neatly on the dining room table) will be put carefully back into the sideboard; carefully back where table setting items belong.  


. . .
Our house? A sideboard in our house--even this very sideboard described from my childhood--would hold very neatly a few candles and the five or six tablecloths I've collected over the years and then I'd be looking around wondering what else to put in it. Though at first I'd resist any such suggestion, the unused space would quickly begin to house practical things. Grocery bags, light bulbs, boxes of raisin bran. Then, later, freezer bags, rolls of duct tape, cat chow--even some loose rubber bands. And the sideboard wouldn't be positioned in the dining room where it would make sense, but more awkwardly in a hallway. And there would always be a stack of junk mail on top of it. And, occasionally, a pizza box on top of that.
. . . 

Snow Day

A Scoop of Peppermint Ice Cream

Hi. I don't think we've met. I'm a scoop of peppermint ice cream. You've probably seen me. I live at the ice cream parlor down the street. You know the one--it stays open pretty late and has those little white tables and chairs--ring a bell? Yeah, that's where I've been staying. I've seen what goes on. That whole thing with the sprinkles last year? All true. The petty back stabbing between regular, waffle and sugar cones? Yep, also true. Every word. 


Me? I have all day. I'm in no hurry. How would I describe myself? Well, I am neither pink nor green. I am rather cream colored with real flecks of crushed peppermint candy, actually. This sets me apart from my many imitators, of course. I can be mixed with chocolate, mocha, tea and fruit sorbets--even citrus ices. I know! It's fascinating, isn't it? However, I do not tolerate peanut butter, pumpkin-spice or caramel flavors very well. Let me tell you all about it. Wait. Hold on--I've got another call. 


I'm back. Anyway, I am peppermint ice cream. Not mint ice cream. There is a difference. I am, as well, uniquely suited for winter consumption unlike 99% of the other flavors. I know, I know, 'how weird' (cough! humble-brag). When people bring this up I glom on to it. Yes! Let's talk about the irony of my being peppermint flavored! No, I don't mind talking about it again. I never mind talking about it again. Hm? Why are all the other flavors leaving? Hey! I'm peppermint ice cream, what's the problem? Of course I talk about myself all day, I'm interesting, duh! 

Icy, Minty

icy
minty
saucers, spoons
menus
puddles 
random lull
weird momentary public silence
window seat
winter boots
snow soaked bags of groceries 
pre-washed baby spinach in a plastic box
yoplait
radishes
q-tips
other people shoveling in the distance
branches on trees that are rock-candy
a neighborhood that is a gingerbread town
wet woolen, church bazaar mittens
tiny paw prints
walking in the door
rag rugs
coat hooks
the heat coming on   
orange peels
warm 
dry

Workflow

Whenever my phone rings I remember that it's still on a one-beep setting. I need to change it back but I keep putting it off. It turns out that changing things like the settings on my phone interrupts my workflow. It breaks down as follows: 


1. My phone rings. 
2. I remember that it's still on one-beep setting.
3. I stop everything.
4. I go search for my phone.  
5. I change the settings on my phone. 
6. I go back to my desk.
7. I get into several well meaning yet unnecessary conversations along the way.
8. I sit down.
9. I attempt to get back into previous mode of workflow.  
10. I stare blankly at my computer. 
11. I think about the concept of one's 'body of work'.  
12. I think about the meaning of the word legacy.
13. I think about the sunshine. 
14. I think about getting up and leaving the building. About never coming back.
15. I go get a cookie. 


So, as you can see, it is for very good reason that things such as changing the one-beep setting on my phone (which was employed specifically to be less disruptive months ago but is no longer necessary) have yet to be addressed. Because such interrupts my fairly gullible, easily confused, much too fickle yet somehow lovable workflow. I could write about it all day long. I won't. But I could (just a little warning that things could start to go that way at any time).

Really Liking Today

It's winter. It's practically January and it's so mild outside. It's just perfectly rainy and gray. It's not even necessary to wear a heavy winter coat. This is my favorite kind of winter day. The trees are bare and dark against a pale white sky and the traffic sounds so pretty if not ever so slightly expectant after it has rained. I really love the way the traffic sounds after it has rained. I'm conditioned by this sound to both relax and focus and actually be wherever I am in the world instead of stuck in some loop inside my brain. Don't get me wrong, I like dry weather, too. And I like snow. I even kind of miss the snow right now. As well, the way snow alters the sound of the traffic. But it's different. The snow-traffic sound seems more fraught. Maybe even a little bit dramatic. It emphasizes how slow and defensively people are driving. This, though inspiring, is way less relaxing than rain-traffic sounds and more like a reminder to get back indoors. Not that it won't snow soon. It will--until then, there's today. 

Religious Experience

Today, now officially three days before Christmas Eve, is awesome. The day each year when I suddenly decide that I like Christmas. But--where did all the time go? There's so much to do! There's the frosting of the cookies. The wrapping of the gifts. The making of the antipasto. As well, there's the arranging of miniature pickles on a plate. The forcing radishes to look like roses. The stuffing olives with bleu cheese. The replicating a 1/4" scale Westminster Abbey out of Wheat Thins. Then, the moment of silence happens. It's just a lull but I find that I've come to rely on this one silent moment each year to renew and make 'blank' my life and brain. Then, on the day itself, there is the Doing Of Nothing. This state of being interrupted only occasionally by the experience of The Eating Of The Christmas Cookies (made lovingly by my mom) of which there are several varieties: There are the cut-out frosted cookies which are crisp, decorative and not-too-sweet. There are the chocolate layer cookies that cannot be explained other than to say that there are never enough of them (which I believe is by design). And, incredibly, there are the Russian tea cakes which melt in your mouth, transport you to a better place, solve all of your problems and somehow make you accept your own mortality--even if only briefly. Oh, and there are the pretzels dipped in chocolate for which I have no opinion.