One of ten, ten of one

I woke up in the city that doesn't sleep

Back in New York! It is quite cold here.

You thought there might be real content, but there isn't. There might be later. It's hard to say.

For now...

All in Black on the Streets of New York

It camouflages fat. That and timidity.
Also subway grime, fear and the pastel optimism
you wore in high school. It's cover for the thick

books you've yet to read, the opaque philosophies
you only grasp in bits. It's an answer to the push pull
question, set yourself apart or blend. It belies

the open sky you miss, birdsong, your mom's roast
in thick brown gravy while you nibble virtuous
brown rice meals. It's for the guys, clad like you,

dark side out, who touch then leave your heart exposed.
It signifies insomnia, matches your coffee, says
this place that's braced for loss is now your home.

Ona Gritz

How to cook salmon

...without really trying, apparently.

A friend this afternoon asked me how I cook salmon; I sent her this "recipe" that I made the other day along with some basic facts about fish, which she'd never dealt with before. She replied, "Typical you - this is so unhelpful, I need real measurements!"

My mother never measures either, so at least I guess I come by it honestly. Anyway, for your entertainment and for my recollection later on:

Preheat broiler. Rinse, pat dry, and de-bone your fish. Remove skin if you feel adventurous. Place fish skin-side down on oiled, foil-lined broiler pan; lightly salt/pepper.

Mix together:
Almost-equal parts honey and Dijon mustard (lean towards more mustard than honey) - enough so it looks like it will cover all the fish
Garlic, minced (start with 1/2 clove per person - if you like more, use more, if you like less, scale it back)
A glug of vinegar - not balsamic, but red wine, white wine, champagne, cider, etc. would all do nicely
A squeeze of lemon
A pinch of salt
A few grinds of black pepper

Spread honey-mustard mixture on fish.

Broil fish until barely cooked through; start checking when the fat (that white stuff, yes fish does have fat) starts to come out of the fish. Steaks will take longer than filets. I like mine less done, as long as it's quality salmon, but cook it to your taste.

The honey makes a nice glaze when it cooks, and the mustard/garlic/vinegar keep it from being boring. I placed mine on a bed of wilted kale with some roasted carrots on the side, but this goes with anything - it'd be just as great on top of a salad with a mustard-balsamic vinaigrette.

Mmmm, fish.

I flip my latkes...

Happy December! It is the best month of the year, and not just because I was born in it.

Happy Hanukkah too, if that's your thing. Please allow me to direct your attention to one of the greatest things on YouTube, ever.

Why are you still reading this?

Error for the error

Presented to me as I tried to log in to my gmail today:



Thanks, Google.

I wonder if this will work

Today, I need to research and write at least seven of the required twelve pages of my phonology paper. The proper process is to do your research first and then write, but I have managed to mismanage my time and now I am unable to do that, so the researching must happen simultaneously with the writing. I post my progress here not because anybody else cares, but in the hopes that it will actually shame me into writing at a regular pace.

10:19 AM: 0 pages
11:35 AM: 1 page After trolling the internet for examples, I finally found one that would work. Too bad most of my page so far only includes tables of data, which conveniently take up lots of space. Oh well. Onward!
12:22 PM: 2 pages
1:54 PM: 3 pages I had to take a break for food. Now I need to finish this.
3:18 PM: 4 pages While I only got a page written, I'm feeling a little better about how this analysis is going. Also, I'm over halfway to my required page count before I can quit for the day. I'm optimistic.
4:15 PM: 4 pages A "brief break" turned into an hour. Argh.
4:58 PM: 5 pages
6:23 PM: 6 pages (almost) I need to take another break, ugh.

Regularly-scheduled programing

Apparently when I am sick, instead of using the down-time for productive ends, I find stupid articles on the New York Times and write ranty blog posts about them. Never fear; I am feeling better and was actually quite productive for the past two hours, so we now return to your regularly-scheduled "write three pithy sentences and a poem and call it a day" post.

I couldn't not post this poem after misappropriating a line for yesterday's post's title. It's one of my favorites of Eliot's, and it packs such a huge punch for being one of his shorter poems; the ending always, always kills me. Have at it.

(Apologies for the crappy formatting; I can't be bothered to make it look right. If you care, buy a book.)

The Hollow Men

Mistah Kurtz—he dead.

A penny for the Old Guy

I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow

Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

T.S. Eliot