On time

“Consciousness is not moored to the present moment or local space in quite the same way that the body is.”

-”Mysteries of Consciousness” David B. Hart

Sometimes I have so much time on my hands that I have trouble getting through the day. I think in this case the trick is not to consider the expanse of the day, but to think in small, fifteen minute increments. To sit back and say, “Ok, now what am I going to do for the next fifteen minutes?” Fifteen minutes is a very approachable increment of time. And if you get bored — you only have to do something for fifteen minutes, and then you can move on to something else.

I feel like the phrases I use when talking about time are revealing. “Getting through the day” suggests mud, slogging through obstacles, trying to get to the end of the day to — to what — to sleep? That’s just another kind of death. No wonder I want to procrastinate — the sooner I “get through the day”, the sooner I die. How disturbing. The phrase “time on my hands” reminds me of “blood on my hands”, implying that the day has been slaughtered and that the corpse of empty, unfilled time is all that remains. A limp, dead body comes to mind — death again. Time, a dead concept, lying heavy in the hands. Again, it’s not an appealing image.

I think this can be remedied by focusing on the events of the day, rather than the face of a clock. I am so aware of the clock. I think this is because of the “safety” of time. The way it is around you, impermeable, never changes, that no matter how you exert your will in terms of activities, you cannot exert your will on time in any real way. It’s frustrating and confusing, the way I can’t touch it. At the same time I think my ritualistic and anxious side is reassured by its permanence, and by the increments falsely imposed by a clock. But most of all, I’m frightened by the fact that even when you are unconscious, time is unaffected by the your lack of  consciousness.

“There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of toast and tea.”

“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” T.S. Eliot

Joy in Joyce

I’m trying to begin blogging a little more often.

One thing that is helping is James Joyce. I started Ulysses a few months ago, put it down, and then picked it up again a few weeks ago. And I love it.

I was nervous to even touch Ulysses, let alone attempt to read it. There’s so much stigma around this one little (ok, rather large) novel.

The story goes something like this: Ulysses contains so many references: to literature, history, Latin, Catholicism, Irish culture, nursery rhymes, bawdy ballads, etc etc etc that it’s impossible to get any sort of meaning out of it. In addition, it chronicles the stream of consciousness of one man on one day, making it tedious to read.

I’m on chapter 5 (page 58) which has taken me a few days to get through. It is pretty dense reading, so I have to take my time, and I can only do a bit in one sitting. This is VERY GOOD FOR ME. I read so quickly that I don’t often pay attention to the craft inherent in the writing. This puts me at a disadvantage when I’m writing myself. I’m not always aware of the mechanics of writing, and I’m not talking about grammar.

Anyway. It is a beautiful book. Joyce just lets himself relax and describe the ocean of sensation that washes over us on daily basis. (I wonder what Buddists would have to say about this book, so full of ego-centered thinking.) It’s lovely and I think, if one relaxes, not too hard to understand.

I was thinking about Joyce while I was walking Maggie this morning. His sense of the present is sometimes overwhelming. But when you are out in the world, noticing things around you, his style is fitting.

lambs and laughter

I’ve been wanting to blog for some time, but since I just thought about blogging instead of actually blogging, all the things I was going to blog about, I’ve now forgotten. But here’s a bit for you:

Last Sun, Fr. Gary was preaching on the “God is the shepherd, you the sheep” text in the gospel. His take on it was unique — he said he didn’t like being compared to an idiot-sheep. It was a good sermon, but it took on a new light right before the Eucharist, when we started singing the Agnus Dei. Aha! I thought. God compares us to idiot-sheep, but he also compares his son to idiot-sheep. In fact, he compares him to BABY-idiot-sheep, which is probably even worse. So, his little lamb follows the voice of the shepherd to the slaughter. It struck me.

Writing is coming along. It is at least coming, which is more than it has been doing for the past three years. I continue to slowly coax it out. Here’s another little bit for you:

While we were driving, I waved at someone I didn’t know, and he instantly laughed. The laugh was like the laugh a group of middle school boys makes when one of them gathers up the nerve to whistle at a woman across the street. It was short and explosive, a half-muffled, half-fearful laugh.

I guess that’s all for today. I’ll keep you updated.

Foreheads

I. Yesterday was Ash Wednesday. Like so many others in our city, I crowded into a local parish and recieved a cross of ashes on my forehead. While he touched my forhead, the priest murmured “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.” I received communion and then walked back out into my day.

II. I’ve begun observing at a local middle school. I’ve only done it twice, but it’s been a great experience so far. Yesterday, I observed my first advisory meeting, a homeroom-cum-group therapy class  unique to middle school. The day before, the school had attended a presentation on bullying. To reinforce the concept, my host teacher had devised an activity. She selected six students from her advisory and placed something made from construction paper on their foreheads. Then, she asked the students to begin interacting with each other.

When the students turned around, the whole class knew what she was up to. One student had been designated the “Leader.” Another’s forehead read “Clown.” Another was designated “Loner.” “ESL Student” “Nerd” and “Cool” were also present. The students treated each other according to these labels. Later, they removed the labels from their foreheads and sat down to discuss the experience.

My forehead yesterday said “Christian.” I’m sure on other days it says entirely different things.

In which I review a concert

 Who knows why some concerts are better than others? During some shows, there’s a palpable energy passing between performers and the audience. No one knows why and when it will happen, but when it’s there, it’s electric.   

Sondre Lerche’s appearance at the Old Rock House last night was one of those concerts.

Partly, this is because Sondre is unbelievably charming. I don’t know if it’s his smile, his Nordic accent, his messy hair, his baby face, or his propensity to throw his head around wildly during songs. Perhaps it’s some combination of these elements. But the crowd (which, admittedly, contained its fair share of 16 year old girls) seemed enamored of him. That being said, the 40 year old behind me was just as twitterpated. Even the opener (the curiously named JBM) seemed pleased to be there. In the middle of his set, he delivered a backhanded compliment.

“We got in a little early today and…” He paused for a full 10 seconds.

“Well, it’s just nice to see you all out here.”

                I imagine he was experiencing what most visitors must feel in downtown St. Louis. Clearly,the performers have arrived in what could technically be called a city. There are buildings, it’s true, and some sort of monument on the waterfront. Yet there doesn’t appear to be any inhabitants. It can be a little spooky, downtown St. Louis in the early afternoon. A bit post-apocalyptic. But whatever the reason, both JBM and Sondre seemed delighted anyone showed up, let alone a full house.  At some point during the evening, they decided they were fond of St. Louis, and the crowd returned their affections. Complimenting the audience has become a trope at pop concerts, but Sondre made it all sound new again.  

                “You all are more than I could ask for,” he told the crowd.

You’re all that I could wish for. What a luxury. You’re attentive and you scream in the right places.” 

“Congratulations,” he concluded. “Congratulations with such a beautiful city.”

                But I digress. The music. The setlist was rich and varied, with selections from all his albums (with the exception of Duper Sessions, which, as my companion noted, “Sort of requires a stand-up bass player.”) It was a crowd-pleasing set, with “After All,” “Words & Music,” and “Sleep on Needles.” Sondre’s guitar skills were especially impressive. I’ve mentioned his emphatic headbanging in passing. On stage, it was paired with masterful, frenetic strumming on the guitar. At one point during “Dead Passengers” a song he introduced, inexplicably, as an “angry song” he crouched down to the ground, strumming like mad.

                Highlights of the show included an ebullient rendition of “My Hands are Shaking” – definitely the most solid performance of the night. Yet another treat was a soothing, lullabye version of Modern Nature as the closing encore song. During it, the crowd seemed timid for the first time that night, singing softly along with the female part of the song. I don’t have any evidence to support this, but I feel sure that Sondre doesn’t play Modern Nature very often. But on February 15^th, in a ghost city that filled up with music fans, as the snow blew horizontally against the huge windows of the Old Rock House, Sondre Lerche proclaimed his love for us. He sang us a duet and we, shyly, sang along.

(Setlist to follow)

In which I review a restaurant

Like most native St. Louisans, I’ve heard folks mention “Remy’s” for the past 15 years. All the reviews I’ve internalized are positive and I’ve been intending to visit, but always ended up at Blue Water Grill (RIP) or Big Sky Café, Remy’s sister restaurants. So it was with a fair bit of enthusiasm that I arrived (finally) at Remy’s Kitchen and Wine Bar for food and drink.

As indicated by the name, Remy’s is a wine bar, but within seconds of entering the door, my eyes landed on a martini offering freshly chalked above the bar. The major components: Blood orange, Grand Marnier, and ginger. I could imagine those three flavors mingling on my palate. The bright citrus, the warm Marnier, and the spicy ginger. It proved too much to resist after a week of blisteringly cold weather.

It sounded so good, in fact, that I expressed my enthusiasm to my dining companion, and executive chef Lisa Slay, standing nearby, echoed my sentiments.

                “I had one a half hour ago,” she said, “and I can still taste it – it’s that good.”

Can one really refuse a drink after it’s been recommended by the chef? We couldn’t. The combination was stellar. Marnier, as it can, overwhelmed much of the ginger flavor, however. When Chef Slay stopped by our table to get our reaction to the drink, we mentioned the lack of ginger. A few minutes later, she stopped by with a small bowl of shaved caramelized ginger, which we added to our drinks. With the ginger reinstated, the cocktail was fantastic.

Wine list cast flippantly aside, we found a table and turned to the menu. Our (kind, attentive) server mentioned a risotto being offered that night. She described as a “light” risotto, made with vegetable broth but featuring roast chicken, chorizo, and peas, with Manchego cheese grated on top. I have an unofficial policy to order risotto whenever it’s available. If risotto’s on special, this policy becomes iron-clad. So I was sold, although indifferent about the peas. Peas, except for fresh sugar snaps, aren’t that appealing to me. Personally, I appreciated the visual contrast they offered to a predominately orange dish. The bursts of sweetness they provided held up well against the delicately spicy choziro.

While my companion slipped to the restroom, I surreptitiously requested a dessert menu. Desert is the sort of thing that’s often automatically dismissed on a girls’ night. This isn’t usually due to caloric concerns, but simply a lack of gastronomic real estate to tuck away any additional forkfuls. But when the menu is in front of you, and you start to see words like “reduction” “raspberry” and “70% cocoa” making a little extra  room becomes a possibility. Perhaps a few inches in the esophagus could be freed up.

The dessert we chose was described as a “poached pear and puff pastry served with honey-ginger frozen yogurt ” When it arrived, the poached pear was easily apprehended. Small rounds of pastry were similarly identified. But the “honey-ginger frozen yogurt” took up four minutes of the conversation not exclusively dedicated to relationship analysis. To wit:

                “That’s sorbet? Is it sorbet?”

                “The menu said it was frozen yogurt. But it’s not frozen yogurt. At least, not in the traditional sense”

                “It’s really more like a sorbet. Or an ice. An herbed ice. 

                “But it’s creamy when it hits your palate. I guess it sort of transforms into yogurt, but that seems like a stretch”

                Despite an imperfectly worded description, the frozen concoction was a palate-pleaser, especially along with the perfectly poached pear. Between a delicious cocktail, savory risotto and a creamy, cold desert, we left Remy’s tipsy and sated. Like its sister restaurant, Remy’s  is great for serious, heartfelt talks or alcohol-fueled flights of fancy. We indulged in both. Maybe next time, we’ll try the wine.

Hi folks!

Updates for you today in list form, as I am feeling particularly list-y this afternoon.

I’ve gotten in the habit of meeting Laurel online around lunchtime, but she’s MIA today, so I’ll blog instead.

1) I know that the captions on my last post are wonky. I don’t care to fix them. I may at some point in time.

2) I am eating a salad today. This is eight kinds of wrong. As most of you know, I don’t consider salads “food.” Call it diabetic predjudice, but the kind of meal where I don’t have to give any insulin clearly has little to no nutritional value.

3) I found the salad in my refrigerator. There was no lunchmeat, no soup. Salad was my only option. Or a peanut butter sandwich. WHICH (no pun intended) I was not in favor of.

4) However, there are some good things about this salad. Namely: a) some sort of grain b) red onions c) hickpeas (d)id you see how I did that? And beans.

5) I’m on the fence about beans, but they are so damn good for you I feel more charitable toward them.

6) I added raisins to this salad. This is unbelievable, as I hate raisins. However, this salad needed some contrast.

7) Next weekend, I’m a-goin’ to Boston. Hooray! Why will it be so damn cold? I am shivering in anticipation.

8) Speaking of shivering, I have a cold. If you like, you may buy me things to make me feel better.

9) Speaking of buying things, Dad bought Mom an iPhone. What?! When I saw her with it, I said, “You don’t even know how to use an iPhone.” Dad said, “Are you going to take that from her, Nance?” But she sort of did.

10) I started The Artist’s Way, a course I’ve wanted to do for, um, the last two years. It is awesome and I love it. If you are an artist (and most of you are) you should do it too. It’s FUN.

11) Religious life = good. Few weeks ’til the Rite of Election at the Cathedral, and I have to write a letter recommending Henry to the Archbishop. I know the Archbishop won’t read it, but I’m going to make it a damn good letter anyway. Lent coming up. Been praying every morning, and enjoying that.

12) I got my planner from Levenger. It was a little tragic. I guess I thought that since it was from Levenger the paper would be AWESOME and I could write on it with my fountain pens, also from Levenger. However, I was horribly wrong. The paper is like all paper.

13) I have this dream of finding the perfect planner. It would have weekly dates and like 2-3 pages of blank paper per week to write LISTS as I live by LISTS. Also, a monthly calendar. I have never found this planner. Every year I look.

14) I get to plan a bridal shower! Wait, what’s a bridal shower? Oh well!

15) Well, on to the rest of my day.

16)My cat, Meriweather, greets you all.  

Crunchingly yours,

Megh

Linens: A Love Story

Once upon a time, a mysterious package arrived in the mail.

Oh my gosh! It’s the new linens I ordered!

Lookin’ good, bed, but I think it’s time for a change.

Bed: stripped!

The metamorphosis begins!

Almost there…

Wow! Looks great! But wait…

Ok. The branches only “branch” from one side of the design. Makes sense, I guess. So which way should I put it on the bed?

Look! If I shoot it from the front like the Crate & Barrel photos, you can’t tell the design is wonky! Guess that’s why it was on sale!

This girl = contented.

Lenten reflection

Hi guys! I wrote a Lenten reflection! Wanna read it? Ok!

First, the text: John 13: 21-33, 36-38.

Now, the reflection:

In this Gospel reading we are presented with a comparison between Judas and Peter. These two disciples may seem very different at first glance. Peter is chosen by Jesus as the “rock” of the Church. Judas, on the other hand, betrays Jesus, leading to his crucifixion.
Yet this gospel passage suggests that the two men have at least one thing in common. While Judas leaves the Last Supper to arrange for Jesus’ arrest, Jesus tells Peter “the cock will not crow before you deny me three times.” Like all humans, both disciples have a tendency toward betrayal. Both seek their own welfare above that of their Messiah.

This is where I’d like to make a supposition. In one version of the end of Judas’ life, Judas is horrified when he learns Jesus will be killed. He tries in vain to return the money and, in his despair, commits suicide (Matt. 27:3). Judas is not alive to witness the glorious reversal of his betrayal. He is unable to imagine any way in which Jesus can redeem him from his heinous act. Yet if Judas had waited, had stayed with the disciples, had hoped in his own redemption, I feel sure that he would have been met by Jesus with infinite forgiveness and love.

At the end of John’s gospel, Jesus is speaking with Peter. Three times, Jesus asks him gently, “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” Peter replies that he does. Yet Jesus asks him, two additional times if Peter loves him. By the third time, Peter must have realized what Jesus was up to. His newly resurrected Lord was offering a reversal of Peter’s previous denials. With each confirmation of his love, Peter witnesses the willingness of Jesus to forgive infinitely and to begin anew.

Well, I have 20 minutes before I meet Laurel online, so I thought I’d say hello to this little blog.

Hello.

Life recently is going well. Last night saw me at Kaldis, with Jeff, Zach, Tara, and William (from high school). We ran into Libby (also from high school) and her newly acquired redheaded husband. William and I reminiced about high school. We ran in different circles. He was friends with my arch-rival, etc.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately. Thinking and healing. I’m still a little afraid of words. Sometimes I feel that if I say something out loud, it gives it a reality it wouldn’t otherwise have had. If I make a prediction, or a promise, the weight of those words hang over me. I feel like I’ve really got to follow through — or that I’m tempting fate to make good on a hunch. But words are just words, not actions. They are important, but they aren’t all-important. I guess because I’m a writer I give them a greater metaphysical weight than they actually have. Really, words are blunt instruments. They’re approximations, at least when it comes to such delicate things as love, promises, emotions, instincts, beauty. They’re pretty close. But there’s only 26 letters. It’s hardly precision.

So I’m trying to speak more confidently. I’m trying to believe in editing — that I can take back what I say, or alter it. I’m opening myself up to the idea of drafts.

Writing, at least, is getting easier. Finally. Just have to keep working at it.

There’s lots else I’ve been thinking about. Prayer. Fixed or ad-lib? Written? Spoken? Do the Psalms do it for me, or haven’t I given it enough time.

Other thoughts: Job. Need to get a job. New linens. Do I deserve them? Will I have enough money when I go to Boston? I need to buy notebooks.

Other thoughts: Laurel is getting married. LAUREL IS GETTING MARRIED. Laurel is getting married to a wonderful man. This makes me insanely insanely happy. I love Zach. I love Laurel. So, THAT works well. I am the maid of HONOR and I have already started my SPEECH, which will be GRAND. I tried on dresses. They were pretty. I like dresses. I will plan a shower. I will buy gifts. CELEBRATION.

Other thoughts: Laurel and Henry are both entering the Catholic church at Easter. This gives me great joy. I love the Catholic church. It is a source of energy for me. I love going to mass and I love praying. I love praying and I worry that I pray too much. Hehe! Mass keeps me going. Jesus keeps me going. These are things I like.

Marriage and conversion are both about words reflecting inner determinations. I like that too.

I never make New Year’s Resolutions, explicitly, because I am afraid of words. Words are not THAT powerful.

Do you want to know what my resolutions are?

Pray twice a day

Blood sugars = good. 7.2 good. 6.5 good, eventually.

Exercise daily

Write some stuff

Be loving to people

Go to school and eventually teach middle schoolers

move to Chicago (this is long term)

decorate my room, make art, cook, embroider.

learn to play the guitar

there was another one. oh! learn french!

These are the things that I would like to do. And now you all know!

There’s a running monologue in my head. It runs and runs and runs. It stops, sometimes. I wish I DID more and THOUGHT less. Just to give my synapses a break.

Art and food and culture and writing and petting dogs.

Lots to do in this world. Glad I get to be a part of it.

This is what my journal entries are like. Aren’t they hilarious?