Monday Afternoon

Strange how the days blur like a photo from a train or a wind ripping clouds to tatters.

Full Moon Musings

There is something really dangerous about sitting down to write with nothing really in mind. Back in Ann Greer’s English class it was often encouraged and sometimes required. Through the years, it’s one of those things I’ve dabbled with, and reading back, has yielded much dribble and at least a few spotless moments of clarity. So here I am, perhaps, about to embark on a citation of the line between dribble and clarity.

Many of the notes I have scribbled, in maddeningly ever changing scrawl, came out as attempts to capture a feeling, an optimism, or a despairing of the world within. I can be honest in saying that writing of the world without is a new endeavour in which I am very much a novice. It is a very liberating experience although one which still leaves me grappling with consistency.
In recent weeks I have logged some serious hours casual blog hopping and followed related links through to some interesting, thought provoking, and sometimes whimsical sites. It seems the interchange of ideas though the written word is thriving in the .world, and I am certain I have only just begun to tap the surface.

As for the line between dribble and clarity, I have only regrets for anything I have ever torn up, tossed away, or deleted, even if it was something I would never have shared here in .world.

Breakfast Leanings of the Stubborn Mind

I've had this penchant for breakfast sandwiches for years. It's not just the sandwich that attracts me, but the act of creation, the layers, the nuances, something more than the sum of its parts.

My interest in the subject began almost subconsciously during high school where i often frequented greasy spoon diners on late morning recovery projects. In a state of grace that comes only from a long night of drinks, philosophy, mischief, and experimentation, the transformation of the breakfast special into an Italian Panini certainly involved deep seated creative urges allowed to manifest and run free. These were experiments in minimalism, working with limited materials, the occasional (and preferred) side of tomatoes often tipping the balance on my bill.

As years flew by, and I moved into kitchens of my own, the breakfast sandwich has had some crowning and triumphant moments. The discovery and addition of the Avocado, for instance, has had drastic implications on the chemical and spectral makeup of my creations. Some years of vegetarian leanings behind me, I developed a healthy dependency on sizzling bacon as a central building block. Hailing from the dying days of the the sign of Taurus, I remain stubborn and committed to certain traditions and personal taste. A central one, critical to this train of thought, is my loyalty to scrambled eggs. As a child I vaguely recall the expectation of a sunnyside up breakfast, or cracking the top off a soft boiled wonder, but somewhere along the way my tastes narrowed and what emerged was a fierce commitment to the scramble. I have come so far as to abhor the sight of a runny yoke.

On reflection, one thing surprises me above all else. Growing up in a household with a firm belief in whole grains, leafy greens, and organics, white enriched sliced bread was a foreign and exotic treat. Over the years since I have come into the world having to provide for myself, I have, at times, tread down the paths of processed food, and much as morning fare with whole grain toast is a central part of many a missed sunrise, white toast, thick sliced, continues to hold a central place as a cornerstone of of a grand breakfast spread.

A great deal of planning and preparation can be put in or omitted in the crafting of a breakfast sandwich. All that is really required is a little creativity, a bottomless cup of coffee, and a little time free of any pressing appointments, engagements, or deadlines to cut the experience short.

Notes

07/15/07

More self exile. I had some company at least to keep me grounded. Oh misery, the symptom of the lonely and the needy. No news today, just bad movies, football, and sex. Not such a bad way to spend a Sunday. Brazil, that power house from the days where the world of football was hidden from me like the ancient volcanoes out there in the clouds, defeated Argentina 4-0 in the Copa America finals.

I may be on the verge of a very dire emergency. My cigarette stash is down to one. My sensibilities don’t suggest any trip to the disco, but the night is still young.

These are dangerous times, with only myself for company, with time to dwell on the past, think on the future, lament, fantasize, distort my sober reality just a little more. Warning lights should be going off all around. I’ve hit the road before. It won’t be the last time.

I took a BMW 523, 1997 model sedan for a test drive the other day. The beast got into me. It’s like driving a couch, a couch with six cylinders, and fuel injection. I don’t claim to know much about cars, but I know what I like. What I didn’t expect was the little feeling that crept in later when I considered the consequences. Imagine a busted broke, illegal, half crazy Canadian kid, driving around this country with a surf board sticking out the side window in a luxury sedan. It might be the end of me. The word that came to mind was conspicuous. I have never been comfortable with that word. What a comfortable ride. These are dangerous times.

Here I am, late into a Sunday evening, thinking about the effects of buying an overpriced, gas guzzling, wood paneled wildebeest of an automobile, and yet a few minutes before I sat down to write this I was thinking about packing it in and heading home. As if I’ve never let misery creep in with the mist before, like the pits of self pity are foreign to me. As if hunting for the coyote was a new theme in my life.

Notes

07/14/07

I’ve imposed self exile in this top floor vista on a Saturday. Events of the day include, shower, coffee, bacon and eggs, cigarettes, FIFA U20, U.S. vs. Austria in Toronto, Copa America consolation final from Venezuela, Mexico vs. Uruguay.

Some top security official from Washington has a “gut feeling” about pending terrorist attacks। Did I mention hours of flipping back and forth between CNN and CNN en Espanol? For those of you unfamiliar with the latter, the difference leaves one wondering at the affiliation. Rantings by Jeff Beck, half understood spotlights on South American mercenaries in Iraq, and “top stories” which leave the mind somewhat slower to react than before.

The day eases by and its time now to start thinking of Saturday night. Sitting under the TV case is an untouched Tom Robbins novel which tempts me. The People vs. Larry Flint is on…

I feel a little like it must feel to be a caged animal in some foreign zoo, out of place, unfamiliar animal behaviour all around....

I need to find the coyote.