Blend

The pastry chef’s hands were steady, a lover’s hand, as he latticed flowers on another layer of wedding cake for a wedding he would not attend, a reception where his creation would be star, but he would remain unknown, uninvited and untroubled.  Until, of course, they received the bill.

His was a life of limited social interaction, partly because of his hours (he arrived at the bakery at pre-traffic 4:00am, in the heart of the quiet, receptive night, put in a ten hour day, went home alone and stayed that way until 4:00am rolled over again).  And partly due to temperament.  His love was the bakery.  The heat of the oven flamed his creative passion, sweat sheeted his face when he took dough in his hands and felt the texture and weight yield to his touch and become pliant.  The sweet yeasty smells excited him into further, deeper reaches of creativity and the acts of delicacy, the caress of a pastry tube, the gentle mastery of meringue, brought him to forms of sugary ecstasy.  He was alone, but Renard was a satisfied baker.

This week's challenge:  chronicle, giraffe, momentum, dumpster, and loop.

    The giraffe took each stilted step with purpose; a laddered effort, a muscular momentum, chronicling the savannah.  A fresh leaf, a bit of shade, oh heck, a glass of white wine, any pleasure beyond the step by step annular search for nourishment.  In New York the giraffe could simply dumpster dive -  a quick and sure meal.  This relocation program sucked.  He’d probably never see another Cuban cigar, a cannoli, or peep show.  He’d miss any art opening of note.  What the hell did they think he’d do with himself out here, anyway?  Heavy with explanations and beyond expectation the giraffe made another long labored loop around the plain and simple landscape, dream timing another place and more complex desires.

One of the best short stories I've read in the last ten years is Passing with Sassafras by Lisa Graley.  It's in Glimmer Train, Summer 2003 Issue 47. It may not be easy to find (Amazon UK has a copy) but I just had to pass this along.  It's that good.

    Jason let a smile snake across his face.  He was dirty and drained, he hadn’t slept in days but the last of the alfalfa was dried, baled, stacked and brought in before the promised rain.  Sweat dripped off his face and he raised it to cool in the breeze.  Rain was already in the air, coming from the south, he could smell it.  He let his weight sag into the fence.  He would get cleaned up, see if there was some flesh under this layer of grime, go into town.  Town wasn’t close, about 30 miles as the crow flies, and he was spent but the prospect of spending another night alone was even more tiring.  It had been different when Elaine was alive.  He had something to come home to.  For a moment he thought he could smell her sweet skin-scent flush on the late summer air, but no.  He remembered another season, their last fall together.  She’d been in the orchard picking bushels and bushels of apples.  She was so worn out all she made for dinner that night was an apple crumble and they had talked and laughed through the crunch of oatmeal, brown sugar and still steaming apples, not wanting anything else.  He still loved apples, that fruit beyond any other, their light as heaven smell, even texture, solid in your hand dependability.  Sighing, he pushed himself off the fence and headed into the dark, dark house, having a different understanding of why apples had been forbidden.

I've taken a several month "sabbatical" to work on raising funds and supporting p:ear, a program for homeless and transitional youth.  Although it's going to take more time and effort to raise the full purchase price and build out, we have a good start and have begun demolition of the existing interior (a doggy day care in its previous existence) and the thought is that the space will be move in ready by mid-July.  The ground work has been laid (so to speak) and I anticipate having time to start interacting with my Vox community again - probably in and out but definitely here!

Wishing all my vox family the best the holiday season has to offer now and through out the year.  To me the "best" is a sense of joy, delight and an openess to others, a generosity of heart and a greater willingness to tolerance, a sense of wonder and a belief in peace (which sometimes seems no more real than Santa Claus).  You are  all in my thoughts with great affection.

p:ear is a program for homeless and transitional youth that I co-founded with two other women in 2001.  p:ear is over 1/3 of my waking life and I’m passionate about it because it provides a creative, balanced, healthy environment for Portland’s homeless youth to create, grow, learn, and just be ordinary teenagers.  Portland’s homeless youth population comes from a variety of economic and ethnic backgrounds.  These kids have faced debilitating challenges ranging from familial substance abuse, change in family composition, domestic violence, religious or sexual minority issues, failure of the foster system, to mental, sexual or physical abuse.

Though their physical needs are pressing, I believe that our attitudes hold us in place as firmly as our conditions do.   I feel that by addressing how these kids feel about themselves and developing strong, positive relationships with them, they can take the first steps in combating the destructive feelings of isolation and low self-esteem these youth experience allowing them to develop the tools and confidence to transition off the streets.

We currently have over 500 youth enrolled and see an average of nearly 45 kids a day.  We have around 3,000 square feet and about 30 chairs.  Our current facility no longer serves but more importantly, it is being renovated into a boutique hotel.  Without intervention p:ear could become homeless!  Our solution is to find a new, permanent home for p:ear.  Against all odds, we found the perfect building and are working toward purchasing it.  Because this captial campaign is taking my full time, energy and commitment I will be taking a several month hiatus from my blog. I plan to check in and keep a finger on the pulse of the lives and creative endeavors of my wonderful vox family.  It’s just that another “family” has a greater need right now.

Crysalis fanned her wings in the early morning light.  Unlike other faery she was a morning person, preferring cool dew and the fresh scent of the woodlands at dawn to the shadow and completeness of dusk.  She left her faery ring, as always, carefully.  Inside she was protected but once outside she belonged to the world, her powers limited to flight, leaving her with only an airy escape from the ever present dangers to someone as small and bird-like as herself.  She enjoyed a brisk morning flight, she delighted in hair-blown-back speed, hip-swiveling turns and gliding on the  barely warm autumn thermals.  She was alone and owned the morning.  Or so she thought.  A paw of darkness engulfed her, extinguishing light and air.
“What’d you put in your mouth, Bwarok?”
“Hard to say, Grreuc, but it tasted like chicken.”

    The transparent, ephemeral beauty of the jellyfish held Tamara transfixed to the tank.  Her own body, her lover’s, seemed heavy, opaque and obscene in comparison.  She just wanted more direct contact, more transparency in their relationship.  She wanted an electric charge; she wanted him to find her intriguing, stunning, erotic.  She wanted oceanic orgasm, forbidden sensations, emotions.  She wanted….  She’d been standing in the aquarium in front of the floor to near ceiling tank for over five hours watching the jellyfish float in their trance inducing undulations when the guard approached her.  “We’re closing in five minutes, ma’am.”  Did they sleep?  Did they understand how perfect they were in their iridescent, hypnotic pulsings? "  Five minutes.  She easily located the ladder to the feeding area and wove her way up each rung with uncharacteristic grace, as she jettisoned sandals, sweater, shirt, bra, jeans, thong.  She felt herself become languid, boneless and ecstatic seconds after she hit the cold, saline, isoelectric water.  Finally, finally something leaving her incandescent and breathless.

Small, dark and angry, Margaux forced the language to the ground.  She would not succumb to the silence and isolation that brought so many non-native speakers to their knees.  In French she was smart and engaging and she would be smart and engaging in Arabic, too.  Today she would think in Arabic, at least this ten minutes before she started her day.  She would give herself a pep talk.  She looked in the mirror, knew she was attractive, and said out loud, “I have a nice repearance.  I have loving natural curdled hair.”  She brought her hand to her face and chewed on a knuckle.  This was not quite right but it didn’t matter, she was practicing, no one could hear her, she would practice.  Again, out loud,  “I have a fined figure with good muscle tune.”  Better.  She smiled to think how much better she was doing than that woman from Eastern Europe she would be seated next to later today in their Arabic class.  She said, “I speak much more refund Arabic than that Polished fish!” She laughed, encouraged by the sound of her own voice, and continued, “And I will do fined in today’s exchange.”  She slipped on black sandals, starched on a smile and lamented the lack of anything that would look like a croissant but almost moaned at the thought of what she would receive today when she went to order strong, black coffee in Arabic.