There are three things I hate about current design trends in kitchens: 1) Stainless steel appliances. Why? Because they remind me of all the crappy restaurant jobs I have held. Why would I want to have something that hearkens back to an industrial setting in my home. During college and in lean periods during my "career", I am loathe to admit I have held part time waitressing jobs. The restaurant business-- jeez what an industry completely devoid of labor regulations. No, I don't want anything in my home that reminds me of the face of a walk-in cooler. A walk in cooler is like a cave-- cold, dim, and filled with unidentifiable slimy things.
2) Granite counter tops. Polished granite reminds me of tombstones. Memorials to the dearly departed are another thing best left out of the kitchen. I've read that sometimes homeowners have to reinforce their basements to hold up said counter tops. Please. If you actually cook you know that granite is not an ideal surface to work on. If I had to choose some sort of rediculously heavy stone I would choose marble, at least you can roll a pastry on it. I remember the first time I set down a wine glass onto a granite counter top, I thought it was going to shatter in my hands.
3) Many, many cupboards. To hold what? Tupperware with lost lids? Enough preserved foods for a bomb shelter? I was at a brunch where the hostess was giving us the tour of her new house. There were half a dozen cans of Pam non-stick spray in her pantry. I'm sure Home Depot and the like would love for everyone to think they need floor to ceiling cupboards so the can sell the designed kitchen packages. Now here is a case where the home cook could use a cue from commercial kitchens. Buy only a few high quality utensils. Buy fresh foods and store them in your (non-stainless steel) refrigerator.
May these things go the way of avocado and harvest gold appliances.
Monday, August 25, 2014
Thursday, March 20, 2014
Millennials
This quote is from the 1905 short story of Thomas Mann "The Blood of the Walsungs," so you see new century, new millennium, it doesn't matter. The arrogance of youth is constant. This reminds me of the my classmates in "advanced" high school English.
"They sat there at table, in their low, luxuriously cushioned chairs, with their spoilt, dissatisfied
faces. They sat in splendour and security, but their words rang as sharp as though sharpness, hardness, alertness, and pitiless clarity were demanded of them as survival values. Their highest praise was a grudging acceptance, their criticism deft and ruthless; it snatched the weapons from one's hand, it
paralysed enthusiasm, made it a laughing-stock. "Very good," they would say of some masterpiece whose lofty intellectual plane would seem to have put it beyond the reach of critique. Passion was a blunder-it made them laugh. Von Beckerath, who tended to be disarmed by his enthusiasms, had hard
work holding his own-also his age put him in the wrong. He got smaller and smaller in his chair, pressed his chin on his breast, and in his excitement breathed through his mouth-quite unhorsed by the brisk arrogance of youth. They contradicted everything-as though they found it impossible, discreditable, lamentable, not to contradict. They contradicted most efficiently, their eyes narrowing to gleaming cracks. They fell upon a single word of his, they worried it, they tore it to bits and replaced it by another so telling and deadly that it went straight to the mark and sat in the wound with quivering shaft."
Monday, March 10, 2014
Dinner Party
I went to a dinner party last night. There was a couple there in their early seventies. There were so vibrant and mentally acute, so interested in books and movies, theories and philosophies, living and eating and riding horses. They were an inspiration for living life fully until the day when you can't anymore.
Sunday, November 10, 2013
the boys i mean are not refined
A POEM BY e.e. cummings
the boys i mean are not refined
they go with girls who buck and bite
they do not give a fuck for luck
they hump them thirteen times a night
one hangs a hat upon her tit
one carves a cross in her behind
they do not give a shit for wit
the boys i mean are not refined
they come with girls who bite and buck
who cannot read and cannot write
who laugh like they would fall apart
and masturbate with dynamite
the boys i mean are not refined
they cannot chat of that and this
they do not give a fart for art
they kill like you would take a piss
they speak whatever's on their mind
they do whatever's in their pants
the boys i mean are not refined
they shake the mountains when they dance
e. e. cummings
the boys i mean are not refined
they go with girls who buck and bite
they do not give a fuck for luck
they hump them thirteen times a night
one hangs a hat upon her tit
one carves a cross in her behind
they do not give a shit for wit
the boys i mean are not refined
they come with girls who bite and buck
who cannot read and cannot write
who laugh like they would fall apart
and masturbate with dynamite
the boys i mean are not refined
they cannot chat of that and this
they do not give a fart for art
they kill like you would take a piss
they speak whatever's on their mind
they do whatever's in their pants
the boys i mean are not refined
they shake the mountains when they dance
e. e. cummings
Sunday, October 16, 2011
The Cat Killer
"Do you know who lives there?" the older kids hissed, "The cat killer, that's who!"
The house was made of brick which had been covered with pink paint and over the paint was a film of grime from the street. If the cat killer was out sweeping the front steps as we walked passed on our way to school our blood would turn to ice. Her hair fell in oily black and gray stripes over her shoulders. My little sister, Bonnie, whispered to me, "Witches are the only old ladies who have long hair." I nodded, speechless. Our great aunts went to the hairdresser once a week to have their hair molded into immobile waves. The cat killer's hair was obscene to us.
On Saturdays we walked to the matinee. The movie theater was like a decaying palace. Our tennis shoes would stick to the residue of spilled soft drinks on the slanted floor as we walked to our seats. Boys threw lit matches down from the balcony. And higher up, above the balcony, it was said that bats resided. First they would show one or two cartoons, the sound cranked up to an unnatural, thundering volume. Then the feature: The Blob or a remake of Tarzan.
On the way to the movie theater we would stop at Helen's. Helen ran a soda shop with a divided clientele. There were the children who came in for the penny candy, and then there were the teenagers. The teenagers sat hunched around formica tables, their cryptic talk and sardonic laughter swirling languidly round their heads like cigarette smoke. In the magazine racks, next to the comic books, were romance magazines whose covers bespoke of lovers' transgressions and illicit alliances. Always on the cover was a woman's face, her chin tilted downwards, eyelashes tilted up, in an attitude of conspiracy and coquettish shame. Helen presided over the scene from behind the counter, the soda fountains looming behind her like a suite of silver swans. She had short gray hair, she rarely spoke, her thin lips fixed in a sphinx-like grin. Helen unnerved me. I would clunk my coins down before her and rush out of the store.
My mother had made me a gypsy costume for Halloween with yellow and red swatches sewn to the waist. I had seen exactly what I needed to complete my outfit at Helen's shop, in the back, where she kept an aisle of dusty toys and baubles. It was a dress-up necklace with thin hammered disks made to look like coins. After pleading with my father for days for the money, finally, the morning of trick or treat I found three dollar bills next to my cereal bowl. After school I walked home alone because Bonnie was in kindergarten and only went to school for a half day. She was already home, our mother applying the finishing touches to her rabbit costume. I stopped into Helen's and wound my way past the tables and the candy. I stepped into the toy aisle and grabbed the necklace. I heard a soft laugh that was like the sound of the glass wind chimes. Leaning against the back wall out of view of everyone but me, was a boy and girl, teenagers. Or rather the girl was leaning against the back wall and the boy against her. They were kissing.
We had a kitten that would get in the way every time my mother and I made the beds. As we lowered the billowing sheets onto the mattress the kitten would leap onto the bed and fascinate itself by tunneling under the bedding. We would watch the moving mound until my mother yelled, "Get him out of there, he'll suffocate!" And here in the dim back of the shop, that is what the boy's hand looked like moving up underneath the girl's sweater. The girl tipped her head sideways and smiled a slow, sly smile, her eyes lowering into glistening slits. I turned and ran out of the shop.
Outside on the sidewalk I realized the necklace was jangling in my hands and froze. Dry leaves scratched over the pavement in the wind that was picking up with the lowering sun. Santa Claus waved down at me from the house across the street. The hollow, plastic Santa had been up on the porch roof almost a year, since last Christmas, his reindeer tipped at a sickening angle. Each time I looked up and saw the Santa on my walk to and from school I was filled with uneasiness, an inarticulate dread of all the vicissitudes of life. Was it a single tragedy, or a cumulative slow descent, the numbing hammer of poverty, or sickness, or simply the effort of living, that brought the family of this house down to this depth of apathy and neglect. What had befallen the inhabitants to stop them in their tracks like this, so that not even the cycle of the seasons was acknowledged. The chipped Santa waved from the rooftop in mockery of all that was dutiful, down to the ritual observances of the earth in its orbit. The fact was poverty was rampant in our village. It was said at school that one family lived in a chicken coop.
"Hey you! I saw what you did."
I spun around and there on the sidewalk was Davey Constable my friend Sandra's older brother.
"You stole that chain. I'm going to tell Helen."
"No I ...wait...no you....I didn't..." How could I explain it, to a boy no less? The girl's smiling, tilted face, the boy's hand creeping like a kitten, all of it congealed into a lump in my throat and stuck there.
"If you don't want me to tell Helen, you'll have to do a dare! You'll have to trick or treat at the cat killers."
"No! Her porch light won't be on."
"Who cares. Do it or I'll tell. Thief!"
I burst into tears.
"Baby!" shouted Davey as he grabbed a fist full of my hair and gave it one sharp tug. "See ya tonight."
When I was a child I cried about everything. Mine was a wordless idiom of sobs and howls like the language of wolves. I was afraid of everything when I was I child. I was even afraid of the wallpaper in the upstairs hallway of my grandmother's house, and it was an abstract pattern. But the downward turn in the zigzag lines reminded me of the mouth of the tragedy mask. I did not know at the time that the pair of masks represented "drama" or that they were derived from the muses of tragedy and comedy, Melpomene and Thalia. But I had seen the masks somewhere, in a cartoon no doubt, and to this day their soundless weeping and laughter frightens me.
"I don't want to go." I said to my mother when I got home.
"What do you mean."
"My stomach hurts."
"I spent a lot of time making your costume. If you don't go then Bonnie can't go. Your father is working late and I have to stay home and give out the candy or else our house will get toilet papered."
"Maybe Davey will forget about the dare." I thought as I shuffled down the dusk-tinged street with a group of kids from the neighborhood. There was Sandra, and Lauren, Donnie and his little sister Cynthia, Bonnie and I. An hour later our pillowcases and plastic pumpkins were heavy with candy. Our group trudged onward, Bonnie holding onto my gypsy skirt in the damp, leaf-scented darkness.
Suddenly an egg splattered at my feet. "Hey ugly," shouted Davey as he stepped into the halo of light from a street lamp. He sauntered up to me. He was dressed as a football player with bands of black paint smeared beneath his eyes. "Did you forget your promise? March! To the cat killer's!"
"What does he mean?" asked Bonnie.
"I have to trick or treat at the cat killer's." I said, but my voice sounded far away to me, as though it wasn't me speaking. I felt as though I had become weightless, I could no longer feel the force of gravity on my body. I had dissolved into a mass of one sensation of cold shivering. I felt the way a ghost must feel.
Davey herded us all down the street. The other kids murmuring in amazement like pigeons. I ascended the three steps onto the cat killer's porch. I stopped and turned around to look at Bonnie in order to remember her, in case this was the last time I would see her. She looked very tiny standing among the semi-circle kids gathered on the sidewalk.
I tapped on the door, mouse-like, then spun around and said, "No one is answering."
"Knock louder!" Davy shouted as he leaped up the steps, banged on the door, then bolted past me back down to the sidewalk. I was still facing away from the door when I heard it creak behind me. The kids on the sidewalk gasped. I turned, and there was the cat killer.
"Che?" said the cat killer as her eyebrows slanted down into straight black lines. The air of the house wafted into my face. It smelled of simmering onions tinged with a mustiness like the smell of the muddy bottom of the river that bisected our village.
"Trick or treat." I gasped.
"Aspetti," she said and disappeared back into the house. I turned to leave.
"You better stay up there." Davy growled.
The cat killer returned, tossed an apple into my sack, "Basta!" she said and shut the door.
"What did she give you?" said Cynthia.
"An apple!"
"Lets see." said Lauren. "Be careful, she put a razor blade in it, you'll cut your hand!"
"It's a poison apple," said Sandra.
"She called you a bastard, I heard her," said Donnie.
Bonnie's rabbit ears tickled my nose as sunk her face in my gypsy dress and began to sob.
When we got home my mother looked at Bonnie's smeared whiskers and said, "Upstairs right now little bunny, we've got to get that make-up washed off before it gets into your eyes." My father dumped our sacks of candy onto the kitchen table. The apple rolled out. "We have to throw that away," he said.
"No, wait, slice it!"
"Why, you are not eating it."
"I want to see if there is a razor blade in it."
"This is ridiculous" he said, as he pulled a knife out of the drawer.
He sliced the apple into thin rounds as I crouched on a chair beside him. It was just an apple, red and green on the outside with one brown bruise in the flesh.
"Is it a poison apple?"
"I don't know. You're not eating it so that's irrelevant."
"It's what?"
"But, as a matter of fact, all apples contain poison. In their seeds. Cyanide."
"Why?"
"To keep insects and birds from eating the seeds."
"Why?"
"Because if they ate all the seeds there would be no more apple trees would there."
I was silent for a moment. Upstairs I could hear the sounds of my mother bathing Bonnie.
"You mean," I said, "so one thing, like an apple, can be good and bad at the same time. Depending on who you ask."
"Yeah, something like that." my father laughed. "Who gave you the apple?"
"The cat killer."
"Who?"
"Just an old lady."
When I was a child I cried about everything. My language was one of sobs and howls like the language of wolves. And in this wordless idiom there is a breath between a sigh and a sob rises through you when your come to a realization. I recognized this sob in one of the movies we saw at the matinee. Charlton Heston and his girl are riding horses over a a deserted beach. The surf is rolling and flashing in the sun. Their bodies are golden and beautiful. Then comes a scene shot from the point of view behind the points of the crown of the Statue of Liberty where she lies broken and tilted on the beach. You see Charlton Heston looking very small down below on the sand as he falls to his knees. He falls to his knees And there it is the cry that begins as that sob and rises to a rail of rage against his world that has been turned upside down, "The Planet of the Apes."
And here was my little epiphany as I sat at the kitchen table with shard of apple in front of me. The apes and humans, the gods and monsters, the good and bad of this world can shift like the sand. They are not always who people say they are. And this I knew now, that whatever was stewing in the tomatoes and onions and garlic in the cat killer's pot was not a cat.
When I was a child I was afraid of everything, I cried about everything. I still do, but only on the
inside.
The house was made of brick which had been covered with pink paint and over the paint was a film of grime from the street. If the cat killer was out sweeping the front steps as we walked passed on our way to school our blood would turn to ice. Her hair fell in oily black and gray stripes over her shoulders. My little sister, Bonnie, whispered to me, "Witches are the only old ladies who have long hair." I nodded, speechless. Our great aunts went to the hairdresser once a week to have their hair molded into immobile waves. The cat killer's hair was obscene to us.
On Saturdays we walked to the matinee. The movie theater was like a decaying palace. Our tennis shoes would stick to the residue of spilled soft drinks on the slanted floor as we walked to our seats. Boys threw lit matches down from the balcony. And higher up, above the balcony, it was said that bats resided. First they would show one or two cartoons, the sound cranked up to an unnatural, thundering volume. Then the feature: The Blob or a remake of Tarzan.
On the way to the movie theater we would stop at Helen's. Helen ran a soda shop with a divided clientele. There were the children who came in for the penny candy, and then there were the teenagers. The teenagers sat hunched around formica tables, their cryptic talk and sardonic laughter swirling languidly round their heads like cigarette smoke. In the magazine racks, next to the comic books, were romance magazines whose covers bespoke of lovers' transgressions and illicit alliances. Always on the cover was a woman's face, her chin tilted downwards, eyelashes tilted up, in an attitude of conspiracy and coquettish shame. Helen presided over the scene from behind the counter, the soda fountains looming behind her like a suite of silver swans. She had short gray hair, she rarely spoke, her thin lips fixed in a sphinx-like grin. Helen unnerved me. I would clunk my coins down before her and rush out of the store.
My mother had made me a gypsy costume for Halloween with yellow and red swatches sewn to the waist. I had seen exactly what I needed to complete my outfit at Helen's shop, in the back, where she kept an aisle of dusty toys and baubles. It was a dress-up necklace with thin hammered disks made to look like coins. After pleading with my father for days for the money, finally, the morning of trick or treat I found three dollar bills next to my cereal bowl. After school I walked home alone because Bonnie was in kindergarten and only went to school for a half day. She was already home, our mother applying the finishing touches to her rabbit costume. I stopped into Helen's and wound my way past the tables and the candy. I stepped into the toy aisle and grabbed the necklace. I heard a soft laugh that was like the sound of the glass wind chimes. Leaning against the back wall out of view of everyone but me, was a boy and girl, teenagers. Or rather the girl was leaning against the back wall and the boy against her. They were kissing.
We had a kitten that would get in the way every time my mother and I made the beds. As we lowered the billowing sheets onto the mattress the kitten would leap onto the bed and fascinate itself by tunneling under the bedding. We would watch the moving mound until my mother yelled, "Get him out of there, he'll suffocate!" And here in the dim back of the shop, that is what the boy's hand looked like moving up underneath the girl's sweater. The girl tipped her head sideways and smiled a slow, sly smile, her eyes lowering into glistening slits. I turned and ran out of the shop.
Outside on the sidewalk I realized the necklace was jangling in my hands and froze. Dry leaves scratched over the pavement in the wind that was picking up with the lowering sun. Santa Claus waved down at me from the house across the street. The hollow, plastic Santa had been up on the porch roof almost a year, since last Christmas, his reindeer tipped at a sickening angle. Each time I looked up and saw the Santa on my walk to and from school I was filled with uneasiness, an inarticulate dread of all the vicissitudes of life. Was it a single tragedy, or a cumulative slow descent, the numbing hammer of poverty, or sickness, or simply the effort of living, that brought the family of this house down to this depth of apathy and neglect. What had befallen the inhabitants to stop them in their tracks like this, so that not even the cycle of the seasons was acknowledged. The chipped Santa waved from the rooftop in mockery of all that was dutiful, down to the ritual observances of the earth in its orbit. The fact was poverty was rampant in our village. It was said at school that one family lived in a chicken coop.
"Hey you! I saw what you did."
I spun around and there on the sidewalk was Davey Constable my friend Sandra's older brother.
"You stole that chain. I'm going to tell Helen."
"No I ...wait...no you....I didn't..." How could I explain it, to a boy no less? The girl's smiling, tilted face, the boy's hand creeping like a kitten, all of it congealed into a lump in my throat and stuck there.
"If you don't want me to tell Helen, you'll have to do a dare! You'll have to trick or treat at the cat killers."
"No! Her porch light won't be on."
"Who cares. Do it or I'll tell. Thief!"
I burst into tears.
"Baby!" shouted Davey as he grabbed a fist full of my hair and gave it one sharp tug. "See ya tonight."
When I was a child I cried about everything. Mine was a wordless idiom of sobs and howls like the language of wolves. I was afraid of everything when I was I child. I was even afraid of the wallpaper in the upstairs hallway of my grandmother's house, and it was an abstract pattern. But the downward turn in the zigzag lines reminded me of the mouth of the tragedy mask. I did not know at the time that the pair of masks represented "drama" or that they were derived from the muses of tragedy and comedy, Melpomene and Thalia. But I had seen the masks somewhere, in a cartoon no doubt, and to this day their soundless weeping and laughter frightens me.
"I don't want to go." I said to my mother when I got home.
"What do you mean."
"My stomach hurts."
"I spent a lot of time making your costume. If you don't go then Bonnie can't go. Your father is working late and I have to stay home and give out the candy or else our house will get toilet papered."
"Maybe Davey will forget about the dare." I thought as I shuffled down the dusk-tinged street with a group of kids from the neighborhood. There was Sandra, and Lauren, Donnie and his little sister Cynthia, Bonnie and I. An hour later our pillowcases and plastic pumpkins were heavy with candy. Our group trudged onward, Bonnie holding onto my gypsy skirt in the damp, leaf-scented darkness.
Suddenly an egg splattered at my feet. "Hey ugly," shouted Davey as he stepped into the halo of light from a street lamp. He sauntered up to me. He was dressed as a football player with bands of black paint smeared beneath his eyes. "Did you forget your promise? March! To the cat killer's!"
"What does he mean?" asked Bonnie.
"I have to trick or treat at the cat killer's." I said, but my voice sounded far away to me, as though it wasn't me speaking. I felt as though I had become weightless, I could no longer feel the force of gravity on my body. I had dissolved into a mass of one sensation of cold shivering. I felt the way a ghost must feel.
Davey herded us all down the street. The other kids murmuring in amazement like pigeons. I ascended the three steps onto the cat killer's porch. I stopped and turned around to look at Bonnie in order to remember her, in case this was the last time I would see her. She looked very tiny standing among the semi-circle kids gathered on the sidewalk.
I tapped on the door, mouse-like, then spun around and said, "No one is answering."
"Knock louder!" Davy shouted as he leaped up the steps, banged on the door, then bolted past me back down to the sidewalk. I was still facing away from the door when I heard it creak behind me. The kids on the sidewalk gasped. I turned, and there was the cat killer.
"Che?" said the cat killer as her eyebrows slanted down into straight black lines. The air of the house wafted into my face. It smelled of simmering onions tinged with a mustiness like the smell of the muddy bottom of the river that bisected our village.
"Trick or treat." I gasped.
"Aspetti," she said and disappeared back into the house. I turned to leave.
"You better stay up there." Davy growled.
The cat killer returned, tossed an apple into my sack, "Basta!" she said and shut the door.
"What did she give you?" said Cynthia.
"An apple!"
"Lets see." said Lauren. "Be careful, she put a razor blade in it, you'll cut your hand!"
"It's a poison apple," said Sandra.
"She called you a bastard, I heard her," said Donnie.
Bonnie's rabbit ears tickled my nose as sunk her face in my gypsy dress and began to sob.
When we got home my mother looked at Bonnie's smeared whiskers and said, "Upstairs right now little bunny, we've got to get that make-up washed off before it gets into your eyes." My father dumped our sacks of candy onto the kitchen table. The apple rolled out. "We have to throw that away," he said.
"No, wait, slice it!"
"Why, you are not eating it."
"I want to see if there is a razor blade in it."
"This is ridiculous" he said, as he pulled a knife out of the drawer.
He sliced the apple into thin rounds as I crouched on a chair beside him. It was just an apple, red and green on the outside with one brown bruise in the flesh.
"Is it a poison apple?"
"I don't know. You're not eating it so that's irrelevant."
"It's what?"
"But, as a matter of fact, all apples contain poison. In their seeds. Cyanide."
"Why?"
"To keep insects and birds from eating the seeds."
"Why?"
"Because if they ate all the seeds there would be no more apple trees would there."
I was silent for a moment. Upstairs I could hear the sounds of my mother bathing Bonnie.
"You mean," I said, "so one thing, like an apple, can be good and bad at the same time. Depending on who you ask."
"Yeah, something like that." my father laughed. "Who gave you the apple?"
"The cat killer."
"Who?"
"Just an old lady."
When I was a child I cried about everything. My language was one of sobs and howls like the language of wolves. And in this wordless idiom there is a breath between a sigh and a sob rises through you when your come to a realization. I recognized this sob in one of the movies we saw at the matinee. Charlton Heston and his girl are riding horses over a a deserted beach. The surf is rolling and flashing in the sun. Their bodies are golden and beautiful. Then comes a scene shot from the point of view behind the points of the crown of the Statue of Liberty where she lies broken and tilted on the beach. You see Charlton Heston looking very small down below on the sand as he falls to his knees. He falls to his knees And there it is the cry that begins as that sob and rises to a rail of rage against his world that has been turned upside down, "The Planet of the Apes."
And here was my little epiphany as I sat at the kitchen table with shard of apple in front of me. The apes and humans, the gods and monsters, the good and bad of this world can shift like the sand. They are not always who people say they are. And this I knew now, that whatever was stewing in the tomatoes and onions and garlic in the cat killer's pot was not a cat.
When I was a child I was afraid of everything, I cried about everything. I still do, but only on the
inside.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Job Anxiety
Leaving for my first day back at work after a 2 week vacation. Knots in stomach, thumping heart. I'm sure I'll be okay once I get there. Just wish I worked with someone that I could trust and whose integrity I respected, not a malicious she-hamster.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
The Stuff That Cannot Be Made Up
When you have been doing what I do for a living for over 20 freakin' years you learn that when you find a good phone tech support guy it behooves you to be very nice to them--cultivate a good working rapport etc.-- and ask for them by name when you call for tech support. So when I needed the software that runs our microscope tweaked i called and asked for my favorite guru. After optimizing the software he asked me if we are getting our fluorescent probes from his company. I said I didn't know because we were buying our probes from another lab which is buying them in bulk from somewhere and reselling them to us. He mentioned the name of a lab and I said yes them. Oohh, he said and laughed an ironic laugh "This will really help me at a meeting I have later on in the week." "Did I just get myself in trouble?" I said. "No," he said, "Like a good journalist I never reveal my source. I helped you this morning and you helped me." Well this conversation really rattled me. I felt I was in the middle of corrupt goings on and subterfuges on the part of the other lab. On the way home I told this story to a co-worker I car pool with as we traveled a road that winds through apple orchards. It was a gorgeous evening with the apple trees yearning to come into leaf. She asked if I was going to tell any of the higher ups my concerns. "No," I said.
The next morning she comes into the lab and says "You are going to hate me."
"Oh, you need a ride home again tonight, no problem." I say.
"No," she says, "I told the director of clinical operations about your awkward incident."
Don't people know when to just listen to other people vent and not meddle!
Anyway on to my dream. I think it was the night before the wretched phone call. I had a dream of a man who looked a lot like Brendan Frasier -- a large solid type, the type into whose arms you could collapse. It was kind of an erotic dream but the most striking thing is that there was something other than sexual attraction that was drawing me to this man. The only word I can use to describe it is a rather old-fashioned one--felicity. Yes, there was great felicity between us. Meaning I felt we would find the same things humorous and that he would stand beside me emotionally and spiritually--as corny as that sounds. Also the physical attraction I felt towards him was broader than just sexual--it was as though I could feel the life force (the prana, if you will) surging in his body when I was close to him. I woke up feeling refreshed and peaceful. The last time I had a dream along these lines it was around Christmas time. The man in the dream took the form of a high school classmate that carried a flame for me for a time. The next morning I sent him a cryptically flirtatious message on facebook and his brusque response made it clear to me that he thought I had gone insane.
The next morning she comes into the lab and says "You are going to hate me."
"Oh, you need a ride home again tonight, no problem." I say.
"No," she says, "I told the director of clinical operations about your awkward incident."
Don't people know when to just listen to other people vent and not meddle!
Anyway on to my dream. I think it was the night before the wretched phone call. I had a dream of a man who looked a lot like Brendan Frasier -- a large solid type, the type into whose arms you could collapse. It was kind of an erotic dream but the most striking thing is that there was something other than sexual attraction that was drawing me to this man. The only word I can use to describe it is a rather old-fashioned one--felicity. Yes, there was great felicity between us. Meaning I felt we would find the same things humorous and that he would stand beside me emotionally and spiritually--as corny as that sounds. Also the physical attraction I felt towards him was broader than just sexual--it was as though I could feel the life force (the prana, if you will) surging in his body when I was close to him. I woke up feeling refreshed and peaceful. The last time I had a dream along these lines it was around Christmas time. The man in the dream took the form of a high school classmate that carried a flame for me for a time. The next morning I sent him a cryptically flirtatious message on facebook and his brusque response made it clear to me that he thought I had gone insane.
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