full of mold, healthy, and giddy with autumn
it's that best kind of chilly days. crisp. not quite cold, but you can feel the season's seam. the montana air is dry and smells of brown grass and frost. everything seems to have sharper edges, it's like the resolution of the world got cranked up. it's my favorite time of year, i'm just glad to be healthy again to enjoy it.
i've eaten the last of the penicillin. the streptococcus routed, villages burned, stragglers put to the sword: i am well again. i was on the mend when i decided to purchase a rotisserie chicken. the ones with the chewy salty skin and juicy meat. after the first meal, i stripped the bones of meat and made broth with the carcass and some leftover wilted veggies. the next night: onions, peppercorns, carrots, celery and garlic. a couple potatoes because they were there. kosher salt. egg noodles. two bay leaves and half a fist full of oregano. everything is scoured, but keeps its skin. the kind of soup that just gets better until it's gone. today (3 days later) i've finished the soup which by now was more like a pot pie missing its crust. a bit more gumption and i would have made the crust. perhaps next time.
something from brc:
ballet
it was friday i think. it took us a very long time to get going. it was one of those group escapades that just as we were about to leave, a few more campmates asked where we were going and if we could wait just a few minutes until they were also ready to go. it's a common enough thing. but by the time we finally pushed off, i was a little grumpy.
i decided then that burning man playa cruising parties had the same optimal population as a board gaming group. three to five players are optimal. more than that and it becomes a mess trying to keep everyone in the same groove. people get distracted.
we were headed towards something thirty. five maybe. i think a bar was to be lit on fire. i didn't much care, i was just happy to be moving. the esplanade was (as should it be) clotted with flamboyant traffic. we kept in a loose pack, passing around a wineskin of mango juice and rum. it was perhaps 7:30 where we ran into the stage. really, we ran into the audience. i don't normally like ballet, but i was captivated by the contrast of grace and slapdashery of the city. the troupe was skilled and rehearsed. there were lights and the sound was good. it was not half-assed, it was a full moon shining and i was stuck in its headlights. i briefly remembered my pack-mates, and turned to them and said that i wanted to watch this, but that i didn't want to stop anyone up and they were welcome to move along or whatever. i don't remember the first piece very well. it was a group, maybe eight, four men and women. they were enacting a scene of people who were methodically stripping from themselves inhibition and clothing.
it surprised me how much i liked it. i clapped and hooted when it ended. i was happy. an announcer came to the foot of the stage and asked us please to not photograph or record the next performance. two dancers came out. i recognized the song immediately, it was tom waits growling waltzing matilda. it was a story of domestic abuse told through ballet. she was (with such delicate ferocity) hit and pushed and fucked and she kept falling back to him. she looked she was never quite on her balance. she could never get purchase as he pushed, pulled, shoved, and fucked her. a couple times she would pull away, and almost do it (almost make you think she might even stand and fight or something) but he would be there, and hold her and caress her face and she would collapse along his body. and it would happen again and again. a pattern that wasn't ever exactly the same, but maddeningly close enough. the song wasn't long. it was breathtaking. i'll never forget it.
i've eaten the last of the penicillin. the streptococcus routed, villages burned, stragglers put to the sword: i am well again. i was on the mend when i decided to purchase a rotisserie chicken. the ones with the chewy salty skin and juicy meat. after the first meal, i stripped the bones of meat and made broth with the carcass and some leftover wilted veggies. the next night: onions, peppercorns, carrots, celery and garlic. a couple potatoes because they were there. kosher salt. egg noodles. two bay leaves and half a fist full of oregano. everything is scoured, but keeps its skin. the kind of soup that just gets better until it's gone. today (3 days later) i've finished the soup which by now was more like a pot pie missing its crust. a bit more gumption and i would have made the crust. perhaps next time.
something from brc:
ballet
it was friday i think. it took us a very long time to get going. it was one of those group escapades that just as we were about to leave, a few more campmates asked where we were going and if we could wait just a few minutes until they were also ready to go. it's a common enough thing. but by the time we finally pushed off, i was a little grumpy.
i decided then that burning man playa cruising parties had the same optimal population as a board gaming group. three to five players are optimal. more than that and it becomes a mess trying to keep everyone in the same groove. people get distracted.
we were headed towards something thirty. five maybe. i think a bar was to be lit on fire. i didn't much care, i was just happy to be moving. the esplanade was (as should it be) clotted with flamboyant traffic. we kept in a loose pack, passing around a wineskin of mango juice and rum. it was perhaps 7:30 where we ran into the stage. really, we ran into the audience. i don't normally like ballet, but i was captivated by the contrast of grace and slapdashery of the city. the troupe was skilled and rehearsed. there were lights and the sound was good. it was not half-assed, it was a full moon shining and i was stuck in its headlights. i briefly remembered my pack-mates, and turned to them and said that i wanted to watch this, but that i didn't want to stop anyone up and they were welcome to move along or whatever. i don't remember the first piece very well. it was a group, maybe eight, four men and women. they were enacting a scene of people who were methodically stripping from themselves inhibition and clothing.
it surprised me how much i liked it. i clapped and hooted when it ended. i was happy. an announcer came to the foot of the stage and asked us please to not photograph or record the next performance. two dancers came out. i recognized the song immediately, it was tom waits growling waltzing matilda. it was a story of domestic abuse told through ballet. she was (with such delicate ferocity) hit and pushed and fucked and she kept falling back to him. she looked she was never quite on her balance. she could never get purchase as he pushed, pulled, shoved, and fucked her. a couple times she would pull away, and almost do it (almost make you think she might even stand and fight or something) but he would be there, and hold her and caress her face and she would collapse along his body. and it would happen again and again. a pattern that wasn't ever exactly the same, but maddeningly close enough. the song wasn't long. it was breathtaking. i'll never forget it.