old lines.

The problem with this blog creator (i guess is the term) is it doesn't allot for intricate line breaks. I wanna post my poems, n' stuff, but i think it's going to require me to learn some html code.

C'est la vie.

A friend of mine reminded me of two lines i wrote while we studied in France. They struck him, apparently, enough that 3 years later he's quoting them.

"I take a moment, to take a moment"

"The only thing keeping you here is gravity"

i'm a sucker for mantra-esque things.

new poem time. it's not finished, what is ever finished, really? enjoy. let me know what you think.

Half a heart and all warm weather clothes.

city-winter //
        // bandeau baby; you’ve got beach on the brain.

Plow’d, I will count pennies and miles for cheap air fare.

Coconut bra’d,
‘Ooo Wee!’ we smell just like the natives.


      naked zephyr wafting chimes and meat smells.

         (cooked things underground, moled, Maori-minded)

Concerned with taciturn turns
and mildly open roads

                        this place never gets paved.

Margarita melee:
    sea salt rimming the edge, kamikaze commanders. brimming carelessness like fruit flies. on coast lines. where the coconuts bury. head-first. in ocean-made fine-grained dunes.

             Scenic severance between
             light and lampshade
             sea and strand.

bubbling.

Note to assistant sharing cubicle wall space:

If you say "it's so cold in here" one more time, without doing anything about it, i swear to god, i will shove a space heater up your ass.

always.

c


Revised: Sorry, it was early and she was killing my soul, only a bit, but enough to blog about.
Whew! now that that's that.

Here's a recipe of my own concoction

Claire’s Chicken & Potato Salad

Obviously, I don’t have exact measurements, because that’s for sissies.

Hope you enjoy, it came out really yummy for me; hot or cold!

What you’ll need

• Chicken, boneless breasts
• Potatoes, any kind – I like yellow
• Onions
• Peppers, preferably green
• Fresh Garlic
• Salt
• Pepper
• Olive Oil
• Mayonnaise
• Cheese; american, chedder, etc
• Eggs, if that’s your thing, I’ll get there.

Directions

The potatoes need to be cooked so I chop them into quarters and throw them into a pot of water. Cut up as many or as few, depending on amount of people. For just M and I, I cut up about 5-6 medium sized potatoes (we had leftovers). Let the water boil, and cook the potatoes. The cook quicker than normal because they’re already cut so about 18 mins.

The chicken is cooked fairly barely. Ha! You’re gonna wanna cut the chicken into good sized chunks, prior to cooking. On a pan, put olive oil, fresh chopped garlic, salt and pepper, be as generous or sparse as you please. Through the chicken on the hot pan and cook it up. I like to start cooking the chicken about 10 mins into cooking the potatoes, just so the timing lines up okay.

Meanwhile, chop up the peppers, onions and a tad more garlic pretty finely. Also take your cheese and slice/dice/peel/what-have-you into relatively small pieces, no need for mounds of cheese.

If you’re into eggs, around now you’d hard boil some eggs. Again, if that’s your thing, personally, I think with the mayo, it’s a lot.

Now, lets say, your chicken and potatoes are done. Drain the potatoes and run under cold water for about a minute. Just to harden them so that they don’t turn to mashed potatoes. Then, add the chicken, one cup of mayonnaise, more or less as you see fit, I like mayo. Then add the peppers, onions, cheese, garlic, salt and pepper (here is where you could add chopped up hard boiled egg) – mix like you’re folding egg-whites and BAM! You have a meal. Enjoy. Now I know it looks like a pile of mush, but I promise, it’s delicious and filling!

I Like Moose: pt5 - Finale

V

It is a wonder, The Moose, such a still animal and yet, so difficult to see. I felt like Bishop and by August my dream of a Moose experience was almost completely disappointed. For months I'd assumed that eventually I'd see one. I've driven dozens of times at night on back roads, been teased by yellow and black signs deeming that this place had moose crossings. Yet, I've seen nothing.

By this time I'd seen three Bald Eagles -- This was America. (In retrospect, I assume it was the same one, with a nest in the vicinity of my cabin). Cobscook was flooded with over 200 species of birds and I longed for the long-legged brute that capitalized my idea of Maine. Chuckles promised me I'd see one. "There're all over the fuckin' place. See, ones been here!" He pointed to a pile of dung near where we were walking. It could or could not have been moose; I believed he wanted to make a point.

"I've never seen one though. I want to see one in person, up close, not just it's shit."

"How close you planning on getting?"

"As close as it will let me." It was then that Chuckles promised that he'd help me find a moose before I left, and added that he'd like to see how close I could really get.

Two A.M. Chuckles roared into my cabin floodlight in hand, he shook me then cupped my mouth and whispered, "you ready?" I nodded feverishly. I threw on shoes and walked out of the cabin to meet Chuckles. He handed me a light as well and we treaded into the woods.

"Aren't we gonna take the truck? I've been here all summer, up and down these roads and I've never seen one." I spoke in a low, gravely tone. Chuckles paused, turned back and shushed me. I shushed. We were doing something. We passed through the park trails, and my trails, into the depths of the park. In fact, with almost 100 acres of land deemed State Park Material, it was hard to know where the ends and beginnings really were. I felt like we were the first humans to ever venture this far, me clad in flannel pajamas and fake Timberland boots, Chuckles was broad and indecipherable in his dark army green ranger outfit. His light was the only way I could find and follow him.

The sky was lightening-up. We walked for hours, I couldn't even tell it in miles, we could have been going in circles, or ovals or squares but I trusted Chuckles. We were moose hunting. We were surrounded by foliage, since there was no path or trail we were dodging branches and plant life debris left and right. Chuckles would clear his way and the tree would repel his arms whacking me in the face. I didn't mind. This would be my moment. I thought of the tides.

All at once, Chuckles stopped and ducked. I, caught in my own heady meanderings didn't notice till I almost tripped over him. He locked his eyes on mine. "We got her Claire." I inched up over his head to a clearing, like out of storybooks, out of myth, a space open, bathing in the moonlight.

It was my bather, my find. A moose, an Alces alces, the biggest deer I've ever seen. Standing. She just stood there, immobile; maybe she was as amazed with the night sky as much as I was. Maybe she was waiting for the sun, or her son or lover. As she remained motionless I crept closer and closer, I could smell her pungent mud, dirt, filth stench. I could see her gnarled fur, bare snout and armor-like antlers. They looked like bone breastplates, like parachutes, like atomic bursts. I wanted to reach out and touch them, believe they're reality, but I restrained for a few more seconds of untainted view.

I couldn't hear Chuckles rustling anymore; I questioned whether or not he's was there still, or if this was all mine. She turned. Saw me. Perhaps she knew I was there the whole time and was just letting me in. I held my breath. Oh radiant Beast, I thought, she was huge, towering over me, her rolling eyes piercing my skin.

In a moment, like wind, like passing breath, like fall to winter, she was gone. Moved like paintings, like a zoetrope, yet, I could only watch her leave.

I Like Moose: pt 3 & 4

III.

June. Chuckles had given me an axe with my name on it. My job at the bay was, in a sense, to maintain/contain erosion that was claiming parts of the park. I served as a life force. Davey Crocket in stance. (It was hard not to notice the ever-changing water scene. I found myself caught, between axe swings, amazed by natural flow).

I did much of the hard labor, like chopping down dying Brown Ash trees and hauling tons of mulch and shit in the mornings, before the heat came. I renamed campsites on pieces of wood with white paint after Maliseet words like Nomihtu, which means 'to see.' I yearned for indicators of what this place used to be, sans dilapidated remnants. In the afternoon I led tourists and campers through the inner-workings of the park. Down trails I had cleared to get a better view. Most of the time someone would recognize my New York accent and exclaim, "You ain't from 'round these parts!" They, in turn, were on my path.

IV

The sky was larger here; it forced me to write about it. An expanse in space, I could see for miles in any direction and it was grand. The forecast for this evening called for a meteor shower and there was a group of locals who gathered in the front yard of someone's acres in Lubec to watch it rain.

the stars are fastened in the sky

flat pebbles

skipped across black depth

It was a dark ocean lit by millions of candles, light eyes, iridescent fish. Millions of comet tails bursting across the atmosphere. It could take full minutes to move from one side to the other.

and in between the moon

there is space

upon space

It was an ethereal light show. I felt as though I should pray. It felt as though God was there, exercising some holy superfluous attribute.

The heavens observers, whose lawn that had been taken over, met on every full moon and comet show, brandished with their large telescopes and computer screens hooked-up to enhance everything. I saw Venus, and she was beautiful.

And then it hit. What we were watching, what was happening, was beyond balls of gas, rock and combustion. True beauty, unadulterated, zoomed in on, but left unscathed.

it is late and the sky is dripping light.

I Like Moose: pt2

II

"This was native land," the park ranger, Chuckles (so said his badge, not his disposition, I assumed the result of a bad joke) informed me on my arrival to Cobscook. "You could see it all over, marks of them Indians everywhere." It was true. The campsites were littered with genuine Maliseet-Passamaquoddy arrowheads, drawings, and decrepit lean-tos all left somewhat intact and protected. These two tribes once ruled over the area. Although they were independent from one another, they spoke mutually intelligible dialects of the same Algonquian language. Now, the tribes, once casual comrades, competed through business. Drive down the only paved road in Dennysville and there, beside one another, Maliseet and Passamaquoddy gift shops selling 'authentic-native-stuff.' Gen-u-ine Indian bookmarks and cell phone covers, at competitively low-prices.

"How you think they got along?" Chuckles asked me after a long drawn out diatribe on the history of the original settlers; while we watched the tides rush in over lunch. "You think it's like us an' them Canadians?" He pointed north.

We could throw stones onto Canada's soil. Chuckles, a Vietnam Vet, would drink whiskey on the old site of the Quoddy Project from the 30's, and yell at the border.

"I can see you from here!" He'd yell at the country from atop one of the four dikes actually constructed before funding was refused. (The Quoddy Project was a proposed series of dams and control structures, harnessing Cobscook Bay as a means of electricity; it quickly drowned before it ever had time to float). I never truly understood his qualm with Canada; maybe he regretted his decision to 'not-dodge.'


(pt2 of 5)

I Like Moose: pt1

I wrote this short story several months ago. I thought I would share it, in its parts, respectively. Enjoy! - c.d.

Of Cobscook Bay

"A more interesting assemblage of phenomena than can be found on any other part of the eastern seaboard of the United States." -- Nathaniel S. Shaler, in 1886, was one of the first geologists to describe the bedrock geology of Cobscook Bay.

I

Late May. It was morning so the Clammers, adorned in waders and some, in linen-like hats with Saturn-like rims to block out the sun, trudged scenic narrowly winding trails towards the waterbed. The bay was mud; the only water left was in tiny puddles stored in the sediment and bedrock. The clams mused. Their misfortune awaited them in buckets and scratch rakes. The hunters sloshed out to the middle of the emptied bay handling a hoe-like object, a metal basket with teeth at the mouth. They spent the morning turning/collecting, from my perch (the waters edge beside an overgrown camp site); they are landscapers, preparing the bay for the rush. The flood. I know that by noon the bay will be stirring.

Part of the show is the tide change. Cobscook is a Maliseet-Passamaquoddy word for "boiling tides." These strong currents influence the sediments deposited in the Bay and increase shoreline erosion. The bay was destroying itself. The average high is 24 feet with some at 28. By lunchtime, the clamming fields have transformed into an ocean. Watch the water. It percolates. Rushes from different directions collide with one another and simulate the bubble. I have spent hours watching the water seep, rise and boil. Mimicking breath and heat. Rippling, or not, the water is alive; I have stared at it and put my feet in. The sensation against my toes, I think of home, Long Island, the goldfish pond in my parent's backyard. When it was warm out I'd stick my feet in the water and after some moments of stillness, the fish would nibble.


(stay tuned for part 2)

in limbo...

Update, part 2: the saga continues...

So it's Martin Luther King's Birthday, or Day of Remembrance. I always get confused because of President's day and who that's really for and then it all cascades into every other person-based holiday and then I end up confusing Anne Frank and Helen Keller (Clerks 2 anyone?)

Most people don't work today, but not me and the Big Guy. We're slaving (ha!) away in an empty office yelling back and forth at each other through his half frosted glass wall that separates us.

The Big Guy is a little computer-illiterate

"You have Fotochop?"
"Yea, I brought my computer in so I could use it"
"No I mean a CD of it so I can put it on mine"
"I got mine off the internet... illegally..."
"Oh, hmph... well I don't wanna do that... how else can I get it?"
"Buy it... hundreds of dollars though"
"Ohhh, ouch!"
"Yea."
"What's this illegal thing? How illegal is it?"

explaining torrents to this man proved not only useless, but time consuming.

"File sharing"
Questioning look....
"It's free, just, as long as you don't get caught..."

____________________________________________________________________

Back to the update. So it being MLK day most businesses are closed, and as aforementioned the lovely establishment I grace every day is not. Well at least not for the Big Guy and I. The rest of the floor we are housed on did not come into today so this is apparently what happened with the elusive, mysterious, curious, business cards.

It seems that around 10am (while I was at my desk mind you) UPS decided that I was not here, according to the website tracker. I'm fine with that conclusion because, for all intensive purposes, why would we be here. Regardless, I'M HERE!

So the cards, I am assuming, will arrive tomorrow that is if the government or some other agency doesn't take possession of them or UPS decides that I am not here again.

It is strange to be told, via internet that you "will not be receiving packages today" because "receiver is on holiday" it's like, the computer is fighting my battles for me. Or making plans for me that I just won't keep.

UPS, next time, let me pencil you in.

Over the past few days I got a lot of feedback, people telling me that they LOVE the business card story, that it really made them laugh, which I completely appreciate as it is one of my favorite things to do, i.e. Make people laugh. I too, thoroughly enjoy this story, especially when I get offers and opinions about why other people think the government took our cards. My father replied with a simple "Hmm..."

I occasionally thumb my existing cards from the same company, delivered on time, no problems. I inspect it for distinctive marks, or smells. Nothing. Just my name, title, contact information. I look for codes, maybe, just maybe my boss is involved with some CIA shit and he's the middle-man between the big-wigs and the small fish.

Maybe they found out about the Fotochop I illegally downloaded. Dammit. I've said too much already.

...on hold... still...

One of the worst things that I am forced to do, not only at my job, but in life, is to wait on hold.

A lot of places, have these Mus-ac songs with no beginning and no end so you don't know how long you've been on the phone for. 10 minutes... 2 hours? It's all a toss up! What a cruel thing to do to someone.

Occassionally I worry the phone receiver will fuse to my ear lobe. But that's just silly, isn't it?

I find it really interesting how long I can wait on one phone call, listen to the same riff over and over again without much complaint. Instead, I start to memorize the tune, make up words, and if I'm lucky, D.A.N.C.E.

Searched and Seized

About a month ago, I ordered my boss business cards, and then, completely forgot about them.

Yesterday he asked me where they were. Upon my investigation I was confronted with this, from the UPS tracking website:

1/8/08 - Secaucus, NJ -


7:30am - PKG DELAY-ADD'L SECURITY CHECK BY GOV'T OR OTHER AGENCY- BEYOND UPS CONTROL


7:36am - ARRIVAL SCAN


8:30am - THE PACKAGE IS DELAYED DUE TO EMERGENCY CONDITIONS BEYOND UPS' CONTROL

Hmmm. Emergency Conditions? If I was ordering petroleum, I think I'd be more understanding, but business cards...?

What in the hell was going on? What exactly had I ordered?! I called the business card website main office:

"Hi, I ordered a package of business cards on the 3rd and haven't received them yet. When I checked UPS tracking website, it told me the government had it."

Woman on the line "Oh, you're like the 2nd person to tell me this has happened to them. We have no idea why this is happening."

"Oh? Um. That's strange..." and reassuring...

"Yea, I'm just going to send out the cards again, hopefully it'll get there this time!" She chortles.
And for some reason, an obvious one, I become concerned for her lack of concern. Isn't she curious why a supposed box of business cards has been inspected not once but twice by a government or some other agency? What was in those cards?! And what could this other agency be? My paranoid conspiracy theorists-self that I surpress while sober starts peeking her head out, examining the situation.

Then I had to relay this information to my boss. We consorted over what could have possibly been in the package to cause such a stir and delay:

"Anthrax!"
"Maybe it's some dissolving warfare chemical that if we inhale we die."
"Drug trafficking via business card website cover."
"What did you actually order, Claire?"
"Um... business cards! I swear!"

This morning, I checked my tracking order on the UPS site. The package is expected to be here today (yea right!) according to the page, it's still in California departure scanned and all. I will keep updated about the whereabouts and the like.

UPDATE

This is only because I'm an asshole:

Dear Prints Made Easy,

Although I have already called to express my concern about the package of business cards being held for extreme conditions beyond UPS's control, I have a question about semantics. You say under status "guaranteed arrival" of today January 18th. However, under the UPS tracking page, it says that it is arriving ONTIME on January 21st. This makes your use of Guaranteed incorrect. For better quality and assurance, you may want to have the two dates connect.


Why did I do this? Because I could.


Moments later, I received a response:


Hi Claire,

I am sorry. You are correct; the dates should match. They are on the way. I do apologize for the delay and inconvenience.

Thank You,
Customer Service


Have I won? Not entirely, but I can see the finish line.

Dropping the Ball.

"Sweetie, bloggers aren't cool, the only people who think they're cool are other bloggers"

Hefty and valuable advice especially upon the launch of my own blog. I don't know exactly what I want to do with this, what I want to say, who exactly this is intended for, how much I can really divulge. Perhaps I will learn how to make a quiche or use those circular knitting needles or, relay my awkward mindless stories, or, who knows, change the world? (bah!)

The question isn't so much how to keep others engaged while reading this, but how to keep myself. Blogs are self reflective and self indulgent, which as, my brother's girlfriend Kat, of missunderestimated.com says, "so is anything artistic" adding "not to say that that's a bad thing..."

This post, in and of itself, is exactly what I am talking about. A self conscience examination of what exactly I'M thinking. You must make something for yourself before even considering making it for other people. It must resonate with you first before you can truly let it be explored by alien eyes.

So where do we start?

I live in Brooklyn. I work in Manhattan. Everything is changing every second.




when we lived
nothing was stable
everything was malleable

we were flight-takers.

Working Class Whatever

Delays:

Flooding on the tracks

60's iconoclast in a class chasm
a horn totted G-chord
(Liberace in brass tones)

He stood near the doors. Bassman's Blues.

"I am the poor man's poet, Baby;
You got any change, Baby?"


The news spouted something of delays,

morning commute in a manic-panic


and when the milk
ran out/went bad/spoiled

i had my coffee dry
and sweet.