my continuing obession with raw food

Today it's "raweos" the cookies are cashews, honey, carob and coconut, the filling is a paste of almonts and cinammon.

I really need to get a food dehydrator.

Lucie Brock-Broido

I read her when I am in a mood. I don't think I had actually ever read this one all the way through before. This must be why I like her. This is from The Hunger, her first book, and it's young poetry, but it's still quite good.

October Seventh, Nineteen Eighty-Three

When everything seems a message,
A small cue of light beneath the door,
Shadows that move too early
When the thing which they are mimicking
Is still, the car crash at Lochlyn
In the middle of the dawn
& no survivors anywhere in sight.

Not that I don't have the same chemicals
That everyone else has too.
It isn't that I am alone
Or that my certain breed
Of bliss catches fire in the wrong
Times & I'm bewildered with a joy
So large I could expire.

Tonight is my ten thousandth night.
It happens in the middle of my twenty-seventh
Year. I am one-third done with this.
It happens suddenly, without warning, like the loss
Of signal laterns in electric storms,
Like a wound appearing out of nowhere
Where before there was clean flesh.

I keep hearing about the Underground
In reckless cities all over the world,
How important danger will become in a tunnel
Situation. How caution means nothing,
How the music of traveling too fast
Has everything to do with risk & melancholia.
I am drawn to figments & occasion:

REM sleep, Winter Solstice, the Blind Man's
Afternoons. I would read for him
In a Cambrian room which smelled of dread
& dance there for him barefoot
On a black rug, as if he could see
The color of the inside of my mouth
From a room six thousand miles away.

I have come to this. Those of us whose eyes
By chance, genetics, aptitude, go down
On the ends will be perceived as perpetually sad.
There is nothing quite exact to fear
& these are hours of exactitude.

As if it would be possible to live
In random increments or know
That no one knows which thing
Will happen next. This many days
Into my life, I have come to this.

October, I am in possession of my name.
Sorcerer, this is substantial life we're speaking of.
Light, you loom upon these days
As if everything has its certain purpose
Like an inebriated monk illuminating a great text.

endurance is boring

Just now I went searching to see if any of my poetry was online, thanks to a conversation with Alison. It wasn't (as I suspected), but in the process I found further political misuse of something I wrote when I was twenty that I LOATHE, a bunch of people calling me douchebag because I loathed Melusine and got paid to say so, and some really bad reviews of an anthology I have a story in.

This, my friends, is the glamorous life.

hahahaha

Questions that, in the hands of Kali and myself, should cause you concern:

"So what if veela are like veal?"