So for days I've been carrying around thoughts in my head, wanting to put them here, and then at the same time, not wanting to. Because I need to make up for lost time. For you.
And here it is, all written out:
I don't really know what I want. I want to be able to go to work, feeling productive researching literature for my long-term, temporary, free-willing job at the office I have to make a call every morning to get into. About this job: I get to spend as much as, or more than, eight hours a day under the guise of 'research,' but really, I'm reading. I'm reading with the intent of locating pieces of classic and important literature appropriate for tenth graders in my state. Not for their curriculum, but for their end-of-year assessments. I pick the literature, and after it's gone through a long weeding-out process, someone writes the questions. And this all happened to me just because my mom happened to be in a room where someone was looking for an English major. And she thought of me. I didn't even have to interview.
And it's not the only search and research I have right now, not at all. Of course there's this other volunteer job for a fantastic nonprofit, but that's not it, either. I should say that it seems like I'll be here in Raleigh for a while. The job's not going anywhere, even if it is on a temporary basis. And I'm connecting with old friends, which is so thrilling. But the real search which gets me, which made me stop researching (a bona fide bonus of my work is spending time in the university stacks) is the connecting with New People part. I'm finding out that I'm not so good at that. And especially when it's boys. Boys you meet at parties and talk to because you found that you can. But then realize you don't know how to keep talking to them, without giving the wrong idea. Because I'm not good at this. And I'm not interested in giving the wrong impression. And deep down inside I know that I, and so many other man-I's out there, just want a real connection. But do you turn away or become indifferent if it isn't something you want to spark? And how should I already decide that? Because I had some wrought-out idea of what a spark is?
Perhaps it just means that I need to put myself out there, at more parties and more let-me-introduce-myself moments. Perhaps so that I can see past my own nose and see hearts and noses that don't involve me, so that I don't make it all about me. So that it doesn't feel so heavy when I try to not make it about me but all the signs point back, again.
Even if I'm slow going, this is life. This is a constant meet and share, hold and release, here and not.
And just being a friend is more than words will ever have to be.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
Image of Procrastination
Sometimes brilliant ideas come to us after we've been around a while and have seen something we can't forget. Or, can't forget the taste of. When for five or so months, we've been able to reason with ourselves to get it while it's good, while it's still there. To support something and put our money where our mouth is.
Something good enough that we make excuses for things we need in town, just so we can get reasonably close enough that we might as well stop, since we're in the neighborhood.
I'm talking, of course, of donuts. Of delicious donuts not found on every grocery store shelf or known by their name across the country. I'm talking of a place called Krumpe's, which isn't pronounced krump's, like I first exclaimed. It's a more like krumpy's, and it's more like amazing.
It used to be that the things we loved we had to work for and wait until they were ready. Until they sprouted from the ground, until their buds blossomed. Like ice cream in the summer, when we have forgotten what it feels like to be cold. Like asparagus in the spring, when the shoots are so tender they can be plucked straight from the stalk and eaten in hand.
Perhaps that is why I so quickly grew to love Krumpe's donuts: I couldn't find them just anywhere at on any given whim. They were vailable when they were fresh, and that meant after 7 p.m. It also meant that I couldn't go on Saturday evening, because the donuts are made during the night, and Saturday evening is their night off to rest for Sunday morning. I was so stuck on them that sometimes I would forget that, and instead find a dimly lit drive, with its normal bustle of cars and people.
I loved the donuts because I had to drive down Donut Alley to get to them; for more than fifty years they have been on this same small street. I love them because they are melt-in-your-mouth delicious on their own, and even better with peanut butter frosting or filled with cinnamon apples. They are still sold at the counter by clerks wearing paper deli hats, and it is probable you will see the expert donut makers so skilled at their work that you can hardly see in what direction their hands are moving. And, although I was often alone on my trips to the donut capital, I was surrounded by generations of fellow donut lovers, buying a dozen and eating half of them before they even left the parking lot. My love for these donuts is so strong that I went to the only gas station I know to sell them and happily gobbled down four day-old donuts in a twenty-minute drive. They are that good.
And, when I returned to North Carolina, one of the first stops I made was to Krispy Kreme--the reigning donut king in these parts. I went when the hot donuts sign was on, but they weren't the same. They didn't melt the same way in my mouth, and their taste was good but not you-have-to-come-back-soon extraordinary.
So, as I often do, I tried my hand at baking some. I knew I wouldn't approach the deliciousness of the Krumpe's donuts--even a health-minded fellow knows that some things are just meant to be fried--but I can't afford to run out and get Krispy Kreme every week, either. What turned out was a baked dough, similar to a healthier, sugar-coated partial whole grain pastry when straight from the oven. At room temperature, it was denser and still sweet, but not the delicicacy you'd find at a small hole-in-the-wall bakery. I'm not ready yet to take out the fryer--that can of worms is perhaps best left in western Maryland, where delicious local donuts rule supreme.
You can find the recipe for these homemade baked donuts here.
Something good enough that we make excuses for things we need in town, just so we can get reasonably close enough that we might as well stop, since we're in the neighborhood.
I'm talking, of course, of donuts. Of delicious donuts not found on every grocery store shelf or known by their name across the country. I'm talking of a place called Krumpe's, which isn't pronounced krump's, like I first exclaimed. It's a more like krumpy's, and it's more like amazing.
It used to be that the things we loved we had to work for and wait until they were ready. Until they sprouted from the ground, until their buds blossomed. Like ice cream in the summer, when we have forgotten what it feels like to be cold. Like asparagus in the spring, when the shoots are so tender they can be plucked straight from the stalk and eaten in hand.
Perhaps that is why I so quickly grew to love Krumpe's donuts: I couldn't find them just anywhere at on any given whim. They were vailable when they were fresh, and that meant after 7 p.m. It also meant that I couldn't go on Saturday evening, because the donuts are made during the night, and Saturday evening is their night off to rest for Sunday morning. I was so stuck on them that sometimes I would forget that, and instead find a dimly lit drive, with its normal bustle of cars and people.
I loved the donuts because I had to drive down Donut Alley to get to them; for more than fifty years they have been on this same small street. I love them because they are melt-in-your-mouth delicious on their own, and even better with peanut butter frosting or filled with cinnamon apples. They are still sold at the counter by clerks wearing paper deli hats, and it is probable you will see the expert donut makers so skilled at their work that you can hardly see in what direction their hands are moving. And, although I was often alone on my trips to the donut capital, I was surrounded by generations of fellow donut lovers, buying a dozen and eating half of them before they even left the parking lot. My love for these donuts is so strong that I went to the only gas station I know to sell them and happily gobbled down four day-old donuts in a twenty-minute drive. They are that good.
And, when I returned to North Carolina, one of the first stops I made was to Krispy Kreme--the reigning donut king in these parts. I went when the hot donuts sign was on, but they weren't the same. They didn't melt the same way in my mouth, and their taste was good but not you-have-to-come-back-soon extraordinary.
You can find the recipe for these homemade baked donuts here.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Practice makes perfect
Since I know that I only have a few followers, one of whom asked me to continue writing, I am going to start writing again, here. I'm not making any promises about the depth or the grace or the fabulosity of what you'll find. Who knows what I might be writing about next week. Who knows if it will even be readable. Do words strung together always make sense? Is it like art? Like throwing all the dense or homogeneous objects against a wall, hoping that if they don't stick, they at least leave a reminder that they once tried to?
In the foreseeable future, this blog will be something of an orifice, a snug deposit place, for some of my thoughts and frustrations with the current part of my journey. It will be a reason for me to always keep those fingers moving, typing, if even to continue patterns of adjacent keys on the keyboard--until a thought comes through the routine. For guidance I have next to me a stack of grammar books, programming books, blogging books (well, one) and pamphlets from the graduate program I keep changing my mind about, but really Do want to attend. I thought perhaps I should learn something about HTML for future (or current) work; I have gotten really sloppy with my commas and semicolons and need to be reined back in. And, although I declared to a good friend (over beer, no less) that I really am happy to be in North Carolina, I'm not sure that I am. Of course, I am not working right now and it's not enjoyable to be anywhere (except for perhaps Berlin? the coast of Florida? with the hipsters in Portland?) when you're not working. And, when the bank account is quickly, quickly, emptying, and I cave to buy things like a Weleda body oil sample kit--to make up for not buying them (I know, what was I thinking?) when I was in Germany. I also bought butter and sugar to make homemade baked doughnuts tomorrow (the dough can rise while I'm working on my resume Of Course) from Trader Joe's. I went into Whole Foods and left just as soon--what a madhouse. And is anything local? Not that Trader Joe's is, but I don't have to give the rest of my sad bank balance to shop there.
Sometime in the future, if you keep reading, I hope to upgrade from this simple format to something a little more advanced and snazzy. But my writing is not ready for everyone's eyes; I have time to learn how to publish HTML just in time for publishing my words. (Hopefully!) Sometime in the future. Just keep it in mind.
And, for your clincher: thanks for reading this. It won't make you rich; it won't bring you happiness beyond your wildest dreams; it won't boil your dinner. But it will mean a lot to me, to know that you are there.
In the foreseeable future, this blog will be something of an orifice, a snug deposit place, for some of my thoughts and frustrations with the current part of my journey. It will be a reason for me to always keep those fingers moving, typing, if even to continue patterns of adjacent keys on the keyboard--until a thought comes through the routine. For guidance I have next to me a stack of grammar books, programming books, blogging books (well, one) and pamphlets from the graduate program I keep changing my mind about, but really Do want to attend. I thought perhaps I should learn something about HTML for future (or current) work; I have gotten really sloppy with my commas and semicolons and need to be reined back in. And, although I declared to a good friend (over beer, no less) that I really am happy to be in North Carolina, I'm not sure that I am. Of course, I am not working right now and it's not enjoyable to be anywhere (except for perhaps Berlin? the coast of Florida? with the hipsters in Portland?) when you're not working. And, when the bank account is quickly, quickly, emptying, and I cave to buy things like a Weleda body oil sample kit--to make up for not buying them (I know, what was I thinking?) when I was in Germany. I also bought butter and sugar to make homemade baked doughnuts tomorrow (the dough can rise while I'm working on my resume Of Course) from Trader Joe's. I went into Whole Foods and left just as soon--what a madhouse. And is anything local? Not that Trader Joe's is, but I don't have to give the rest of my sad bank balance to shop there.
And, for your clincher: thanks for reading this. It won't make you rich; it won't bring you happiness beyond your wildest dreams; it won't boil your dinner. But it will mean a lot to me, to know that you are there.
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