new year’s day

The house was clean and the table set with retro swirls. The french press was in high demand as soon as the Quaker and the Hawaiian arrived. They were in from D.C. and in their typical style, had their Cake and ate it too. On the way down, Q & H stopped in Asheville for a night and told us of vegetarian delicacies and hippies. They brought us a bag of coffee beans from the Early Girl Eatery, which have delighted our mugs since. In surprise attendance were the JBombs, with their new little guy, complete with his excellent indie-rock haircut.

Emerson was inscribed in chalk above the coffee station and black beans were simmering on the cooktop. I simply heated up some olive oil and  sauteed a 1/4 of an orange bell pepper, 1/2 an onion, and some garlic and then added some canned Goya black beans. Suddenly an idea lit and I heated up a pot of water to slow cook some grits. As I stirred and stirred, Eddie Harris pulsed through the kitchen, and I shredded colby-jack into the thick grits. The beans bubbled gently and Mrs. B cracked eggs and lowered them gentler still in to the pot for poaching. Sunny sides looking out into the new year.

Serving up bowls,                                                                                                                                                                           grits, then beans and eggs                                                                                                                                                                to the weary travelers of 2011.                                                                                                                                                          Red and green salsas                                                                                                                                                                        peppering the way of 2012.

All around the table, I realize that one resolution is already taking hold – Entertaining. Feeding the body, feeding the soul through creative fellowship.

Oscar Peterson serenades                                                                                                                                                              adults in mid-life, mid stride.                                                                                                                                                        different lives                                                                                                                                                                                     meeting, converging                                                                                                                                                                          asking, demanding                                                                                                                                                                     creativity, happiness                                                                                                                                                                           joy, abandon.                                                                                                                                                                                  eating huevos rancheros with poached eggs and grits                                                                                                             drinking coffee                                                                                                                                                                               wondering about the next time.

Everyone in my life is perfect.                                                                                                                                                           Perfectly themselves.

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clean slate

“To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and to endure the betrayal of false friends. To appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; to know that even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson

Did you see the moon tonight?

Liquidity,

and the shadows stalled into

-effervescent seconds-

I lingered even still

until

I feared I would catch death,

but instead felt the breath

of a new lover

and small instincts took root

splaying their fortunate fronds before me.

The lasting night briefly stopped

and I could watch the wheel,

the terrible wheel

turn

without me on it.

 

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watching the world spin around

I often forget

what pleasure it is to watch the sun go down

above the tree line,

the thick November rust of what is left

of the leaves.

Granite slopes away towards

everything else

in closer to solstice

twilight.

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What’s next, hacky sack?

 I know that some people call it “hippy golf”, but nothing beats 18 holes of disc golf on a mild fall morning. Brisbane and I headed out to Redan Park in the Bug with the top down on Monday morning. We have a history of fierce competition between us dating back to high school, involving those folded up triangles of paper that we called footballs. Basketball, badminton, tape ball (baseball in a warehouse), croquet. You name it, we’ve clashed in some epic battles. We approach disc golf in much the same way, with trash talking and belittling before the first throw. Once the game begins, however, the tenacity takes over and the tournament of egos begins.

Redan Park is beautiful and well maintained. Besides some adolescent graffito, it’s really clean and natural. Open fields, some pine scrub and plenty of hardwoods mix together for a super nice course that is challenging and sometimes frustrating after an errant throw that puts you in one of the many slow flowing streams. I’ve been coming here since the mid 90’s and always have an enjoyable time. If you haven’t played disc golf before, give it a try. Discs are pretty cheap and you can GET outside. By the way, I won by one stroke. It should be called “hipster golf.”

June of Any Year

She lived in one of those old Decatur houses

with arched doorways and built-ins.

A weeknight summer date,

a yellow sundress

anything I could have said

shadowed the gold around her head.

 

Against my parent’s Volkswagen

we ended up in one of those classic teenage poses.

I was leaning

on the hatchback.

She was leaning into me,

her back to the past.

A perfect night,

knowing she was leaving in the morning.

After all, it was summer.

I had other,

well, one other prospect to pursue.

 

“I’m not going to my grandmother’s in Macon”

she said to surprise me.

I couldn’t hide

the look of surprise

as she pulled away

and we were perpendicular,

flanking columns

in Olmstead’s park.

 

Then, somehow in the dark,

the light changed

and she was beautiful

promising

still.

Suddenly she was the one

but my sentiment had stuck

and it was time to take her home.

 

I saw her to the door with no kiss.

I headed home with cheeks burning,

the radiator had threats of bursting

and I missed my curfew.

 

She went south in the morning.

I always choose the wrong girl.

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Glasvegas

 

Geraldine

 

 

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Autumn in the South

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