A reader reminded me of the altitude in La Paz, so I decided to test out the refurbished ticker before Sunday's flight. I hiked the state park this evening, and I handled the first hill okay, but the second incline hit me hard. I was chugging like a raspy steam engine by the time I crested the bluff. When I reached a favorite overlook I scared seven turkey vultures off of a dead elm. Jesus and Mohammed, they're massive birds when you come right up on them. Big, black shadows lifting into the gloaming, eyeing me sideways from their bald, prehistoric heads. I staggered backward and turned my ankle. My heart about leapt from my chest, and the scars from my quad bypass literally burned on my flesh. I thought of Hester Prynn.
I wound up on my ass in the mud, stunned, and for no reason in particular I began weeping. A trail runner happened by and she paused, staring down at me, bouncing from one foot to the other. Embarrassed, I made up some nonsense about my pet Pomeranian dying. I gathered myself and picked my way back down the trail.
When I returned home I found a message on my machine from my second ex-wife. She was livid that I hadn't told her about the surgery, and after a string of expletives she burst into tears and then insisted we meet in neutral territory (DC) sometime next week. We'd visit with Billie, share a meal or two at Etrusco, maybe take in a movie. She said that we needed to rethink our non-relationship. She said that I had been the best friend she ever had until I ruined her life, still the thought of my near death had crushed her. In short, she missed me. New tears formed behind the bridge of my nose. This reunion sounded lovely, but I'm leaving for Bolivia on Sunday so what can I do? I sat with my hand on the phone for the better part of an hour, feeling ridiculous for chasing my ex-girlfriend, a former student no less, halfway round the world on a whim. Call your wife, dammit, I chided myself, but to no avail.
I've already decided to cancel tomorrow's class. I'm two-thirds of the way through a bottle of my favorite Primitivo, and I already know the dream I'll have: the vultures will return and wait patiently while I lie in the mud. Every woman I've ever loved, including the first, will come by to collect interest on the happiness I've stolen from them, to be paid in vials of heart blood. The buzzards will then enjoy my desiccated remains.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
The spring breaketh
I'm set for La Paz. I'm toting one carryon bag, the sum total of my luggage. One change of clothes, seven pairs of underdrawers. I've also just packed three splits of a delicious though pricey Australian Shiraz (Shotfire Ridge) for the flight, plus a small bottle of olive oil (xx). I'll pick up a loaf of French bread on the way to the airport. I don't know what to do about the corkscrew, what with the nonsensical airline security regulations. I've lost at least a dozen waiter corkscrews over the years to security agents as I'm never without one in my pocket. Perhaps I can borrow one onboard, though the flight attendants frown when you bring your own booze. Any suggestions?
Inflight I'll be reading my dear friend Jim Harrison's latest collection of novellas. I'm quite excited. I'm also packing some Graham Greene.
Thanks, too, to Miss Snark for her thoughtful advice on my agent predicament. I plan to implement her suggestions upon my return. I find the internet literary community refreshing after years of those stuffy university cocktail mixers and coffeehouse cliques. I recommend Miss Snark to all of my writing students. She's clever and funny, but most important "that chick knows her shit," as my daughter Billie might say. Her blog is more useful than five years in an MFA program, but don't tell the establishment as I'd be out of a job.
Inflight I'll be reading my dear friend Jim Harrison's latest collection of novellas. I'm quite excited. I'm also packing some Graham Greene.
Thanks, too, to Miss Snark for her thoughtful advice on my agent predicament. I plan to implement her suggestions upon my return. I find the internet literary community refreshing after years of those stuffy university cocktail mixers and coffeehouse cliques. I recommend Miss Snark to all of my writing students. She's clever and funny, but most important "that chick knows her shit," as my daughter Billie might say. Her blog is more useful than five years in an MFA program, but don't tell the establishment as I'd be out of a job.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Spring break in Bolivia
I know that I've been less than diligent in my postings but trust me that it is only because I've been writing furiously. Billie gave me one of her old laptop computers, a clunky device without a modem, and it has released me from the Internet, thus magnifying my productivity. I'm reminded of my old Remington, which is what I used to produce my last worthy novel. The battery on this machine lasts two hours, and I've been hiking into the local state forest with my collapsible canvas chair to write. I spent the anniversary of the Bush War in frigid 40-degree sleet underneath a budding willow, typing until my fingers were stiff. The day was cold enough to silence the spring peepers down in the swamp, but I nevertheless managed two thousand words. At this rate I shall be finished by the end of the semester. Which would be ideal as I expect to be fired...but more on that later.
It's been difficult finding an agent for my two other new novels. They think I'm washed up, never mind that I used to be a sure thing to reach a third printing, if not more. This newest novel, though, should prove easier to sell: it is the best thing I've done since the 70s. Perhaps if I query under a different name. I'm afraid the New York literary establishment does not hold me in high regard due to some embarrassingly colorful behavior over the last twenty-five years.
I received my spring break tickets to La Paz. I expect that Shirleen will be shocked to see me as she has no idea. I assume that her decision to flee to Bolivia was not on my account. Billie thinks I'm crazy, but Ella recalls the nude photos and has endorsed my scheme. She takes it as a sign that my ticker is healing.
Elizabeth Lowell stopped by yesterday. She is quite pregnant, and accordingly attractive. Quite apart from the garden variety fetishism, I find pregnant women at the height of their radiance as a gender. I suppose I can empathize with the Republicans who so desperately want to keep them in this condition. She lifted her shirt to allow me to touch her belly, and I can still feel the imprint of her taught skin against my calloused paw. She is estranged from her Baptist family now, but I told her she could move in with me. I then fixed a simple Spanish soup.
Use frozen stock (porterhouse trimmings, livers, calves head). First sautee 8 cloves of peeled, degermed garlic in olive oil. Remove the garlic and pour in the stock. Simmer. Add cumin, ginger and parsley snips. Simmer. Crush the garlic with the back of a wooden spoon, return to soup, simmer. Next smear Italian bread slices with olive oil and toast on one side. Pour soup in bowls, crack one egg into each dish, lay on a slice of bread and stick in a 450 degree oven until the egg is boiled and solid in the bottom. Serve with a real Caesar salad (from scratch) and more bread.
Elizabeth sipped a nip of my discount Borsoa (5 bucks, World Market), and the meal was complete.
I leave for La Paz on Sunday. More upon my return.
It's been difficult finding an agent for my two other new novels. They think I'm washed up, never mind that I used to be a sure thing to reach a third printing, if not more. This newest novel, though, should prove easier to sell: it is the best thing I've done since the 70s. Perhaps if I query under a different name. I'm afraid the New York literary establishment does not hold me in high regard due to some embarrassingly colorful behavior over the last twenty-five years.
I received my spring break tickets to La Paz. I expect that Shirleen will be shocked to see me as she has no idea. I assume that her decision to flee to Bolivia was not on my account. Billie thinks I'm crazy, but Ella recalls the nude photos and has endorsed my scheme. She takes it as a sign that my ticker is healing.
Elizabeth Lowell stopped by yesterday. She is quite pregnant, and accordingly attractive. Quite apart from the garden variety fetishism, I find pregnant women at the height of their radiance as a gender. I suppose I can empathize with the Republicans who so desperately want to keep them in this condition. She lifted her shirt to allow me to touch her belly, and I can still feel the imprint of her taught skin against my calloused paw. She is estranged from her Baptist family now, but I told her she could move in with me. I then fixed a simple Spanish soup.
Use frozen stock (porterhouse trimmings, livers, calves head). First sautee 8 cloves of peeled, degermed garlic in olive oil. Remove the garlic and pour in the stock. Simmer. Add cumin, ginger and parsley snips. Simmer. Crush the garlic with the back of a wooden spoon, return to soup, simmer. Next smear Italian bread slices with olive oil and toast on one side. Pour soup in bowls, crack one egg into each dish, lay on a slice of bread and stick in a 450 degree oven until the egg is boiled and solid in the bottom. Serve with a real Caesar salad (from scratch) and more bread.
Elizabeth sipped a nip of my discount Borsoa (5 bucks, World Market), and the meal was complete.
I leave for La Paz on Sunday. More upon my return.
Monday, February 27, 2006
Farewell
The dryad who often haunts me appeared to me this morning as I stared into a wretched cup of homeopathic tea that my daughter Billie, who is taking her turn tending me in my recuperation, forced upon me. I saw the face of the girl from my youth shimmer in the ripple as I tapped a few granules of illicit sugar into the brew when Billie wasn't watching. Her lips moved, though I couldn't make out the words. I quickly stirred with a spoon and she vanished. I've been avoiding her since my surgery. I regard her as a bad omen, much in the same way the Kiowa of Oklahoma regard the hoot of a barred owl as a portent of immanent death.
And I was right. I learned today of the passing of both Octavia and Fred. I will miss you both. I've been, at turns, a humbled admirer, an inspired student, and a proud colleague. You will both be mourned but never missed as you have left us with so much of yourselves. I hope to see you soon at the place where the river flows back into itself again.
Adieu.
And I was right. I learned today of the passing of both Octavia and Fred. I will miss you both. I've been, at turns, a humbled admirer, an inspired student, and a proud colleague. You will both be mourned but never missed as you have left us with so much of yourselves. I hope to see you soon at the place where the river flows back into itself again.
Adieu.
Thursday, February 9, 2006
Crying
I've always been easily moved to tears. Even before the surgery I cried over the Iraq War at least three times per week.
Literature and food make me cry. I've bawled over my Jane Austin. Tears are conjured by Lorca's poesy and Whitman's exuberance. Last week my daughter Ella (the chef) fixed me a risotto con fungi al porcini, and I wept expansively when she set it on the table. I slobbered like my childhood basset hound, and then redoubled my crying when I remembered that animal with fondness.
Over the years, folks have equated crying in men with, at turns, cowardice, girlishness and insanity. But I'll let all those macho red meat males sucking back their tears know that crying has gotten me laid on at least four separate occasions. Remember, too, that I weighed in at 255 lbs before my surgery, very little of that muscle.
But a reader reminds me that depression, what I call the black ass, is especially acute after quad bypass surgery. I'm not sure if this is the reason for my recent upsurge in crying, but tonight I finished a chapter of my new novel and was so moved (we writers do love ourselves on occasion, don't we?) that I went out onto the patio of my flat in my underwear and wept until my skin was stippled with gooseflesh. It is winter after all. Two coeds walking by on the dark sidewalk asked, "Are you okay, sir?" with genuine concern. The old farts who say our younger generation is soulless are bitter and stupid.
In any event, I'm a bit worried by the sheer volume of tears I'm able to produce. Visiting a friend, a young assistant professor in the Philosophy Dept., I sat on his couch with his three-year-old daughter on my lap watching her favorite film, "A Bug's Life." I cried like a baby when the animated ants vanquished the brutish grasshoppers. The child reached up and touched my beard, saying, "That's okay, Mister Trout, it's only a movie." I kissed both her cheeks and forehead, chuckling new tears of joy.
Literature and food make me cry. I've bawled over my Jane Austin. Tears are conjured by Lorca's poesy and Whitman's exuberance. Last week my daughter Ella (the chef) fixed me a risotto con fungi al porcini, and I wept expansively when she set it on the table. I slobbered like my childhood basset hound, and then redoubled my crying when I remembered that animal with fondness.
Over the years, folks have equated crying in men with, at turns, cowardice, girlishness and insanity. But I'll let all those macho red meat males sucking back their tears know that crying has gotten me laid on at least four separate occasions. Remember, too, that I weighed in at 255 lbs before my surgery, very little of that muscle.
But a reader reminds me that depression, what I call the black ass, is especially acute after quad bypass surgery. I'm not sure if this is the reason for my recent upsurge in crying, but tonight I finished a chapter of my new novel and was so moved (we writers do love ourselves on occasion, don't we?) that I went out onto the patio of my flat in my underwear and wept until my skin was stippled with gooseflesh. It is winter after all. Two coeds walking by on the dark sidewalk asked, "Are you okay, sir?" with genuine concern. The old farts who say our younger generation is soulless are bitter and stupid.
In any event, I'm a bit worried by the sheer volume of tears I'm able to produce. Visiting a friend, a young assistant professor in the Philosophy Dept., I sat on his couch with his three-year-old daughter on my lap watching her favorite film, "A Bug's Life." I cried like a baby when the animated ants vanquished the brutish grasshoppers. The child reached up and touched my beard, saying, "That's okay, Mister Trout, it's only a movie." I kissed both her cheeks and forehead, chuckling new tears of joy.
Tuesday, February 7, 2006
A measure of pig fat
Kiss my big black ass, Doctor Crosby.
"You'll never improve unless you change your habits, Professor Trout," he scolded during my last visit. To compound my shame and anger, my daughter Ella stormed out of the apartment after fixing me a ridiculous concoction known as a "fruit smoothie" for my lunch.
"Christ Ella, you're supposed to be a goddamned chef!"
"I'm trying to save your life, you miserable old fuck!"
I was sure she'd return before long. We all know I can be a bastard. Maybe that explains my three divorces.
While Ella was out, I waddled across the street to the Snappy Mart and bought three packages of wretched bacon and a sack of mealy potatoes. Fortunately pommes de vendangeurs is a forgiving recipe that can be saved by imported Gruyere cheese, which I had on hand. I trimmed the fat from the bacon best I could and then clarified some butter. I buttered a round casserole and laid the bacon strips in spiral fashion, ends hanging out of the dish. I layered potato slices (gratin-thin) and then the finely grated cheese, repeated thrice and then folded the bacon over the top. I baked for forty minutes at 410 and then cooled on a rack. I ate most of it, saving one small wedge for Ella. When she returned she screamed at the amount of cholesterol I had ingested, though she devoured her slice and we then fixed a leafy spinach salad with chopped pecans and a dressing of sherry vinegar, ground pepper and XXV olive oil. Then came my one-glass ration of red wine, a Tuscan primitivo known as A Mano, which is brilliant at eight bucks a bottle. Fuck the Mondavi brothers.
Oddly, after this meal I feel better than I have at any point since the quad bypass. Perhaps I'm on the mend. I've written another ten pages on the new novel, and also revised the ending of one of my completed drafts. I'm heartened. Dare I think comeback? After all, I was once in print in thirteen different languages, though that was before some of my current students were born. Ach...I dread the thought of my return to teaching. Perhaps if I were to publish...
"You'll never improve unless you change your habits, Professor Trout," he scolded during my last visit. To compound my shame and anger, my daughter Ella stormed out of the apartment after fixing me a ridiculous concoction known as a "fruit smoothie" for my lunch.
"Christ Ella, you're supposed to be a goddamned chef!"
"I'm trying to save your life, you miserable old fuck!"
I was sure she'd return before long. We all know I can be a bastard. Maybe that explains my three divorces.
While Ella was out, I waddled across the street to the Snappy Mart and bought three packages of wretched bacon and a sack of mealy potatoes. Fortunately pommes de vendangeurs is a forgiving recipe that can be saved by imported Gruyere cheese, which I had on hand. I trimmed the fat from the bacon best I could and then clarified some butter. I buttered a round casserole and laid the bacon strips in spiral fashion, ends hanging out of the dish. I layered potato slices (gratin-thin) and then the finely grated cheese, repeated thrice and then folded the bacon over the top. I baked for forty minutes at 410 and then cooled on a rack. I ate most of it, saving one small wedge for Ella. When she returned she screamed at the amount of cholesterol I had ingested, though she devoured her slice and we then fixed a leafy spinach salad with chopped pecans and a dressing of sherry vinegar, ground pepper and XXV olive oil. Then came my one-glass ration of red wine, a Tuscan primitivo known as A Mano, which is brilliant at eight bucks a bottle. Fuck the Mondavi brothers.
Oddly, after this meal I feel better than I have at any point since the quad bypass. Perhaps I'm on the mend. I've written another ten pages on the new novel, and also revised the ending of one of my completed drafts. I'm heartened. Dare I think comeback? After all, I was once in print in thirteen different languages, though that was before some of my current students were born. Ach...I dread the thought of my return to teaching. Perhaps if I were to publish...
Je suis retourné
Loyal readers (yes, both of you!), I must apologize for my absence. Open heart surgery is "a pisser," as my daughter Billie would say. I'm on the mend, though I still feel as if I've just made love to the captain of the East German women's swim team. Shirleen sent me nude polaroids of herself from Bolivia, and it nearly finished me. My patchwork heart throbbed and I felt the staples in my chest ripping. I asked Ella, who has been taking turns attending me with her little sister, to hide them in one of the books in my food library to surprise me.
"But that might kill you, Pop."
"What better way to go?"
Ella asked if she could keep one of the photos to share with her girlfriend. I told her that while I'm perfectly comfortable with the fact that she is a lesbian, I am no more inclined to hear about the kinky side of her relationships than if she were hetero. She apologized but kept the photo.
I've earned a sabbatical from the university through pity rather than merit. I've arranged for a former student to teach my classes this semester. He's just finished editing his latest novel, and he had some free time while awaiting the galleys.
I don't expect to post much in the coming weeks, though I do have much to report. I've started yet another novel and have been making great progress...the exhaustion brought about through writing being mental rather than physical in nature. I haven't worked this well since the late 70s. I've also simplified my cooking because my stamina won't allow me to stay on my feet for very long, and I consequently have some delightful new, easy recipes to share.
I'm winded and will go lie down now. Mr. Gonzales and Mr. Bush, as I know you are reading this, will you kindly spellcheck for me?
Peace,
BT
"But that might kill you, Pop."
"What better way to go?"
Ella asked if she could keep one of the photos to share with her girlfriend. I told her that while I'm perfectly comfortable with the fact that she is a lesbian, I am no more inclined to hear about the kinky side of her relationships than if she were hetero. She apologized but kept the photo.
I've earned a sabbatical from the university through pity rather than merit. I've arranged for a former student to teach my classes this semester. He's just finished editing his latest novel, and he had some free time while awaiting the galleys.
I don't expect to post much in the coming weeks, though I do have much to report. I've started yet another novel and have been making great progress...the exhaustion brought about through writing being mental rather than physical in nature. I haven't worked this well since the late 70s. I've also simplified my cooking because my stamina won't allow me to stay on my feet for very long, and I consequently have some delightful new, easy recipes to share.
I'm winded and will go lie down now. Mr. Gonzales and Mr. Bush, as I know you are reading this, will you kindly spellcheck for me?
Peace,
BT
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