Who is the woman with the gun?
- Overheard in the office, as John showed photos from his Pakistan trip.
boy the cold is still out there I hope it goes north soon. I came in last Saturday and the roads were crazy but I was in the mood for that so it went fine one time in the drive the snow was 5in deep on the road and the cars were very hard to see I got to practice my cat driving you all know when you drive with a big loan of hay on the truck with no ropes and see if you can get it home hope to see you all next week and maybe 30 or more warmer terry
"… . you can tell a great deal about the character of a restaurant from its menu. A sloppily presented menu is likely to indicate a sloppily run kitchen. A menu which contains nothing except run-of-the-mill dishes probably means that no one in the place is making much of an effort to set an interesting table. In the provinces, the listing of regional dishes is a good sign. The presence of specialties, especially unusual specialties, is another… .In general, a restaurant which takes pains about its food takes pains also to produce an attractive menu to go with it. Beware, however, of too much quaintness on a menu. When a restaurant starts describing its dishes in elaborate self-conscious terms or by employing a quaint medieval vocabular, you are likely to find yourself confronted with a purely verbal exercise. Coyness in the menu is being used to distract attention from the shortcomings of the food." Waverley Root, The Food of France.
“In the end, my wife’s death made me more forceful, less afraid to fail,” he said. “The worst had already happened.”
We find out the heart only by dismantling what
the heart knows. By redefining the morning,
we find a morning that comes just after darkness.
We can break through marriage into marriage.
By insisting on love we spoil it, get beyond
affection and wade mouth-deep into love.
We must unlearn the constellations to see the stars.
But going back toward childhood will not help.
The village is not better than Pittsburgh.
Only Pittsburgh is more than Pittsburgh.
Rome is better than Rome in the same way the sound
of raccoon tongues licking the inside walls
of the garbage tub is more than the stir
of them in the muck of the garbage. Love is not
enough. We die and are put into the earth forever.
We should insist while there is still time. We must
eat through the wildness of her sweet body already
in our bed to reach the body within that body.
Patti Smith remembers her late friend Lou Reed: http://nyr.kr/16zPALy
“A complicated man, he encouraged our efforts, then turned and provoked me like a Machiavellian schoolboy. I would try to steer clear of him, but, catlike, he would suddenly reappear, and disarm me with some Delmore Schwartz line about love or courage.”
Illustration by Tom Bachtell.
If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.
Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.
Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbor to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler’s wife.
I could hardly glance at you
never touch you
— your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers…
When we swam once
I touched you in water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said
this is how you touch other women
the grasscutter’s wife, the lime burner’s daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume.
what good is it
to be the lime burner’s daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in an act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of scar.
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler’s wife. Smell me.