~...amuse gueule~*~amuse ghoul...~

( [message from Kostya on Sasha’s private cell] )

I lost a friend last night.

( of the satanic thistle that raises its horned symmetry flowering above sister grass-daisies' pink tiny bloomlets angelic as lightbulbs— )

It’s a bit late in mentioning, but: I have a new guide!

...though there seems to be an epidemic of that lately. Still, my joy is undiminished. The last candidate was pleasant to look at, but jittery and vague (or so the rumors preached.) This one makes scrumptious rugelach and seems to be Russian, both excellent points in her favor. The downside to this development, of course, is loosing the chance to consult with someone of similar kind—but it was very good rugelach. As Kostya would say: Нет худа без добра.*

Finally, things are looking up.


[*There's no bad without the good.]

Trying out some new TTS software.

So.

AIM: mementru.

"Once upon a time, they say, there was a girl. . .there was a boy. . .there was a person who was in trouble. And this is what she did. . .and what he did. . .and how they learned to survive it. This is what they did. . .and why one failed. . .and why another triumphed in the end. And I know that it's true, because I danced at their wedding and drank their very best wine."

So are we the fairy or the cautionary tales? Because, frankly, lately I feel like an anecdote at best.

"A clever cook, can make....good meat of a whetstone." (Desiderius Erasmus)
Apparently feeding a pre-change were-whatever is unlike handling the cravings of an anemic. On the plus side, I've fed that fault before. On the down side...

...where the deuce am I going to get kangaroo steaks this late in in the week?

Attention Halcyon's moonstruck masses;

In the interest of culinary research, and for the sake of an upcoming pet project, I have a question: do you have "lunar" cravings? Meaning, are there any particular snacks or savories you desire right before and/or after the full moon? Are these cravings consistent or have they changed over time? Likewise, are any tastes repellent to you around this time?

Speaks up, please, this is for science.

"And the Lord said unto Moses, Take unto thee sweet spices, stacte, and onycha, and galbanum; these sweet spices with pure frankincense: of each shall there be a like weight: / And thou shalt make it a perfume, a confection after the art of the apothecary, tempered together, pure and holy: / And thou shalt beat some of it very small, and put of it before the testimony in the tabernacle of the congregation, where I will meet with thee: it shall be unto you most holy." (Exodus 30:34)

La vérité en parfum n’existe pas, sauf à être la passagère coïncidence d’une senteur avec notre âme, ce qui fait bien des vérités pour tout autant d’âmes.

[Truth in perfume does not exist, unless one means by that the transient state of coincidence of a scent with our soul, which means that there are as many truths as there are souls.]


Lately my faith wonders constantly between garden and pyre.

Because everyone knows you’re only well-adjusted if you’ve got the Polaroids to prove it, here’s the latest tithe to Dr. Quinn.
( C'est une tempete dans un verre d'eau. )

Forced perspectives are tiring. I like Proust’s remedy: a spoonful of tea with a softened piece of madeleine. Tea helps prepare for the inevitable “all in your head” ruling. (Of course, it is. Where else would I keep it?)

I'm a stone's throw from (supposedly) one of the oldest, arcane friendly libraries available...and can't read a single word within.

Rod Serling would approve.

There are always two people in every picture: the photographer and the viewer. (Ansel Adams)

In other words: Dr. Quinn sent me a camera.

( [left in the Zephyr CR] )

( [taped outside Sasha's door] )

( [Email to Professor Rishi] )

( [Email to Professor Aqzlece Errona Szczyk] )

Harmony.

What a splendid notion. And what an inspiration, too. I’ve been lazy—negligent—doing homework, but no work. Josiah would grimace to see the…singular opportunities of my present surroundings and company wasted just because of dreams and bad weather. (Though, how cloying this regiment of rain, rain, rain.)

I think it’s time for a little research project. Something near and dear to my heart—or at least by one of the major valves. Something properly harmonious and inquisitive, and with a pronounced emphasis on learning the workings of something other than human.

So.

How do you go about acquiring private work space around here?


[private recording]
What’s a little blood between schoolmates, after all?

...and what’s a lot?
[ / ]

I had a dream.

( Little girls, this seems to say, Never stop upon your way, Never trust a stranger-friend; No one knows how it will end. As you’re pretty so be wise; wolves may lurk in every guise. Handsome they may be, and kind, gay, and charming — nevermind! Now, as then, ‘tis simple truth—Sweetest tongue has sharpest tooth! )

And then I wake up. It’s good to have dreams like that, sometimes. They remind why I’m here, instead of home. I’m here in honor of the good ol’ days.


( private recording to Dr. Quinn )

"El Tango es la directa expresión de lo que comúnmente los poetas han tratado de definir en palabras como: la creencia de que la lucha puede ser un festejo."

Or, the tango is a direct expression of something that poets have often tried to state in words: the belief that a fight may be a celebration.

The man who taught me to fight was the same one who taught me to dance. (A strange wedge of irony to swallow at twelve.) Specifically, he taught me to fence, then to hit, and finally—after I survived my own enthusiasm and incompetence in both—he taught me to tango. A remarkable teacher, yes…but an even more impressive grouch. He cussed, sulked, drank (note the past tense, please), blamed Moscow for the oddest things, refused to vote, fell depressed without warning or evident cause, glowered. Glowered, glowered, glowered.

But I always liked what he had to say:

“It’s the embrace. This is how a woman knows what he wants to do even before her partner takes a step—if their embrace is good. She feels him shift his weight to one foot, feels his upper body begin to ‘fall’ in the direction. And stop pinching.”

“Never push.”

“Don’t confuse it with the waltz, this is no ballroom nicety. There is a history. Watch the kicks, watch the sliding. These movements, they simulate knife movements, they mimic the shuffle of a gangster approaching a murder. Remember the rough roots, Shurik; this was the dance of La Boca criminals long before it was the toast of Paris. And stop laughing.”

“The woman lures, the man leads. He protects and supports her; she elaborates and outlines the dance. Don’t belittle either role. And stop smirking.”

“Pause only for drama, for emotion, for tragedy. And stop yawning.”

“Don’t say anything to the bartender you’re not willing to repeat to his wife. Actually—don’t’ say anything. Just dance. And stop—wait, was it on fire when we came in?”

Plus, he was such a shark.

El corazon de la auyama solo lo conoce el cuchillo.

And on that cutting note, I'm entertaining the notion of seeking out my "guide". Who is, apparently, a djinn. Sometimes logic does not appeal.

Remind me: guides do what exactly?

( [posted by Zephir House entrance] )

( We must bless ourselves with peaches. )

That said, I'm aching to do some grocery shopping. Craving pains blitzed the mind this morning, demanding a heart-full of basil and olive oil. I've already got a masterpiece in mind, but--alas--lack the ingredients. (And while the school is generous, I'd rather avoid poaching their larder for anything but the basics.)

So! Miss Piggy is off to market to track down wild tomatoes, basil, and a dependable Parmigiano-Reggiano. With a little luck and lipstick, maybe I'll also win directions to whatever shop the local vineyards supply. A nice Dolcetto would be fabulous. (What kind of grape does this island grow, anyway?)

Any of you fellow stove chimps care to waltz along?

(The weather, of course, is refusing to offer any cooperation. Thank Providence for cabs and breathable cotton.)

This feels odd. I haven’t kept a nonacademic journal since I was five and even that sad notebook was more of an attempt to control information overload rather than anything enjoyable. Am I enjoying this? Sitting in a small, new room and chatting up a computer through a microphone. The text on the screen is inscrutable. It could be Babylonian, Sumerian, langue verte, Klingon. Except that I’m good with languages and terrible with…this.

Am I’m whining? How cliché.

Better to think of stars instead.

Tanabata is nearly over—depending admittedly on the calendar you favor—and I’ve yet to decide on a wish to burn. New heels, peace on earth, perfect weather, what? A cast-iron skillet, an inexhaustible supply of ginger, blue snow? Tangos, rosewater cream, unbreakable patience? Love, light, fireflies? Tomatoes and peaches? Happiness?

To the devil with this whole business, it’s silly and exhausting. God knows, the previous attempts were seldom epic; my first official wish (age seven) was for a handful of almonds.

My mother once said a wish was a need without hope or fairness. My godfather said it was desire without will. A witch I met in Denmark called it “the trigger that moves the aim.” A French sylph said that proper wishing helps human cynicism differentiate sugar from dirt. The butcher’s wife included it in her recipe for mustard. During the third Christmas in Boston, Kostya took me to the mall to see a fat man in cheap, red velveteen being assaulted by bundles of snot and mittens; he said it was how wishing was supervised in America. Dad wished for Sherry. I wish—

Maybe I’ll just stick to almonds.

"The word arse is as much god as the word face. It must be so, otherwise you cut off your god at the waist." *D.H. Lawrence

That said, I'm off to find the gym.