Sanctum's Porch

The Hell with Blogger

2009-12-06T08:46:00.001-06:00

Just want everyone to know, I am moving from this blog to:

The New Porch

Follow along!

Orleon

2009-07-09T10:12:00.001-05:00

Master Weaver of the N'tar

Slow Morning

2009-07-08T10:25:00.002-05:00

On my third cup of tea, the morning moving rather slow, endless in its expanse before twelve. Something is coming overhead, over this rusted tin roof, a storm, darkening the will and mesmerizing the movement of things. And there it is, the blackened cast iron rain that darkens all things and slams against the pavement for hours at a time, blue promptly following with a clear vengeful heat that fills the lungs like a vacuum. Simmering heat from the street-skillet. Look up, look up and do not see relief until September. But in these hours an iron pot smolders with oil and a thousand past meals, past lives in the soul of my kitchen. And the wave engulfs me up here. Oh the thrill of pounding rain, the plants are satiated and the will is pushed to nothing, saying briskly, "can't do that its raining". Alas it feels as if it has been raining for 2 months.

KISAB esq.

2009-01-08T22:03:00.000-06:00

to (not for) Monica,

If you have any questions,
please refer them to my supreme lawyer,
KARMA,

And beware
for she is a 9-armed
blue-skinned
goddess of death right now.

Her breast line swooped
with a necklace of men's heads,
she cut's a path with 9 fists
wielding razor sharp machetes.

Riding the revolutions
she comes around
after something goes around.

a forgotten backlash
A boomerang of fate,
a return to sender of doom,
always served on a cold dish

Blindfolded and smiling
she crushes plaintiffs
with her sandaled feet,
toes painted black.

Her march a swing,
her stare, of stone;
wide turquoise haunches
clearing my path.

Yes, this is my attorney,
and she is
a frenzied, tattooed,
razor toothed,
BITCH

Editing

2008-12-28T11:59:00.001-06:00

The 5 cousins are gathering here in Miami, but I feel the feel to edit. Thus with this flash drive, I can take the novel and other vital papers anywhere. Editing now, as we speak.

Phoenix Feelings

2008-12-22T07:53:00.002-06:00

"There is no good that does not come from bad." - Old Spanish Saying

Divorce sucks. Especially if the act is handed to you on a platter without a choice. At the very least it made me see who my real friends are. They came out of the woodwork to rescue me from my worst enemy- myself.

The greatest thing about this is that I am editing the hurricane novel. Written years before Katrina, it is difficult to revisit those old friends sitting on the Porch facing Bayou St. John.

It is not easy editing something that a 'past-self' has written- especially with a sprained thumb (yes the right one, the one I use on the space bar). But among the true friends that I have discovered are the fictional ones as well. I had given up on the novel because I thought I was no longer the man that wrote it. Alas perhaps that man is returning.

2008-07-13T22:34:00.000-05:00

It is dificult to be thankful in the face of such loss. But alas I have survived a very serious roll over car crash where a hit and run car slammed into my hatchback yaris head on. You have not lived until yo uhave been in a roll over, it is quite the inspiring event.

Driving casually, going to have a lovely day in uptown New Orleans. A red batmobile slammed into us and did not stop. I do not know what the man could have possibly been driving that he kept going after broadsiding us.

I have no idea if they will find him, but as soon as the insurance either gives me the finger or gives me a new car I will be posting the license plate number here for all to see. To go out there into the world and smite he who almost took our lives.

I feel the loss of the car, perhaps the only car I have ever enjoyed driving. And after what insurance companies have done here in Louisiana, I am rather skeptic that I will get what I have been paying for. If you ask me I think the money I pay the insurance company should all be put in the trunk of my car and I use it when I need it.

If all goes well, I will get a new one, the very same thing I had before. Afterall, that one was just a year old.

The Patience of Odin

2008-07-10T09:57:00.002-05:00

Legend says that Great Father hung for perhaps millennia upon the World Tree, with only a bag of runes to keep him company. Sacrificing one eye for higher knowledge, for infinite intellect; Odin spent his time waiting and pondering the existence in this universe. Upon the branches of Yggdrasil, the Father of the Gods witness the eternal wheel that is Ragnarok; where Gamr consumes the sun and moon itself.

For to Him time moves so slowly, that the future is the same as the past all under the eternal clock that is the present. For Odin there are no hands of time, no bindings of age or reason, the minutes reach an absolute zero that mortals can never know.

That is how I feel as I wait for my honey to bloom into the nectar of the gods. As the instant world gratifies around me I sit and stare at the eternal drink, hoping to sip it one day. Will this be the Mead of Suttungr? The Mead of Poetry, its white milk pushing the boundaries of senses and sense? Suffocating in Intelligence?

I do not know, I cannot know, for mead is beyond rushing, beyond perhaps time itself. While we wither and decay, die slowly by the kiss of Hela, mead only becomes better with time. Like Merlin, our golden ambrosia ages backwards, improving in all its senses as we step upon step into the grave.

I sit up, spending way too much time looking at my mead, and wonder what to do with the fermenting time. So what does everyone else do to pass the time between honey and mead?

Meading of the Minds

2008-07-09T08:48:00.002-05:00

Now my life is about mead- mostly. That magical drink that came at the beginning of time. If none of you know it is fermented honey, turning it into a rather sweet wine. Mead is incredibly easy to ferment and it is a recipe that consists only of the the following- more or less...

*2.5 pounds of honey
*1 lemon juice
*1/4 pound of raisins
*(spring) water to fill a gallon glass jug.
* yeast of your choice (champagne yeast appears to be the best)
*stopper
*airlock.

Combine ingredients, mix well in warm water, put lemon and raisins. Prep yeast, and pitch in at room temperature, intall airlock. Let stay until fruits fall (should be about a month) siphon off into a secondary vessel and let age for a bit. Though it is not the simple, it is easier to make than beer, wine, or heavens liquor.

Mead came before beer or wine, simply because Honey provided sugar without the need of agriculture. Easiest fermented beverage to make. Charles, the owner of 'La Casa Cigar Shoppe' right by my house, got bitten by the along with myself and we are both bubbling mead at the back of his shoppe. Yes, damn New Orleans for not having good cellars and suitable storage space for such time and space- consuming hobbies.

There is a primeval connection in making mead, of connecting back through the centuries. I find it comforting to be doing something that man has been doing for so long. And as I say to everone, DO try this at home.

For more info, because my recipe was quite basic go to Gotmead.com

Coffee

2008-06-12T10:53:00.001-05:00

Perhaps it is just me but one of the great things about being a teacher is that I have the mornings for most of the year. It is all about coffee, I sit in my den and type on the computer, watching the Nine Worlds and having some java.

I am a firm believer in a slow morning, a morning that allows you to think and not rush away with a mug in your hand. That is the luxury that I have now. For that I ponder and move and work so hard during the rest of the year. To be up here with my laptop, my forums, my coffee, and my sleeping dog at my side.

Where I have been: The Nine Worlds

2008-02-09T11:18:00.001-06:00

It has been some time since I dusted and pounded the pillows on this porch. Some time ago, long ago, when I sat and virtually contemplated. Work got in the way, as it always does. I know alot of you have come by and called this a 'slacker's blog but know at least that I have been quite busy as of late.

Since I was 14 I have been into Role-Playing Games. My life has turned away from the dice, the tables, the people, the rulebooks that cost WAY too much money. Plus I live in a city that LIVES its fantasies, does not just play them out. We ar just emerging from a month of fantastical revelry. While that is great, the actual rping that is done here is slim compared to places up North.

But while my DM Screen is long gone my need to role-play has not. I have resorted to serious archchair adventuring. Living on the internet are my adventures and I have visied a million sites and played in someone else house. The thing is that there comes a time when you just want to have your own place. I created:

The NIne Worlds is a collaborative story-telling project to keep me in the ink. There I have started stories that allow me to explore those little-known universes that exist in my mind. The thing is I have invited others to do the same. Things appear ot be moving quite fast, thus I invite you all to join me there.

If you cant find me on the porch, then I am at 'THE NINE'

For a moment back to 'The Life'

2007-09-02T00:26:00.000-05:00

For a brief moment I go back to the life I blissfully created and lived for 2.5 months. Here on Labor Day weekend I am once again waking up and writing. Waking up and imagining, waking up and hiding for three hours behind a cup of coffee. It makes me happy that I have not become totally separate from that bliss, totally alien to that habit of non-habit- the only chore a bit of resting. Yes, a day where all of time is measured by either what am I going to eat for lunch, or the afternoon nap. It will only last 3 days, so I hope I can make the most out of it. Like a man on parole from a life sentence. and in that time he wants to taste, smell, hear, see, and touch everything that he will be denied for the whole sentence. Ah the sentence of work, how much does it keep us from what we have to do?

But not forever, for we have these little times. These small times in the middle of the night, when all are asleep and the house is quiet. Perhaps that is why so many write during moonlight.
Then after that whole night has been filled with one satisfying the imagination, there is one prize.

The morning. Within those first moments of opening your eyes, your brain tells you. 'I have nothing to do'

The Bliss of 'The Life'.

1992 Exile

2007-08-24T18:31:00.000-05:00

They were not days of wine and roses
But afternoons of rum and platains.
Where Victorian gingerbread raveled
around plantation style wicker.

Often facing the Bayou- waves gleaming in the sun
the siestas turned to carefree nights
Conversations swelling to tales
Bottle after bottle

The seasonal calendar of the Crescent
Allowed times with the muses
as they passed on on the Canal- floating
Flinging plastic treasures to the adoring mass.

Time was measured not by clocks
But by meals and the contrast of light
upon the porch slats
As it moved across our blurred vision.

Like the exiles of a faded island
we try and recreate that sunny orb
In dozens of cafes, tiny porches, and concrete patios.
We drink the same sugar
We ravel the same tales.
Yet the laziness of that time is gone.

For so many of us, muse not for muse's sake
But muse of work and payments
We refuse another sip for its influence,
or skip another round of fried plantains
Because of the excess of carbs.

And thus we are exiles....
From our own lives.

Trying to Hide

2007-08-23T16:44:00.000-05:00

I just had to, this is the hour of the most productive words that I have in the day. With coffee, with the sun barely out of its western conch shell, its coral rays spreading across the day. Yet at this time the sun is not hot, it is inviting. Perhaps for that reason is why I can write fully at this time. It is the hour of the porch of possibilities. This is the time that we can honorably hide behind a cup of coffee, filling the cup until the demands provoke us into movement. It is a better time done in the house, there invulnerable from the day.

But now sitting at work, waiting for the clock to strike the hour of movement, the hour of momentum. Where I will roll until I find that impenetrable object called quitting time. I know by that time the sun will be out, and my eyes will return to normal. No longer able to see beyond what is there. My mind will no longer be able to float, and glide and be free. The humidity will be up and ready, crashing upon us in that August Vacuum called Summer in the South. By 3 o clock, I will dented, soiled, bullet-ridden by the day. It is at that time that I retreat once again to that cup of coffee, it becoming my respiratory, bringing me back to life.

The problem is, just when I am living like a human being again, it is time to return to the Thunderdome. The experience similar to taking attendance before a barbarian horde.
With the crash of the bell, its rim of iron cascading across campus, seizing all dreams and hopes.

The world stops the imagination, pushing the day forward, like a clock without a snooze button.

Distilling Spirits

2007-08-20T21:16:00.000-05:00

Are we so different from those alchemists
that turn sugar into rum, potato into vodka,
rye into whiskey or water into wine?

The stylus, the engine of spirits,
from which we give and we drink,
ferments and turns our thoughts into phrases.

Do we not become intoxicated in that rich trickle of the keys?
We taste and we change,
we add and we subtract,
measuring the weight of every syllable against the ideal.

Our patience allows the reaction to wait,
to ferment…
and age in its own time and distinct bouquet.

Folding the material into a drawer,
or oak barrel,
we wait until the yeast eats away at the pages.

With the passage of time, the script can fill with imagery,
caramelize and sweeten to the mind.
Then and only then, is when we open that cask,
pull that creation from its dark cell,
and taste.

For what can reading be,
other than sipping the mind of another?

Purity and potency are the maxims
of both the distillers of elements and language.

For when we believe we are done,
it when we are to begin;
perhaps even again.

While alchemists attempt to turn lead into gold,
distillers turn nature into spirit,
we turn gold into graphite and ink.

Whether shot glass or script,
tale or tankard, bottle or book-
we follow the same brewer's rules
for creating the uncommon from the common.

Collect, mix, distil, pour, and drink.

Grading vs. Writing

2007-08-20T19:34:00.000-05:00

Alright here is the ultimate challenge, do I correct papers or write? I have heard on a number of occasions, and I have experienced it, that a writer will do anything not to write.

Procrastination is our fuel. Avoiding an assignment, or my daily quota, I will do the dishes, do the floors, catch up with friends, call my mom, clean the gutters, pick up dog-poop, paint the house, learn to play the accordion, pick up the harmonica, even do bills (considering I have no money- that is quite the task). I think it is the only way that a writer's house does not fall in on itself is because he is procrastinating. Which brings me to another point.

They say that, afterall, a writer writes. But I wonder how much work do we get done by not writing. Is there a certain formula for not-writing. Is there value in throwing a piece into a drawer and letting ferment (I have found that cypress works particularly well in aging a fine poem). Yes sir, a writer will do anything not to write.

Well I found that thing. It is correcting papers and writing lesson plans. Nothing in the world can be worse. Go ahead try it. Even Stephen King said he could not write when he was teaching, and he writes! Go ahead become a teacher, let it happen. Do the United States a favor, it needs it, and become a teacher. Nothing will pull you from ordinary life. And at least twice a year, you are guarantee a surreal moment. But oh does it pull at your writing.

Until you start grading papers!

The Algernon Effect

2007-08-19T19:40:00.000-05:00

Alright lets look at my summer report card. I would give myself a C-, but then again I am one tough grader. My biggest problem is that it takes me about a month, if not more, to detox, to de-pressurize. Just when I am getting used to living like a human being again, like we all should live- it is time to go back. The last 7 weeks have been unbelievably productive. I completed a short story that has been rattling around my head like a heavy marble. Finally got it into the mail. I plan to frame my rejection slip. Along with that I have written poetry about New Orleans which I would like to send to local players. Though the New Yorker whispers deep in my brain. Plus I have three short story ideas and a sci-fi world based on alchemy. It is a glorious time.

Yet it all feels late very late. Perhaps it is a midlife crisis, but my writing seems to be about ten years too late. Reminding myself that age is just a number, it only feels that I have lost ten years. Worse than that is I feel an Algernon effect coming on. The year will eat my free time, my writing time. The best time I write, the morning, is gone, and I am no longer able to hide from the day behind a cup of coffee. Realizing it is the way to get published, I envy those people that have the psychological stamina to either stay up late, get up early, and write for hours.

I pray the Algernon Effect does not eat away my inspiration, disintegrate my imagination, and eat away at my will to write. Then, ten months from today, it will take me a whole month just to become human.

Then again, other people, with normal jobs, never become human at all.

The Dawn is my Cathedral

2007-08-19T08:28:00.000-05:00

The Dawn is my cathedral
With buttresses not of stone
but of light, cascading over me.

A cup of coffee my sacred communion
Fermented in green plantations of the holy lands.
Warming my consciousness,
with milk and bean.

my congregation are dogs
And they do parade up and down the aisles,
Vaulting into the dew swept cloister-
Interpreting their version of Morning Glory.

I do dress in Sunday best, for that is pajamas.
True formal wear
My pew is my couch sitting there softer than any wood.
When I enter my morning I do not take holy water
I make water- blessed by dreams.

Mine is a religion of one, without bishops or priests,
No aisles to separate, no big hats or jackets
And in my church, no chorus dare sing-
For there is no greater sin in the morning
than any human voice.

Thus my sermon is mute.
Without moral or physical obligation
No one telling me how to live,
Relishing in the Cathedral's daily blessing.

'I am alive'

Tough Days

2007-08-16T19:19:00.000-05:00

I cannot believe that there on the radar to the east, is another. Here In New Orleans people are panicking a bit, nervous in their doubt. I do not think that it will hit here at all. But meetings are starting and I am sure that supermarkets are getting backed left and right. Lines going back and swirling, with handfuls of bottled water and worrying way too much about what I think of nothing.

Yes, here comes another hurricane, now a category two just around the lesser Antilles. Its name is Dean, slamming into those little islands. Cannot imagine living in those little paradises, every year a whamo storm slams into you, hurricane after hurricane. It would be fine for primitive cultures, owning nothing, but we have too much stuff.

There it lies, its winds swirling counter clockwise. Yet nothing could be more natural. For the earth is only trying to cool itself off. The hotter it gets the more we are going to get them swooping in as if they were on parade. Dancing and mixing the Caribbean and Gulf until they arrive on our shores. The rains will continue.

But we have no choice, we must live here. There is no where else in these States that I would live. But there I go again about the city, always reminiscing about the iron and streets of this town.

Even though a strange thing is going on here. It is City-gouging. Now everyone knows about the tax assessor's scandal of suddenly raising the value of houses to grab taxes. But there is more, much more. Cops are giving more tickets, Insurance companies want more (as always), and the Crescent City Connection Bridge is charging a strange "administrator fee" for people that go through the tag line without it registering. I hate it. All of this is just discouraging people from coming back, which is sad.

Modern Day View from the Porch

2007-08-06T08:52:00.000-05:00

One of those days watching the street early in the morning with a spiked coffee. Nothing much to say and less to do as the dawn turns to noon and volleyed to dusk. Today's goals are to never change from pajamas, never put on socks or shoes. Allow, from the moment you pour the first cup, the drinks to become more severe from morning to midnight.

We keep time on this porch by the progression of gingerbread shadow falling on the planks. The multitude rush off to work, carrying coffee, their minds riddled by the meetings and affairs of the day, a sure sign of 8am. Stomachs grumble, lips become wet, the po-boy man on his cart comes with his roast-beef and shrimp, ham and sausage, fried oyster and catfish. Alas we have noon. The mail hits the slot, a sign of afternoon. Siesta becomes a punch bowl of conversation with others that have managed to evade the responsibilities of the world. Children rush out of school buses, a sign of 3pm. The sun continuing its arch toward the west. The madness of 9-5 returns home, the only difference in their tension, is a loosened color or an askew hair-do.

Cheers to all we say, lifting our staffs of rum, to whatever gods have allowed us to be spared of this day, this pilgrimage to the work-force. Perhaps one day it will cost us, but for now, we have enough for another bottle.

Now who is going to the store?

Creole Tomato Bliss

2007-08-01T14:13:00.000-05:00

"This is not a recipe, this is ritual" - Carmelo Aponte

Historically, New Orleanians do two things. One is keep cool, the architecture, social life, and dress of the city mirrors what going on outside. Best example, nothing gets done in the summer because it is h-o-t. Two since its first settling in the early part of the 18th century, people in New Orleans have made due with what they had or what the land gave them? Example? Really look at a crawfish and tell me it doesn't look like a cockroach on Barry Bonds steroids. Furthermore, years ago there was a program to try and turn the nutria (nothing but a big swamp rat) into a commercial source of food. The very base of a Gumbo, the staple of this area, is flour and water. In a land filled with lemons, we have been enjoying the best lemonade in the United States.

Summer and improvisation in New Orleans gives us the creole tomato. A tomato so unlike any other in the world, it has become synonymous with Louisiana. Back in the days before 9/11, when you could have luggage, my mother went back home with twenty stuffed into her luggage. There zing, or zang, a sweetness, a tartness that you cannot explain or dismiss. The red deeper, bloodier, and when cut into a creole tomato its like slicing into a heart with seeds. And there is no better way on the planet to enjoy than a...

New Orleans Creole Tomato Po-boy

(for those that live out of the state of Louisiana, don't try this at home)

3 small to medium truly ripe creole tomatoes (don't even try regular tomatoes)
1 loaf of dry French bread
1/2 cup of Blue Plate Mayonnaise
Konriko or Tony Chachere's Spice Mix
One roll of paper towels ( you will need need them)

Slice the bread in half. Slice tomatoes to the desired thickness, as patties.
Slather (is that a word?) the insides of the bread liberally with mayonnaise
Place tomatoes in a row, perhaps two layers thick, showering each layer with spice mix.
If you wish you can add always add more Mayonnaise.

The salt of the spice mix, decomposes the tomato, its juices flowing into and out of the bread.So two pieces of advice, if you are going to eat this in front of someone (I never do), don't let them watch. Also, if you didn't use a full half of the paper towel roll, the tomatoes were not ripe enough.

Enjoy with Barq's or Abita

And like always

SERVES 1

End of Summer

2007-07-31T09:23:00.000-05:00

Just when I am living my life the way I want to, the way I should really; I have to go back? As a teacher I follow the instinctual calendar of the student that we all have inside of us. Since the age of 5 we are given this schedule, you get off in the summer. For alot of people that keeps going well into their 20's. That is 20 years of conditioning! Then all of a sudden we have to go out and get real job, and what happens to the summer? The summer is reduced to marketing ploys, obscure references to being off and enjoying it. But you really are not anymore.

So in that respect, I am lucky, but an object at rest tends to stay at rest. So the summer of sitting on this porch drinking Pearl martinis is coming to a close. It tastes of bitter lemons I must say. At least I have this for a few months. Makes me think of the reason why I work:

I do the time for the time that I do not do the time.

Live with that and you should be alright- but poor.

Dome & Crescent

2007-07-20T08:47:00.000-05:00

Often I amazed how much I think of the Southwest. If not once a day, I think of it once a week. The cliche of the endless sky comes to mind, blue from one side of the mind to the other. A gorgeous cobalt cap covers one's life. Everything on the earth appears in homage to that dome, rock formations and canyons bow and form themselves into perfect temples to that overhead God. (I always felt sorry for the gods, that they do not get a capital 'G' in honor of them. There are as many cultural symbols for pagan gods as there are for Gods- if not moreso) The houses of man even succumb to that dogma of obeying the sky and earth. Man-made towns rise, literally from out of the earth rather than just from the earth's parts. Streets are layed out logically, flowing from a central plaza that I both miss and need in my life; that and the consistency of a federally-funded siesta. I am held in a constant suspended animation when I remember the balcony at the Best Western (yes, a Best Western that literally lives up to its name) and the celestial canvas that spread from that adobe plaza in the clouds- a horizon event in every direction.

Oh yes, if not for the people, I think I would move there in a heartbeat.

Yes, the people. For a culture supposedly descended from outlaws, desperados, hopeful miners, bold and death defying entrepeneurs (can you imagine creating a business in the old west?) and the iron testicle wielding pioneers (again allow me to express a situation, taking your family, your house, your dog, your babies, and putting them into a wagon and crossing the country!) people in the southwest surely are anal. Its as if they took Baptist and Protestant Americana and cooked it down to its disgusting essence.

Again my theme, who the hell would tell Wild Bill, Jesse James, Wyatt Earp, Billy the Kid, or Doc Holiday ( as much American icons as the caped wonders in comic books) to not smoke in a saloon? But that is an old theme. The Southwest, overridden by Californicators (hard to believe my spellcheck couldn't get that one) is simply too civilized, too organized- like Houston.

Let's talk about Texas. Aside from the fact that I see the whole landcape of America, like most citizens of this country, like a fairy tale land of contrasting themes, rather than a gradual shift in culture; I thought it was going to be different. Yes, my friends laugh at (with?) me when I tell them that I thought I was going to see sand and armed horsemen THE SECOND we crossed the border into Texas. But nooo, not at all, Louisiana just kept going. So that made it even odder, stranger, that the geography of Louisiana (and wetter I must say) would be clashed with the righteous dogma of GOP Texas along with a repugnant dose of reluctant Hispanics that long ago relinquished the squiggly lines over the n's.

For me Houston had no center, no soul, at least none that I could see thrown into your face like New Orleans, New York, or even Miami (if you don't know Spanish your face gets even more exposed). Nothing but highways, strip malls, and people on cell phones. Business, business, business but how do you enjoy it?

So that is what I think of when I wake here, when I think about moving. Great places need great people. And the only place you find that in unison, in agreement, in a delicately balanced cocktail, is New Orleans.

Cheers!

Pearl Vodka

2007-07-15T15:58:00.000-05:00

At Casey Jones, the very local supermarket, today I discovered a new vodka. It has the four characteristics that you need for a good vodka. Smooth, little bite, cheap, and made in a country that is cold. In this case it Pearl Vodka, made in Canada, nice bottle, less bite than the great Belvedere. This stuff is smoother and thicker than Grey Goose (which to me tastes like perfume). Since I heard that all Grey Goose does is buy cheap Vodka and put it through a distilling process, I don't even buy it as a gift.

Took this wonderful Vodka, drinking it down as I made Gazpacho (little did I know that you had to seed the tomatoes and strain the goop- but its all a learning process anyway), and went to Gretna's greenspace and sat there drinking and grilling. Lovely day, good friends, lots of sun, and I entertained myself watching my friends try out an impossible boomerang. A little bit of olives and I was set. It feels so good to find something new, something that is made well and they do not charge too much for.

Ah, Vodka, the only liquor that is judged by how little of it you can taste!

Which brings me to another point and I invite anyone to comment on this. I heard various people say various things, but is it clear or dark liquor that is worse for you. Yes, I know they are both bad, but one of them, really wipes your guts (liver) out. Anyone have any idea, and since I am asking, anyone have a source?

Thanks

Staying in on Night Out

2006-08-01T22:35:00.000-05:00

National Night Out Against Crime. Came out on the porch today and saw that little orange flyer, heard about it in the news or something. They want us to have fun but just a little bit, not so much that it turns into a block party. I tried to get pictures of their logo, but could not grab them from the website THAT is even copyrighted. So I had to settle for this line of "wonderful" people, can any of you see which one is Willy Wonka? But don't blame the mayor, oh no, not for that. Blame the group that made the night out for not thinking.

I hate to do nothing but rat and rave. And if I am wrong someone please comment on this. But what is the point, the freaking bleeding point, about having a night out against crime if its going to be on a Tuesday. Sure I do not work, at least right now, but curious how they have the NATIONAL holiday against CRIME no less on a Tuesday.

Do they want to foster neighborly behavior? Then put it on a Friday or Saturday, where people have the next day OFF. Thus there might be a small chance that night against crime may turn into MORNING against crime too!

No not me. I ignored all my neighbors with their mosquito repellent torches and cops shaking hands, barbecues. Besides I think they even put a TIME LIMIT on it. Time limit, on porch sitting, amazing. Not this night, this night the porch, dark and desolate, invited no one to its bosom of laziness.

The Wild (banned from the) West

2006-07-31T12:26:00.000-05:00

As the sheriff, or even as a normal citizen, would you walk up to these guys and tell them they could not smoke in a saloon? HELL NO! It is a miracle that at the time they would even ask them for their guns before rolling in to town.

Founded by rugged people who smoked, drank, sweated, farmed, harvested, prayed and preyed on others; the Southwest in now only wild when you look at the spectacular views of nature. Western Frontiers now only dwell in the eye of the beholder. The people, descendants of explorers and conquerors, warriors and defenders, have become softer than a flour burrito.

Avoiding a sudden monsoon, We drank at this bar (left) the Tin Star Saloon, a collection of odd misfits and strangely bland patrons drinking martinis and local beers. A woman that is leaving Santa Fe because of the horrible education there (ah reminders of New Orleans!)

Drank to my hearts content, which was a bit earlier because of the lack of oxygen at 7G's above sea level, and noticed no one with style, no one with gusto, no one SMOKING! The bars smelled like the armpits of cherubs, no hasy atmosphere. The conversation mostly of tourists and local college puppies.

Noted one Indian among the domesticated ivory cattle, which the same people that banned smoking tell me I should call Native-American. No dirt, no chaps, no cursing and throwing through windows, not even an outburst. You can forget America's frontier spirit, it has been weeded out by bureaucratic law. You can't be original without encroaching on someone else's space. And the more civilized we become the more everywhere feels like somone else's space.

Ah the West, now only Wild on film, in comic books, and in old photographs on City Hall's walls. Yet somehow those City Hallers are slowly killing those images with their damn laws, their ordinances, their curfews and parking meters.

Deadwood is now a suburban cookie cutter without natural grass or ashtrays. Lord knows what the fine is for spitting, even if you can find a spitoon and hit the target.

Returned- Full Report Pending

2006-07-29T22:58:00.000-05:00

Washed up here on the tiny porch overlooking the city. The lights are dim and nothing is different in this town since I left. Nothing changes. Given, this so wonderful after visiting so many places that have changed so much in the years. A full report coming soon. Coming from Santa Fe, then Denver, then Houston, then the Crescent; I believe I deserve a bit of a rest. Sitting on the porch here waiting for my luggage to arrive.

The minute we get into New Orleans, its the third world, evidence of that even in the first bathroom trip I made when I arrived home. Let us just say that New Mexico is not that new at all.

New Age Capitalist

2006-07-23T10:17:00.000-05:00

In Sedona, a place to be a wonderful sanctum. One of the presumed chakras of the earth. And I say if we were to leave wondrous Gaia alone here it would be awesome. But alas the strip malls, albeit adobe new age brown strip malls, are just intruding. Given not the capitalist parasites, flipping cards and advertising in your face, of Vegas, but still there. Waiting for the wallet.

First off, no cars. Seal off the community and do not allow a single internal combustible engine without a license in the area. And second, and I am a victim of this. Let people have a few more minutes on the internet cafes than just 10 minutes!

UPDATE: My impression is that once this town awed its visitors with natural beauty. The rocks shine in a myriad of colors that makes you feel like you are on Mars- particularly at sunrise and sunset.

The porch potential of this place is unbelievable, grabbing a bottle of wine and something to push it down with (though you may find it hard to find a good cheese or chorizo in this town on account of all the new agers being vegetarians, tofu just doesn't do it with wine) and watch the sun descend into its nest of craters.

The problems are when you descend into town, and you speak to so many people that say "And you should have seen it 10 or 20 years ago, before all these people came. Though I did see that bars and other places of leisure that, here in New Orleans we take for granted.

Vegasing

2006-07-21T15:09:00.000-05:00

Trying to get back into blogging and what a more horrific place to restart it than in the wonderful world of Las Vegas.

The setting? No longer that Busted Flush santuary somewhere between Margaritaville and the Mississippi. Not drinking and writingto you from a cabana like sanctum. Oh no, no New Orleans here (except the spew they try to sell at you at Harrah's here. No, I am writing an internet television deep in the bowels of the Flamingo Hotel, currently owned by Caesar's Palace across the Street. Locked away escapingthe desert heat (yes sorry to say this is still considered a desert) in a hotel room.

But am I having fun?

I am not sure exactly who has fun here but there seems to be two types that prefer this contrived oasis of capitalist pleasure.

One is what Travis McGee would call,the sun bunnies. Beautiful people buying beautiful things without any beautiful taste. Those that are Aztecs at heart and allow their bodies to be eventually prematurely aged, like cannibalist beef jerky YUM. I laugh at the lovely ladies, the 20 or even late 20 something crowd that think they can drink forever and not gain an ounce as long as you mix the liquor with Red Bull. Eventually the slush will begin to collectlike goo around the thighs and stomach. Nothing more attractive in a thong.

The other side are those people that have decided to enjoy life after years of struggle, to save nothing for a rainy day (and you know its going to downpour on social security realsoon, thanks to the Reps I can see the clouds forming even on this porch), and refuse to leave one unearned red scent to the kids or their suburban spawn. These I call the leather necks, the old ones that have a pirate mentality and spend just as fast as they win. I may laugh at them, sitting their with another pention checked forwarded to mighty Casino Caesar, but they are always the ones in the win photos on the slots.

So am I having fun, sure, if this is civilization than I am Nero.

Oh and could you hand me that fiddle?

Did not realize

2006-03-30T09:23:00.000-06:00

I did not realize how much time has slipped away since I updated this blog. Things are hectic, crazy. The tour I had as a school teacher is over, apparently the numbers here in New Orleans have died, and other execs need raises and jobs more than I do. This is on a day that we put a bid on another house (picture pending).

Feels like an opportunity and perhaps all those colorful characters that made my porch like a novel will return with a vengeance. Lazy days with drinks and afternoon stories. Waiting for that parade of storms that comes but once a year, tossing throws of winds and tin roofs about the city.

Speaking of which, we do fear the next season. It has been a lofty mild and breezy winter. Perhaps five coat days total. That just is not enough to warm the gulf at all, it looks bad for us. With another dragon chain of Lilith tempests coming through.

Wish us luck, we may need it. Those structures still standing may not survive.

Returned and Why I'm not Rich.

2006-02-07T20:44:00.000-06:00

Did I mention I am back, back on this porch on a midsummer's January. Turns out that we are getting days and days of heat, and the trouble is that the gulf is not managing to cool off. That could mean a rather difficult and evacuating summer.

New Orleans is returning, despite what Nagin and LaGasse say about it. Cannot understand why they would put their foot in their mouths and say such idiotic things. 'Chocolate City' indeed! What was the man thinking! Plans are going up, stores are opening. You no longer go to the restaurant and eat off of paper plates. But details can still be tiring.

Sitting on the porch in these oddly hot days, the dominoes shift and shuffle about. The rum is still the same and stories are as boring as ever. Looking about the palisade of the porch remains the same shadowed fun. Though we do not get as smashed as we once did. Good thing is that there are no one on the streets and not many have jobs, so the portal is always full.

I have always believed that the reason why I am not rich is that I would throw so many parties in house, porch, balcony, and yard that I would severely alter the economic and social structure of wherever I am. Mayor and officials, cops and bankers would call their offices in sick. I guess the gods just do not want it at all. For I and my pitiful entourage would dissolve all those vital reality strings that took them so long to implement.

Been out but back

2005-10-27T19:21:00.000-05:00

Alright alright, been back for a while fixing my house and fixing my life. Like the whole city. The porch is rather sad, all the old regulars are gone or going. Even Yayabo (the man who once shared Papa Rellenas with me). Times are tough in this old town, think I lost my job because it dwelled far to close to the levees and the dreaded 9th ward. However, like the Yi Jing told me, enjoy the time and drink. That I have been doing- incredibly. I have a friend over that is a monster connoisser and he has gotten me into drinking wine, specifically spanish wines.

Now a heavy rum drinker like me, it is tough to drink wine. I mean you by a bottle of rum do not expect to finish it, at all. You buy a bottle of wine, and you could thunder right through it. Yet slowly my palate seems to be adjusting. Plus what the man has provided with it. Yesterday he made a sazon of onions, garlic and olive oil then threw in two huge chorizos (Spanish blood sausage that makes everything around it the color of Safron) and had a sort of fondu in the cast iron with French bread (pictures pending). Drank two bottles had a wonderful time and calming walk about the neighborhood afterwards.

Sometimes the deluge brings new beginnings

Countdown to Home

2005-09-25T10:02:00.000-05:00

Looks like we are leaving back to the Crescent in a few days. All reports state that we are fine, our area is dry. The porch has continued in exile long enough, now it is time to return to the homeland. I want to go home purely for health reasons. Last couple of days been gulping the rum and ice, eating the fried out pork fat, congri, yucca at later and later hours in the day. Cramming odd Latin foods down my gullet at stranger and stranger times. That is fine if I was a Latin Jazz band leader with Machito or Tito Puente, but little old me, I am sorry. Never passed gas like this before.

So now the mad Hispanic family dash is on! The relative are leaving. For reasons that I cannot understand, no one comes to see me. Everyone wants us to come over there, a lechon here, a mojito there, pampero in Hialeah, dominoes in Kendall. Next time I either will visit Miami clandestinely, like a Communist, or wait for cloning technology to be perfected. It is impossible!

So I sit here on the virtual porch burping and farting, waiting for another invitation to calories that I have no way of burning, as my liver works like an old air conditioner in South Florida- as in barely functioning!

KaRita

2005-09-19T17:41:00.000-05:00

Alright comon, someone has a problem with me somewhere. Here in Miami, chilling all is well, with the family, porching and drinking and having a lovely time. The nights have been filled with immense amounts of Cuban food and rum. Bad news is that unlike my native town, you cannot buy liquor in any supermarket like you can in Louisiana (Catholics are such pleasant alcoholics)

(By the way Miami is odd in the way of porching, not only do houses not have porches exactly, but the people hardly use them. You see everyone in this town seemed to have been born in a very cold hospital. Air conditioning is in their blood, it permeates them. Every house in city, well the
new ones, are nothing but refridgerated boxes. Gone are the high ceilings, narrow windows, and courtyards of classical tropical architexture. No everything is made to maximize the air conditioning seal. They cannot live without it. Only problem is that it is contagious- you will note the examples I have provided. Try porching on that laboratory slide).

Then out of nowhere comes this other THING called Rita, I swear it seems like I am watching a hurricane parade during Mardi Gras. Well there is a good idea that will be put to no use, a Carnival parade of hurricanes. Just like to see the people that find humor in that!

Now Rita is battering Key West, and is probably going to turn to at least threaten New Orleans. The mayor even cancelled the repopulation. Besides, what am I going to do? Return to the city and wait for the thing to hit me right in the face? I think not. I will just simply wait here, stearing at my family's one billion movie channels on satellite and enjoy the back patio.

Oh wait those movies depend on electricity right?

Virtual Porch, literally

2005-09-10T08:02:00.000-05:00

So here it is, in exile, traveling from porch to porch, and kitchen to kitchen, living off the generosity of others. Waiting for Venice to again rise from the waters. The porch has become totally virtually now, where my drink and keyboard marks where I will sit and watch the world go by. Thank you to all those in New Iberia that helped us gather our energy and strength for the long drive to Miami. When the shit hits the fan it seems that everyone from the Caribbean eventually falls into this town.

To the left, is the porch that we harbored in New Iberia. Moored, we enjoyed a few days of contemplation, walking up and down Main Street. Hugs and bows of appreciation to the DuBois Family for being so kind with their own little Hurricane Relief, on a personal level. Screened in, overlooking a fantastic backyard with hammock and patio chairs. There I smoked a great San Luis Rey from City Newstand in Lafayette, lovely little cigar shop with a killer selection of magazine from all over.

Visited restaurants that serve amazing food. Little River Inn stands out among them. Great food, authentic, with a familiarity that made us question our place of residence.

Our host, an avid camping chef and hunter, cooked for us a bonanza of wild cuisine.
Case in point is to the right, this thing was an amazing duck breast wrapped in cream cheese, bacon, and jalapeno. Tasted like a small pinata of flavor had just erupted in my mouth. With that meals cooked and prepared with such care, something that the Red Cross could never even touch. Thank you oh so very much for those ten pounds I gained of Iberian hospitality.

Katrina is far behind us as I check for updates on the neighborhood. Checked the house, no problems, the storm spared us the worst of its furry. That we are thankful for in the extreme.

Miami there before us, simply waiting, the whole family wanting us to come down. We will use that place as a cocoon, gather our strength to return. I have been thinking of making a 139 court barbecue and collect money for relief. Not to worry, not my own.

Getting Better

2005-09-05T10:35:00.000-05:00

The situation about town, so I hear, now that this porch has gone completely virtual, is that security is alot tighter. So saddened to hear about the rampant looters. I really thought that New Orleans was different, that people were much more liason fiare with their lives. Apparently I overestimated things quite a bit. Our police, bless them, are doing wonderfully. They are holding the savages back.

The casual drinking is continuuing, found an eleven dollar bottle of Bacardi Select, nice and think, sipping it with Lime club soda. Oh so very nice here in this Cajun back porch.

The odd thing is that now I know what my family went through when they went to exile. Exile sucks. Yet my family was much worse off, I mean they could never go back, ever. That must be the worst thing in the world.

Amazing how much our trivial and ritualistic lives cling to us. Just with a cup of coffee or the robe that I left behind. I am used to a life where I go until about 10 am without changing out of pajamas, just enjoying the porch for hours and hours. And now I have none of those sacred movements. Luckily we did not flood, its just a matter of waiting in that line to get into Jefferson Parish. We are waiting for the insanity of that line to die down, and making sure that security is not a problem. As much as I would love to blow a looter away, just do not want to be in that situation.

I think there are pictures in the future of this blog, I have one that I have to download from the camera. So stay tuned grab a drink and enjoy, comment as you wish, or guestbook us.

Virtually porching,

OOC

The Soup Bowl

2005-09-01T08:02:00.000-05:00

New Orleans is the new ground zero. 80% of New Orleans is Venice, Italy. There are looters in the streets taking from shops, why they are not shot I have no idea. Things are going really bad for us. The porch is lonely with sheets of water almost touching it. We have no idea where the porch ends and the water begins. I am not sure when New Orleans will be back to normal, if at all ever. All I know is that from these moments on time will be told by BK or AK, and when I am older, people will not be talking about Camille or Betsy anymore, just this one. And this was a big one at that. Schools are closed, no power, no electricity, martial law with people running around the streets watching for looters. It feels like Eastern Europe when the fall of the curtain happened.

The odd thing is that everyone saw it coming, but no one saw it hit. We did not know. New Orleans enjoyed a fairy tale, nearly god-like status. Much like cardiologists that smoke or psychiatrists that pop more pills than their patients. We watched storm after storm just clip us, and this one just clipped us too. But unfortunately it clipped the Lake too. Gee thanks to those original French brothers, Bienville and Iberville, for putting this city at the bottom of the bathtub.

But I have been on many forums, and the city is still alive. Aside from those accursed looters that I hear about, people are pulling together. There is a light at the end of this drain, though I cannot see it right now. The spirit of the posters is monstrous. You can see it at the forums of http://nola.com and http://wwltv.com. That fills me with some sort of hope. Our Rome is drowning, but long live Rome.

Yes, Rome is drowning and burning, and the picture above is one of those few Neros, bless him, that can find the time and energy to fiddle as the flames kick at our heals.

From Crescent to Venice

2005-08-28T17:14:00.000-05:00

It is finally happening. The one great apocalypse that those insane sign wavers talked about inthe Frenxh Quarter. The 'Big Wind' is here. Sky becoming black as I pull out the lap top onto this ancient porch. May very well be the last transmission from this place. Yayabo is still drinking, and the granfather of this place, Don Ron, will not leave, insisting that I fry up more plantains- that the smoke from the cigar is perfect and he cannot abandon this place.

I feel like I am on a ship, and I cannot leave- dont want toleave. Yes, the waves comes and go, like spiraling thoughts in a drunken mind. But the Bayou don't look that bad. Bad. That is the only thing that the damn radio says, so the few remaining us shut it off. Knowing it is the vital reason why everyone takes batteries. I mean here I am looking at an entire barrel of Caribbean rum, from the island of my blood birth- and....

Damn Riggs calling from his Escalade- dammit!

August Sweat

2005-08-21T11:21:00.000-05:00

Getting bad on the porch, I look out of it this morning waiting for the shade to overcome the chairs and palms- eat up the Victorian trim as I sip some coffee. It is hot here in New Orleans and I find the shutters on all my windows closed. Come about two o clock the inside of the house begins to pressure cook. Humid, evaporating water, the kind you are wet even after drying yourself from a cold shower. Some people even just go to bed with a cold wet. Definitely not a tourist season now in this weather. You can hear the compressors bulging as the noon comes upon us. Almost like a quiet disaster movie flaming around us. Like old people flocking away to malls, we go off to bars and restaurants, not to eat or drink but just to pay rent on their air conditioning.

I just hate hearing people complain about the heat. We all know it is seathing, sweating, and purifying, that we feel like sweet fruits ripening and then rotting in the sun, but dammit do so many people have to actually think about it? As long as there is an ice maker in my house I am happy. There is the answer. But I confess the grand sport or game of porching is rather difficult, but delicious at night- when pagans rise to the blessing of a breeze that comes so sporadically

Looking up, all of us hoping the lantern on the porch will swing with a merciful breeze. But complain about it? Never!

Dragon Altar

2005-08-13T07:09:00.000-05:00

I know, I know, another neglected blog, another neglected porch that no longer handles a purpose. Well on an archetypal level, the summer may be almost over. So perish the thought I may actually feel the need to do something, gods I hope not. The porch witnessed the biggest barbecue this side of the river in a long time. Burned my hands and everything. I adore my barbecue pit, the massive fast iron altar to the lords of fire. When I grille or barbecue, I honestly feel like I am summoning the forces of evil into the earth. Fire be good. Perhaps it is the basic instincts that dominate us, that rule us, which create the staisfaction that comes with burning edible flesh. It is one of the few male dominated fetishes that I can actually plug into. How can you beat 3 million years of evolution?

High Roller's Stag Bar

2005-07-30T10:59:00.000-05:00

For T and F,

The Neighborhood Bar, the pub, the tavern, four elaborate and ancient walls caught in a time pocket. Call it a time capsule pickled and preserved in alcohol. Do not tread in these walls if ye subscribe to political correctness, hate card playing, mind smoking or need a sterile scent in the air to drink. This is where the times have been taken, thrown into a box made of time and forgotten. Here men speak like they did 50 years ago. It is a wondrous time when the gang of the porch, Yayabo, Ash, even Fu, come by here for a drink. Worthy of that trip across a river that is like crossing a nation. Sleepy and unchanged, just the way I like it.

We do drink here, the workers from the Zatarain's factory down the river road, the judges, the old retired men that remember when this neighborhood was filled with longshoreman spending their hard earned coin on a local, and illegal casino. Within this pub the men remember, and even agree, with segregation and racism. The ancient judges of the courthouse a few blocks away drink here, the onces that spy from cityhall with their drinks in their hand at lunch. Right next here to the common ground.

Drinks are 2 and 2.50 except if you order beer, then you can drink forever. Come by and ask for Mrs. D, she may even have some monstrous pork cracklin for you that ya can get just down the road on Paris.

Visitors

2005-07-27T13:19:00.000-05:00

I thought I would take this opportunity to say hello and thanks to everyone that is dropping by the porch. It is a rare lazy life we enjoy here on this porch overlooking Bayou St. John. At times it appears here at times there. Is this true or fiction, well are not the lines blurred when we drink from a special glass?

So if you drop by, do me the favor of signing that guest book over there. Just move the bottle of San Judas rum and I will get to it. In the meantime, relax and notice how nicely the sun shines through piles of icecubes in this tanned glass.

Papa Day

2005-07-27T10:33:00.000-05:00

Surely no one expected a post from me yesterday. I, or we. were recovering from a day of stuffed potato cakes (link below). Yayabo and I spent the day lounging about making the papas. Well I cooked the picadillo (with raisins and olives no less, probably one of the best I have made. I have become such an expert at making it), and then set to cook the potatoes. All the while going back from the porch to the kitchen to the bridge (my name for my game room) where Yayabo sat humming Brazilian samba and blasting aliens, Nazis, and robots (something he calls 'Gun Porn').

I made a huge mistakes with the potatoes. Instead of fork mashing them, I whipped them, thinking I was being all slick. Well that was the word, slick. I cooled them and when Yayabo and I went to make them, we found it infinitely hard to turn mashed potatoes into balls.

The answer? FLOUR. Lots of it. Nothing better (except eggs) to make food stick together. We made the balls alright (the image of Yayabo's percussion hands covered with a thick layer of breading goop, will always live in my memory), but we had an ocean of bread crumbs and flour all over the counter and the floor. Not to worry my two dogs raced to the occasion, and had the floor cleaned in seconds. The desert of crumbs, flour, and a glowing yellow river of egg were a different story but all turned out well.

I love frying. Perhaps it is instinctual but I adored dumping those lovely cakes into a cast iron pot over a fire. Now some broke apart as the hot oil ate away at our meager coating. Also I wish I had put more meat into the center, but like I said, with mashed potatoes- who could have done it?

We got about 12 solid balls, and ate well here and there, always with a staff of rum beside us. Lovely and good Mount Gay, from Barbados. Just sweet enough. Now a good mixing rum is Flor de Cana Extra Dry. Surprised me beyond belief. Diet Coke and Coke pouring here and there.

I had so many leftovers,and since I am a kind of culinary missionary, I brought the papas to my neighbors and exchanged them for crabcakes and fried shrimp- wonderful. Then since a friend of ours closed on her house around the corner, I made a tray of everything I had, and a bottle of Marques de Caceres (I adore Spanish wines) and headed on over. The only article of furniture she had was a rug- thus a makeshift picnic started.

All the while Yayabo blasting away in the bridge.

Did I mention the next day? No? Good!

Papas Rellenas

2005-07-24T23:07:00.000-05:00

Not necessarily happy with the last post, I just did not want it to be the first thing people see. Going to think that I'm a full Taoist or something.Thus I am posting once again. Tomorrow should be event filled. Yayabo, musician and my oldest friend, called saying he needed the porch. He is shipping out on some concert tour, and needed Papas Rellenas- Stuffed Potatoes.

Its made with picadillo or ground beef hash stuffed into breaded potato balls which are then deep fried. It is quite labor intensive, but I may have my friends come in and do the labor intensive part. Rum bottles are also on their way. It is a staple of the Cuban diet, and one of my all time favourites.

The website linked above contains a multitude of recipes from around the world. Rather colorful and informative; especially if you like flags.

A WARRIOR'S CREED

2005-07-23T19:19:00.000-05:00

In every single journal I have created, I have a copy of this to remind me of things; keep me on the path and all that:

A Warrior’s Creed

I have no parents: I make the heaven and earth my parents.
I have no home: I make awareness my home.
I have no life or death: I make the tides of breathing my life and death.
I have no divine power: I make honesty my divine power.
I have no means: I make understanding my means.
I have no magic secrets: I make character my magic secret.
I have no body: I make endurance my body.
I have no eyes: I make the flash of lightning my eyes.
I have no ears: I make sensibility my ears.I have no limbs:
I make promptness my limbs.I have no strategy:
I make “unshadowed by thought” my strategy.
I have no designs: I make “seizing opportunity by the forelock” my strategy.
I have no miracles: I make right action my miracle.
I have no principles: I make adaptability to all circumstances my principles.
I have no tactics: I make emptiness and fullness my tactics.
I have no talents: I make ready wit my talent.
I have no friends: I make my mind my friend.
I have no enemies: I make carelessness my enemy.
I have no armor: I make benevolence and righteousness my armor.
I have no castle: I make immovable-mind my castle.
I have no sword: I make absence of self my sword.

~ anonymous 14th century samurai

Rum's Translator and a Cohiba

2005-07-23T16:07:00.000-05:00

A cloud passes as the church bells ring the hour of four. The sun is annoyingly bright, and I only wish for another shower to give me an excuse to plunge into the droll of the day.

The porch is lonely today, hungover and full of acid. Usually I enjoy hangovers, wonderful moments in life that allow you to take time and be yourself. But how can I feel so wonderful if I mixed rum, beer, and wine into my concoction. Tis was not an easy cup that I wielded last night and now I am paying for it.

Columbians really know how to drink. They make something called a consumme and you it just before you go out into the live streets. Yes it is true, I drink on the occasional drive but it never has gotten in my way. Got an interesting call from a friend in Mid-City, I had to interpret for him and his girlfriend over Flor de Cana Extra Dry (that reminds me I need to post my favorite cigars, rums and so on), Coronas, and Montecillo. Apparently my words, a simultaneous interpretation (which means that three people are talking at the same time) began. It is the first time that I got drunk in two languages. Most of the time I spent waving my hands and shaking my head.

In that night, in the tropical feel that only Mid-City New Orleans can have, I felt closer to my Caribbean roots. Closer to the islands that await me to the south (I say as I yawn and taste rum acid), we talked about spiritismo, religions, economy, culture clashes abound.

Yet there was the night, and as I drove home, I tried to picture the hanging wrought iron lamp here on the porch.

A lighthouse across river and rum.
______________________________________________

On this evening I enjoyed a wonderful Cohiba Corona, from the Dominican Republic. While many would smirk at me smoking a Dominican rather than a Cuban- I enjoyed this one more.

It seems that the Dominicans have the patience to actually age the cigars. They taste like aged Cubans. The problem with the Cuban industry is that they have no patience. You don't smoke a cigar that was just rolled, that is too harsh. You let her sit, relax, and ferment.

Now I can do the Cigar Aficionado thing and tell you that it had lovely poppy and rasberry flavors, but I consider that all bullshit. It tasted like good tabaco and that is about it. The experience was smooth and long lasting. It went out upon occasion but that was only because in my bilingual rum stupor I talked too much crap.

Another, last word of advice. Especially after the cigar boom crash, there is no reason in the world to pay over 5 or 6 dollars per stick. There are too many good and cheaper brands out there.

The only exception is the Padron Aniversario, which I consider to be the best cigar ever made. But that is another post...

Banana Leaf Afternoon

2005-07-22T14:53:00.000-05:00

Sipping a bit of the mix as I wait for this treachurous sun to fall. Here watching bananas grow. It fills everything we are with heat and humidity. The wraparound Victorian glimmers, a mirage of rotating fans that endlessly gives off the color green (shown to the side). The puppy plays about and barks when people move in and out of the scope of the porch.

Hoping for some rain on these planks. We so much prefer rainy days, with a cloud of grey (perhaps even black) chaos moving from the south. Always from the south it seems. Funny how every Lilith that comes through the Atlantic Alley starts off as a tropical depression.

Sip of cola and rum in tribute to that history, begging for a little bit more time as summer quickly dwindles. If only we can measure the months climacically rather than by the calendar. Summer vacation here in New Orleans would nearly last a blessed lifetime.

We sip again, with a drip to these pages, crinkly and grey in the background. The hours wasting by. Tonite I go to a friends house to translate for him. A Colombian arepa Carnival straight from Baranquilla.

But for now we must toil with the afternoon, and milk it for that sweet necatar called free time. For me, more valuable than money

A Reading Autobiography I

2005-07-21T08:36:00.000-05:00

"Know, O Prince, that between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis and
the gleaming cities, and the rise of the Sons of Aryas, there was
an Age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world
like blue mantles beneath the stars..."
-Robert E. Howard

Some people begin their essays with a profound and complete quote, summarizing an idea in one sentence, or simply saying 'look how much I know'. What I placed above is half a quote, words that begin the epic tale of a thick muscled and melancholy warrior, Conan of Cimmeria. I tacked the words up there not because I see myself as well built or even sullen. The tone, the words, open the reader to a world filled with imagery, color, fantasy, and adventure. They open the mind like an eye facing the dawn. That is how I always like to read- especially as an adolescent.

As a teenager, I suffered through being shy, introverted, and generally unhappy. To this day I cannot listen to 80's music in a good mood. I had no confidence, and lived under the thumb of over-protective, strict Cuban parents. I am not sure when it started, where my personality reached out to these heroes of old, but it did. What I do remember is reading in 8th grade (yes, middle school) the beast called The Once and Future King. Most kids in my class simply called it "The 624 page monster." With the same fear I started it, not sure what or who I would find.

Therein I found a world filled with honor-bound knights fulfilling quests and dwelling in the mists of forests waiting for the dragon, the grail, or the maiden. I admired them, and looked around my world for a round table. I found none. Perhaps that is where my rejection of reality first started. I despised the world for being so lifeless, so colorless, so technologically and mythologically bland. A barrage of fantasy books filled the void. Paramount among them The Dragonlance Chronicles (to this day volume two Dragons of Winter Night is the only book I read IN a movie theater) which was published by the sages who had created the Koran of rules by which our gang of social misfits lived by- Advanced Dungeon's and Dragons role playing game. Within that trilogy and those rule books dwelled a land which I considered to hold my true citizenship- regardless of being born in Newark, New Jersey.

The Spell

2005-07-21T07:28:00.000-05:00

Bustling through the night with such heavy eyes, trying to figure all this blogging and doing. This site is quite simple and I would like to get the borders out of the way. Damn woman cut me off this morning and it enfuriated me. Woman from Alaska, living in a world that probably has only five or six cars, and that is during rush hour. Thinking about really changing this site if I could only stick to it.

All this happening in the middle of the night, as the summer drips from the
hourglass- too rapidly.

Pohl's Gateway

2005-07-20T08:00:00.000-05:00

Found this book to be amazing, with a dreaded hangover, I sat on my couch perfectly intent to grow roots. A student lent me this book and I just let it go on the side for so very long. Other books kept grabbing my attention, not to mention the unbelievable amounts of summer reading I had to do (Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, ugh, I call it quite simply the philiosophy machine).

I tore this book apart. Ripped it to shreds and went from the couch to the porch to the bed, to the floorboards with its wonderful pages. I had to find out more about the Heechee. Pohl just knows exactly how to create suspense. He is a sci-fi Alfred Hitchcock.

The book is about the human race finding an alien way station filled to the brim with alien spacecraft. We humans wholeheartedly start using the ships, even though we cannot control them. Some ships will fly into suns, planets, or belts. Others will go to long dead colonies where the crew can make a killing on retrieving profitable alien technology. But the risks far outwiegh the pay-off- maybe.

The very idea that the human race would simply grab an alien technology, start using it, disregarding the consequences- is not only shocking but damn plausible. If someone were to make money there would be no hesitation.

The minute I finished this one, I got online to my library and ordered the next one "Beyond the Blue Event Horizon". Must read inn a must read series

New Computer

2005-07-19T23:35:00.000-05:00

With my friend at my side discovered the new and interesting internet. Could not believe something called "Google Earth"- remarkable. I cannot decide if it scares me or elates me quite frankly. But I will try to post more on this, until it is discovered by unwanted elements.

2005-02-13T20:41:00.000-06:00

The Minutes end slowly, time is truly like an hourglass that moves around these corridors. Tomorrow I go off to work again, return to the insanity of the forum where the prizes hopefully shall come. Sunday night, the clock ticking slowly and I am in no real mood to write at all, just throwing in this small bit of snuff so that I can tell myself that today yes I blogged. I am not sure what is going to happen tomorrow, an easy shortened schedule day here in the crescent city.

2005-02-12T12:30:00.000-06:00

There is a strange feeling here something odd in the air, considering this is the first thing I write within weeks. I am within days of returning to school dammit, not likeable at all but I am hoping the question of whether I am going to be teaching English for the remainder of my days. I sit here, my mouth of filled with swampy and ire. I dream of writing but writing what in this previous haze of accomplishment. I have written nothing, nothing and that fills me only with more of a sense of insanity before. The sanctum is here, that thing that I call Galactica and perhaps the reason why I feel so damn odd is that I have not placed any emphasis on this journal even though I have neglected it too far.

There is nothing left for me I am tired and have no reason to be at all. Perhaps a yawn will be owned in the future...

Sitting around

2005-02-12T12:13:00.000-06:00

These is one of those days that seem anonymous to the mind, here it is safe and wonderful yet things just outside the space await with monstrous activity

Western Civ

2001-07-21T19:23:00.000-05:00

So many philosopher have discussed what exactly will be the downfall of everything we know. My only definition of civilization is real thought, mature and processed thought.

This is not a political or a social argument which I will publish on the net and count people who are behind me and then bring it to a Congressman.

NO this is simply placing my ideas in a form that they will take shape, and I am venting while my fiance watches the real world on MTV.I truly believe that the downfall of civilization is in the simple marketing or caring about what anyone under the age of 25 thinks.

The concentration that marketing monsters have on 15- 25 year olds is simply ridiculous- marketing for people that really should not have money in the first place, wihout resorting to begging their parents, selling drugs, or prostitution.

When I was young (prior to the 80's) no one cared about what I said no one cared about what I bought, or ate or anything. If they did they did not market directly to ME, but went straight to my parents, designing campaigns and strategies. I can only see the logic in these strategies in that the age group is extremely gullible and incrediblely voracious consumers.

Our youths heroes are fetises, Brittny Spears, Backstreet Boys, and young actors. All our movies have children, like watching a Peanuts special with special effects. The Academy Awards, once a collection of well rounded and educated alcoholics, now looks like they competing to win a star at the top of their page. Our music is garbage because we cannot get out of marketing to people that should not be allowed to cross the street yet.

Nothing that I can think of except maybe over-population is deterioating our way of life more than paying attention to what youth says, thinks, listens to, eats, watches, and hopes- this all at a time when the retired population is ballooning.

Children should be seen not heard, marketed, nor appeased. In this day and age, when half a million organizations are intent on whether you spank your child or not, that students are cursing out thier superiors and teachers...

Who in the end is raising who?

Us or The Kids?