Diederich's Writing: Tongue Pickles and Gravy Blue

Friday, August 1, 2008

Tongue Pickles and Gravy Blue

I was slicing zucchini into lengthy slabs, thinking 'this is not julienne; what's it called?' We'd had the best cucumbers sliced similarly at a pulled-pork restaurant in Haleiwa—scrumptiously delicious.

The kids always wanted dill pickles on their hamburgers—not round, but the long ones--'you know, shaped like a a a tongue!”, thus “tongue pickles” became one of our household words which we still use today (not around regular people of course!). Another invented word was coined when we were admiring different paint jobs on automobiles and dreaming of what we'd buy if we'd win the lottery (fat chance—we never play), but we saw an SUV in an odd shade of blue—somewhat grayed down, thus “gravy blue” was born. And Tarzan, an old cat that wandered around the living room gently wafting his poker tail aimed toward heaven...the name Oreehole arrived... 'Oh Gross...!' He had a few dark butt crumbs under it's tail-- yes, disgusting but funny—perhaps this came from a movie and I just assumed the kids were clever....but I can't look at an Oreo cookie the same way!

To go on: I have always liked odd names; Brigham's new pet 'Fritz' didn't meet my creative standard—since it lives in an aquarial setting complete with river sand, rocks, my rat skull, and 2 succulents I bought, I thought it should be named something arid—like 'Mohave', or (since it's a Chilean Rose Tarantula,) a Chilean name—based on some of those ancient tribes that forced baby skulls into obloid alien shapes! But I guess a German 'Fritz' fits with South America, having hidden all those Nazis that hightailed it out of Europe, and Fritz does sit on top of his rock with one paw raised in a HEIL HITLER salute... and today I observed his ferocious attack of a cricket... he's a killin' machine!

And speaking of Nazi's...I went out to Flat Tire Farmer's house in the drizzle to pick a few climbing beans that he'd offered (+ sent on a grasshopper-hunting errand since Fritz ate his cricket and still might be hungry-- why am I collecting his meals??) and got to pick some of the coolest beans--some ranged from 8” to 18” and were a spectacular shade of burgundy!

Regular green beans grew adjacent, so I grabbed a handful of those (in the meantime, stashing wet grasshoppers in my pocket), but the green beans were bizarre. Some were plain, some were green on one side and splashed with burgundy spots on the other, and some had burgundy flecks on both sides! How peculiar.. I thought I thought of Mengele?, the pea scientist, performing countless experiments on peas...these green beans probably cross-pollinated with the red ones...but I knew my brain was malfunctioning...Mengele, Mengel, Mendelsohn, Mendel...ahhh...For heaven's sake I'd nearly confused the atrocious Josef Mengele: Nazi Angel of Death, with Gregor Mendel: Scientific Monk of Colorful Pea Flowers!

Words, names, nicknames...I thought it amusing this morning that the gas station gal called my Skinny Farmer Guy exactly that. 'Hey, Skinny Farmer Guy...what pump you on...?' He'd brought over bags of peaches from a hay meadow—I told him that I'd pit them for his winter wine making, if I could freeze some...so I did 11 gallons. I gave him 17 shirts that I'd picked up for him too.

Padraic/Patrick-- I think the first spelling is cool...I was reminded of this when reading Angela's Ashes last weekend—and if anyone ever thinks their childhood was bad... read it.

and the names Oryx and Crake really caught my eye at Bailey's last summer...so I read that book on the beach during vacation (a Margaret Atwood tale—hey, she's Canadian!) I'd also read The Handmaid's Tale years ago/The Wanting Seed/Brave New World/etc. So what are these books classified as? I guess they are science fiction, but not like---say, Star Trek or something! Futuristic?

And talking about 'futuristic' and 'names', Bailey and I had poked fun about 'spidergoats' on an older blog from the website cracked.com and then I found this:

Only 20 weeks old, 2 sister goats warrant tight security because their milk is highly prized by the U.S. military. Their 70,000-gene chromosomes have been manipulated to include a gene from the orb weaver, a palm-size spider that spins the world's toughest natural material. Researchers are "growing" the spider's silk inside Mille and Muscade's mammary glands. These strands of silk, just 3 microns thick, are three times as tough as DuPont's bulletproof Kevlar. A woven cable as thick as your thumb can bear the weight of a jumbo jet. Once perfected, the silk will be used for featherweight ballistic vests, medical sutures and artificial ligaments. The goats represent a promising new avenue in the controversial field of transgenics, the science of splicing one species' genes onto the genome of another. Most efforts, including the recent news of a disease-detecting rhesus monkey (bred with a glowing jellyfish gene), focus on improving the characteristics of existing organisms...

While I am not going to blog on whether transgenics is ethical or not, it sure is fascinating and I always look forward to what goes on in the field of science. In fact, a TV show concerning the pale blue blood of hideous horseshoe crabs caught my fancy and stole quite a bit of my afternoon one day...

Its scary to read these books seeing that the described future is not so far off...in 8^th grade I took an old sci-fi short story book because I loved it and one of the stories talked about a light that would cut through skin...mwaaa hhaaa haaaa haaa haaa!

Lasers.

Sorry. I got way off topic...but don't the names Oryx and Crake catch your eye?....Onyx and Cake...

Ummm. Chocolate.

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AGGIEVILLE BAR ENTOMOLOGY

My daughter fell in love with her boyfriend
over jewelry.
Not the amazingly brilliant diamond
or the classical high school ring.
She's still tickled to tell her story--
about the perfect college snobs
seated at the bar,
vying for that dreamy dude's attention.
She sat quietly
with those large brown eyes
in her muddy work jeans
and torn tee.
He came close, wiping a glass,
glancing at the bead about her throat--
his face split into a grin:
"Hemiptera?"
She grinned too...
"No, Coleoptera. I made it last night."
They discussed the art of making fine jewelry
and he fingered the necklace:
fishing line and tackle box paraphernalia.
The jealous ones didn't understand
the language of love,
not even its simplified version
of "dung beetle" tossed in their direction.
It aggravated them to ask;
then flounced out with noses in the air.
"You know...
a round ball of cow shit!"

CHOKING

I abhor a shirt with a collar.
I've an aversion to them;
can't wear them;
can't stand to feel them behind my neck.
I don't know if it’s the extra thickness-
a minute pressure
that rides on the skin too deep.
I find I cannot take it.

It's not that they're tight
like hands around your throat
or thumbs pressing on your windpipe;
even unbuttoned,
its still an unbearable weight.

Like that guy that rested his arm
across the back of my neck
just to 'say hi'.
It feels like that:
Unwanted.
Subversive.
Additional.

Unnecessary.

A tee shirt fits just fine--
there's no constraints;
whether loose or close
you don't have to make decisions.

Men wear them. But I prefer tees.
Precisional, perfectional dress shirts
just seem like undue grief.
It’s hard to talk to one of them
with their collars.
Taut buttoned,
impressing about their throats,
like some perfect picture.
Tight.
Confining.
They all make me choke.

GLOOM Oct 2007

I watched the moon.
I thought I watched the moon.

I was vaguely aware that it had risen and although I seemed mesmerized by its holy whiteness and stared unblinking at it's superior roundness it did not dawn on me for many hours that it's orb had varnished my body with a pallid glow, nor realized that it's indifferent brightness had sapped my soul and gradually crushed my size
to that
of a crumb
or less...

I am no one.
The moon knows this.

The moon observes my inadequacies and waits.
The moon does not care.
Human-like in its countenance the moon glows callous like all others.
I know this.

I am no one.
I am always no one.

(The beginning of a short story. Shall I continue with this depressing servitudal self-pity??? I think that sentence is in error!)

SHIIMMER and SPARKS

Once upon a time there lived in the deep wood a most beautiful child, with radiant pale skin, lovely pink rose petal lips, and hair long and sleek as a raven’s wing. Her eyes whispered dark as smoking coals and her disposition was so sweet and enthralling that even the smallest creature was immediately enraptured by her very look and gentle voice.

Shimmer, she was called, because although she lived very poorly, the animals and insects of the forests took it upon themselves to transform her meek garments into things of exquisite beauty. Her tiny white frocks were trimmed in gossamer laces, intricately woven, a gift from the forest spiders, and each gown gleamed and shone like glitter in the dappling sunlight, for every butterfly would swoop down and gently wipe his wing upon the cloth, leaving behind an everlasting sparkling gift. Shimmer, she was called, and she shimmered as she lit from flower to flower, playing and transforming her marvelous forest garden.

Now, deep within this woods, a quaint and lovely stone cottage had been occupied for many a year by Shimmer’s grandmother, a wizened white-haired old woman who took it upon herself to raise her infant granddaughter there and teach her all she knew of the ways of the forest. She was wise and nearly magical [mysterious/mystical] with her lore of plants and as Shimmer grew, flitting from one garden blossom to another, the grandmother was aware that her granddaughter too had inherited that special gift, and even more so. For not only was Shimmer gifted with plants, she could engage and tame [hear? understand?] the animals in a nearly magical fashion. [with her gentle touch and charming smile. ?]

Shimmer’s grandmother had labored nearly a lifetime around the mossy-thatched cottage, cajoling brambles of tremendous white roses to climb as high as the eaves. [clamber higher than the eaves]. Shimmer learned to trim and train their boughs too as she grew, but never did their thorny branches pierce her delicate skin. Luscious fruit trees filled the garden with ripening scent as sweet as honey and great bowers and clusters of vines and petals wove their way about other paths in the garden and in between the smoothly worn stepping stones; the pair nurtured beds of delicate lettuces, crisp vegetables, and many fragrant spices and herbs. But it was the gorgeously scented roses that were their favorite; every evening Shimmer would cut a single blossom to place within a bowl upon the hearth [mantle/old wooden table?] where its sweetness would fill the house and lull them to sleep amidst a gentle breeze.

Occupied with her little garden and beguiled by the beauty of nature, Shimmer passed nearly all the hours of her days [her waking hours?] outdoors happily completing the many tasks set out for her by her grandmother….plucking sticky ripening cherries and plums and rich berries from lowered branches, arranging jewel-toned flowers along the garden paths, digging into the dark rich loam to set forth great fat bulbs and coax delightful bouquets of blooms into fragrant displays; why, no one could be richer than they. Yet it was Shimmer’s skillful gardening that helped the grandmother produce what meager income they had—quite often a crone from the distant village would journey into the deep woods to purchase a small handful of one such healing herb or another, or a dried root, or to taste [sample] a tiny pot of fresh fruited jam or marmalade.

Such were the days that passed and as Shimmer grew more and more into a lovely young maid with alabaster skin and a delicate flushed cheek, so did the white roses begin to change…slowly at first, unnoticeable, until one day they perceived a faint pink hue had lit upon all the petals. [as subtle as…?]

It was then that the grandmother began to feel slight trepidation, a vague [stirring?] uneasiness that caused her to be sharper in tone and more watchful [hawk-eyed?] as the weeks passed by, and as the roses maintained their slight pink tinge, she called Shimmer into the cottage slightly before dusk now, sending her not quite as far a field when in search for a particular rare root or leaf. Whereas their evenings had previously consisted of an amusing animal story or occasional folklore tale, now the old woman hovered closer, gruffly mumbling warnings and parables [accounts] of a creature she called ‘man’.

Shimmer perceived that her grandmother’s worries had something to do with the odd white [oddly colored] roses and easing her mind, would nod her head in agreement that these creatures should be avoided, even though she knew not what they were…She listened carefully to the joyous singing of the birds and the bright humming insects and the tiny squeaks of the sweet grey mice and knew there was no danger about. She doted on her grandmother, soothing her anxious headaches with cool berry-scented water and honeyed teas and attributed the old woman’s tales to the older crones’ neighborly gossip.

However, despite the love Shimmer had for the chattering and songs of her dear forest friends there were times when she felt slightly apart, for although they chirped and twittered with her daily, she was not really like them at all…

Subjugation

Leroy Raugowitz was slapped hard across the cheek and chained to a bed when he was of the age of four.

This was a normal household routine and substantiated by the hunger, sarcasm, and gross ill will that comes to all bad boys that are born poor and undesired. All his life Leroy would remember his first meal at an all-night diner that served the finest fried chicken and smoothest mashed potatoes he had ever seen and then the night spent on a soft bed tucked between clean white sheets.

He would always remember the night he left his meager life as a child of chains, to a glorious two-day escapade of real food, fairy-tale freedom, on to a new unknown eternity of chance—one consisting of criticism and doom. It would be hard to determine which life was worst.

The midnight Leroy awoke in snowy sheets remained crisp in his mind forever—his legs were free to move about, unrestrained; he could stretch and wiggle and dig his toes into their starchiness. And with a belly full and taut, his eyes wide, he glanced about at cleanliness for the first time in his existence. A brief smile fluttered on his lips before he let the enveloping softness carry him back to sleep. It was heaven.

It didn’t last long.

For two days, ever since the nice men in blue uniforms with shiny gold buttons had taken pictures and broken through the heavy hasp, and the mustached man in the white coat had stroked his chin, peering into the black bag, peering at his raw ankle, and the matronly dark-haired women, Leda, methodically wrote notes with a sharpened pencil while shaking her head and staring about the room, well, Leroy got to see how a real boy lived.

For two days, he was treated like a real boy, in a real home, with a real life. It remained with him eternally.

He was scooped gently over the shoulder of one the blue-clad officers and placed in an automobile to be driven to a stoic, dull brown-brick building used for Official Purposes. He answered to what questions he was capable, then again placed in the automobile, where, after his chicken and mashed potato supper, he was served his first dessert. It was a magnificent creation; a piece of real cherry pie in a golden sugary crust and running with sweet red juices, topped with a scoop of ice cream. He saw this jewel pass before his widened eyes on its way to another customer, which made Leda nearly smile—she immediately called to the waitress, who brought one right over. Of course, he couldn’t finish it, which made him afraid, but it was apparent that his matronly caregiver was in a hurry and soon they were driving to a new location, a few meager cherries left drowning in a sea of pink.

He lived the life of what he determined must be ‘royalty’ for two days; his first experience being that of a warm bath; an immersion into a frothy warm mass of fragrant bubbles. Someone, a lavender-scented woman with short blond waves, bathed him, fawning over and delicately rubbing and rinsing him from head to toe. He was petted and dried and enveloped between layers of a thick creamy towel, so warm and soothing he nearly dozed.

He saw new clothing laid out on a dresser before him: light blue flannel pajamas with clouds and red bi-planes, new pants and a tiny striped tee, all complete with stickered prices still attached. While his ankle was delicately re-bandaged, he ogled the clothing and smiled to himself again: these would be the first new clothes he had ever had.

The pajamas were divine.

(More later. Much Later.)

Diederich's Writing

Friday, August 1, 2008

Tongue Pickles and Gravy Blue

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Art, Trash, and My Own Personal Wasteland: Check out all my sites for random art!

AGGIEVILLE BAR ENTOMOLOGY

Jooble Read my Blog, thus this link!

Sad

My Favorite Drawing

CHOKING

GLOOM Oct 2007

Rats.

Blog Archive

About Me

Torpedo Tire Bomb w Architeuthis

SHIIMMER and SPARKS

Not really sure what to call this drawing...

Subjugation

Displaced Cosmonaut

2 drawings hanging on my wall