Somewhere in between frozen blue finger tips, and purple prune hot bath hands, there will be the fire red finger type jazz of hot burgundy passion, both subdued like Benny Goodman and ablaze like Chuck Berry, steady as steam like Chuck Higgins, smooth like Frank Sinatra, as moody as Miles Davis. In that short time of transition between fire and ice, my fingers jazz.
What happens when you dehydrate milk? Do you get milk powder? Milk tuile?
I bet I will have to make my own evaporated coconut milk… coconut milk jam it is!
I should start making my own milk chocolate… darkest of darkness chocolate, plus sweetened condensed milk, plus toast milk solids. Yup!
Is it possible to make everything gluten free? No whey?
Whipped Crème Anglaise?
Triple Crème Brie Turnover?
I can’t stop thinking about fried dough and cheese, goat cheese in particular.
I have a dream to make a chocolate and cheddar dessert, somehow bringing together chocolate and sharp cheese together in holy matrimony. Some day, it will happen.
Dreaming of destruction and pondering chaos
I wrestle with keeping it calm.
Desiring the heat of flame and pursuing the dark fumes
I am a diamond cut snow flake.
There is no peace in the heart,
There is no soft to the touch.
Without you, I am everything.
In the barren winter I find inspiration,
In the vast white ordinary I find my color
In the silent night I hear jazz.
In confusion I draw straight lines
In serenity I create a kingdom of noise.
My comfort is not in the sun, my song is not with the wind.
I dance in the stillness.
My beauty is dark like a moonless night.
My charm is in the blizzard.
My complexity is the simplicity of words.
Fall’s destruction is a means of recreating. Fall is so beautiful, like the curiosity in a baby, but it is so unnerving like the breaking of a piece of art. Fall has to be divinely beautiful to ease the transition from sunny paradise to the brutal hug of winter. In this transitional time, we are broken apart and smashed to ruins like an east coast earthquake. The thought of building it all back up again is daunting, seemingly impossible. Is it even worth that burst of exploding energy to recreate again? It is tiring, all this change, all the beauty around.
Coffee is not seemingly enough to want to conquer these diamond dreams lately. I am being dragged down with Fall’s heavy and demanding hand. I sleep, I stretch, I seek the sun, I await the wheels of change to start to flow again. To find that spark to start the construction, the jump to get my heart racing, to finally get sick of the simple. I want to overcomplicate my plate once again, but even the espresso seems to have gotten weaker.
The circles of creativity and growth, in this season of change you have to be content with the sluggish shuffle of self fulfillment, but still dream with a translucent shimmer over your monotone eyes. Out of this rubble a better version is going to be unsurfaced, more rubies will be formed, more colors will be created, more complicated structures will dominate like a Dr. Seuss city.
Third time is a charmed chance for a mundane train ride to work. I hardly take the train with the option of riding Turnip, but I have been lucky enough to have experienced an acapella song from two young aspiring singers 3 times. Of all the passing trains, of the long line of train cars strung together for the journey across town and back, of all the varying times in the late morning, these two musicians have chosen my ride 3 times now.
They introduced themselves, sing an oldie but goodie song, filling in the beat with snapping fingers and the thump of a tapping foot. These two young men look nothing like the part they are singing. They don’t dress the part, they don’t look like a typical musician, and they don’t demand anything. They have a cd, 4 songs for $5. They give a short spiel about themselves, and then sing a song.
Three times on the short green line train ride for the 3 quick stops, they have serenaded me, started my day out brilliantly, delighted me with their talent, their inspiration to sing in front of strangers, and to passively ask for money to in order to pursue their dreams. They have a great song, I hope they keep on singing, and I hope they keep on finding me on my short green line journey to brighten my day with their muse.
I love writing in the twilight. It’s more than inspiring, I find it calming. The hot sun has subsided for the day, the moon is still missing. When the guardians of the sky are not looking, possibilities pop up and over. The extremes are forgotten. There is no black or white, or even gray, those do not exist here. It’s basically a rainbow moment, a snap in time when magic is material. It is an enchanted part of the day that I love to spend in my enchanted garden.
Twilight is both abstract and concrete, a concept and a visual. It is a feeling, a perception, an event, and a color. This confusion of perception and the physical is an inspiring place and time. A tranquil transition that produces an event with a certain calm, a subtle change in the color scheme in the kaleidoscope of our vision, creating a feeling of openness and vulnerability. Without the extremes of the day light and the dark night, perceptions change and awareness wanders.
Twilight can be described as an elusive mood, not settled on one particular identity. Here, in this refracting confusion, I find certainty and rediscover what it means to wonder.
Get up, go to work, iron out the day. It is hard to start the rolling motion, but once you find a small hill of inspiration, it’s clear sailing, smooth somersaults. Once you get over the lull of the nighttime dream, once you break the sandman’s spell, the daylight is not so harsh.
This is why I don’t understand those people out there who don’t drink coffee. What’s the buzz to your alarm clock? Where is the wind in your espresso flight? What is the deep roasted root to your bitterness?
Shake shake shake off the chains of the heavy dreams, and lighten your daylight with a fresh cup.