Another Candle is Lit

Tea: Mandarin Orange

Music: Leonard Cohen, "Everybody Knows"

Time: Night.

Until today, my son's involvement with tea consisted of reading Steep Thoughts over my shoulder.

This morning, he was milling around the kitchen looking for something hot to drink with his biscuits and preserves.

"Want some tea?" I asked.

He thought.

"Got any subtle tea?" he asked, cracking himself up at his own pun.

I refused to bite.

"This is green tea," I said, indicating the Mandarin Green (which you might remember from earlier posts as "candletea," because it makes me think of festive holiday gatherings and never fails to lift my mood). "It's pretty light."

"So it's ... subtle tea?"

"Yes," I said with a sigh. "It's subtle tea. I was about to make some, but you can have my first steeping and I'll take the second."

Even without honey, he likes it. Great. He already takes my socks. Now I have to keep an eye on my tea stash, too.

A minor case of the icks.

Tea: Stomach Soother

Music: Chaka Khan, "Through the Fire"

Time: Night.

My insides have gone a bit squirrelly. All of the holiday indulgence, I'm sure. Between the big turkey dinner (and all the leftovers) and tonight's traditional putting-up-the-tree spread of summer sausage and cheese, I'm reminded that my stomach capacity isn't what it used to be.

("Squirrelly" seems an apt word, in conjunction with overeating. The squirrels in my neighborhood are fat this year. At least the economy hasn't affected acorn and black walnut growth.)

Hmm ... maybe I should put out a bowl of this tea for them.

Maybe once I'm a bit less dyspeptic myself ...

A Black Friday indeed ...

Tea: Chinese Melon Seed

Music: James Taylor, "Shower the People"

Time: Night.

Yet another sign that the world continues to spin upside down.

It was horrifying enough that people would put saving a few dollars over the life of a human being, so much so that they ran over workers trying to save the trampled man and then kept on shopping while store officials tried to shut down in the wake of the tragedy.

This man wasn't a part of the machinery. He went to work trying to keep body and soul together in a tough economy, and had them separated by a mindless mob bent on snapping up cheap (in every sense) goods.

It's also disconcerting (although not so much as today's death) that people were so desperate to feed the economy of a frenemy country that they lined up Thursday morning -- a day before the "bargain"-hunting orgy that is the Friday after Thanksgiving.

God save us from the madding crowd ...

Thankful to be Back

Tea: Berry Blush herbal

Music: Vince Guaraldi, "Charlie Brown Thanksgiving"

Time: Night.

For the past week, Blogger has been telling me my browser's cookie functionality was disabled. It wasn't.

Oh, well. I'm back -- and on Thanksgiving day, no less.

So, before my cookies disable themselves again, here's my trio of immediate gratitudes:

1. I and mine ate well today, and we have leftovers. So many in this world didn't and don't.

2. I have been able to renew several connections that had lapsed through no one's fault. Life just gets in the way sometimes -- but it's good to be back in touch.

3. I am not alone in the world -- and I have a chance every day to reach out to others so that they know they aren't, either.

I know that's four out of three. I can be greedy about gratitudes if I want.

But as Mick and Keith would say ...

Tea: Mandarin Green

Music: Poe, "Haunted"

Time: Night.

Suddenly ... out of somewhere ... I want a Chicago dog.

I mean, really really really want one. With the celery salt and the nuclear green relish and everything.

That's all. I just thought you should know.

An Odd Sort of Growing Season

Tea: Chocolate Cherry

Music: Heart, "Treat Me Well"

Time: Night.

It turned cold and windy tonight. Goodbye, Indian summer. Hello, pre-winter.

It's not entirely a bad thing. I seem to be sort of an anti-plant (which might not make sense outside my own head).

To wit: When the days get shorter and cooler, that's when I tend to grow the most -- and not merely in the "pack on the winter pounds" sense.

Autumn has always been a season of change for me, a time of doing something new (sometimes shedding something old in the process). It's when I feel most productive, most in tune with the world around me -- in short, most alive. Paradoxically, it's also when I tend to rent a room in my own head and live there for long stretches. The sense of engagement with the world is no weaker and no less real -- it's just that the definition of "world" is particularly fluid this time of year.

What will this year's change be? I don't yet know. I believe that I'll be shown, somehow, and that the sign will be unmistakable.

Here's hoping for a good harvest ...

Swedish Jesus and the Stubborn Flat Tire

Tea: Christmas

Music: New pieces for solo flute

Time: Almost midnight.

It's late. I'm tired. So rather than go through the night blow by blow, I'll just answer your questions before you even have to ask them.

Trust me, it'll save time.

Swedish Jesus is a composer, who looks -- well, like those church pictures which look nothing like the real Jesus. Long blond hair, trimmed blond beard. I heard his name, but I don't remember it.

Yes, he was one of the composers of the ten new flute pieces I heard tonight at Pi Gallery, where I went to hear said flute music and see Maria Creyts' artwork again.

My favorite painting from the show? In this moment, Serena. Love that green.

My favorite flute piece? Probably "Continental Divide," composed by Chris Wu and performed by Rebecca Ashe. It would have been a great addition to the score of a Hitchcock film -- near the climax, where the villain (Robert Shaw) and hero (Paul Newman) move toward a fateful rendezvous -- neither knowing that they are both being stalked by someone even more villainous (Rod Steiger).

Yes, the art show is still up. It runs through Nov. 29. Go see it.

The flat tire was on a car belonging to two of the flutists. I helped to change it. The old tire and wheel didn't want to come off. It took a good seven minutes of prying (with intermittent tire-iron taps) to get it dislodged.

No, I don't know why. Maybe it was just evil.

It takes two flutists, three composers, one highly amused artist and one writer to change a flat tire.

And yes, "Swedish Jesus and the Stubborn Flat Tire" would be a great name for a band.

Simple Pleasure Complex

Tea: Mandarin Green with Honey

Music: Cheb Tarik, "L'Histoire"

Time: Night.

One cup of spiced tea, flavored with honey. Three minutes to heat the water, three more to steep.

Six minutes to happiness, right?

Far ... very far ... from it.

Someone -- more precisely, a series of someones -- had to plant and tend the tea plants, harvest the tea, dry the tea, season the tea, package the tea, ship the tea, purchase and send the tea (the last step involving an entire sub-series of someones.)

Other someones planted and nurtured orange trees, picked the fruit, peeled the fruit, dried the peel and added it to the tea.

Still more someones harvested the cinnamon, ground it and put it into the mix.

Meanwhile, somewhere else, flowers grew. Bees visited the flowers, went home and made honey. A beekeeper harvested it. Someone else bottled it. Other someones packed it, transported it and stocked it at the market.

Think we're done yet? Hardly.

The electric teakettle, from inventor's spark to yet more shipping someones, passed through who knows how many lives. How many people built the water treatment plant, built and laid the mains, designed and manufactured the fixtures and hooked up the plumbing? How many more put together the power grid, ran the lines, wired the outlet (and made the tools that made that task possible)?

And we haven't even talked about the mug ...

Simple pleasures don't just magically appear out of thin air. They have roots reaching eons deep. All the more reason to appreciate them, I'd say.

Gratitude is always free-range.

Tea: Double Orange Chocolate Truffle

Music: Redbone, "Come and Get Your Love"

Time: Night.

I was prepared to unleash some serious snark when I saw this post on WalletPop's "Fantastic Freebies" blog.

This big smelly corporate poultry concern (A Yahoo! search using the keywords "Tyson chicken pollution" turns up ... wait for it ... 189,000 results.) was going to teach people how to be thankful for their food?

But I took a look at some of the examples posted -- everything from the flippant (Bart Simpson's "Rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub" to the beautiful ("Now that I am about to eat, O Great Spirit, give my thanks to the beasts and birds whom You have provided for my hunger, and pray deliver my sorrow that living things must make a sacrifice for my comfort and well-being. Let the feather of corn spring up in its time and let it not wither but make full grains for the fires of our cooking pots, now that I am about to eat.")

And I thought, "Why not take a longer look?" So I clicked.

Reminding people that each meal is a grace and a cause for gratitude won't undo years of abysmal stewardship. But disliking the messenger is no reason to disregard the message.

Attention Deficit ... what?

Tea: Earl Grey Smokey

Music: Counting Crows, "Round Here"

Time: Evening.

Much typity-typity today, writing to artists I met last night and laying groundwork for an arts site I'm launching in January (which means I have to get the thing designed by late December -- good thing I don't have to do all the design work myself.)

Anyway ... um ... so ...

I looked outside for a while, and it was snowing. That's pretty much my extent of leaving the house today.

(I should also note that I smoked the son's brisket at Scrabble, after we collaborated on making some pretty darned good cornpones for breakfast. A hundred-point margin, baby. Okay, so I got a little lucky and was able to play "T-W-I-S-(Blank)-E-R" for 73 points, counting the 50 I got for using all my tiles at once. But we shall not speak of luck, only of my glorious triumph and all that sort of thing. Strike up the musicians.)

The ADD is kicking in again. Time to make some more tea. Caffeine helps with -- oh, yeah, and I made fried potatoes with supper. They were ... um ... yikes, I forgot to hang up my clothes ... and so the bartender says, "What is this? Some kind of a joke?"

You Call That Art, Then?

Tea: Stomach Soother

Music: Blue Oyster Cult, "Godzilla"

Time: Night.

Keeping it short. Late, and I'm going to watch a cheesy monster movie with my son.

I was at the Review Studios Group Exhibition tonight, watching a couple of older guys (no wisecracks about me being an older guy, please) react to James Woodfill's Approximate Object, Quasi Effect.

(No, I'm not going to describe it to you in full detail. I'll just say that it spins, it squeaks, and it's made of wood, steel, motors and hardware, plaster gauze, acrylic media and gesso. You want more, either call me or go see it yourself.)

Anyway, it was clear that these two Did Not Approve. I didn't hear the entire conversation, but I heard all needed at the end: " ... and they call it 'art.'"

Ah, yes ... the mysterious "They." You know, the same ones who say things. Apparently, They are now in charge of determining what's art and what's not.

Granted, Woodfill's work isn't all that accessible to everyone at first look. When I reviewed his Relative Field (which is still up, by the way), it took me more than one visit to find a hook.

"I don't get it" is understandable. "I don't get it, but I'm going to give it another look" is commendable. "I don't get it, so it isn't art" is laughable.

That's what They say, anyway ...

Cup, Mug and Glass

Tea: Hot Cinnamon Chocolate

Music: Endusk, "Four"

Time: Night.

It has been a long, productive day, marked by a triad of most excellent potables. The wellspring was the same for all three.

The "hot" in this morning's tea -- a hand-blended gift from a friend -- was more than temperature and more than cinnamon. It's seasoned with Szechuan peppercorn, which becomes more pronounced as the tea cools. It's the sort of heat one feels around the edges of the tongue, in the soft palate -- even in the teeth.

This afternoon's coffee, from Homer's Coffeehouse, was chocolate Irish cream. The same friend who sent the tea bought me the coffee, long-distance.

And tonight, after a walk that ended just as the rain began, I broke out something porty, a gift received during an impulse stop at Holy-Field Winery, and raised a silent toast to the giver.

Leaf, bean, grape ... all testaments to things that grow, take root and produce wonders. Not everything is a metaphor -- but then again, from time to time, everything is a metaphor.

Salut.

Goin 'Gnuts

Tea: Christmas:

Music: Fleuma, "Eternal Drowning"

Time: Night.

(Yeah, I know. Cheerful music the last couple of nights, huh? It's a good song, though. And wherever possible, I'm going to start posting links to the music so you can hear for yourselves.)

So I was going to write about the gnats, or midges, or whatevertheheck those little insects were that kept buzzing around me (and into my ears) while I was bagging leaves this afternoon. Then it occurred to me that I had twice as many encounters today with even more annoying creatures: People Who Are More Important Than You.

By "You," I don't mean you personally. But they do. In their world, "You" means anyone who's not them.

Case 1: I was driving to the bank, to cancel an automatic withdrawal (long story). I was in the parking lot, about to pull into a space, when a woman drove straight across my bow on her way to the drive-through lane. Never mind that I had to slam on my brakes -- which was, of course, only right. She was More Important Than You, and by "You" she meant me.

Case 2: On my way to pick up the two youngest from their (successful) drama callbacks at the high school, I saw a woman jogging down the sidewalk. The light ahead of her was red, and there was cross traffic. Rather than running in place until the light changed, however, she darted ahead, forcing a mini-jam as people (kinder than I might have been) let her cross. And well they should have done; obviously, she was More Important Than You ("You," in this case, meaning them.)

Gnats, you can swat. People, you can't -- not without incurring the wrath of weapon-bearing people in blue polyester. Pity. Any politician who can push through a "He Needed Swattin' Defense" would get my vote.

Law Enforcement Officer: "Did you swat this man?"

You (and by "You," I mean everyone within a hundred-foot radius of the Person Who Is More Important Than You): "Yes, I did. He took a full cart through the express lane."

"Never mind, then. He needed swattin'."

That's some change I could believe in.

Trailed by Paper

Tea: White Grapefruit

Music: Black Tape for a Blue Girl, "Across a Thousand Blades"

Time: Night.

I am surrounded by business cards, gallery price lists with scrawled email addresses, coffee-stained notebooks also bearing same. At nine o'clock, there's a pile on the floor, sorted only in the sense that I have weeded out everything that's already in my electronic address book. At eleven o'clock, a stack of cards filched from the pile. The information on these is to be entered into said address book, after which the cards are moved to a stack at one o'clock. Once all the information is secure, they're recycled. (I'd love to keep them all, but I need the storage space for tea -- which, unlike email contacts, cannot be stored online.)

Each time I think, "There. I've caught up on my correspondence," I find I haven't -- not because people keep writing to me, but because there are those to whom I have not yet written.

A card, used as a bookmark, falls from between the pages in a collection of ghost stories. Worse still, a jacket pocket yields a scrap with a name and an @ symbol -- and no context. Who is this person? Where did I meet him? Is she an artist or an editor? Am I supposed to be sending images for a possible photo show?

As Charlie Brown would say, "AAAAAUGGH!"

I know people who are expert networkers. I envy them that gift. Oh, I'm fine at meeting people. Keeping track of all the threads after that? (Pause for rueful chuckle.) Not so much ... yet.

I'm working on it, though. Patterns, though long-held, can be altered -- and in this case, must be.

So, back to the pile.

I'm going to need some more tea ...

Freebies for You, Food for the Hungry

Tea: Mandarin Green

Music: Mellodog, "Zombie Beach"

Time: Night.

We've all seen the banner ads: "FREE $25 GIFT CARD TO (INSERT CHAIN RESTAURANT HERE)! CLICK NOW!"

Of course, there's always the tiny asterisked disclaimer, something along the lines of:

*must complete offers (translation: jump through hoops and buy stuff) for eligibility

And, of course, it's printed in something that blends neatly into the background color of the ad. Thanks, but no.

But as we also know, there's legit free stuff out there on the web. No, this isn't another plug for Hulu, Horror Masters or Download.com, although all three are incredibly cool. This one's for Walletpop's "Fantastic Freebies" section.

Tonight's haul: One free movie rental, one free wall calendar and -- coolest of all -- one free tote bag. (Hey, at least one grocery store here cuts a nickel off the total for using your own bag. I'm not proud. I'll take it.)

For two of the offers -- the bag and the calendar -- I didn't even have to sign up for email alerts.

Best of all? Walletpop has a heart as well as a nose for bargains. One of their links isn't to free stuff for yourself; it's to freerice.com -- which, as with Kiva and Heifer International, I'm always happy to promote.

I hope Walletpop keeps Free Rice in heavy rotation. It would be a good thing, I think, if people "paid" for each freebie by making enough correct clicks to rack up 500 grains of rice. And if you get on a roll, by all means keep going.

Beats Solitaire any day.

Elsewhens and Otherwheres

Tea: Caramel Lapsang

Music: The W's, "The Devil is Bad"

Time: Night.

I like all sorts of visual art -- painting, drawing, sculpture, ceramics, fiber art, metalwork, you name it.

Within each medium, I like a lot of different styles -- from the hyper-realist to the utterly abstract.

But there is something about art that evokes a sense of familiar place -- and right now, in this moment (and knowing it could change tomorrow), that's what sticks with me most from the First Friday outing of two nights ago.

I'll go in reverse chronological order here. We'll begin at a later stop: Barkley (formerly the TWA headquarters), which hosted an opening for Harriet Bigham. She lives in the Crown Center area, and much of her work reflects that. I worked in that part of the city for a decade, and still find myself there at times. So in her paintings, I see places I've not merely passed by, but bonded with in some way. And somewhere inside, I'm there again.

Now we backtrack to Unit 5 Gallery, which is now featuring paintings by Richard Mattson. There's a good deal of work featuring the Flint Hills, which is well-traveled territory for me and mine -- and a lot depicting the Brookside/South Plaza area.

That includes Loose Park, a place dear to me for a number of reasons. One is a stand of evergreens, on the west side of the park (near the Narnia Lamppost, about which I'll write more later). I have been there in each season of the year, and each time I step under those trees I feel as though I'm in a sanctuary. (Snow heightens the effect, but nothing diminishes it.)

One of Mattson's paintings is of those trees. So, of course, that was the one I kept coming back to.

I'm a "try new things" person, sometimes to a fault. But at the same time, it can be good to go back to touchstone places -- even when they're hanging on a wall in 2-D.

Hello, I must be going

Tea: Wild Berry Green

Music: Phil Collins, "Through These Walls"

Time: Night.

I'm still going through my notes on the art I saw and the artists I encountered last night at First Friday. I covered a lot of ground, making sure I saw (a) everyone who sent me an invitation to an opening and (b) everyone who will be included in the art stories on my "to write" list.

That kept me on the move, although I'm not complaining about the walking (a little more than two miles, all told). It was cool but not bitter, and being able to park and rove saved gas.

The only bad thing was that I had to breeze through some of the galleries more quickly than I would have liked, and I had to cut several conversations short to move on to the next must-see location.

On the other hand, having to be so many places in not a lot of time kept me from glomming onto anyone for an extended time. It's easy enough to do -- I find artists and their work fascinating (probably a good thing for an arts writer), and wow, do I love to talk to people. (I did get the "Don't Talk to Strangers" memo, but I blew my nose on it.) But First Fridays are for the artists, who need to be able to circulate through their openings, talking to potential buyers and making other contacts. Having someone attached at the hip can't help.

And, to borrow a phrase from several songs on a single theme, how can people miss me if I never go away?

More tomorrow on the art itself. It's the night that keeps on giving.

Running Late

Tea: Chocolate Cherry

Music: The Beatles, "Come Together"

Time: Almost midnight.

It's been a long First Friday and I need to crash. I'm going to beg a 24-hour indulgence before I start sorting it all into words.

For now, let's just say I missed the Arts Incubator for the first time in 14 months -- but found a lot of new places. Much more of this, and I'm going to need to be twins. (No jokes about us both being evil.)

'Night ...

Back in Bible Black

Tea: Mandarin Green with Honey

Music: Robert Fripp, "Starlight I"

Time: Night.

As you might have noticed, I like mismatching musical references. If I quote a song in the post title, there's no way I'm using that song as the soundtrack for the post. This is sort of an unusual situation, though.

Tonight's title is an AC/DC - King Crimson mashup. Why? Eh. Just felt like it. Did you know, by the way, that Crimson's "Starless" -- whence comes the lyrical line "Starless and Bible black" -- isn't on the Starless and Bible Black album? It's on the subsequent album, Red. And to add to the confusion, "Starless and Bible Black" is also the title of an instrumental on Starless and Bible Black -- and sounds nothing at all like "Starless."

Sometimes I am a bear of very little brain, and the ways of prog confuse me.

All of which, to keep the musical theme going, is just so much vamping until the caffeine from a third steeping of Mandarin Green (It's been a long day.) kicks in, and some sort of groove takes shape.

Fripp recorded "Starlight I" during a performance in St. Louis. I wish I could have been there. Anyone who's ever been in Crimson is on my "to see before I die" list, but Fripp and Adrian Belew co-head it.

The solo piece incorporates the melody from the guitar intro to "Starless," which was performed live well before it went onto vinyl as the closing track of Red. (That line was originally played by violinist David Cross, who quit the band between Starless and Bible Black and Red. He came back as a session player on the latter album, but by then Fripp had made the intro line his own.)

(Yes, I like trivia, if you hadn't figured that out by now.)

Anyway ... I wish I could have heard this live, but part of me wonders if I would have been disappointed. Would it have been enough to hear those opening notes -- and then not hear the rest of "Starless," which is one of my favorite songs of any genre? Could I have appreciated "Starlight I" for its own sake, right out of the gate?

I don't know. I suppose I would have been ambivalent -- multivalent, even.

Yes, I'd love to hear "Starless" live -- ideally with the 1974 lineup of Fripp, John Wetton, Bill Bruford and guests -- all former members -- Cross, Mel Collins and Ian McDonald (part of King Crimson's original lineup and later a cofounder of Foreigner.) But there's no chance of that happening. Still, I have to give props to Fripp for not playing the laurels card, for continuing to move ahead and make new music that actually sounds new.

I wouldn't want my writing or photographic style to be frozen in time. They have grown, through solo work and collaboration, and -- Lord willing, as they say, and the creek don't rise -- they will continue to do so for years to come. I can't, without being a hypocrite, expect my own work to evolve while demanding that my favorite artists stagnate.

Sure, the paychecks are probably better for nostalgia acts. They're safe. But so long as I can keep a roof over my head and food on the table, I'd much rather keep evolving. And someday, if I'm able to drop in a snippet of something I did more than 30 years ago -- and it still resonates with people -- well, how cool would that be?

Crank it to Eleven and Twist Off the Knob

Tea: Blood Orange with Ginger

Music: GVSU New Music Ensemble, 4'33"

Time: Night.

Sorry, I know I've been away for a few days. Contrary to what you may think, I haven't been hiding under a rock during the election homestretch. My guy didn't win, and I still think we've committed the political equivalent of putting a 14-year-old with a learner's permit behind the wheel of a Formula One car, but the sun still came up this morning and I'm willing to give the new guy a chance. I'll pass on the Kool-Aid, though.

I've been away because, quite frankly, clickety-clackety sounds are just a bit much for me right now. Something nasty has settled into my left ear and jaw, and it won't go away. As a result, most sounds are -- well, painful.

I have discovered a new appreciation for one particular piece of music, however.

I kind of like this version of John Cage's classic. Yes, I know it was written for piano, as performed here by Armand Fuchs, but the ensemble treatment works really well for me, too. That's the beauty of the composition: It lends itself to covers in all sorts of genres and is especially appropriate for boy bands, polka ensembles, death metal quartets and yodelers.

Its simplicity also makes it the perfect piece for beginners. I know I relished hearing my next-door neighbor's rap group rehearse it, back when I lived in a townhouse with tissue-paper walls, and I have suggested it to several garage bands in the neighborhood. A friend of mine who flies frequently would appreciate it, I'm sure, if more parents taught their children to hum the piece over and over -- for the duration of the trips, if possible.

At present, 4'33" is my favorite piece of music. I listen to it whenever possible. In fact, I've just discovered a ukulele version that completely blows me away. The toy piano interpretation is daring but suffers from rough transitions between movements. This guy's guitar version isn't bad to listen to, but it's clear he's not all that engaged in the piece. Fortunately, there's a Guitar Hero track that should make a great practice tool.)

If you're feeling edgy, here's a remix (although it's been shortened by more than a minute, probably to make it more radio-friendly). It's got a great beat, and you can dance to it in any step you choose. (No pogo for me, though. All that bouncing ... ow.)

Okay, I'm out. I'm going to try something. My son gave me a miniature didgeridoo when he came back from Australia this past summer, and I'm betting 4'33" will sound killer on that. Who knows? Maybe I'll do the second movement on sleigh bells and the third on a zither.

Just let the neighbors try to tell me to turn it down. I'm feeling like a rebel tonight. I may do an encore on rainstick and mountain dulcimer, just to show them. Heck ... I may play it all night. Not like I can sleep, right?