Here I Go

Writing a blog post from scratch - not copied or pasted from an email or a scratch elsewhere - is new to me tonight.
I have been practicing stream of conscious writing. Doing it. Repeatedly.
Gobble cuisine to fullest extension of my nervous innard walking style. Did y'all grapple with the gimping gourd of crumpled tether ball beef wellington. If food news is new, I'll know it and then some. To boot your father incredible backwards typing I'll dream you one more sigh up and don't come back before it's more than alright and more than airtight to be you. Call! And finalize the motion. Jennifer deserves a break for once with her terra cotta infirmities to please the almost noxious waves of plaid verbage that racked her apple pie mocha latte glass to shingling dynasties or dinosaurs of inner wreckage to please and to beckon me. Indefinitely.

I have this theory. That to continue to do this will strain my writing to a fine pulp of beautiful condensation. Distillation. Reduced. Reused. Mounted on a chalky platter sky high and wishbone dancing crooked happiness walking. Loveliness drinking to all that want their there...

3 Food-imonies

I think about these stories often (and they are probably warped and folkloricly large from years of steeping in my mind not being told): An Apple Pie Story, A Brownie Story, and...there's a third...

First, The Apple Pie Story

Picture a thirty-ish year old mother of three, of supple strength and brown shoulder-length hair, and anxious over list-loads of plans, tasks, and ornate self-imposed expectations always. Three children. It is snowing outside hard.
It originated in her mind to make a pie. Two even. This is strange.
That second pie should go to ____, who we don't know so well, who lives behind our house. But, these wintry Salt Lake City blocks are big.
She bundles up her three not-so-bundly children, baby remains in one hand, pie in the other, and then she - in lieu of trekking with handcart and crew around the block, hoists herself, baby, and pie over tall white fence and lands at the back door of said neighbor-stranger woman pie recipient.
Answering the back door, ____ gives a strange face to thirty-ish year old mother with baby and pie at back door, but quickly gets over it in Mormon neighborly fashion. Mom-supple-strength says "I felt like I should bring you a pie." The pie is hot and _____ woman takes it quietly grateful and calmly quiet.
3 days.
"Julie, did you know that I had a miscarriage the morning that you brought that pie over?"
"No-"
"I had prayed for comfort from the Lord."

2nd story:

AND ONCE, my mom felt impressed to bring brownies to a sister in the branch. Not there, mom put the circle paper plate of brownies into the square mailbox. Sister X was in diabetic shock in the upstairs hallway inside above, groping down the stairs bannister holding, she felt God say "Go to the mailbox!" And stumbling reaching into the mailbox felt squishy soft brownieness to which she sucked inhaled sugary body freedom.

What is that third story? I think it has to do with pineapple. Pretty sure am I.

In response to http://www.deseretnews.com/article/1,5143,705260374,00.html we must acknowledge the weighty beautiful abstraction that is language. Like bombs, profanity can abstractly do real damage. Vague cloak-like bombs intended to suffocate, pummel, and damage, stunt, and whack, and murder: I believe language to be as powerful as the intention behind it. And this is not an individual arena. We agree that swear words are these wounding things. And that is enough for now.
Oh, the wonderful work that is word definition! To assign and attribute life, experience, and transcendent color to a word is to bless it as a little tool. The holy rite of word assignation sweeps blankets across the sky in which we recognize constellations. Together we shoot darts and pluck the same flowers orderly in one universe. I climb through your ear canal to know you and the wallpaper that you lick (anybody read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?)

Chocolate Cake - Chapter I

At the edge of the grave Mara peered in. "Too deep," she said. "Too deep."
Moisture had collected the length of the dirt of the grave down. Worms from miles away knew about this deep grave and were coming.
Chocolate cake was Emiline's favorite; good chocolate cake: chocolate cake which bordered on pudding in its moistness. An icing which neither boasted nor distracted from the molecules beneath it - this was her cake.
Emiline neither knew nor cared about the funeral. Her heart had been startled by different affairs that night. Wind and rain had surely penetrated her feelings of safety. Water had trespassed, had snuck beneath the coatings of light blue paint of her shutters. How had she come to be baking loaves of peanut butter this night?
Bennett was in the basement sleeping - the thrashings of his dreams looming in the dark room above him: spatulas of chocolate, dogs, and Sheila mixed like the kneadings of dessert breads being made in the kitchen above.
Emiline wielded the metallic blades of her small white mixer.
Why had the grave been dug so deep? As if a perfect machine had extracted a slice of the earth so clean that ants were envious. It was not so deep that a cross section of the entire sphere of the earth at that place would have disclosed it or that looking down it one could not see its bottom or whether it was contained. A pure white light shone up a few dozen feet at the nethermost tip of this fine geometried hole; a pure white light.
Bennett was summoned and awakened. A perfect ding had sounded and a perfect cake in Bennett's eyes was lifted steaming from a tight experienced porcelain oven. Carving cross sections, the baby was lifted to its high chair next to the occasionally rattling window. Thomas, the two year old entered, rubbing his eye with a gentle fist. Dings had sounded in all their hearts. Red-eared aproned Emiline kissed them all with her mind.
It was as if the rain could not reach the extremity of the deep hole and it did not. It was even as if something happened between the knees of the girl named Mara at the border of the edge of the hole and the body of the space in the hole that marked not a rest but an immunity to the thrashings of the storm that even the worms in the ground (especially) knew of.
And the trees knew.
Murder does not factor into our story. Murder does not factor into our death. Unless the chocolate cake be murdered. Unless the dirt that Emiline trodded upon during her preparations to cook be part of the wrinkling of the boundaries of things that signals a murder.

Why "The Life and Times of Joseph?"

Originally, I wanted to post biographical sorts of things as they happened. However, I usually feel inspired only to place words carefully - a poetic sort of experience. Which is interesting, because I have been reading about Lev Vygotsky.
And also interesting because I picture myself with my chin upturned, my neck extended, and my chest out.
To accurately portray my thoughts is a great challenge and dilemma, even, to me. Why do I do it? To ordain my life with symbols possibly. I like this one. To allow others to join with me in this ordinance - excretion of syrupy...
I hate to censor.

Pivot/s
I have a pivot:
a probing orb
I send it up and along the seams of my knowledge:
the little boundaries
where glued up
and reduced
a ribbon refurls to
a point

It's All Me!

Something about the way he walked endeared me to him
the craning of the neck to look at the moon or
the way his knees jostled extra
like if you looked upside down from a ten-year-old's body on a slide
you would see how much he bounced