and the culling song plays…

>They’ve made the first cull…the names whispered in the hallways…everyone wondering when their heads will be the next to roll. And I’m out there on the fringes of a flat plain, aloof as always, examining with a critical eye where the tracks dead-end in a patch of overgrown crabgrass. Déjà vu anticipation of a second slow-motion derailment. Panicky and unconcerned all at once. Head stuffed with bird feathers, bike grease, and unwritten words.

>restless

>With the advent of warm weather comes old familiar stirrings: leave routines behind, stay out late, seek adventure. It was a long cold hibernation and now I crave stimulation in every way. Been daydreaming about an organic farming apprenticeship at this place lately. Coming up on three years here and the three-year-itch is in full effect, I guess. [note: three-year-itch refers to my tendency to only stay in one geographical location for three years]

texas





pay attention to the cracks

Cracks sometimes appear in the eggshell-thin veneer covering our inner life. She worries about her weight. He is a closet racist. That one goes home and cries at the end of every day. This one drinks himself to sleep. How far apart are our inner selves from our outer selves. But the cracks are still there for those who care to see. How well we try to hide what we fear others will look down upon us for doing or thinking. How horrifying it would be for our secrets to be broadcast to those around us. How would they react? Would they shun us? Or would they simply see themselves in us and turn away, ashamed. Few people cut through the gelatinous layer of public faces we see everyday. Who really wants to dig around and ferret out what the woman in the next cubicle over worries about. We’ve got our problems; they’ve got theirs…what use is there in taking on any more burdens than those we already carry? Well, there is a lot of use in that actually. Pain often subsides with release. Spoken words assuage. Physical touch relaxes tension. This culture we live in is so closed-off. People don’t talk to each other. My evidence is anecdotal at best, but I feel it all the same.

the coo-coo bird

I’ve really been digging this song lately.

critique of a book review

So, the other day I was trolling the Web for things to rant about, and I came upon this. As I read through this review, my blood heated up to its boiling point. The perspective from which Crispin writes is one that rankles me beyond any other of a myriad of vegetarian biases. I’m referring, of course, to the point of view of the “enlightened” meat eater. Oh, they know all about the cruelty of the food animal industry, the environmental havoc that it wreaks, and the health risks associated with over-consumption of mass-produced meat. But they are clever, and they’ve found a way to have their meat and eat it, too. Because they eat “grass-fed, locally raised, humanely slaughtered hamburger.” I’ve often wondered about the phrase “humanely slaughtered.” Why doesn’t anyone who uses that phrase see it as the oxymoron that it clearly is?

Many of these morally sound meat eaters, Ms. Crispin included, are former vegetarians. They think this gives them the necessary credibility to critique vegetarianism from an insider’s point of view. Not only is Crispin (who admirably lives car-free) better than “most of the vegetarians” she knows who drive cars, but she is obviously healthier, more fashionable and less ridiculous than all the vegans out there who she conveniently represents with the most hackneyed vegan stereotype of all: “the 85-pound hollowed-out girl wearing pleather sandals and a hemp skirt” who reprimands her for the use of honey in her tea. Seriously, can we get an updated vegan stereotype, please? Of the many vegans I know, none of them are even close to fitting this image.

After dismissing all vegans as malnourished whiny fashion disasters, Crispin goes on to describe her experience of cooking a meal for her friends using recipes from the recently published Veganomicon cookbook. Now, I will be the first to suggest that this cookbook is far from the holy grail that many vegans are making it out to be. Isa includes repeated quirks in many of her recipes, but an experienced cook can easily work around these and produce some fine dishes. As any good cook knows, a recipe is merely a loose outline to work from. Crispin, however, is clearly not a good cook. Her description of cooking a vegan meal for her friends is full of the usual snarky self-righteous criticisms of vegan food ingredients that so many meat-eaters revel in sharing with anyone willing to listen. I chalk the penchant for dispensing this criticism up to my secret theory that the real reason that ex-vegetarians renounce their vegetarianism is that they never learn to effectively cook without the crutches of their precious eggs, dairy, and meat. Crispin happily shares her friends’ negative comments about the meal she has prepared: “the texture is, um, interesting” and “hey, where’s your salt?” to which Crispin replies, “I already doubled the amount of salt in the recipe. I think that’s just the way it tastes.” Perhaps Crispin’s friends are too polite to suggest that part of the problem might be that she just doesn’t know how to cook. The conclusion she draws after this personal failure in vegan cooking is this: “Maybe one day vegans will get a master chef on their side who can create some food worth sacrificing for, but I’m guessing the movement does not attract people who feel passionately about food.” Hmm, well, maybe one day legions of meat eaters will feel passionately enough about the welfare of animals to put the effort into actually learning to effectively cook vegan food, a skill that can be easily learned if one cares enough to try. Many of my vegan friends are among the most passionate food lovers I know, and they also continuously amaze me with their culinary skills.

The thing is that I am not ignorant enough to think that vegan food is going to taste the same as non-vegan food. I have cooked, baked, and eaten both vegan and non-vegan food. I know that textures and flavors will differ. However, I also know that if you stick with veganism and actually try to become a better cook, you will be rewarded in spades. But you have to care enough to try. And obviously some people aren’t willing to make the extra effort.

Crispin concludes her review (yes, despite her varied ramblings, this was actually a book review) of The Compassionate Carnivore (another oxymoron) with a quote from the book:

“People who become complete vegetarians for the sake of animals are basically getting up from the table and leaving the room. Although they might work to help better animals’ lives through their words, those words won’t keep a sustainable farmer in business. Only dollars will. If you don’t buy from these farmers, they’ll go out of business, and you’ll have even fewer choices than you do now.”

This is one of the most ridiculous statements I’ve read on this subject. Last time I checked grains, legumes, and vegetables were also grown on farms, and these are the foods that form the basis of a complete vegetarian diet. They also require far less resources to produce than food animals do, and don’t generate massive amounts of waste. Earlier in her review, Crispin talks about how meat-eaters are the ones making a difference with their demand for organic farming, free-range eggs, and grass-fed beef. It’s their demand, she says, that is forcing a response from corporations. Well, what if there was no demand for any meat whatsoever? Would all the food corporations and food animal producers simply go out of business? No, they would respond to consumer demand like usual and offer a wide array of vegetarian foods on the market. It’s the same logic that The Compassionate Carnivore author Catherine Friend uses to make a case for continued consumption of meat.

I could go on and on in ripping apart these arguments. There is the point to consider of how many people actually visit the farms where their supposed free-range eggs and “humanely slaughtered” meat come from to make sure they approve of the way things are run. A few do, sure, but probably no more per geographic area than there are vegans in that area. So how much of a difference are these supposed compassionate carnivores making? Probably not much of one. You’d be better off going vegan and saving yourself a trip to the farm.

paperback rider

Sometimes I take my bike on the light rail in the morning in order to avoid a particularly bike-unfriendly stretch of road near my house. Almost every time I do this I see the same man sitting in the same seat on the train. Because of how I stand with my bike in the back, I never see his face, even though he is only a few feet away. But I recognize him every time. I see his shoes and I see his styrofoam cup of coffee held in hands with well-manicured nails. I also see his paperback book, of which he reads about one per week or so. Today I was wondering about whether he only reads these books on the light rail. Does he read at home, too? If so, in what genres? I was also wondering if he plans ahead when he knows he’s going to finish a book while on the train. As it so happens, this morning he completed a Stephen King novel, after which he immediately reached into his bag to pull out a Dean Koontz novel. He observed the cover for a few seconds, then flipped the book over and read the blurb on the back. Eventually he cracked open the book and started reading.

I don’t ever want to see this man’s face. For me he will always be the anonymous paperback reader on the light rail. If I were to see his face, it would ruin everything. God help me if he ever leans forward to scratch his ankle or something. I’d have to shut my eyes tight or turn quickly away and hope that no image of his face entered my mind. People are always getting to me like this in so many different ways.

annie dillard

>My appreciation of Ms. Dillard has swelled again, this time to only mildly obsessive proportions. Having scoured her self-maintained website and been left hungering for more, I happened upon this site, which nicely collects much of what the World Wide Web has to offer on the subject of Annie Dillard. What I found both pleased and disturbed me. Most disappointing was to read that Annie has basically declared herself retired following the publication of The Maytrees: no more books and no more public appearances (she had been faithfully doing two public readings per year for quite some time). So I guess I won’t ever get to see her read in person, which is a little upsetting. However, I did find some links to recordings of her readings, which I will need to parse out over time in order to keep me satisfied. I guess that I will also need to slow down on plowing through her back catalog now that I know no new books will be forthcoming. Regrettably, I have already read much of it.

warmth, where are you?

Sluggish arrival of spring, protracted and torturous as it is, hammers away at my spirit. Never have I anticipated the end of the cold this much. And with this anticipation comes the simultaneous advent of allergy season. Soon I will pass many afternoon hours with head nodding uncontrollably at my desk, drool hanging from my gaping mouth, powerless against nature’s forces ravaging through my respiratory system. Awesome! Meanwhile I struggle to pry away the crust of creative inactivity that has hardened over me, leaving me a dull cistern of lukewarm life juice, sloshing and slopping all over my dried up mental flooring. I played a little bit of music with other people the other day. It felt good. Really good. I felt myself slipping away to a place I haven’t gone to in a very very long time. I need to get back to that place more often. I need to dust it off and spitshine it til it sparkles again.

beginning of the end

>Yesterday was my birthday. Thank you to the one or two people who read this thing who helped me to celebrate. We ate mock meat and chocolate cake. It was a pleasant ending to a day that had been very much like many other recent days: drab and predictable, with a sprinkling of trepidation. Going to work these days is like watching a slow-motion trainwreck. Every couple of days a couple of more people quit and head for more stable ground. The rest of us just cluster around with deer-in-the-headlights looks in our eyes. We are marked for the upcoming cull and we all know it. Those who care enough to stay on this sinking ship participate in the appropriate shady back-room soul-selling dealings necessary to retain some semblance of employment. I, however, can’t make myself care. Either we get the contract or we don’t. Even getting the contract doesn’t guarantee me employment past September, though, so maybe it doesn’t matter if we get it or not. I feel like this is supposed to happen. I feel like life should kick the chair out from under me; after all, I have been leaning a bit too far back in it. I deserve to be left hanging. What sways me these days, as usual, are words on the page and melodies in my ears. These things don’t pay the bills, but they move me in a way that work never has. As always, I look to the birds for some wordless answers to my vague unfocused questions. Their behavior, unlike mine, is strictly dictated by the harsh rules of nature. Survival of the fittest doesn’t apply to me. I can be rather unfit and still survive. Maybe it would be better if I had to physically struggle just to feed myself. Maybe then I wouldn’t have all these questions in my head…all this existential effluvia constantly choking my more rational thinking. Maybe when I lose my job I will become a hunter-gatherer.

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