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This Side of the Snow, This Side of the Haze

November 15, 2019 in Age Matters, Book Matters, City Matters, Essays, Past Matters, Quoth the Raving, Ruby Intuition, Spirit Matters

All stories end in death if you want to tell the truth.–David Simon

I’m afraid of endings, always have been. I am not alone in this fear, of course; many of us fear endings. Not just death but departures, demises, denouements–the invariable deflation of crossing a finish line. But my fear is acute, to the point that I privately view success as dangerous, possibly even fatal, because it will end life as I know it. (Glamourously underachieving is pretty core to my current existence.)

I’ve had so much time to acknowledge this fear since last month’s hunter’s full moon, which was the night my back went out. A catalog of the reasons why it did: loose joints; a rigorous, not entirely mindful exercise practice; shame about my middle-aged midriff; the 10-year anniversary of an acute neck and back injury.

All those contributing factors are real. But if there weren’t a deeper reason, I think I’d be better by now. After all, my list of treatments reads like a 1970s self-help saga: I’ve done acupuncture, astrological readings, Alexander Technique, reiki, physical therapy, and so many herbs and homeopathics. (I”m not really a painkiller girl except for the occasional whiskey.) I’ve meditated, prayed, danced under the light of the (next) full moon. And it’s all helped. Continue Reading →

Head-Splitting Split-Pea Soup

October 2, 2019 in Book Matters, Food Matters, Recipes

Yesterday I woke at 430am and wrote about date rape until midday, at which point all I wanted was wine, shitty 90s tv, and (somewhat inexplicably) split pea soup. Since my refrigerator contained a bevy of greenmarket ingredients threatening to spoil, I poured a riesling, Hulu-ed Dawson’s Creek (has there ever been a more insipid series?), and improvised the following recipe. It’s wicked simple except for the odd cocktail of flavors, and doggedly un-Kosher despite the fact that Rosh Hoshanah was still in effect when I made this. (I told you I was Jew-ish!)

THE RECIPE                

                    
 2 cups split peas  
6 cups water (feel free to substitute vegetable or chicken stock if you have it on hand; I didn’t.)
2 strips bacon (feel free to substitute smoked salt if you abstain from delicious delicious pork)
1 tbs (splash) olive oil
3 stalks fennel, chopped
2 bay leaves
1 medium yellow or white onion, chopped
2 medium-sized carrots, chopped (too many carrots and this is an intolerably sweet soup)
1 big ole pinch cumin seeds (please don’t ask for exact measurements; witches are serious improvisers!)
1 big ole pinch smoked paprika
thyme, fresh
lemon balm, fresh
flat parsley, fresh
mint, fresh
vinegar, rice or white
salt (duh)
black pepper (duh)
Optional: plain yogurt or crème fraîche
PRESSURE COOKER IF YOU HAVE ONE

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Dreams of a Metaphysical Detective

September 16, 2019 in Age Matters, Book Matters, Cat Lady Matters, City Matters, Essays, Feminist Matters, Ruby Intuition, Spirit Matters

As I write this my head hurts, my stomach hurts, my heart hurts. This is because my period is due to arrive this morning like the fusillade of bricks that is menstruation when you are 48 years old.

Rest assured that as rough as PMS can be when you’re 18–and I remember it as a wicked pissah–it’s a billion times worse 30 years later, as if your menstruating self refuses to go out without a bang. This is something women don’t really talk about because there’s so much shame around menopause and getting older in general.

Anyway, the pain is so bad that I can’t work on my book today. But rarely does PMS fabricate anything wholecloth and so the truth is I’ve been feeling stuck for such a long time that part of me thinks I should scrap the entire book endeavor and find a line of work that, you know, actually pays. The problem: What exactly would that be for a woman rounding the corner to 50 who’s only word-played for a living? Not to mention that, even in dark stretches like this one, I remain convinced there’s a reason besides solipsism to share my story.

Also the universe keeps trying to redirect my hazy, lazy self.

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"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy