kitchen table nephology

Mystery formations photographed on a recent flight. I'm not sure how to classify them, more cloud study seems to be required. As soon as I think I've got it pinned down, I realize I got nothing.

14th Street

Good Spelling!

Operator Error

Someone left the craft box out in the rain last Saturday.

Prospect Heights

JBs Birthday celebration at Soda, where she had to suffer the humiliation of sharing the lounge with a party for a three year old who had way more balloons than she did, brought me the good fortune of passing the Prospect Heights Community Farm when the gate was open. I hope it cheered up my friend to receive a copy the first issue of Glossator for a present. Having recently written on Benjamin herself, I thought she'd take an interest. The vanilla smell it had when I unboxed it had faded, and I considered giving it a douse, but thought the singularly pleasing essays are more than satisfying without any added aroma.

The plants in the PH garden struck me as Indian Summer emboldened, Beauty Berries laying the purple on especially thick, Rosemary and Lavender bushes the size of frisky St. Bernards, tomatoes which apparently never heard about the blight. In the front, blue flowers and hollyhocks wagged through the fence, fresh as Mardis Gras revelers, except for the shy one, who turned her transparent face away.

Sunday Still Life: Humility

When Hate Addicts Crave Attention

You get the Westboro Baptist Church. Yes, they really wanted Brooklyn's attention, to once again throw that clown show in which they become caricatures of a hate that no doubt masks self-loathing and the rage of strangled soul.

We had to suffer the suffering of these clowns who create hell around them, crying for help, calling themselves Christian while they recrucify Christ with every word, and in the process, crucify themselves. And their children will have no life, they will be sacrificed to hate as soon as they learn what's required of them, just as they themselves sacrifice their own flesh and blood to hate every day of their lives. Instead of living the life God gave them, in the depth and complexity only love can allow, these people will be devoured by hate. I know, they know not what they do. They are too high on hate to ever have considered what "judge not" might mean, or to notice what state they're in.

No worries for Brooklyn, though, it remains undevoured by their hate. Alive as only love allows. (I hope.) I hope for relief for those love impoverished circles where so many continue to languish, and to all those who are starving for their own souls.

The Higgins

In fact, not all ink smells funky. I was astonished to discover that the ink in this old bottle of Higgins reminds me of the ethereal vanilla milkshake breath of a breastfed infant. Our bottle probably was inherited from Ruthie Ginsberg, my husband's grandmother, an artist who taught children in her DC basement, who died of a heart attack far too young.

Maybe you too read that Charles M. Higgins himself bought the big blue house on 9th Street that now houses the family that runs Slope Music. I can't say I've ever been in, beyond the virtual plan the couple has loaded on their website. Higgins also brought Brooklyn the dark Minerva of Battle Hill, on whose shoulder I hope we are all lucky enough to see an owl perch someday. Even the Goddess, sightless in her left eye, needs a little help seeing in the dark.

So maybe the owl can tell us Higgin's formula for ink so as to determine the strange sweetness. I wonder if he added vanilla. From what I read India/Chinese ink may contain bone char, lampblack, hide glue, pitch, or petroleum products, as this excerpt from the wikipedia article mentions.

The Chinese had used India ink derived from pine soot prior to the 11th century AD, when the polymath official Shen Kuo (1031–1095) of the mid Song Dynasty became troubled by deforestation (due to the demands of charcoal for the iron industry) and desired making ink from a source other than pine soot. He believed that petroleum (which the Chinese called 'rock oil') was produced inexhaustibly within the earth and so decided to make an ink from the soot of burning petroleum, which the later pharmacologist Li Shizhen (1518–1593) wrote was as lustrous as lacquer and was superior to pine soot ink.

Shaken Awake

Yesterday I happened to catch Rebecca Solnit discussing her book Paradise Built in Hell on WNYC, and was so glad to hear this amazing woman's views of the transformative powers of the catastrophe. Sometimes it takes something like that to let life enter the scene. She used the phrase "shaken awake," which I have to say got my attention. Couldn't help thinking of Hafiz's Tired of Speaking Sweetly and of Kvond, his Spinoza and the Chaocomplex, not to mention the Walter Otto quote I came across recently.

BTW, another of her books, A Field Guide to Getting Lost, sounds fairly tempting.

The Blacker the Walnut

...the darker the ink. These have a way to go although they get bumpier and blotchier every day, but they haven't nearly decayed enough yet to be a good base for a batch of ink. And of course, I only have three, since a scalliwag dumped the rest on the ground over on Governor's Island. Perhaps I'll find a way to replenish my stores? Too bad they dredged the Buttermilk Channel.

Turns out the smell of the nuts, enjoyed by few, reflects a compound called Juglone, an inhibitor of the growth of competing plants, just one of the many poisons in various plants' chemical warfare arsenals. They just want to carve out a little space for themselves, what with life seeded so thickly in the earth's womby substrate. When not on herbicidal duty, the compound becomes C.I. Natural Brown 7 or C.I. 75500 because of its rich brown orange stain. The juice of the husks, boiled and fermented, once known as "student's ink," is dark with warm undertones. If only I had the rest of those nuts I'd give this recipe a try. I'd especially look forward to the part where you have to skim off the mold every month or so. No wonder some ink smells funky!

Did your Cock lose its Comb?

Most likely not, since roosters are illegal here in Brooklyn. Lonely and lying on the 11th Avenue sidewalk, this tossed off topper still bled that certain disgusting appeal. Is there a word for ugly-beautiful? If so, insert here ________________, in honor of Celosia. Maybe something like fasciation?

More Soul, Kohn

When a Parent's 'I Love You' Means 'Do as I Say'," an article by Alfie Kohn which ran in the science section of the NYT last week, left me dissatisfied and uneasy, even though I'm a fan of Kohn's work and I don't know what we'd do in this age of Scientific Materialism if we didn't have a scientist/researcher to say things like "actually, unconditional love has been scientifically proven to be a healthy thing for a child." As a parent, I know how easy it is to become a manipulating robot, but the reasons for that are deep and profound and frankly beyond the reach of Social Psychology.

Not addressed, the idea that parents are human beings who react and are affected by their children, and genuine joy is never planned and always nurturing, and often genuine displeasure is unavoidable and sometimes instructive as to what the boundaries are. What' s so dangerous for children is when a parent is so divorced from their nature that they feel they must mediate all their utterances so that nothing is genuine. If a parent can't be himself, how will a child learn to respect his own uniqueness? I can't imagine that Social Psychology, which treats humans like lab rats and statistics, will ever get to the root of these issues. This drama takes place in the battlefield where love faces off with fear and the power principle.

I saw in the letters section that other people had similar reactions to Kohn's article. One woman responded "The best gift we parents can give our children is for them to see our eyes light up when they enter the room." And that would be called love...if the light weren't faked.

If a parent has lost that light, how does he get it back? What if he never had it? Will Social Psychology help? I don't think so. But maybe I should read his book Unconditional Parenting because perhaps he addresses this issue there in a way that the article couldn't.

Kohn concludes his article with this: "Carl Rogers didn’t say so, but I’ll bet he would have been glad to see less demand for skillful therapists if that meant more people were growing into adulthood having already felt unconditionally accepted." Unconditional acceptance is a great goal, but what does it really mean and is it possible? For a parent to unconditionally accept a child, he has to unconditionally accept himself, doesn't he, and undoing a lifetime of resentment and disapproval and prejudice is not a simple act of will, is it? Seems to me there's no way around the demand for skillful therapists in an age that too often ruthlessly demands robotic productivity of its "hero" sons and daughters.

Tantalized

The NYT article about Jung's Red Book linked to an image of a few sections of the book. So did CG really paint those images? They articulate a cunning 20th century luminous naivete, a primitive Blake on futurism. More please!

In what I read his artwork was barely discussed. I look forward to the day when I get to see more of the work, which I hear is coming to the Rubin Museum Oct. 7.

Soup Fog

I used to have the over achiever's disease, I remember it now, when it was hard to commit myself to cooking a particular dish because there might be something better. What misery. Hard to decide what restaurant to go to, what to buy, because there might be something more exciting.

All over now. Making pea soup I'm as happy as James Marshall's Martha, except I like to eat it too, and as far as I know, no one's ever poured it in their loafers.

Sauteing the chopped root vegetables and celery it's possible to become intoxicated by the steam born aromas braiding in the air, an olfactory sonata that caramelizes my heart. On the other burner, the pot filled with water and split peas, slowly softening to the point where each semisphere goes limp. To think those fine, spiraling tendrils that supported the vines and delicate flowers are part of the crew behind this inimitable performance proves once again that I don't need to search under rocks for what might be.

From East Coker

Marion Woodman included this T. S. Eliot quote in The Pregnant Virgin, a book I just hate to have finished:

I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting,
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.

Four Quartets, East Coker.

These times seem to call for a certain blankness and willingness to be surprised, the dissolution of habit and free fall, being beyond thought, fire walking, the encouragement of lines like Eliot's, and maybe, waking up to life.

Picnic on Governors Island

The birthday picnic on Governors Island got a little too much like Picnic at Hanging Rock when various members of the party went missing in the irresistible folds of the old Fort's trenches. An apple tree growing inside the ramparts proved the biggest draw, but even the tallest girl among them couldn't reach a worm-free apple in the trees lower branches although the tree's crown remained thickly loaded.

All this hunger for apples in spite of everything we loaded into the shopping cart for a day of Indian Summer nomadism. Perhaps we should have brought two 6 foot long sandwiches like that other party we saw on the speedy ferry that gets you to the island in less than 10 minutes.

We came across a Black Walnut tree and began picking up the fresh green nuts under it, but at some point the young ones realized they didn't like the smell of them. I hypothesize that the nuts' casings repel insects as well as they repel children. We had stuffed a bag full of them in our enthusiasm, and much later I found my daughter emptying it out under a different tree, so now some might take the Maple she stood under for a Walnut if they don't look up. Perhaps we'll have to go back sometime and redress the ground under other trees, since Governor's Island has become an absurdist playground, more or less, a seeming limbo between the pragmatic islands surrounding it and who knows what.

Farm by the Sea

I finally had the good fortune to visit the farmer's market at Added Value, aka Red Hook Farms, for the first time this summer. I often wonder what kind of relationship they have with Ikea, which is on the next lot, if the store's brought more traffic their way or heightened their visibility in any meaningful way. From Ikea's exit (where you wait to have your receipt checked against your purchases) you can see the farm through the window, but maybe not exactly understand what it is if you didn't now already.

The farm is the most amazing place, shockingly quiet enough to hear the crickets and the sprinkler spray hitting the beds, and the people there are about as nice as I've ever come across, even if they wouldn't let me shop from the CSA section of the market because I'm not a member. I took it well and from the "for anyone" section got beautiful green beans and a pile of plums, but passed on the bitter melon, shown above, because something tells me it's more than a little too bitter for me.

Boathouse Snapper, extended neck

Bears and Siddhas

We went to a window store in Bay Ridge to get a screen, and this man who worked there let me take a picture of his bear tattoo once I expressed my admiration. He told me he had been down to the deep south to see a tattoo artist who specializes in covering up tattoos you regret having gotten, in this man's case, an image of his ex.

A cover-up tattoo artist is a very specialized talent, and I'm sure they have many sad stories to tell, although perhaps there's some kind of confidentiality ethic they uphold. I was just glad to see a bear on a man's arm, seemed like a good choice what with those long claws so perfect for pulverizing decayed wood, for clawing away what's dead and worn out, what no longer serves its purpose, so the light of morning can get into the wound.

The hand of the Siddha holds what I read in Holy Madness is a teaching mudra which slightly resembles the don't walk sign. And I'm sure, if my understanding of Buddhism is a good one, that the hand also says "stop." Stop mistaking appearances for reality. All that you thought is good in no more GOOD than anything else, all that you thought is BAD is no worse, let the addictive and materialist cycles fueled by mistaking one's experience of a thing for its essence stop. Stop thinking that all you need to do to alleviate your suffering is improve your situation by getting a better apartment, more better friends, cooler gadgets, nicer car, more nuanced wine, more effective drugs.

This teaching always reminds me to notice what my assumptions are about the things I reflect on. In this way anti-realism will never be trite, at least not for civilians to academic philosophy, and has the potential to bring humanity closer to overcoming the evils of reductionism and prejudice. But Jesus said it so charmingly, along the lines of, you know, before you can help remove the splinter in your brother's eye, you might want to take the log out of yours. Very funny, Jesus. Bear claws are really good for that. So the light of morning can get in.

L'Shana Tova!

Temporary Turf

The Flatbush Gardener wrote to tell me about this Sustainable Flatbush event in which a Cortelyou parking lot gets transformed into a mini park tomorrow. Interesting, FUN, temporary. Sodded, not sodden.

Stylish Headware

After another trying round with the mysterious forces of the chaocomplex I found myself walking in the rain and suddenly feeling a little better. The two little ones and I came across a branch the wind had wrenched off some kind of red oak, and it lay supernaturally fresh and green on the wet sidewalk, loaded with these most buxom acorns. It looks like it might be a good winter for squirrels, at least around here, the trees have been productive.

Nice that acorns are a good size and shape to be grasped in little squirrel paws, just as the lusciousness of a plum fits so luxuriously in the human hand as if they were made for it specifically, hand for fruit, fruit for hand.

Mother nature is a difficult mother oh but what a mother.

on a spirea twig

This tattered chrysalis turned up in a pile of cuttings on Sunday after my husband got out the loppers and hedged the seriously overgrown bush back when doldrums struck our stoop sale. I'd been wanting to come across one of these.

Next to this discovery, the best part of the sale was simply sitting in front of the house the entire day, inverting the status quo and getting to meet those sometimes most invisible creatures, the neighbors. One writes this blog, ecohearth. Good luck to him.

In honor of the only chrysalis I've come across since I can remember, here's an excerpt from Walter Otto by way of Marion Woodman's The Pregnant Virgin:

He who begets something which is alive must dive down into the primeval depths in which the forces of life dwell. And when he rises to the surface, there is a gleam of madness in his eyes because in those depths death lives cheek by jowl with life. The primal mystery is itself mad–the matrix of the duality, the unity of the disunity, ..The more alive this life becomes, the nearer death draws, until the supreme moment when something new is created–when death and life meet in an embrace of mad ecstasy. The rapture and terror of life are so profound because they are intoxicated with death. As often as life engenders itself anew the wall which separates it from death is momentarily destroyed...Life which has become sterile totters to meet its end, but love and death have welcomed and clung to one another passionately from the beginning.

Dionysus, page 151

6th Ave, Saturday Night

White Man's Footsteps

Top photo: this European transplant, also called Broadleaf Plantain, treated as a weed in the age of the lawn, was important throughout human history medicinally and as a living carpet. The young plants are also delicious sauteed. More on its history and incredible scope of uses here.

Bottom picture, another kind of odd print I came across in Prospect Park, more along the lines of the carbon footprint. A sick and amusing practice of going out and recoloring plants with spray paint is easy to picture for some reason.

Under the Manhattan Bridge

Roses for Bartel, for Pritchard...

...the namesakes of our square circle here in Windsor Terrace, and Roses for all the others who were killed in wars. Roses also for the victims of 911, for all victims of abuse, who in turn, often become abusers themselves. Poor humanity.

You should stop reading now if you have issues with psychological thought. You might feel some discomfort with what follows. I know "psychologism" is out in many circles.

Marion Woodman writes about the Power Principle and I am trying to understand what she means. I recognize something there, something very sneaky. I'm thinking the Power Principle is the will to cloak our vulnerability so that we don't have to suffer our feelings. We use power to abate our vulnerability. People's power tools vary, in some it's their sheer attractiveness, in others, drugs, coolness, intimidation and charisma, in many, money, who-you-know, status, IQ, talents, I suppose it goes on and on. The Power Principle has implicit and explicit methodology, and its clearest and most heinous appearance in this century was the Nazi's "final solution." In its most common appearance it is the way parents subtly and adamantly suppress a child's authentic state because it scares them. Children can be so wild, so messy. They have REALLY STRONG FEELINGS that they learn to split off into the unconscious territory of their bodies if their parents can't handle it.

Woodman writes: "When the veils that surround the addict are stripped away, the obsessive ritualistic behavior can be seen as protection against unendurable pain.*" That would be pain stemming from psychological and physical child abuse and neglect, I assume.

It seems this "obsessive, ritualistic behavior" involves self abuse or abuse of others, and maintains a self-defeating cycle. Often it's a will to shame, judge, punish others so that we feel better about ourselves, or it's an attraction to things that give only temporary, superficial gratification that distracts from the lurking terror of being and all our self-doubts, guilt, rage and and accusations. It's a chronic will-to-reduce dis-ease, a chronic over-valuation of the concrete, chronic self-reduction.

Marion Woodman would argue that there's something worthwhile on the other side of the pain, on the other side of the wasteland. She has seen it. Sometimes I believe it, sometimes I don't.

Any insight you might have into these questions is appreciated.

*The Pregnant Virgin, page 107.

Prospect Park Asters, Disaster

Fountain Avenue Landfill, Zion and Graham

Please forgive any copyright violation in posting this detail of Uli Seit's beautiful photo of Manhattan viewed through Ailanthus saplings growing in an urban "prairie" planted where was once only landfill. The theft is a crime of passion.

Kenneth Chang's NYT article was a thrill to come across, I didn't know anything about this Fountain Avenue Landfill, just East of Canarsie, or its reclamation. In the article Leslie Sauer, a landscape architect who had a hand in the landfill's transformation into soon to be parkland makes the toothsome comment "the idea of mowing landfills in lunacy." There's a line to savor. The Fountain Avenue landfill's toxic pileup was capped with clay and plastic before being coated with enough soil to root a tree. It's plastic surgery but it ain't nothing. We of course have to thank Staten Island's Fresh Kills and now the landfills of Ohio and Virginia where our 50,000 pounds of trash per day wind up for the space that allows this special new jewel of coastal Brooklyn.

That is until we become experts in how to simply produce less trash. I for one have a long way to go. Like many I like my goods packaged inside of packages inside of packages, with bows and ribbons and wires to make sure the little doo dah hasn't come loose while bumping around inside the delivery truck. Slowly, some day soon, I'd like to make the move towards naked consumerism, not so much shopping naked as allowing more nakedness for my stuff, or at least less non-biodegradable buffering. I'll just carry my baguette, pineapple, dozen or so donuts down the street in my arms.

I found a very cool childrens book recently in Park Slope, the Plant Sitter by Gene Zion and Margaret Bloy Graham (1959), who brought us all the serious joy of Harry the Dirty Dog and No Roses of Harry. (If you want to destroy my sweater...) Below is the page when the boy who has become the neighborhood plant sitter, bringing a forest of plants into his parent's house, dreams that the plants grow so much that the walls fall off his house and the plants manage to keep the house's shape. If the core of the greenbuilding core gets their way, that may someday happen to the NYC skyline, and I hope I'm around to see it. Also makes me wonder if Rachel Whiteread might have read Zion as a child.