Where Gumbo and BBQ Meet

Today at work, we had gumbo for our Thanksgiving luncheon. And let me tell you, thanks were given by this gal right here. Since moving down to Lake Charles, I haven't made a real conscious effort to eat much 'authentic' Louisiana cuisine- except for a drive-through daquiri, but that's a different story...

Anyway, there's this woman here who cooks for all the meetings. She's a sassy, old black lady with a scruffy voice who only wears house shoes to work. But for all her sass, nobody dares cross her. The loss would be too great. I sat next to her today, eating her gumbo, and I thought, 'Yes, you know what's what."

Friends, it was so good. Louisianians are right to be proud of it.



But that got me to thinkin' about food back home. Which means Barbeque. I looked down at the gumbo, and I thought, 'Soup. Tasty as it is, this is soup. I need me a slab of pig." Sometimes, you just need a slab of meat*. Sometimes, you just need that smoky meat smell to cling to you like the finest perfume. Am I right or am I right?

At any rate, I'm going to try to find time to hit up The Commissary this week when I'm in Memphis. I hear a pulled pork sandwich squealin' my name. And a deviled egg...with extra devil on the side.



*Sorry Vegan/Vegetarian friends.

Bosoms

So I realize that I already have one blog post talking about breasts, but really, is that enough? They are lovely things and they amuse me no end. How much art is dedicated to them? Or at least displays them prominently? So much.

Here's a poem I wrote about the down side (heh) having of a large bosom.

"38 DD"

How they bow down
At the end of the day
When I unclasp the harness
That holds them,
Shapes them, tames them;
How they bow down.

Loose, they face the floor,
Tired and heavy;
They give out a sigh,
Sometimes rolling to the side,
Lolling like dozing noon-day cats.

How they bow down,
Honoring truth and time;
Gravity, how it humbles them.
Finally, they are able to be
Neither ashamed nor proud
Of how they bow down.

Audit-tastic!

If you know me at all, you know I've got a lot of ideas about things. In fact, you could say that the incessant stream of ideas sometimes keeps me from interacting comfortably with the world outside of my head.

But where was I going with this?

Oh, yes. Americorps. When I first applied, I had this idea that I would be doing this noble thing. That I would be doing meaningful work with the people. The People! But now it would appear that I'm just another Government suit sitting in an office, wasting time. My job entails looking through medical charts and making sure that the documentation at the health center is up to snuff.

BOR-ING.

So things like blog posts happen. And this. It isn't really a poem. Just a story built on lines.


"EMR"

Auditing Medical Charts
Is tedious work.
Always the information,
It unfolds itself,
Cryptic and blocky.

I try turning numbers
Into a person, to think
Of the arm around which
The cuff is velcroed,
The veins and arteries
that are squeezed so tightly,
The pressure that produces
Numbers I see on the screen.

These numbers mean something about a person.
Letters like HCT and MCV
Mean something about a person.
Words like gravida and hemoglobin
Mean something about a person.

In a pediatric chart, a word:
Cesarean unfurled itself.
I began to piece together a life:
Fourteen years old, it said.
I looked at the Birthdate: only just.
A six month old child, it said,
Delivered by cesarean section.
The child, that is to say, the child's child
Would not progress, could not breach the canal.
Only Twelve at conception,
Thirteen at delivery,
Her bones not yet finished growing,
Would not give way for the infant.
They had to cut it out,
A huge bloody grin
Along the cradle
Of her young pelvis.

Here's the thing about Louisiana...

In the nearly 24 years I've been on this earth, I've noticed that people have an inherent need to belong to something. And it's more than just a matter of identity; that is, the idea of belonging TO something. People also need to belong WITH... other people.

But the thing that binds them can be pretty much anything. Sports, a common appreciation for the mating habits of blue footed boobies, corn cobb pipe crafting, anything.

Patriotism works in this way. It's the physical place but also the ideals that that place embodies that brings people together, that colors their day to day lives. Patriotism, at least in the United States, is difficult for me. I am not a particularly passionate person- unless we're talking about dairy products, music, or choice pieces of literature. I can hardly think about being patriotic about this whole country. It's too big, and there are too many things that I disagree with. In fact, I cannot even be patriotic about my home state (For those of you who don't know, there is a very big difference between east and west Tennessee. East Tennessee might as well be North Carolina. Actually, I'd go so far as to say that there is just a big difference between Memphis and the rest of Tennessee).

This, however, doesn't seem to be the case in Louisiana. Every one I've met down here is very into being from Louisiana, wearing their membership like a diamond pin over their hearts. Fleur de Lis everywhere.

I think it's because sadness is the strongest emulsifier. Shared hurt holds people together. This state has constantly been thrown for a loop. Many loops, in fact. It's the idea that if the whole world is against us, we damn well better stick together. We belong to this place and we belong to eachother.

When I was in second grade, I did a report on Louisiana. I have this really vivid memory of copying the state seal, reproducing it with these waxy crayons onto a piece of thick, white construction paper. It's an image of a Pelican pulling off its own skin to feed its chicks. As a child, I remember thinking that it was so sad, scary even. But now I see how that sadness lends itself to such beauty.


All of this is to say that I admire the patriotism (is that the right word?) within this state. I don't really feel connected to anything like that. Not even to Memphis. For while there is a deep seeded sadness there, there is also much apathy and hostility... things that push me away rather than hold me close.


So where do I belong? That's yet to be determined.


Addendum:

Just to clarify: I'm not saying that people in Louisiana are depressed. Far from it. I'm saying that when people share a sadness, they can be most happy with those people because they understand.

We're back, and ready for Round 2!

So, yes. It would seem that I have returned to the internet. All 2 of you should be so pleased.

Since my last post, I have transplanted myself to Louisiana. Americorps did end up working out, though it isn't exactly the job I had thought or hoped. Not to worry, though. I have met many amazing, if not, amusing people down here in Lake Charles, due to my dear friends Al and Kev.

But general news bores the hell out of me. Suffice it to say things are different and I am well.

Details are much more interesting. Here is one: I have a lot of down time at work. Today I wrote a poem. Here t'is.

'Short Change'

Let a person change you.
Let them become that penny,
The one you cannot spend,
The one you dare not spend.
Let them sit at the bottom
Of your lint-filled pocket,
At home in the darkest place.
Let them wait: sit, sit, sit
And wait, and all the while,
They are short-changing you.
Let them rearrange you,
And all the plans you planned,
All the different lives you planned.

Let a person change you
So that when all you've got
Is a one and a fiver
And that penny in your pocket,
You'll break the five every time
Even when the total is
A whopping One O One.

I painted yoo a picjur.

Since I've been unemployed lo these many months, I've had time to explore my creative side. Mostly, I've been painting and writing music.

Recently, I've had a few friends ask for me to make them things. Commission work, I suppose you could call it, though I would never ask a friend to pay for something I make. There is a joy I get out of the making and the knowledge that somebody wants something that I made. It feels good.

Here they are:

St. Monica for Aaron



The Hulk for Kelley



Cujo in Paradise for Nic




At any rate, I have a good time. Nic suggested that I start a custom art company making ironic art for hipsters in college. Called Ironart. It's something to think about, especially if I don't hear from Americorps soon...

Now for something completely different...

Well, now all that serious sex talk is out of my system (for a time), I thought I'd present some serious religion talk. In the form of a poem. I wrote this last fall, recalling an incident I had over a year ago with a real character. If there's anything that I can say about this man is that he is a character, as in I can hardly believe he exists.

But You Seem So Smart

“But you seem so smart,” he says to me
With a look of utter disappointment
Like a parent who’s just discovered
His teen smoking weed in the back yard-
“I just thought you would know better,”
His haughty ruffled eyebrows say.

But there is no way to defend yourself
Against such a man, a man with answers,
Facts, and no imagination whatever,
Who only believes in death and dirt.
I return the look with a smile and say,
“Well, I believe in God all the same.”

“But it’s all so silly,” he says to me,
“Not that I think you’re silly, mind you,”
And he puts his arm around my shoulder
Like a man who would take me under
His wing, teach me the ways of the world-
I realize that we find each other absurd.