Peruvian Nachos. Four Minute Workout. Sucker Fish Blues. A Fucking Minotaur. Question for Sally the Runner.

south nachos

I have decided to beat my 41 days streak of nachos. Why? Well, lately I’ve felt spiritually lonely, adrift, abandoned on the beach of this planet, in a miasma/jellyfish glob of purposeless night thought, with no rhyme or reason to my life, no guide, no siren or beacon or call, no image (sorry Farrah) or word (sorry Billy Mays) or song (sorry Michael) that can provide an answer, no destiny but the sad one I build, build, build and un-build daily, daily brick on crumbling brick,  as I…I…I forget what I am saying. The wind bends the trees outside my window, and I hear the roar  of the garbage truck making its rounds. Bird feeder like a skeleton of sky. There is a fly in here buzzing and I am thinking about Emily D or maybe that poem where a wasp drops into the cake batter. Like that.

So I decided the answer is nachos.

Tonight went with one of my South American selections (but that’s obvious isn’t it–the kidney bean is native to…?), recipe #114 (Western hemisphere; I actually begin numbering anew [and backwards, just like the toilets flush] once we switch to eastern nachos, the various chip/flattened bread platforms, secondary bean strata, etc.,) Vallejo‘s Revenge. The green sauce is native to Peru, basically mineral water (fuck vinegar! Bane of hot sauce!), sea salt, with a touch of cilantro, diced lime, shot of pisco, and three reduced rocoto peppers.

(If you can’t find rocoto peppers, substitute three ounces of tequila. If you can’t find pisco, substitute a canteen of Robitussin. If you can’t find true love, substitute a life of constant physical activity and/or chess, Chevy Chase during his funny period [3 movies and 1.4 years of SNL], and maybe Nintendo and vanilla extract on weekends.)

They tasted like telephone blush.

like industrial glee.

like blar me. Or rotations of blar. Golden.

etc.

*

[What the fuck is a Tabata Protocol?]

*

Dudes, Blake Butler has a pretty cool post about his book physically arriving. I thought the Ever arriving post way back was better, but this one made me happy too.

*

Got my Quick Fiction 15 in the mailio. I am reading it now. And now.

Will report more later, as I just cracked it open. But already I like Daniel E. Wickett’s work, as it reminds of O’Hara, or those “Beat” (Sorry to all of those who hate that term, or any terming/summing up, as in label) poets who wrote about the mystery and magic of the every day, every single day.

Michael Meyerhofer works in an office a few doors down from mine and I often pass his name on the office, outside the office, and I think, “Man, I see that guy’s name everywhere” and by everywhere I mean in literary things online and in print and then sometimes on poems I find posted on walls or walls of my mind or even once a poem as a cloud, or a poem as dachshunds running through fields of wheat or something like that similar. Like that. That.

His thing is a good thing in Quick Fiction.

It imagines the earth as lover. As erogenous zone. As alive and  swollen with desire.

*

Question for Sally the Runner:

Q: Sally, I love your column (and your thighs. Ha!). You often write about a “Runner’s High.” Have you ever experienced a similar high while not running?

A:

Yes. Drugs, particularly pethidine. Downhill snowboarding, especially when I tried Black Diamonds (more a falling than control). Sometimes during sex, if slow and sustained sex, which is pretty unusual for me. I know this one young man and all we did was kiss, for hours. That’s all, for months of a relationship. Very odd. And, sometimes in our kissing, I felt a runner’s high. I mean we were like kissing artists by this time. We went to some very deep and strange places in our kissing, into caves and labyrinths of the mind. Wine, if light and dry and Muscatine (I make this on my stove), and if I have not eaten in days. Or if very dehydrated while drinking the wine. Hooking a big deep seawater fish, when the line is singing. Right there, when the line is about to break, the humming thrum. The last few yards when a large monkey is about to close within blowgun range, which means twenty feet, so immediate and huge—the taste of adrenaline in my mouth, copperish. I’ve also caught this flow during dancing, back years ago when I danced, but then again I was always intoxicated when dancing, or on some potent drug. Lastly, I once caught a runner’s high when at about 10,000 feet in the Himalayas (Pakistan Nanga range), as I peered over a ridge, into a deep valley, where a bull yak was fighting another for control of a harem of cows. This back-dropped by brilliant white snow. The clashing and running and bugling yak. This rumpled massive sheet of snow. Surreal. And I couldn’t figure out if I was seeing, or in a dream/drug wash, or even alive. Well, I was floating. And I always float during a runner’s high.

(I hope this helps, Dear Reader. BTW, one of the best workouts to obtain this “high” is the new Tabata Protocol. All the kids are raging over this one. Sally says, Give it a try!)

*

Took Little Man fishing, the best activity for the Art and Science of Little Man. He can not read books yet but is getting rather good at reading the eddies and commas and sentences/lines of a river. If you didn’t know a river is a wonderful moving book, I feel sorry for you.

You still have time, though.

focus fishing

Zen-like focus.

Results in a sucker fish. Fish so ugly, it is beautiful, no?

sucker

*

The New Yorker?

Yes, they can be elitist. Yes, you can turn past the political essays, they are often weak. Yes, for a long while, the weekly short story (please give a hand; they still print a weekly story) was mixed bag, lower yawn, and getting formulaic, the “New Yorker” story, but still, still, still, sometimes this magazine slays the dragon. They get it right. I have noticed this year the fiction has been on! (The poetry is never on.)

This story be rad to the bad-ass highway dogs of room blue/yellow. A fucking Minotaur and a little girl. An odd wonderful sandwich of a story, hatching chrysalis blur.

I think you should get over your prejudice against The New Yorker and read Ziggurat now.

*

I just ran a new workout that takes four minutes. Did I mention it takes 4 minutes? Four minutes it takes. A workout. Four. Minutes. What is this, an infomercial?

The Tabata Protocol (wicked name)

Workout is Japanese and like their game shows, nuts.

“On paper, the Tabata Protocol offers a quick way to get fit in just four minutes of high-intensity work per session. But don’t be misled: This regimen is grueling. It was originally developed for Olympic-caliber athletes, and Dr. Tabata reported that they were wiped out by the routine.”

I went with 5:27 pace, since first time. I am sitting here now dripping sweat. After-sweat. Pretty good leg burn, residual glow. Lungs kinda hollowed out good. Need to go faster next time, and I will, I will, I will…

*

Honestly. I wish I was a braver man.

DSC00927

S

Advertisements

5 responses to “Peruvian Nachos. Four Minute Workout. Sucker Fish Blues. A Fucking Minotaur. Question for Sally the Runner.

  1. Wow, I think I want to try this new protocol!
    It is impossible for me to get up early and run, and its 100 during the day, and mid nineties even around 9:00pm at night….Sucks.
    For two weeks my running has gone down hill…
    Maybe this is good for muscles and body to rest????
    I don’t think so.

  2. I couldn’t agree more about the The New Yorker’s fiction selections. I actually find myself reading past the first half-page of some stories.

    Perhaps the passing of John Updike has opened up 20-some annual slots for fresh voices.

    In addition to “Ziggurat” by Stephen O’Connor, I was also enthralled by the old world fable — “The Tiger’s Wife” by Tea Obreht from the 6/0 8/09 edition.

  3. Read Minataur yesterday afternoon when the heat got to my head and I went outside under a ficus and with a cool breeze blowing read Zigurrat. I have to say I was smiling while I was reading it…mostly grinning…like out of breath!

    I lost a little of it toward the end, the thread (so to speak) but isn’t that the point of a labyrynth?

  4. Yeh Don that Tiger stuff was badass!

    S

  5. Alas, with Lorrie Moore’s “Childcare,” The New Yorker has returned to Earth with a dull small-town-midwestern-fish-kinda-out-of-water-in-a-slightly-more-cosmopolitan-small-town thud.

    Unbelievable voice, lame, overused bits and jokes that I’ve heard many times, and a grinding (not at all cerebral) pace.

    How is it that I find the “Ziggurat”‘s third person narrator so much more authentic and believable in an entirely unrealistic story?

    Updike is dead, but one of his crappy editing choices live on in Moore.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s