Last night I dreamed a dream So real and visceral with faces and details Characters plucked from one world And playing parts in this fantasy one I could feel the emotion of others I could feel my own excitement Those are the bits that last, somewhat As sunlight and time pass And the reality of both Living and breathing and co-existing Disintegrate When we dream of utopia We wake on a steep cliff Aware we are already falling But rather than sound fading And wind screaming, singing to nothing Pictures and stories die First slowly, then rather fast Like they never were Unless we call upon the dreaming again Lucidly or with a bit of luck Stumbling upon Narnia The intervention of magic Delivers us our favorite plots Oh to yet again feel that scene Happily belonging Anxiously diving in The chatter of teammates The conjecture of heroism Perhaps she will astound them all I secretly rooted for another Even though she wasn’t ours A few charged words of banter I badly wanted to impress a friend Bat in hand A few practice swings Every muscle at attention My brethren were ready to play The absence of mockery The insistence of amazing A mere moments away A crowd cheering Not one condescending murmur Not one fragile ego scowling Among a bit of everyone His world, my world, her world, their world Just baseball
Haiku: Sky, turf, dirt mingling / Stepping up, bringing a dream / Fascinate with light
In another world / Salt ocean sprays waft inland / Sea glass redefined
Birds of a feather / Albatross in fancy dress / Toast your sherry love
Look past far away / Gaze into a golden place / Where soul meets body
Today is International Haiku Day. And of course, April is National Poetry Month. I have been struggling with keeping up with writing, something I know many if not all of us can relate to. Back in February of 2015, I started regularly writing haiku, mostly daily, in the efforts of being sure to continue to write. I had started while on a trip in Spain visiting the Spanish Sierra Nevadas and Sherry bodegas. Six years later, I still do which is nice. It really helps simplify my thoughts, keep me sane, that sort of thing. I highly recommend the practice. Here are a few Sherry inspired Haikus I never managed to share previously for an event last month.
A tree for your thoughts / Bark so rigid becomes smooth / Words becomes ideas
Happy National Poetry Month! Please enjoy this poem about our shadows that I wrote in a frenzy yesterday while composing cocktail recipes inspired by poetry. Adjacently, Absinthe has inspired poets for centuries. And while much of the world’s Absinthe related art is full of sexist imagery, every now and then I find images and poems I enjoy. Of special note: I’m getting excited to bring back 5th Column Thursday from pandemic oblivion! Stay tuned on my events page. And if you’re feeling edgy, this should help dull the pointy bits: The Earthquake Cocktail, re-mixed.
And the wormwood penetrates the air,
For this hour is all emerald.
- Charles Cros (1842 - 1888) Green Hour
from DeviantArt
Ask yourself, why did I just do that?
Monkey see, do, daddle
An unconscious ape
Breaks a mirror while dreaming
No witnesses
Shadow figure
Undetachable it would seem
A part of us built behind our backs
Feeding our feet and fingertips
Growing, receding
Most of the day
Neatly invisible
Tucked below, out of sight
Rarely acutely aware
The seemingly endless moments
We stashed thoughts, feelings, reactions
Into its faux void
An empty comfort
A bad habit
The sound of a purr
Vibrating hypnosis
Paws without claws just lightly scratching
Crazy talk
Discussing morality with your shadow
Co-conspirator in the great lie
Denial, the long wait in pretense of action
Dorian Gray, 2009 film
An ageless Dorian drinking Absinthe
There is romance there
The great gale of a deceptive storm
From zero to sixty
Brakes removed to better practice steps
A few bruises, scrapes, leaving marks
When we mask the pain
But not our face
An illusion breaks
A blood moon howl
Wolf befriends deadly porcupine
No story ever
And now our hands, upturned
A self in sunlight
So clearly sees the shame
Vivid mistakes
Corked bottle
Started off with such innocence
from DeviantArt
When does taint begin?
Is it then?
Is it now?
Icarus falls
Another Peter loses himself
And forgets
Old Bay aftershave
Roasting marshmallows
Deep dark licorice realities
Absinthe, I adore you, of course!
It seems to me, when I drink you,
Smell the soul of the young woods,
During the beautiful green season!
- Raoul Ponchon (1847 - 1937) Absinthe
Sometimes my mind is all over the place. In the low places, tiny tasks seems excruciating. In the middle places, myriads of conversations and articles are all fascinating and distracting. In the high places, the feeling of accomplishment is tied to even the most mundane of rituals. One year ago on March 14th, I tended bar on a Saturday and haven’t since. One year ago on March 21st was my last shift selling wine and beer at The Girl & the Vine. One year ago I had big plans that are no longer.
“The worse thing you can do in a fight is stop moving. When someone attacks, they create force, movement, momentum, but you’ll be okay as long as you can see and feel the direction of that force and travel with it.”― Victoria Schwab, The Unbound
MOMENTUM SHIFT
When one settles into a stillness, momentum is derailed. I remember our car idling before getting started in the cold winter months in our snowy Buffalo suburb. You had to warm it up and let it sit there rumbling before you drove anywhere. To begin from nothing was an impossible outing. Engines and all. And if you stayed idling for too long…well, that’s just eventual death.
I’m trying real hard to not lose momentum. Sometimes it feels like walking in the snow. You’re warm while you keep moving. The world is so cold and so pretty. It does not take long at all to feel the chill creep down one’s cheeks to spine and feet. Stopping is a mutiny of spirit.
“People will pay any price for motion. They will even work for it. Look at bicycles.” ― William Faulkner, The Reivers
READING MYTHS, a tangent becomes a tale to practice our pronouns:
Ambivalente is an amazing empath. When interacting with others, she knows just what lights the fires and chills the bones in our minds, hearts and souls. She loves a good Scotch, but he also enjoys a layered fruity cocktail, on fire. And of course, they never turn down a spicy Margarita. On the flipside, Ambivalente particularly enjoys reading in near-secret libraries rich in scents of vellichor, where only tea and Sherry and Madeira are available.
They have many names. He/she/they is intentionally hard to nail down, spirit of all and lover to none but then again, perhaps also to most. Shadow to wild and wonderful Oya, foot soldier to a thunderous multi-tasking Kali, kin of transformative and sage Circe, builder of secret doorways to two-headed Janus.
Marcio Heider, “ORIXÁ OYÁ,” 2019 John Waterhouse, “Circe Invidiosa,” 1892Maa Durga, (Kali) from Wood EmporiumDeep Ellum Janus Mural
1.25 oz. Espolon Reposado, .75 oz. Palo Cortado, .25 oz. Braulio Amaro, .25 oz. Apple Cardamom Shrub, lemon oil
Ambivalente might catch your interest with a surprising topical conversation about human rights or a shared appreciation of staring at waterfalls under starry skies. He may ignite your curiosity over a land rights dispute or over an appreciation of an exquisite operatic tenor. They might get your nerves charged regarding an absurdly personal controversy involving a sports franchise or perhaps whether or not bears have rights in less than 1% human populated natural areas. Or perhaps pronouns and topics are all just another guise for Ambivalente because the moment she senses you are on to them, they swiftly change channels, modes, forms. When youth teaches love, shared memories transform swiftly. Impressions leave footprints in various shoe sizes. An older tutor blindly catalogs the bitter with the savory, the sweet with the acid and relishes each changing sip.
COUNTERPARTS AND COUNTENANCES
I.
I once knew a lass
Amber shining hair flowed like cherry juice in blossom spring
Only once, maybe twice, did I catch her eye
And on the moment I heaved the breath of courage
She became a whisper of a friend from lost lives ago
A kin of a sister long passed.
II.
He would haunt my dreams in want
A ready nod could destroy my soul
I stole a moment alone with brash ill intent
Like a dervish from ancient myths, he turned on me
And I found waiting, a mild sermon of chaste.
III.
They cannot all love the same
They cannot all feel the heat
They proved themselves one day
Amidst a bonfire when resolve melted like a marshmallow.
“That people, even more than things, lost their boundaries and overflowed into shapelessness is what most frightened Lila in the course of her life.” – “The Story of a New Name” by Elena Ferrante (P.355)
I ate tuna for dinner four times this week. I am officially a cat now. I might also be in danger of mercury poisoning so if COVID doesn’t get me…
Why do we binge? Be it eating, drinking, watching Netflix or any other medium, sometimes it’s real darn hard to stop. The latter being casually evil since they just keep playing episode after episode expecting you to be the assertive one and make a move of pause or rejection. I mean, like many of my people, (you know who you are) we are always open to suggestions. If someone says here I brought you this roast duck or piece of cake, I don’t usually turn them down. Just call me Sure-ly. Often when I’m particularly hungry and I eat something, (and no one is watching) I pretty much wolf down my food and sometimes hurry back to make seconds. Nacho-nite is a stellar example. With food, bingeing might be simply a physical desire to fill the void. With the miserable ache of hunger, like a grand lion pining away in complaint, food is a holy gift of fresh kill. Emptiness in our bellies, hearts and minds are the voids that we fight as a daily ritual. The true terror is when the void turns out to be a black hole or when we have no means to sate our hunger.
Have you ever taught or disciplined a youth because they refused to stop doing something? It’s usually not because the kid is ignorant of what they are supposed to be doing or not doing. They just cannot or will not stop. Whether you’re setting limits on how many servings of juice one is allowed, or protecting a defenseless but adorable house pet from being overly adored, self-control is a skill that must be learned and practiced to master. If you don’t set these limits or monitor these impulses, I don’t envy your social dynamic with the teen-to-be someday. And always, there is the oft-heard promise that someday when you’re old enough and on your own, you can make your own decisions about meals and other adult things. And still. Guess what happens to many of us who adult? We binge behind close doors and sometimes drink too much in bars, or vice versa, or really any combo thereof.
I remember finishing my bowl of rice as a child. Every bite I took seemed to go nowhere, as if there were some kind of infinite anti-void in the bottom of my bowl fighting my efforts at every second. Like a surreal fountain of seemingly never-ending rice. And when you grow up in a house where cleaning your plate is law, the frustration is real. I would imagine Atlas pushing a giant rice bowl up a great hill. To this day, I force myself to clean my plate even when I’m full. We get programmed as kids. Deprogramming is hard even when aware of one’s coding.
In the 2005 film “Constantine,” a priest, named Father Hennessy,* is cursed into thinking he is unable to drink alcohol when in actuality, he is simply being manipulated by a cruel & conniving demon. His mind can’t register his bodily action of imbibing and his cravings lead to extreme overdose and death soaked in liquid obliteration.
Perhaps when we binge the link between mind and body is simply broken or interrupted. Or perhaps the mind tells stories, like small fictions and the body just goes along with it. Akin to a demon telling stories or the manipulative affections of Cain and Abel forever intertwined to distract us from reality, as one hurts the other over and over. Tangent: I wonder if the so-named phantom limb perhaps haunts the mind out of revenge rather than routine.
“Cain & Abel” 1911, Marc Chagall
There’s a four book binge-worthy series by the author known as Elena Ferrante that begins with “My Brilliant Friend.” It’s a mesmerizing exploration of two girls from a violent and impoverished Napoli neighborhood and how their friendship over their lifetime is both inspiring and cruel. Ferrante challenges our raw relationships with honesty, testing the boundaries of what one feels and shares. How we hold onto our lies and how it shapes us. How we form relationships because of this shapelessness is like crafting shifting DNA into our shifty souls. How sometimes we cannot get enough of another and how sometimes we cannot stop hurting one another…
I cannot recommend the series enough.
“Forget it, it was the Devil who invented the world, not the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” – My Brilliant Friend” (P.391) 1 oz. each of Fabriquero Sotol, Contratto Rosso Vermouth & Campari with .5 oz. beet juice and a floating dehydrated lime shell lit on fire.
* When clicking on the Father Hennessey link, on the bottom right of the video, click the small GIF tab next to the MP4 tab to see what I was referring to.
Recently, I was asked to provide wine suggestions for an article on Valentine’s Day pairings. I had a few ideas. I suggested all of them with some very mildly clever but especially corny words so I figured why not share them all here? For the article, I focused mostly on a few Sherry selections, and then revised them based on what was available to folks to buy without too much difficulty. This column however, highlights a bit of both hard to find and not so hard to find. Let’s get cheesy y’all!
The Romantic Fantasy, because let’s face it, this wine is sold out everywhere and real hard to get. It’s a naturally made mix of non-pretention and unavailability…the classic “diamond” in the rough or at the ball, whose presence is fleeting, friendly and oh so fall-in-love-at-first-sightable. The orange day-glo quality comes from the skin-contact maceration of Friulano, Riesling & Muscat.
The category of Madeira is profoundly poetic. If you’ve never tried any, a good Rainwater is an easy introduction. I drink them as is, over ice with an orange peel or mixed in cocktails. The Rainwater category is generally the least expensive of the lot which unfortunately can mean there are a few out there that aren’t that great. Broadbent has become my go-to, currently. But Blandy’s and Henriques & Henriques made good ones as well. And of course the Baltimore Rainwater from the Rare Wine Co. is delectable.
My favorite story about the name, as referenced by Noel Cossart in his book, “Madeira: The Island Vineyard” tells of a barrel of Madeira left on a beach while awaiting shipment to the American colonies. The barrel somehow loses its closure, and is watered down by rain, which creates a slightly more refreshing style. Rainwater Madeira was at its most popular at the start of the 20th Century. Although a 1900 auction held in New York listed no Rainwaters, it led folks to believe that the locals at the port of call, Baltimore, were hoarding the national supply.
ahem…
The longing for a lost love that never dies, an idea that spins tales and inspires sorrow, tears but also undying allegiance. Meet Broadbent’s Rainwater Madeira. They’re hard to get out of your mind with their long finish as well as their ability to basically not go bad. They’re like the captured memory of heart’s perfection that you will only ever replay over and over in your mind, each a whisper growing in legend and heartache. They also mix beautifully as a substitute for Dry Vermouth in your Martini riffs. Cherish them always.
“Famile Dutraive is a project that was born in 2016 when frost and hail combined to destroy 90% of Jean-Louis’ crop. Faced with the dilemma that all three of his children planned on joining him on the farm, Jean-Louis decided to start Famile Dutraive, a négociant project that purchases certified organic fruit around Beaujolais as a buffer in years with extreme weather. St-Amour, located in the far north of Beaujolais, has more limestone in the soil, lending the wines lift and freshness.”
An ode to thy Robin Hood bycocket wearing and singing dashed devil in sheep’s clothing…and yes I just google searched bycocket just to get the exact right imagery for this post. Your ballads are cherry sweet, your touch is velvet among a bed of violets. Your charm is worth an entire court as you give them what they desire. You pivoted from landowning gentry to wilderness huntsman Good Samaritan. And you know who else is a skilled archer? Cupid. Here’s to you.
This project is fairly new and the team behind it own the import company which is based in New York, Ole & Obrigado. I was gifted a bottle early on in the pandemic and it haunts my palate to this day. The wine used to refresh the 5th criadera is sourced from an organically produced estate in the Pago de Anina. The median age of the wine is 30 years making it a V.O.R.S. Poniente is the name given to the westerly humid winds that are born from the Atlantic Ocean and cool the vineyards in the evenings. Also of note, this bodega is surrounded by the vineyards that it comes from, which is not common and rather adds to its unique sense of place.
You are the nightcap of my maritime dreams with your oily rich volatile attributes sending me on an adventure with each long sip. Your oxidative grip is comforting and feels like forever come and gone has landed so nicely in my glass.
