"And then, that his cup of happiness might be full..."




"In every important way, we are such secrets from each other. " - M. Robinson

They both have snotty noses. I wipe them with the sleeve of my shirt. Ives takes small bites of a grape and juice is on his chin and he pulls bits from his mouth with his fingers and pushes them into Gilbert's mouth. Grape flesh. Gilbert smiles and his cheeks fill with the fruit and his cheeks are fat balls. Ives is in his pyjamas. When I kiss him and then his brother their skin under my lips is different. They smell different. Nabokov says Lolita is "biscuity" smelling. That word comes to my mind when I kiss Gilbert. Flour and cream and salt.

I keep thinking of Ives feeding Gilbert regurgitated grapes. The ceremony of it. Like a story I heard about Leonard Cohen trying to revive a baby bird who fell from its nest. Like the eucharist. Ives says "Sometimes I feed Gilbert." He says "I love feeding Gilbert." They both have sticky faces.















"A house must please everyone.  Unlike a work of art which doesn't have to please.  Art is the artist's private matter.  This is not the case for houses.  Art is born without being felt.  Houses, on the other hand fulfill a need.  People seek to maintain their comfort.  They hate whatever wretches them from their certitudes, whichever bothers them.  This is why they love their houses and hate art."

- Adolf Loos



dinners last week:

monday: a roast chicken with grapes and calamata olives and shallots,
polano peppers stuffed with risotto and corn.
tuesday: blintzes for breakfast (crepes stuffed with yam and goat cheese and nutmeg)
cardamom, turmeric and raisin rice with eggs poached on top and lime yogurt for dinner
wednesday: eggplants stuffed with cinnamon ground lamb and pine nuts slow cooked in the oven with couscous
thursday: sweet and spicy fried tilapia with harissa, rosewater and currents

for a snack, these savoury cookies, which are very very nice with black coffee or beer.

let hot life retire


"Now that the last leaves are down, except for the thick dark leaves of the oak and ghostly beech leaves that click in the breeze, we're reduced to a subtler show of colour - brown, grey and buff, perhaps a little purple in the distance [...] To my eye these hues are much more beautiful than the garish early autumn with its orange leaves - orange, the colour of madness - and leaves the colour of blood.  Let hot life retire, grow still: November's colours of those of the soul."

 -Jane Kenyon




glory hallelujah I shall not be moved