Goodbye 2009 or Hello 2010

Today, after the snow had fallen, and after I'd delivered the papers, I met with Bailey, and together, we went to chess club.

My spiritual advisor, Rick, tells me that 2010 is going to be a great year for me--my stars are all align, my ruling planet is on the horizon--and despite my dreary outlook, Rick assures me that everything will be fine and adds that I'm lacking vitamin D.

2010. Wow. I can't believe it's already here. I'm not one to make resolutions, but I guess I'm ready for anything, especially friendship and love. Before I went to prison, I had both these things, and I took them for granted. Now that I've been released, I have to admit, I'm lonely. Sure Stella and Warden keep me company, but it's not the same. Butter keeps me happy, but butter doesn't talk to me, doesn't tell me how it's feeling, or what it's thinking. Butter is butter. I enjoy making it and then consuming it with bread or crackers or even on a warm muffin.

Bailey's a great kid. Sometimes, I think we could be friends. But I guess I'm scared of friendship after what happened 20 years ago. Dad always used to say that friends always let you down. Family first, he'd say. But my closest friendships have meant so much to me. Shoot, my best friend knew some things about me that I'd never tell my family. Ever. Family is one thing. Friendships are another.

I finally beat Bailey in chess. I even gave him a second chance, but he laughed and said, "Good game Curt."

This is where it ends. A handshake, a few words, and then I fold up like a metal lawn chair and say goodbye. Maybe in 2010, I'll ask if Bailey wants to hang out and make...butter, or even butter, get a drink and watch a game somewhere.

Happy New Years!

a visit.

My apologies for yesterday's post. I'm not sure what I was trying to say.

I drank six cans of Pepsi this morning, and went to visit my maternal grandfather at his farmhouse, about an hour north of here. He used to be a dairy farmer, still lives in the house my mom grew up in, but leases the land now. The first time I made butter was a long time ago with Mom and Pappy, with milk as fresh as it comes--one of my first memories. Just plain, salted butter, but man was it delicious!

Pappy never visited me while I was in prison. He never seemed angry with me, but there was no denying his disappointment. Things are still terribly awkward between us most of the time. Mom was a bridge, I guess. Just another reason to miss her.

Grandpa, in spite of everything, seems content, and we had a nice visit this time. A full life lived, few regrets. I told him about what's going on in my life, and he listened. He understands where I am now, I think, maybe more than I do. He said: "People say things get better. You work hard, eventually you'll get your house paid, get you kids out on there own, life gets better, things gets easier. It's not true. By the time you're out from under your mortgage, you're too tired to do anything. And your body starts falling apart. Get the mortgage paid, have open heart surgery. Back stops hurting, your kidney fails. The way I see it, if you have something you want to do, do it now, while you're young. Probably won't get a chance to do it later."

Wonder if he's been reading Schopenhauer.

Lying

It was terribly cold this morning. I went to the grocery store to pick up some ingredients to make a new butter--peppermint butter. Even the scarf, wrapped around my head, could not keep me warm.

The peppermint butter turned out okay. I had trouble finding something to pair it with, but settled on a rye chocolate raisin bread.

On my walk to the store, a woman asked me for change and I ignored her. I always feel uncomfortable when this happens. What am I supposed to do? I walked a different route on my way back, but there she was, waiting, her hands out in front of her. She asked me if I had any change, and I said no, sorry.

The chocolate raisin butter had a strange texture, and all I could find to slather it onto was a peppermint gingerbread cookie. But in the end, it was worth the trip.

On my walk to the store a woman with a silver hair growing from her chin asked me for change and I gave her a quarter. She thanked me. On my walk back, there she was, waiting, her hands out in front of her. She asked me if I had any change and I ignored her. I always feel uncomfortable when this happens. What am I supposed to do?

It was cold this morning. But the scarf my sister knit, kept me warm.

After I made the butter, I read some Dostoevsky. Ever since I've come home from prison, I've been doing a lot of reading. Guy's on vacation. He's gone to Miami to celebrate the New Year.

On my walk to the store, I stopped and gave a woman a dollar. She asked me why and I told her that I wanted to give her a dollar. She wouldn't accept my dollar. I wanted to know more about this woman and her silver hair growing from her chin. I could tell that I'd made her uncomfortable.

Dostoevsky writes:

"We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken."

I wonder if this has happened to someone who's met me, before we've even exchanged greetings.

What does one think about Curt Jimenez before knowing Curt Jimenez?

What do I even think about myself?

This blog is a huge step for me, and that's the truth.

I did go to the grocery store. I did bump into a woman. I did make butter. But what do these things mean? Tell me, from these facts, how I feel?

I am happy.

All is vanity.

It looks like I'm going to hit rock bottom emotionally, so hopefully there is nowhere to go but up in 2010.

I like that painting. It's by a guy named Caspar David Friedrich. He was German. I took an art history class while I was locked up, and I really was struck by his stuff. Most painters before him painted people as the primary subjects of their work, or beautiful scenes in nature. He took nature, painted it at its most violent, and stuck something human in the frame being subdued by nature, not the other way around. It was a humble statement, considering how European elites were going about their business at the time.

When I feel really, really depressed, I read Ecclesiastes. King James'. It cheers me up: "For that which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts; even one thing befalleth them: as the one dieth, so dieth the other; yea, they have all one breath; so that a man hath no preeminence above a beast: for all is vanity. All go unto one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again"



This painting was by an American, Ivan Albright. Is it a coffin, or a door?

He painted self portraits of his body decaying as he grew older and eventually died.

Winter. Blah.

This Post was Inspired by Carole Maso

Sometimes, it's difficult to post on the blog.

It means so much. Every word must count.

Trim the fat.

No more waste.

There is too much to write about because there are too many words.

But the only word I know that must be written is:

Today.

Today--

I did not make butter and

Today--

I tried to solve a problem. Maybe it was a mystery.

Mysteries are mysteries because they haven't been solved.

I did not solve the problem.

It is a mystery.

But a mystery is a mystery because there is a chance.

Solved.

What was meant by Unsolved Mysteries?

In the back seat of Guy's car, there was wrapping paper.

I wanted to wrap my fist in it and unwrap my fist and say: You shouldn't have!

I tried calling Dad, but he didn't answer.

Stella and Warden saw something that I couldn't and started barking.

They wouldn't stop.

Or maybe, that was a dream I had on Christmas night.

The bed seemed unusually hard.

I was thinking about words.

Then, they meant nothing.

I wanted a glass of water.

But glass and water meant nothing.

My sister called.

She is worried about me.

She says I don't care about anything anymore.

She says I'm quiet. She says I should get my haircut.

I eat ice cream instead.

Sometimes, before the day even starts.

You know that it'll be a good day or a bad day or just another day.

All are tragedies.

A good day is a good day because most days aren't. A good day ends with bitterness.

A bad day is a bad day because of the heart.

Just another day means that you've given up.

Giving up is not quite failing. It's a compromise.

Compromising means your scared.

Fear is necessary.

What I'm trying to say.

Something's happening.

Always.

It is always hard to make out your face in a crowd.

You walk past yourself.

You think: I've seen that person somewhere before. On the news?

At least once in your life, you've walked past a mirror and stopped and really took yourself in, and staring into your own eyes, you've become scared.

oi!

I don't hate the holidays. It's such a funny feeling I get--so many good things, but so many bad things, the emotions all swirling around inside at the same time. Part of me dreads it, part of me wants it to be here as soon as November hits. I want to be around family right now, but I want it to be family I want to be around. And I guess that family doesn't exist.
This Christmas, I hate. I want it to be over.

Polish

I visited Dad and my sister today. Dad was silent, but he's always been very quiet. My sister wouldn't stop talking about her new phone. She kept taking pictures with it, all the time, claiming that she liked taking candid shots best. It was the first Christmas that I spent with Dad and my sister since being released from prison. I thought they would have questions, but they didn't ask how I was doing or what I was doing. It was strange. I guess it was kind of a relief though. How would I explain to them my passion for butter? They wouldn't understand. Dad would shake his head, my sister would take a picture of Dad shaking his head.

After the ham and green beans and baked potatoes, we looked at old family photographs. I miss Mom. I didn't get to attend her funeral and I asked my sister where she was buried, and she told me that she'd been cremated. When I asked where her ashes were, my sister didn't say anything but looked at Dad, who remained quiet.

When Dad finally did speak, he told me that I needed ambition, that he was tired of seeing me making no progress. I got angry because I am making progress! He just doesn't see it!

I left early, because the weather was supposed to get ugly, and watched Mythbusters. There's a saying that Guy always brings up: You can't polish a turd. He says this all the time!

On this episode of Mythbusters, this farcical idiom was tested and was...BUSTED.

http://dsc.discovery.com/videos/mythbusters-polishing-a-turd.html

Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas

Well, I missed my first day of blogging yesterday. I'm sorry, just got a little busy I guess. Here it is, Christmas Eve, and I must say that I'm pretty exhausted and am not sure that I have much to say now. I hope everyone has a wonderful holiday. I'm going to head over to my sister's tomorrow, and hopefully have a relaxing Christmas dinner. I'm not expecting it, but you never know. We'll see what kind of mood Dad's in. Take care, everybody!

22

The days pass quickly.
Yesterday was the shortest day of the year.

Today, I made a spice and herb butter:

2 cups heavy whipping cream
1 teaspoon of fresh dill
2 tablespoons of chopped chives
1 tablespoon of chopped parsley
1/2 teaspoon of dried basil leaves
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
2 cloves of garlic, boiled drained and mashed

Mix, drain, and refrigerate

After I made the butter, I decided to go for a long walk in the cemetery to take advantage of the remaining daylight, without Stella and Warden.

The days pass quickly.
Yesterday was the shortest day of the year.

I wanted to be able to roam freely, without worrying about the dogs terrorizing crows, pawing moles, or killing groundhogs. What would I do if one of the dogs were to wound a groundhog? Kill it? Put it out of its misery? That would make me a murderer all over again!

I spotted many deer and a few wild turkey. Then, I came across a pair of boot tracks left earlier by someone who had the same size feet as me. I decided to be adventurous and follow the tracks!

Thrasymachos: Tell me now, in one word, what shall I be after my death? And mind you be clear and precise.


The tracks led me to many familiar headstones, ones that I myself often frequented, and I wondered if the tracks were my own, but I couldn't remember if I had been to the cemetery after the storm.

Philalethes: Everything and nothing.

The days pass quickly.
Yesterday was the shortest day of the year and the sun was slipping behind a curtain of anvil clouds. I left the tracks and headed home. I felt milk bones in my pocket and called out for the dogs, forgetting that I'd left them at home and then I remembered after hearing my voice and felt lonely. I regretted not bringing them with me.

I saw Christmas lights and I remembered that Christmas is just a few days away and although I know it's nearing, it seems unreal.

When I got home, I ate the butter. All of it. I ate it in handfuls. And it was delicious. Then, I patted the dogs on their heads and told them to sit, and tossed them a few milk bones.

gaga.

I've developed a strange fascination with Lady Gaga over the last few months. Lady Gaga. She makes me feel that she is simultaneously the simplest person in the world and the most complicated, and I really relate to that. I had a dream last night, I was all over the city late at night, drinking and everything else, and I ended up at this smoky club. And there was Lady Gaga, playing gently on an old black upright piano. She was looking at me, making eyes, singing. "You can't put your hands on my waist", she sang over and over. It was beautiful, but dark and mysterious, and as close as I was to her, I couldn't get as close as I wanted. No talking, only singing. No touching, only a look that was both inviting and impenetrable.
We left the club, not together, but Gaga never left the scene playing in my head. We were in my apartment. I made butter and she watched, with a Mona Lisa smile mocking me by its ambiguity. And the butter was impossible, It wouldn't blend, the cream wouldn't separate. I was getting upset with myself, and I woke up really agitated.

On Nothing

It was a five-round, two-inch .38 Chief's Special with the grips removed.

Today, it awoke me before the sun rose and it kept me awake. It's Sunday, and my day off, so I didn't mind that it'd awoken me, but I'd forgotten what it was like, especially in the dark, when everything is hidden.

"What, if some day or night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: 'This life as you now live it and have lived it you have to live once more and innumerable times more; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh and everything unutterably small or great in your life will have to return to you, all in the same succession and sequence--even this spider and this moonlight between the trees, and even this moment and I myself."

The officer's heel cut into my right calf. I lay face down in the grass and I remember thinking that the grass had grown into my nose. That the blood on my face, from my hands, from the wound in my best friend's chest felt remorselessly cold.

When it returns, I am frozen. I think about nothing and then everything, and then nothing again and then everything. My heart rate slows. I am cold. I think about butter. I say "Butter!" because when you start thinking about nothing, everything inside of you becomes dark, relentlessly. Your organs are replaced with nothing because you are so small and nothing cannot be contained.

"The eternal hourglass of existence is turned upside down again and again, and you with it, speck of dust!"

At first, I laughed because I'd just shot my best friend, twice, in the chest, and he'd flown back into a tree and then onto the ground. And it seemed like a joke, like on Candid Camera. His breathing became shallow and since it was cold outside, I saw tiny clouds of his breath flood from his mouth and I thought of factories. And no one jumped out from behind the tree, shouting, "You're on Candid Camera." I put my hands on the hole in his chest, and he looked up at me and I saw that he was not there. His blood was giving off tiny clouds too, and then my high disappeared, and I knew what I'd done.

"Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus? Or have you once experienced a tremendous moment when you would have answered him: 'You are a god and never have I heard anything more divine.' If this thought gained possession of you, it would change you as you are or perhaps crush you. The question in each and every thing, 'Do you desire this once more and innumerable times more?' would lie upon your actions as the greatest weight. Or how well disposed would you have to become to yourself and to life to crave nothing more fervently than this ultimate confirmation and seal?"

--The greatest weight.
Nietzsche

Although I'd like to forget what happened, I can't. It haunts me. It comes to me again and again, when I least expect it. When I'm happiest. When I'm watching a movie or reading a book. And each time, it's slightly different--it's not as cold as I remember, or my friend didn't fall back into a tree, but a bush, or the officer stepped on my left calf and I wasn't face down in the grass, but in gravel, and I was breathing in stones. Sometimes, I wonder what really happened and sometimes, I'm thankful that it's just a memory that slips further into fiction.

I've learned a lot from my actions and I'm certainly a different person than I was twenty years ago. I don't know how I'd answer Nietzsche's question. Life can go in so many different directions. There are countless possibilities. All of which are beautiful and terrible and worthwhile all the same.

Or so I'd like to believe.

what day is it?

I'm sure most of you had to dig your way out of the snow this morning. I must have been up before the plows this morning, felt like I almost crashed my car about 15 times. To add insult to injury, this guy I work with, I'll call him "Dave", called off and I ended up having to do half his route. Needless to say, I was out for about five hours longer than I normally am, and get this--I was passing by a convenience store on my way home, and "Dave" was heading to his car with an attractive young female. I have half a mind to tell the Ghost, but I have an inability to snitch on anyone thanks to my time in the joint.

Such anger today! What can be done? I took Stella and Warden out to play in the snow, and even their pleasure wasn't enough to get me level again. I read some more Schopenhauer. There's so much spite in his work, or simple disappointment with what he understood to be human nature. Did he see the world, pragmatically, the way that I see the world? Would he despise me for mistakes I made in the past? Did he let himself judge individuals subjectively, or did he objectively move himself into a more sympathetic position, considering people as mere victims of their own human failings?

So, I got home, I grabbed the cream, the food processor, and waited for an impulse to guide me. Sun-dried tomatoes, basil. Ahhh, that's putting my energy to good use. Delicious. Majestic. Creation. This is where I break with Mr. Schopenhauer. He said:

"A man's delight in looking forward to and hoping for some particular satisfaction is a part of the pleasure flowing out of it, enjoyed in advance. But this is afterward deducted, for the more we look forward to anything the less we enjoy it when it comes."

But that's garbage. A delicious butter, made from scratch, always satisfies fully, start to finish. :)

Today

Today, I did some things that I used to do, but haven't done in a long time.

I was going to make butter, but decided not to.

It'll all make sense once you're done reading this blog, assuming that anyone is reading this blog.

Today, I did some things that I used to do, but haven't done in a long time because I had forgotten about them, then remembered them because I was thinking to myself in a room with no one around and it was quiet and there was not much to think about, so these things came back to my memory, and I did them, and I was happy.

And I did not make butter because of them.

I stopped by the library, after picking up the car after having done some things. All it needed was an oil change. But, I can't tell the Ghost that, so, I'm going to say that the radiator was seriously muffed.

At first, no one was at the library, and it was 3:00 and it was going to close at 5:30, because it's Friday. I found some books that I'd like to read and was walking around when I bumped into three people I knew. They asked me what I was reading, and I was embarrassed because all the books that I'd gotten were about suffering and death, with unabashed titles like: Life and Death and A Meditation on Storytelling as an Exploration of Life and Death. They didn't know what to say, so I told them it was winter, and in the winter, one should always think about suffering. Shortly afterwards, we said goodbye, without shaking hands, or even making eye contact, just making up excuses that were clearly lies, saying: "Oh, well, gotta go clean up my cat's throw-up," or "I need to look for a book on...cellos, because I was on a vacation, and I...cellos, I need to find a book."

I began reading an essay by Arthur Shopenhauer, and although I'm not too familiar with his work, I like his pessimistic tone (his glass of buttermilk was always half empty). His writing is inundated with fascinating examples to illustrate his points:

"The pleasure in this world, it has been said, outweighs the pain; or, at any rate, there is an even balance between the two. If the reader wishes to see shortly whether this statement is true, let him compare the respective feelings of two animals, one of which is engaged in eating the other."

or:

"Time is continually pressing upon us, never letting us take breath, but always coming after us, like a taskmaster with a whip."

I was reading this essay, when I came across the line: "Of a truth, need and boredom are the two poles of human life."

I need butter in my life. I cannot afford to have butter become boring.

But both poles are suffering.

When does a need become boring? When does boredom become suffering? And finally, in order for need to exist, must its antithesis be boredom?

I once met a woman who'd started sleeping in the bathtub, while her husband lay in bed, not because they were fighting, but because she was bored.

Needless to say, I did not make butter today.

Well, I took my car in. Guess I'll find out what's going on with it later today.

I wanted to finish my buffalo butter today, so I could move on with my life, and onto other butters. I had a can of chicken breast meat, and I opened it and threw it in a pan with the last of the butter. And then, I felt queasy. I was thinking about how long that can had been in the pantry, and about how that chicken was probably killed three years ago, or whatever, and it seemed so weird to me. For some reason this got me really depressed, I thought about this book I read by David Fisher who is a famous vegetarian philosopher and whether it's right or not to eat meat. But I don't think I really care, you know? I've always eaten meat, and I think I always will. It was just weird. That chicken's life-force was extinguished a long time ago, and yet it's flesh persisted, in a can.

I spent the afternoon listening to "On the Beach" by Neil Young and thinking about the things he sings. "The World is turning, I hope it don't turn away"; "I need a crowd of people, but I can't face them day to day"; "All my problems are meaningless, that don't make them go away". Did you know he really likes model train sets? I think I would like to spend a day running trains with him and listening to Roy Orbison records. They say nobody really knows Neil Young. He would never blog. Or if he did blog it would be all ambiguous and you would never know if he was talking about himself or somebody else.

The buffalo chicken was pretty good, I ate it in a salad.

Just in case, here's some butter

Had some of the buffalo blue cheese butter with potato bread this morning, and it was fantastic! Butter just gets better and better with age! I still can't believe the consistency of this butter, I know, I'm really raving about it, but it's really something else--smooth as a sky blue velour sweat suit.

Today, at chess club, Bailey and I played an intense game of chess (I stalemated). I told him about the butter I'd made, and he said that he'd like to try some, so I gave him a tiny Tupperware container filled with the butter--I always keep a container of my latest butters in my coat pocket, just in case--and he was thrilled.

Tomorrow's going to be a busy day. I've scheduled to get the car fixed and I have to water the houseplants. Maybe I'll make another butter, or, I just might savor the butter I've got!

Buffalo butter, more or less.

Alright, this was inspired. I took some blue cheese and some hot sauce Guy brought me a while back from the French Quarter in New Orleans, and made some butter. "How does this butter jive with toast?" you're probably asking. Well, depends on the toast, obviously, but I'd say generally they go pretty well. Every time I get away from butter making, it feels so good to come back to it. Like hearing a beautiful woman singing Rachmaninoff after being lost in the woods for a week. Well maybe not quite so lovely!:)

Muh-Muh-Muh-Monday

Wow, I feel a lot better. It's like I'm a whole new person! Still need to get the car fixed, but The Ghost actually sympathized with me and let me borrow a company van. Didn't get a chance to make butter, but will have to in the near future (I'm running low!).

It was unseasonably warm this afternoon and I wanted to take a walk, so I decided to explore the cemetery. I started thinking about death, because I was surrounded by stony relics signifying the loss of loved ones. Death. What a strange thing. I can't remember the first time I understood what death meant. I still don't know if I understand what it means. It's an end to something, but surely, it's the beginning of something else, right? What does it really mean when someone or something dies? Say you've met someone and come to know them well and then you go your separate ways. You don't see this person for a long time, a decade or two, and then one day, you learn that this person's died, two years ago. You feel a sudden and overwhelming sadness. Why? You haven't seen this person in over two decades, but you weren't sad until you learned of their death. You might have lived your whole life never having seen this person again. You might have died before this person died. But as soon as you learn of this person's death, you're sad. Why? It doesn't make sense to me.

I used to think about dying all the time. It used to put me in a bad way. Then one day, a dear friend of mine, a tiny woman with a soft voice, told me that if I was going to think of dying all the time, I ought to think that tomorrow was my last day and that I should do everything that I wanted/had to do, today. What a beautiful way of thinking of dying.

I apologize if these blogs have been a bit overwhelming lately. I believe that the things that are most scary to write about, should be written about because they matter the most.

Sunday Convalescence

I'm feeling a little better today. Still not totally with it. I've been reading a lot, which is nice. That's the one nice thing about being sick is that you can catch up on your reading. I read Studs Terkel this morning. What a nice man. If he had interviewed me, what would I have said? I'll never know now. Maybe Ira Glass will do a show on eccentric ex-cons and they will do a profile on me. I wonder if people would understand me more, or if they would tell their friends that there was this crazy murderer on "This American Life" who makes butter now and blogs about it. (Call me up Ira! I'm ready to tell my story! lol).

But I was thinking about this this morning: Do you ever think about whether there was a day or an experience that marked the end of your childhood/adolescence and marked the beginning of your adulthood? At the time it happened and I started having so much cause to reflect on it, I thought that the shooting would mark the beginning of me being a man, or rather that it would necessitate me becoming a man. But it never happened, I always felt like this kid who wasn't ready to handle the things that grown-ups handle. I still feel like that, and I'm past middle-age. It's like that whole journey-not-destination idea. I wanted adulthood to be a destination--I wanted to arrive at it, I wanted to see a sign in the window, I wanted to know I was there, that childhood was over. But the road kept on going, and before I knew it I was practically an old man. And I do things more appropriate for someone half my age, blogging, making butter, joining chess clubs. But those are the things I like doing. And I still don't feel like I know the "things you should know when your are an adult". Maybe I was still in prison the day they published the list in the newspaper. Maybe it's because as I felon I still can't vote yet. But I feel like a big old kid. And some days I feel guilty about that, and some days I think it's too bad more people don't live like I do and let themselves focus on the little things that make them feel good and whole. And most days I think, maybe I'm not as different from everybody else as I think, maybe everybody is like this, and I think that's probably what it is. Everybody just tries to get their lives together, package them up in little manageable boxes, try to figure out their place in the world, and maybe most of us don't do a very good job of it. And then we die, unfulfilled most likely. And maybe it's okay to start every sentence with "and" "but" or "maybe" . You tell me!

If you read this blog for my butter musings, I'm sorry for failing you today. I felt like writing first today so that's what I did. Hopefully today makes up for last nights minimalism. Butter later, I promise. Thanks for listening!

12

Still sick. I woke up today, only to fall back asleep, and woke up again and fell back asleep. This whole day has been a blur. I couldn't make any butter today. All I wanted was chicken noodle soup. Chicken noodle soup in a big bowl. Hot chicken noodle soup. Chicken noodle soup with a lot of noodles. Chicken noodle soup with a lot of celery and carrots too. Chicken noodle soup with rosemary. Chicken noodle soup with tender chicken. I'm really going to have to make up for the brevity of this blog tomorrow. I'm exhausted.

Day 11

Everyone around me is getting the flu. I think I'm starting to get sick too! I made an echinacea butter this morning and ate it with toast, a glass of orange juice, and a bowl of oats, which were a bit watery, and thus, a bit disappointing.

Echinacea butter? Yes! It's quite simple, just brew echinacea tea (which is frequently paired with green or mint tea) and add the tea to the heavy cream, then, reduce the cream and voila!, you have the components of an excellent, yet ineffective butter. That's right, I didn't feel any butter : ( In fact, I felt worse!

I couldn't deliver papers this morning, which worked out for me anyways because my car is out of commission. The Ghost couldn't yell at me for calling off because he was sick himself! Guy came over briefly and we played a game of chess, which he won (arghh! you think the pawns are worthless until they reach the other end of the board and change into something else!!!).

I'm feeling a bit worn out and a lot congested. I think I'm going to call it a night. Hopefully, I'll feel butter tomorrow.

Day 10

Something of a stressful day today. My car has some serious issues; I'm afraid it's going to be a little difficult to deliver my papers until I get it fixed. Not sure how the Ghost (we call my boss the Ghost) is going to feel about that. It's so freaking cold! I've got so many things to sort out, it's hard to think about butter and blogging, but I know I need to keep this going. Everybody has a to deal with adversity--Lord knows I've seen my share--but all in all I think I'm doing okay, you know? Sometimes I wish I could just go to Church whenever I need some reassurance. The world doesn't work that way I guess. Hopefully tomorrow I'll have better things to report.

Spontaneously 9

Today is about spontaneity.

I went to the library and checked out the book, Butter, by Susan Wake. It was in the Children's department and a woman there asked if I was trying to find a book for my daughter. I said, "Yes, one with lots of illustrations!"

Then, instead of going home, I made a left and walked across a bridge and into the park. I walked on a trail with a sign posted. It read: TRAIL CLOSED. Why did I walk on this trail? Because I could.

Even the weather was being spontaneous. It started to rain, and then, it became sunny out. The wind was blowing hard, and then, it stopped. The sun remained uncompromising throughout it all. The birds were flying like an unorganized school of fish!

On my walk home, I decided I would make butter, but wouldn't decide what kind until beginning the process.

Sometimes, it's good to be spontaneous. After having been caught in a systemized institution for a great deal of my life, it feels good to follow my impulses.

Be spontaneous today!

The 2nd week!

"If you begin, and it is not the beginning, begin again."

I read that the other day, and I'm not sure what to make of it. Looking back at the first week of my first blog, I think it's clear that this blog is more about Curt Gimenez and less about butter than I might have thought I wanted it to be. That's okay, I guess. Maybe I began, but it wasn't the beginning of what I thought I was beginning. No matter. My spiritual advisor Rick is telling me all the time that it's all about the journey and not the destination. I like thinking like that. It's hard to start things sometimes without having an idea of what they're going to end up looking like, but that doesn't mean they're going to end up looking like that! Think about it.

But so I joined this chess club the other day, and when I told the guys that making butter was one of my main hobbies, they didn't laugh. They thought it was cool! This kid named Bailey really wanted to see the process. After years of hiding things like that from everyone I knew, it was a little mind-blowing to be myself around people and not be embarrassed. I'm excited.

I didn't end up making butter today, I had a little left over for my toast in the morning, and I had a hamburger out in the evening. Things are looking up!

That picture at the top is a cow made from butter at the Ohio State Fair. They've been doing one every year since 1903!

Bye!

7th Day

If someone, even a gypsy woman with a glass eye working a fortune telling booth at a May Day carnival, were to tell me, in 1981, that I was going to go to prison for killing my best friend, I wouldn't have believed him or her, not even for a second. If someone were to tell me, in 1981, that upon completing my prison term, I would begin a butter blog, I would have laughed in his or her face, and then asked: "What's a blog?" Life is peculiar. That's for sure.

If there's one thing I've taken with me from prison, it's the idea that everyday is the first day of my new life. Every morning, I am born. I live. Every night, I die. That is my philosophy, it is what made the days pass in prison. It is what makes me look forward to the next day now.

"We can never know what to want, because, living only one life, we can neither compare it with our previous lives nor perfect it in our lives to come."

-Milan Kundera

At first, this quote was very difficult for me to take in. Never? I thought. But it makes perfect sense. Envision this: A perfect life is a circle. It is complete and continuous and most importantly, harmonious because it is a circle. But a life that is not perfect, the life we all lead, is a circle that has been caressed, and when caressed, the circle's shape turns vicious. The shape, though tenderly caressed, will never be a circle. The shape will long to be a circle, but having been some other shape, will have forgotten what being a circle means, and so, it will be caressed even further. I hope that made sense...

When Belle, the sister of the man I accidently killed, called yesterday, I was surprised. Although I had not heard her voice for two decades, I knew it was her. It was difficult to speak with her, so much regrettable things have happened between us, but I've changed and I know that I've changed, and that's what counts.

I'm sorry if this entry has been overwhelming, but I just needed to get some things out. NOW, I'm going to make some more butter...perhaps with cipollini onions and garlic.

Day 6: Extreme Butter.

Today, I've been making statements about myself, to myself, and trying to decide if they are true: "I like people." "I'm a stranger to myself." "I gravitate to extremes." The more I think about statements like this, the less I feel I really understand. I'm not sure that it matters.

Butter matters though, at least as a distraction from the mind games I play on myself. I was going to make butter when I got home from delivering my papers, and I wanted extreme butter, that's all I wanted. Big butter, butter that I would love but would be embarrassed to serve, to Guy, or even my mother if she were still alive. I made my usual small batch (about 2 cups of cream), with half a strong Spanish onion, three cloves of garlic, and lots of cardamom, sage and lemon juice! Sure, I gravitate to extremes, but it fills some hole inside of me, and I'm not ashamed.

Then somebody who used to be very big in my life called, and started tearing me down, like this person always does. I worked a long time putting my life back together, and I can't believe some people don't respect that. I'm glad I'm a big enough person now to just absorb the punches, you know? Nobody else can beat up on me as bad as I've beat on myself, that's what I think.

But the butter was great! Good old reliable butter.

Day 5

Today was a...weird day.

This morning my eyes were so swollen that I startled my neighbors when I went to grab the paper. I was very dizzy and I couldn't formulate coherent sentences. Luckily, I made some strong coffee and ate toast with wasabi butter. Shortly thereafter, I read a few kooky stories involving cockroaches and pseudo basements, peep shows and identity wigs!

When I was in prison and I first began to write, there was a writing exercise that a fellow inmate, Homes, taught me. He said: "Curt, describe yourself through a metaphor, you know, make a, what's it called? oh yeah, a comparison without using the words like or as." And I said, "I'm a window that won't open." And he said, "Not bad." I'm remembering this now because I'm sitting in front of a window looking out at the snow. Yes, it's snowing out.

I used to take so many things for granted. A window in a prison is much different from a window in a home. I know this seems obvious, but its startlingly true. You can get lost looking out a window from home, but from prison, a window is a constant and remorseful reminder of the past.

That's a bit heavy, but like I said, it's been a...weird day.

There are so many things I have to write about! But I also have to make some dinner because I'm famished. Before I leave--an interesting fact about butter:

Pioneers used paper to construct windows. In order to create transparent windows, butter was applied to the paper.

day 4: Meat Butter, or New Adventures in Butter Blogging

Eggs for breakfast this morning, with mushrooms and spinach sautéed in rosemary butter, and some more rosemary buttered toast. A late start, took a bath and read some, started feeling so hungry I almost didn't have the energy to cook! But well worth the wait:) Plan is to wait, tease out some inspiration and make some more this afternoon. With garlic for starters...maybe some fresh Sage, too? Till then, let's talk about something else, if you'll tolerate the digression. I'm not sure how much personal stuff I want to blog, generally speaking, but I like to think it's all up for grabs, especially if it's in the service of better butter!

I think there's some meaning in this experience: I had a little too much to drink last night, and convinced myself it would be a good idea to run the dogs out in the big park cemetery near my apartment. A test? Maybe. Would I lose them in the dark? Would they come back? I don't know if dogs understand freedom like I understand freedom, but I think they definitely deserve the chance to taste it from time to time. I won't hold you in suspense; they passed the test, more or less, though I wandered around the graves in the dark for a good hour convinced otherwise. Guy (he's my French brother-in-law, if you don't know. I think I owe him some butter!) came out and helped me, and we tracked down Stella in short order; she started barking at some traffic through the fence and gave herself away. She seemed happy enough to be found, and came running when I called her. Warden was another story. He's more loyal than Stella, but more driven when it comes to following his impulses. He must have gotten himself so lost that he figured I'd gone back home, and that's where we found him. I don't think he'd hesitate to choose life with me over the magnificent unknown. With Stella, time will tell. Perhaps I need to seduce her relentlessly with meat-laced butter until life without me is inconceivable. I was relieved, needless to say, and Guy and I finished the bottle of gin and had a good laugh about it. Not sure if I'll be running the dogs at night again anytime soon!

That's all for now. Butter check back later to see if there've been any further developments:) See you on the flip-side!

Day 3!

Yesterday's butter conception was...immaculate. Although I couldn't purchase goat milk cream, heavy whipping cream proved just as effective AND delicious! Rosemary(Rosmarinus officinalis) is an excellent perennial herb to use when making butter. The end product is a sweet butter with savory resinous undertones. Mmm. Delicious. If rosemary butter isn't for you, perhaps rosemary buttermilk pancakes are. The buttermilk, a wonderful byproduct in the creation of my butter, had a much more distinct and robust rosemary essence.

Someone once asked me what my favorite kind of butter was. My answer: There are too many delicious butters to choose from! Cinammon butter with its subtle warmth and rich flavor. A bold and pleasantly bitter sage butter. Roasted garlic butter. Coconut butter. Coffee butter. Butter! Butter! Butter!

Day 2!

I got really into writing as therapy in the last couple years I was locked up. I cooked up (ha!) this blog to help keep me motivated to write. It's a lot harder to find time to do things in civilian life. I'm going to try hard to keep a daily writing commitment to the Better Butter Blog.

Anyways, this site is a great place to start if you're interested in the history of butter. Right now, I've got a few errands to run, including going to the grocery and grabbing some fresh rosemary and some goat milk cream to start on our first adventure! If I have time I'll blog again later today, but most likely we'll catch up tomorrow.

Hello

Hello. Let me introduce myself. My name is Curt Jimenez.

In a drug induced state, I shot and killed a man in Muskegon, Michigan in 1982. He was my best friend. While in prison, I scrutinized my existence. I knew I had to change. I might have killed a man, but I could not, and cannot, kill the hurt.

The purpose of this blog is to share my passion for a rather strange and disregarded hobby: the art of creating butter.

I know this introduction is rather brief, but I hope you'll stick *no pun intended* with me.

Best,

Curt Jimenez