Okay, so I'm not keeping my schedule. Busy, busy, busy!

Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas ya'll.

Ya'll guys rock!

-Curt G. Jimenez

Top Ten Butters!!!!!!!!

Hello Butter Enthusiasts!

This was a "hard" and exciting list to compile. Hard to pick just 10 butters and exciting reviewing all the posts from this past year. So much has happened! A buttery deluge of events! I love all my butters. I don't have children, but like to imagine that my butters are like children--I love them all. They are unique, wonderful, and most importantly, edible.

Enjoy!

10. A good butter. Take it or leave it, man.

9. Vision quest butter.

8. Lemon butter.

7. First person butter!

6. A new place, a classic butter.

5. Butter to remember detasseling.

4. "Kitty" butter.

3. A "butter" for a cake for Stella.

2. Mexican pepper butter. To warm things up on President's day.

1. Ginger pine nut butter, minus the pine nuts.

The Greatest Show on Earth

It is the shortest day of the year.

Last night, there was an eclipse. The Ghost kept talking about it, saying that, "...it was going to be the greatest show on earth!" I didn't believe him, but The Ghost said it with so much conviction, that I almost did.

I don't know much about the moon. You'd think, after having lived for more than half a century, I'd have some kind of understanding about waxing and waning, or full and new, but I don't, not more nor less of an understanding than when I was five. The moon is the moon. It hangs up there in the sky when it's dark out, and sometimes, it even sticks around during the earliest parts of the day.

"The greatest show on earth!"

I am an intensely curious person when it comes to certain things--the moon is not one of these things. Then how come, last night, I set my alarm for 3:30 am to see the eclipse? Was it because The Ghost did convince me after all that the eclipse was going to be "...the greatest show on earth!"?

When I looked out my window, I saw nothing. Well, I saw clouds and snowflakes. I saw dark streets. I saw a cat. But I did not see the moon, and I was disappointed, so much so, I thought I was going to cry.

Today, I am going to make a butter. It will be orange, I think. I will shape it into a ball and eat it in front of Warden and Regrette. I will put on the greatest show on earth.

The Year in Butter

Like so many others on the "blogosphere", I have decided to start doing some year in review posts so we can reflect together on the journey we've taken together this year in the Better Butter Blog. So many things seen, so many butters made, so many posts posted.

Here is the plan:
Thursday 12/23: Top Ten Butters of the Year
Sunday 12/26: Top Ten Favorite Posts of the Year
Weds: 12/29: Top Ten Whatever else I Feel Like Remembering

Stay tuned!

The One That Got Away

I was eight, when the one got away. I don't really remember what happened, or what it was exactly that got away, but after it happened, Dad said, "Curt, that was the one that got away." I've tried many times to think about what got away, and from whom, and why. The easiest thing to do, I suppose, would be to ask Dad what it was that got away when I was eight, but it's not so easy when there is a strange tension broiling beneath the surfaces. And then, what if Dad doesn't have a clue what I'm talking about? Worse yet, what if he does, but pretends that he doesn't?

Sometimes, I wonder if its even worth thinking about anymore. But no matter how hard I try to forget about what I don't even know, I find myself thinking about the one that got away even more.

These are the things I remember about that day:
It was a bright day, Mom and Dad were in the house, so it must have been a Saturday or a Sunday, I was out back with Tony tossing a football, it was not hot, and it was not cold. There might have been a sound, some noise, a car? Then, later, Dad said, "Curt, that was the one that got away."

It's December. Nearly Christmas. I decided that I would make butter and wrap this butter up so that people could use this wrapped butter as stocking stuffers. Guy says that it's not such a good idea, on account that stockings usually hang on fireplace mantles and that it can get very "warm" there. I am going to make these stocking stuffers, regardless. I am going to make them and think about the one that got away.

Jersey Cows

I forgot how tough it is to deliver papers on winter mornings. Everything is cold. The inside of the car. The papers. The rubber bands. My hands. The streets are icy, sometimes. There is usually a fine layer of ice on my windshield. It's tough. It gets me thinking about things. Today, delivering papers got me thinking about the library and how long it felt since I'd last been. I couldn't picture how the library appeared. I could and I couldn't. Everything was blurry, like I needed glasses to see clearly again.

After work, I decided to take a nice long walk to the library. I didn't take the dogs because dogs aren't allowed in the library, although, sometimes I wish they were. But, I understand. Not everyone picks up after their dogs!!!
I slipped on ice a few times and almost fell, but it didn't matter. I was on a mission, so to speak.

The library was the same. The same people were working there. For the most part, the same books were available to check out. The same kind of coffee was being served. The same people were milling about the stacks. It was nice.

I read a book on Jersey cows. Jersey cows produce delicious milk. Delicious milk makes better butter!

Winter Butter

I tried to make some Winter Butter with some fresh snow and rock salt. Guy was incredulous, but I told him what Eleanor Roosevelt said, "do one thing every day that scares you," and he jumped on the winter butter train, so to speak.

Of course, it was awful. It didn't really "butter up", and the snow just became water as the food processor heated up, making the whole mess a bit soupy. I wondered out loud what kind of combination would make a nice winter butter. Guy suggested winter squash and beets, which I still consider fall vegetables, more Thanksgiving than Christmas if you ask me. But thinking about Christmas got me thinking about chestnuts and candy canes, both of which seemed like reasonable veins to tap. I wrote the ideas down on post-its, and got excited for the future. There will be a delicious Winter Butter this year. It's important.

Talking

I like the way people talk. I like the way people hide things from themselves.
Sometimes, I wonder, "Curt, what are you hiding from yourself?"
Sometimes, I talk past myself, or at least I feel like I am, but only after I've talked to myself. What makes a good conversation? Moving further away, or getting closer to--
Uncomfortable. Urges. Closer. No. Why not?
Bring me sadness.
I think a fair amount.
Laugh at stupid things, things that aren't really funny. Laugh like this--"Hahaheeheehee!"
Will this make it easier?
Go away.
Think, "What am I reading?"
Think, "This is junk."
Pretend that nothing happened.
Grow pink.

A Circle Needs a Center

It's nice not to be lonely every once in a while. You get off work,and walk through the door expecting just dogs, and there is Guy! It's like a sitcom.
"Hi Curt!"
"Hi Guy."
"How was your day, you look very exhausted."

I have been told by more than one person that they feel like loneliness is the true central theme of the Betterbutterblog, and not butter. I don't have to tell you this is ridiculous. In fact, when people tell me this, I get a little angry. Sure, I am lonely at times, but we are all lonely at times! My dogs are always with me, and even if I am feeling lonely at any particular time, that's not something I am compelled to share here. That's not why you read this blog, I'm sure. Maybe I get away from it sometimes, but the center of the circle is butter here, if you know what I mean.

Having Guy at home is mostly nice. Sure, there are awkward silences, sometimes lots of them. Neither of us are very good at filling space. Maybe eventually we won't put so much pressure on the spaces, and it will be just silence, without the awkward. Maybe I should play more music. The only thing Guy likes to listen to is Neil Diamond and show tunes though, and I think I might prefer silence. Maybe we can do Christmas music for the next couple weeks.

Guy has been encouraging me to grow my mustache back. "It's you, Curt," he says. Maybe he is right.

A What-Vel?

The snow accumulated. It wasn't very much, but people were acting very, very serious. Everyone was out and about, tossing rock salt over rock salt. And then tossing some more for good measure. Just to be sure. Can never be too sure.

But I bet people were so emphatic because it was the first time in a year or so since these people tossed rock salt onto the sidewalk. Sometimes, it just feels good to do something you haven't done in a while, unless you killed someone. That's usually a been there done that kind of thing...

Then there were the shovels. And the wovel.

I was walking the dogs when I saw a young man using something I'd never seen before. It was like a shovel, only it wasn't. It had a giant wheel. "Excuse me," I said. "What is that?"

"A wovel," the young man said.

"A what-vel?" I said.

"A wovel, you know, like a shovel, but wovel."

He showed me how to use it and even took the dogs while I tested it out. He took an apple out from his coat pocket and bit into it. "Pretty fun, right?" he said.

I have to admit, it was.

"Why don't you go ahead and wovel the rest of the sidewalk," the young man said.

"You mean it?" I said.

"Sure, I'll hold onto your dogs."

Well, an hour went by before I had to go, but the young man seemed very grateful. "Thank you," he said.

"No," I said. "Thank you!"

Clarification

Okay, Pike didn't say, "I've been waiting, Curt." He said, "who?" and then, "oh right, that old butter-making guy, yeah, cool, yeah." He told me that, yes he had started a homesteading club, and yes, it would be awesome if I joined, but that there were only three other members right now so I shouldn't think it was the biggest deal in the world or anything. I told him that that was cool, and that maybe it would be a little easier for me to do if I wasn't overwhelmed by mass amounts of people. Also, he said, all the other members live in the same house and don't really have official "meetings", just that they do a lot of hanging out and making stuff, and that they would hit me up the next time something was "going down." He didn't even know if it was appropriate that he called it a club, and he apologized. "It's okay," I said.

When I got off work today, Guy and I went down to the bar and watched the food network, and played Wordster. We kept arguing over whether to keep letters or not. I kept telling Guy that I just didn't think it was worth it if you didn't think you could beat the high score, and he just wasn't hearing it. "Everything's not about getting the highest score, Curt," he said, which was absurd, because frankly I don't think I'm a very competitive guy. He just can't deal with it if the second set has an 'x' or something in it. Regret. "Sometimes you have to take chances, Guy," I told him, which was also absurd, because he had just dropped everything and moved west to become a logger!

I feel very happy right now. It may be fleeting--it may just be the booze talking--but I'll enjoy the moment, and it feels good to share it with all of you who have been to the depths with me at times over the last year.

Waiting

Cold heavy cream.
Chives.
Salt.
Paprika.

I mixed these ingredients, watched as the butter and buttermilk separated. The butter was pink and green, a nice Christmas combination. I piped rosettes of this butter onto a cookie sheet and stuck it in the fridge. The butter was beautiful, like a bouquet of flowers, minus the stems, and on a cookie sheet instead of wrapped in paper. Guy admired my work. "Never knew how serious you were about butter," he said.
"I'm pretty serious about butter," I said. I told him about Pike and the Homesteading Club.
"Call him up," Guy said. "Don't be afraid."
"I'm not afraid," I said.

I popped a rosette of butter into my mouth. It was delicious! I decided I wanted to share my butter with Pike and the rest of the club, so I called him up. "Hello," someone said on the other end.
"Pike?"
"I've been waiting, Curt."

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY BETTERBUTTERBLOG!!!!!

December 1. One year. 329 posts. Some good, some bad, some nothing, some maybe something to somebody somewhere. Happy anniversary, Betterbutterblog! Here's to the future!

So many posts. So much of my life shared. What have I told you about Guy? He is French. He was married to my sister for four years. He moved away to be a logger for a little while, but now he is back. I feel he understands my sensitive side, which I feel a lot of people don't. Sometimes I feel like I hardly have anything but a sensitive side. No wonder I feel so alone sometimes!

329. You know who picked me up on the day I got out of prison? Guy. You know who helped me find an apartment, and helped put me in touch with the Ghost after I got out? Guy. He is a good friend, and I owe it to him to be there for him now. I am grateful for Guy and his friendship, and if he wants to rearrange my furniture, so be it.

We enjoyed a few beverages last night, Guy and I, and I told him about this idea I have. I think they should do a modern day Dirty Dancing, like they did The Karate Kid, but it will be with the gender roles reversed, with Lady Gaga playing the Patrick Swayze character, and somebody like me, maybe even me, playing the Jennifer Gray role. I think it could be awesome! I mean, I can kind of dance, I think I have raw talent, and somebody with Lady Gaga's talent and charisma could really help me shine, you know? Why not? I know she is very guarded with her image, and it would have to be an awesome script, but she could totally carry a movie, and I think she's going to have to take that leap eventually. Maybe I will make that script my next project. If anybody has any plot ideas, hit me up!

I made a very special anniversary butter today. I will tell you about it tomorrow!!!

The Poetics of Space

So after I've delivered the papers, I come home to my apartment, except that it's not my apartment anymore, but it is. I open the door and stop. The furniture is arranged differently and I think I've got the wrong apartment. I'm about to apologize to someone when Warden and Regrette come bounding from my bedroom, wanting to be taken for a walk. "Is that Curt?" I hear from inside the bedroom. WTF.

There's Guy in my bed. There's Guy in my bedroom, except, he's rearranged that too. "Curt," he says, rubbing his eyes. "So good to see you."
"What happened, Guy? What happened to my place?" I say.
"Curt, Curt, Curt," Guy says, raising his hands, sensing that I'm agitated. "It's the Feng Shui. It was all wrong."
Regrette and Warden are barking in the living room. I want to ask them why they let Guy move everything around. Why?
"Feng Shui?" I say. "More like you F***ed S**t up," I say. I didn't really say this. But, I wanted to...
Regrette and Warden start growling.
"If it ain't right," Guy says, "it'll cost you your life, you know."

I don't know what he's talking about. Or who he's become. But then again, I didn't know him know him ever, but only thought I did. "I can't believe you've been living so wrong for so long," Guy says. "You'll see. This is the first day of the rest of your life." He gets out of bed. He's naked. He was naked in my bed! I am not happy about this.

Homes used to talk about the poetics of space. He used to ask me if I lived in a nest or a shell. "Do you live in a nest or a shell, Curt?"
"A shell," I said.
"That's nice," Homes used to say. That's all he used to say when we talked about the poetics of space. I wonder if it was like Feng Shui.

I wonder if Homes secretly wanted me to say that I lived in a nest. I wonder if Homes also lived in a shell. I wonder if today is really the first day of the rest of my life. I wonder when Guy will leave.

Decision

I can't decide whether to have tomorrow be the first day of the rest of my life, or if I should wait for the new year.

And where the heck is Guy? The suspense is killing me.

The 3 B's

Thanksgiving got me full. Full of thinking and full of food.

Just think, last year at this time, the BetterButterBlog didn't exist. In fact, I remember that at last year's Thanksgiving dinner, I felt that I needed to do something, I was meant to do something. And that something was this blog. Over mashed potatoes and green beans, over Dad's scowling and my sister's concerns, there was the BetterButterBlog. The 3 B's.

At this year's dinner, there was something else. I can't quite describe what it was, but it was something and I'm sure it'll make sense soon. Maybe it's the Homesteading Club. Or maybe it's time for me to really take butter to the next level, whatever that level may be...

It's a scary time. But all times are scary. Or, at least that's what it seems like.

Coward

Within the week can be Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday. There is no way that Guy can live with me, that he can move into my apartment within the week, that we can use the same bathroom. No. It is not possible. Yet, I feel it is inevitable. There is no room. I should have told him that I couldn't do it, but I can't. I am not that kind of person. But sometimes, I wish I could be. That I could say with conviction, No. Instead of feeling that I've lied to myself all my life, thinking that it is OK to lie to oneself because it is what it is anyways, is it not?

It is not. Or at least that's what Homes once told me. But Homes is far away now. Far and not far, but further than he was yesterday, and further tomorrow than he is today, and it will go on like this until Homes is Tony is Dad is Bailey is The Ghost.

I knew a girl once. She was my friend. We could have dated, had I not broken her heart and then killed Tony. She called me a coward.

She was right.

Pike's "Peak"

I was in the checkout line at the local grocery this afternoon, with my usual selections of perishables and non-perishables, when the young man scanning my merchandise took particular interest my stuff and started mumbling excitedly about homesteading and other such business and held out his hand and said "my name is Pike, how are you, I would like to learn the secrets of buttermaking from you, you seem to have a...passion!"

Where did this come from, I do not know. I didn't say much, I just mentioned how I was making sage butter for stupid Thanksgiving with my stupid father. And I explained how he always insists I make butter for when we get together although when he says it it always comes out like, "I'll pretend I'm interested in Curt's life because it seems like the right thing to do, even though I find his whole existence ridiculous and I can't believe he thinks butter-making is a legitimate hobby for a grown man, I bet I'm not even his real father, so yeah, bring some butter you disgrace."

Well, I guess Pike asked me some innocent question and I guess I may have been a little too eager to share and I guess I made my passion apparent. And Pike told me that butter-making, and other such returnings to our agrarian roots are wonderful, legitimate things to do with one's spare time, that as human pursuits they are old, old, old and that they will probably outlast more fleeting "manly" pursuits like watching men chase around after balls on the television set and bowling. I told him that these were both also activities with ancient roots, but that I got what he was saying.

And he told me about a local Homesteading Club that he is a member of. He said, "Curt, you should join!"

I told him I have a lot going on, but that I will think about it.

And I will, when I have a little more time.

Baggage

Dad says he would like to have Thanksgiving with me and my sister. A family Thanksgiving. I guess he doesn't really tell me, but tells my sister, who tells me, over the phone, that he would like to have Thanksgiving with me and my sister, a family Thanksgiving. I tell her I'm not that keen on the idea and when she asks why, I tell her it's, I dunno, complex. Like, it is, and it isn't, you know? She says that she has no idea what I'm talking about, and furthermore, that I sound like an idiot. This is why I am not excited about a family Thanksgiving.

And then Guy calls. Out of nowhere, he says, "Curt, I'm moving back because this place is killing me."
"That's great, I guess," I say. But in truth, I don't know if it is or not. The whole Peggy Waters incident and the "baggage" that Guy seems to carry around with him.
"So we can be like roommates, right?" Guy says.
"What? I don't know..."
"Great. Hey look, I've been thinking. You've been great, Curt. Just great," Guy says. "You've really come through for me. I owe you. Big time."
"When are you moving back?" I ask.
"Within the week," Guy says. He asks for my address and asks where I keep the spare key.

Things are happening. Fast.
Nothing. And then, a whole lotta something.

Misnomer

Today, I was walking around when I saw a flyer that was painfully familiar.

The first memories of Rick that kicked around in my head were positive ones. That time in my life was good in many ways. Much like now, I guess, there were good things and there were bad things. Maybe Rick was to me what that feather was to Dumbo. I needed him to show me that I didn't need him, if you know what I mean.


It is sometimes fun and sometimes painful to go look back at those old posts. So much can happen in a year! What if I'd been blogging way back in high school, or even further. Can you imagine? It is probably a good thing those days feel so distant now.


Rick. What more can be said about Rick? I still have emptinesses I am unsuccessfully trying to fill. People have come and gone in my life. I think about Bailey sometimes, and Guy still calls every once in a while. Things change, though. Rick. What if he was just a friend, and not my spiritual adviser. Would I like him more? Less? He used to talk a lot, without saying anything. Or that's what I thought. Maybe it was me who screwed up that relationship. Maybe I expected too much from him--or I expected to help me more than he did--because I was and am such a mess. Who could fix me, really? Mr. Phil? Freud? Alan Watts?


Reading over my posts over the last few days and weeks, I wonder if I have been sadder than usual. I heard once that you could input the text of fictional books into a computer and the computer could tell you things about the author. They could tell Agatha Christie had Alzheimer's from her late books. I wonder what of my writings could be boiled down into something meaningful about who I am and what I am. I wonder if Curt is brief if he is depressed and if Curt has a lot to say if he is lonely. I wonder what it says about him that he blogs at all, mostly about nothing. I wonder about the misnomer blog name, seeing as how he hardly even mentions butter anymore.


What of that, scientists?

Burrdens

Today, I ruined a good sweater. I was walking Warden and Regrette and decided to take a detour, on account of the street bread. We walked through tall grass and twigs, leaves, and dead birds--Warden took great interest in the birds! When we got back to the apartment, I found my sweater was covered in burrs. Hundreds of burrs. There were no burrs on Regrette and Warden, thankfully, but the sweater was one of my favorites. I spent the entire afternoon trying to pick the burrs from the sweater, but there were too many. I got emotional. I even cried. I threw my sweater away. Then, I took it out from the trash and tried to pick more burrs from it, and threw it away again. It's in the trashcan now, and I'll probably take it out and try again, and get upset again and maybe, I'll take the scissors to it and cut it into tiny strips and throw it in separate trashcans. Maybe, I'll throw the bits of sweater in dumpsters around the city. Yes, that's what I'll do. I'll do that now. I feel like I could throw up. Throw in the towel.

Oh, burrs are burrdens!!!

Street Bread

For the dogs, every walk is an adventure. Regrette has a theory that anything she sees that looks like it could be food is probably food, so she is constantly lunging at things and jerking me around trying to find some precious morsel that has been lost by some child or some businessman eating on the run. At the same time, Warden is searching for other dogs who have invaded his territory. Curt Jimenez, caught in between, must never appear to be in control.

Especially not on days like today when there is an abundance of street bread. Street bread just happens, I guess. I don't know if people are feeding pigeons, or if they've been disappointed by some bread that they just purchased, but once every couple of weeks there's bread all over the streets, at every corner it seems, and poor Curt Jimenez is jerked around even more than usual.

You would think I would have something more interested to talk about, but I don't. I have been doing this for almost a year now, after all.

C(K)iller Clouds, A Story

Today, the clouds came to kill what they could. This happened the day after the warmest day in November. It could not, nor would not, be explained. The clouds looked especially soft, but not thin, nebulous. They came from the west and consumed the browned grasses first, with field mice and deer bones scattered on a plain, like a plate. They ate without making a sound. They were experienced killers, these clouds, and when captured, slipped through fingers and floated up into the sky. We looked up at them and named the shapes they formed, Bunny, Horse, Star, even Mink Coat. The clouds started killing children, taking them without their bodies--these they left behind beneath the jungle gym bars, with rosy cheeks. We closed our doors and our windows and watched the clouds sink to our streets and roam with soft murdering. Sometimes, we heard a muffled cry, sometimes laughter, and then silence. When the clouds left, we mourned. The clouds were ruthless and those taken up into the sky also remained on the ground, with mouths hanging open. The clouds came down to kill every year, for one day. The day after the warmest day in November. We hated them. We sent balloons up into the sky with messages tied onto string. Some begged for the return of their loved ones. Others wrote hateful words. Every year, since I learned to write, I wrote: Who taught you to love this way?

Adjustments II

"You need to make adjustments," The Ghost says. I have heard this sort of thing before. He tells me I am a mess. He tells me, even though I come to work every day and do my job better than any of the other "stable" married alcoholic schmoes he employs. "I know," he says, " that one of these days you are going to have another meltdown like you had in front of my wife and I. And I just can't watch you do that to yourself, Curt."

He doesn't know. I am not on the verge of a meltdown. Sure, I've made mistakes and been unpredictable in the past, but we are not talking about the past. We are talking about the future. Who put The Ghost up on his little pedestal? I wonder how he got to be delivery coordinator anyways. Nepotism, I bet.

Curt Jimenez is adjustments. He is changes. He is tossed about in the wind. He is the wind.

He is.

He will make some "adjustments".

Blue Whale

I am sitting in a warm room, enjoying a cup of hot cocoa, when I get to thinking about the ocean.
How deep and mysterious it is. How dark and cool the water is in some parts of the ocean right now, and how some parts are full of light and coral. I think about the dark and cool parts with glowing jellyfish. Or, glowing fish never seen before. But it's hard to think about these, since I can't quite picture them.

Then, I think of a blue whale. Motionless in this dark, cool water. Six fathoms below the surface. Or more. Surrounded by the sound that water must make on top of itself and next to itself with small things moving about inside it all the time, like the wind and dust, like the sound of a creaking door. I think about this blue whale.

Think about it. Think about the blue whale.

Losing

Voices follow me around. Frequently, voices I will never hear again. It's amazing how they live inside you. Laughter, and angry voices, sometimes. Disappointment, sometimes. You wish that you were able to let those voices know that who you were once isn't who you are forever.

It warmed up today, and I took the opportunity to spend some time outside. Things that come back year after year are comforting. A 60 degree day in November. Warm like a heavy blanket. Wrapping you up, and making you feel good inside. Walking around on a day like today with dogs like my dogs makes people go out of there way to smile and say nice things to me. It is a good thing. Without the dogs, who would ever say anything nice to me, or anything at all?

"Are you walking those dogs, or are they walking you?" Hahahaha.

"Whoa, big dogs!" Yep.

It's the same stuff every time, but it's still nice. Today, Warden found a chicken bone, and I let him suck on it for a while, because I didn't want to deny him of that unexpected pleasure. But only for a little while. I can't lose another animal, I just can't. Not to choking to death on a stupid chicken bone.

It is getting dark around 6 here since we fell back. Early darkness helps me hide, which is also nice. Today, I do not know whether I want to hide or if I want to be seen and acknowledged. I guess the truth is probably somewhere in between.

It would be nice to have someone real to talk to. I don't know what that means, but I think it's true.

It would be nice.

"Hanging" in there

Curt stepped outside because it was nice outside, much nicer than it was inside, and that is why he stepped outside. He started to walk, without the dogs. The dogs were inside. They were inside where it was not as nice as it was outside. But, Curt thought, it was nicer to walk without the dogs right now, than it was to walk with them, and so he walked without the dogs, outside, where it was nicer than it was inside. He thought about something he'd read after work, tired. How true it seemed to him: I'd never known anything else but this, to look at how the time goes past, to have someone do and do for me until there was nothing left for me to do.

I have been holding on, Curt thought. This whole time, I have been holding on.

Oh, how he looked then! Walking like he'd broken a small sensitive bone in his foot. He wanted to cry. But how embarrassing that would be, he said aloud. To cry on a day like this? But he didn't feel...right and then there was the world around him, bright and moving and he thought he'd stepped into a fun house. He was breathing, it seemed, through his eyes and his mouth was moving without his thinking, opening and closing and opening and closing.

I have been holding on. Hanging in there, he thought. For much too long.





Reader. If you've fallen and found yourself gripping onto the ledge of a precipice, you find you have two options. You can climb back to the surface, or you can let go. But before you make a choice, you hang on, desperate to live. If you pull yourself up, where do you find yourself? You walk home, shaken, and take a shower. You eat your supper, like every other night. You may tell someone that you were close, close to falling...where to, exactly, and this is how you live--much like before.
If you let go, you fall, fast. Sooner or later you will hit, something. In this case, you live with intensity and a furious passion. It is brief, but imagine that kind of life.



Curt felt that he could pull himself up or he could let go. He could pull himself up, or he could let go.

I can pull myself up, or I could let go.

Pull myself up.

Let go.

You.

A feeling.

Sometimes that's what you wake up with. And you have to go about your business, do what you have to do, and that feeling might persist. It might persist. Or it might go away. And you ask yourself, "what happened? Why did you let that go?"

But that's what you did. You let it go.

You let it go.

Just when you think the well has run dry...

there's Kesha:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rt_0dYTSk-U

We bury Vernon

We buried Vernon today. Ronny has a favorite place in the cemetery, which is actually pretty free of graves, and we went up there this afternoon after I got off work and laid him to rest. The ground was cold and tough to break, and so it wasn't just "hard" emotionally for us. But the physical difficulties in some ways made me feel it even more. It shouldn't ever be easy to bury a cat, especially if his dying is your fault. That's how I feel, anyways.

Ronny asked me if I wanted to say a few words. I read from a Raymond Carver poem that I posted in this space when Stella died:

Your Dog Dies

it gets run over by a van.
you find it at the side of the road
and bury it.
you feel bad about it.
you feel bad personally,
but you feel bad for your daughter
because it was her pet,
and she loved it so.
she used to croon to it
and let it sleep in her bed.
you write a poem about it.
you call it a poem for your daughter,
about the dog getting run over by a van
and how you looked after it,
took it out into the woods
and buried it deep, deep,
and that poem turns out so good
you're almost glad the little dog
was run over, or else you'd never
have written that good poem.
then you sit down to write
a poem about writing a poem
about the death of that dog,
but while you're writing you
hear a woman scream
your name, your first name,
both syllables,
and your heart stops.
after a minute, you continue writing.
she screams again.
you wonder how long this can go on.



Raymond Carver

"That was nice," Ronny said.

"I think so, too," I said.

And it was over.

GEB

I needed some fresh air, so I took a walk to the library. I started a reading a book, to lift my spirits, and thought I saw someone I recognized, although, I didn't look up from the page because I was enjoying what I was reading. When I finally did look up, I did recognize this person, but I forgot his name. It'd been too long. We used to play chess together. Intense matches at the kitchen table. He'd let his beard grow out. He was wearing sandals. Sandals in November! I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything, and pretended to read, staring at him, but not noticeably so, you see. He was reading a book and then set it down and left. When he didn't come back, I looked to see what he'd been reading. I decided to check it out.

At home, I did something I rarely do. I watched TV. A commerical came on and I lost it, I started to cry. I thought of Vernon. I thought of my Stella. I miss my Stella. I miss her so much. Warden, like always, licked my cheeks. Regrette, well, Regrette she sat there and looked concerned or confused.

And then Ronnie called. He called, he said, to apologize.
"Apologize?" I said. "But why?"
"I bet you're crying over Vernon," he said, "and I didn't want to bring that kind of sadness to you."
"But what about you?" I said.
"What about me?" Ronny said.
We listened to each other say nothing then, for a moment, before Ronny said he had to go, get ready for supper.
"Sure," I said. "Me too."

Mistakes

When Ronny says, "Curt, it could have happened to anybody," I nod. Of course, that just isn't true. I screwed up, as I have countless times before. I was, as my father never hesitated to drop into conversation, a mistake. I am defined by the mistakes I have made. I am a cruel joke. Why would anyone want to have anything to do with me? This is why I shouldn't leave my apartment. Regrette and Warden are surely living on borrowed time.

I can only persevere.

I can only persevere.

I mean, yes, it could have happened to anyone. And anyone could have done the things I have done in my past. Anybody could be where I am now. It's true but it is not true. I killed Vernon. I killed Tony. It is not a coincidence that not many people want to have anything to do with me.

Considering what could happen, what is the benefit? My cunning wit? My boyish charm?

A Quiet Mourning

This is hard.
I decided to scoop what was left of Vernon up from the street, to place him inside a shoebox (I didn't have any, so I emptied out my cereal and used the cereal box instead) and placed him in the freezer. God bless, I said. I called Ronny and told him that something happened.
"To Vernon?" he said.
"You better come over," I said.
"On account of Vernon?" he said.
"This is hard," I said, "to tell you over the phone."
"Is it or is it not about Vernon," Ronny said.
"It is about Vermin," I said.
"About the mice then," Ronny said.
"No, I meant Vernon."
"It is about Vernon?" Ronny said.
"Yes. Please come over Ronny so we can talk in person."
"Why didn't you just say so then."

I waited, with a knot in my stomach, until Ronny knocked on the door. I opened it, maybe too quickly, and Ronny stood there, with nothing prepared to say, so I said, "Come on in, please."
He asked about Vernon. "Where's my little rascal? Where's he at?"
"In the kitchen," I said.
Ronny stepped behind the counter, looked at the floor, even opened a cabinet door.
"Freezer," I said.
Ronny opened the freezer door. As if a live cat would dwell in that space! I could have laughed. I could have laughed and embraced the man because he believed that his cat was inside, alive, purring or licking a paw with a hard, pink tongue. I could have cried out, "Oh, Ronny!"
But instead, Ronny said, "Where?"
"Something happened. Something unfortunate, Ronny."
I took out the cereal box with Vernon inside. Ronny looked sick. He looked green.
"You see," I said. "It was an accident. The window and then the mice and he was up there and before I knew it and then--"
"Oh god," Ronny said, and then he was crying. I didn't know what to do but hand him the box. "This is what's left of him," I said. "I'm so sorry."


Ronny was crying, sobbing, screaming, without making a sound. It terrified me to see a man's face scrunched up that way. And then, a loud, slow, inhalation, trembling, guttural. What could I do but hug him? So hug him I did. "Sorry," I did say. Pat him on the back, I most certainly did. Pat. Pat. Until he settled down. The cereal box flattened against his chest, a sad tail poking out from an open flap.


"I knew in my heart of hearts, I just knew something like this was bound to happen, but I didn't know it would happen so soon," he said.
"But he was a good cat," I said. And wondered why I said, but. As if all good things left this world in such a terrible way and that this was an accepted fact.

Killer on the Road

This happening did not happen to put drama in the blog. This is not funny, or even something I should share on here, really. But it happened, and now I don't know what to do. Vernon was very much alive when Ronny loaned him to me yesterday. Imbued with that kitten vigor that had so awed the dogs and I not so long before.

Now he who was brought in to kill has been killed. The mice mock us with their scurrying and their ubiquitous droppings. Vernon has lost a valuable dimension, down to two thanks to what must have been a rather large vehicle.

This is not funny. Ronny has been calling. I cannot answer. I was scared before to tell Ronny that Vernon was missing...

Well, now he is found.

November Trees, Always Please. Then. Oh Geez.

Vernon pins his ears back. Looks more like a rabbit than a cat. He's grown since the last time I saw him, but he is a small cat, like a man who is short is still a short man. He meows and Warden and Regrette cower. Before I took him with me, Ronny gave me a toy, a mouse tied onto a piece of red string. "His favorite!" Ronny said. "Take good care of him."

Now we wait. Vernon licks a paw with a short tongue. My eyes start to itch. I start to sneeze. I am allergic, I think, to Vernon. Or, maybe, I'm allergic to the mice. They are quiet. I don't hear them. I wonder if they even existed.

It is almost November. Tomorrow, the 1st. Tonight, Halloween. Everyone thinks the trees are most beautiful in October. I'd have to disagree. It's those last few, still hanging onto their leaves, unwilling to part with them, that are the most beautiful. The leaves, deep orange and red. When you think of autumn, those are the trees you think of. November trees.

There it is. A noise. A scuttle.

Vernon stops his grooming. He stands up and arches his back. Again, another noise. Tiny footfalls. Warden and Regrette lift their ears, look at the cat prepare itself for a game it knows its going to win.

There Vernon goes. To the wall. Up, onto the windowsill. He looks up at the ceiling. He meows. It is long and tinny. It gives me chills. Then out he goes. Out the window. The window, where days before ladybugs were coming through a hole in the screen. Out the window, whose screen I removed earlier today, in order to take to Home Depot to find a replacement.

And just like that, Vernon is gone.

What will I tell Ronny?

Kitty, II

And so, I decide that I need a cat. We decide. I say, "Warden, should we get a cat?" and he licks my face. And I say, "Regrette, what do you think?" and I hold up my hand and get her signature high five. This is how a family makes big decisions, together.

But, this family is not ready to house a cat permanently. Luckily, Ronny has Kitty, so I call him up. "What kind of a hunter is Kitty?" I ask Ronny after we get done with the small talk. Ronny is big into small talk.

"We call him Vernon now," Ronny says, "and he is a natural born killer. Stinkbugs, mostly. Sometimes a chipmunk. Once, a garter snake, out in the garden. Can you believe it?"

I can't believe it. I hear the mice, still scurrying. Warden whines at them, pathetically. I make Ronny loan me the cat. "I am off tomorrow, Ronny," I tell Ronny. "I will pick Vernon up tomorrow!"

Tomorrow, adventure!

Mice

I hear them.

They are near.

In the ceiling.

Warden will not chase them like a cat. Regrette does not stir. I pull the covers up and up and hope that they will not chew on too much. What if the building is infested? What if behind these walls is another, moving wall? Squealing. The thought of it makes me shiver.

Maybe. Maybe what I need is a cat. A hungry cat. Starving. With sharp claws.

A killer. A ruthless murderer.

Two killers underneath one roof.

Maybe, that is the answer to this problem.

Peep

Autumn is here, legitimately. I know, because last night I kept trying to keep my hands in my pockets even though it made walking the dogs difficult. And it was actually dark when I went to sleep. While I was walking the dogs, there was a little woman who was going up to people's windows and looking in. She must have done this at five or six different houses just in the time that I was there with Warden and Regrette, and she made no effort to conceal her actions, which to me may have been the strangest part. Was she lost? Was she just nosy, or curious? She passed me, and said to me, "it's amazing what people will throw away!" which confused me even further. I mean, of course that's true, but talk about apropos of nothing. She wasn't carrying anything.

Maybe she looks in people's houses and tries to figure out what there going to be throwing away the next day. To see the garbage before it is garbage. That would be a strange hobby. I said to her that I once threw away a brand new couch, which wasn't true. I can be a bad conversationalist, as you know.

I did throw away a nice vacuum cleaner once. But that's a whole other story.

The Thing

This thing required some preparation. Some time. This morning, I woke up with dread, because the thought of doing things is dreadful, sometimes. Not always, but this morning, it was, but not for very long, you see, because I knew it had to get done and that I was going to do it, today, this thing that is, that is very important.

I do not meditate. But if you were to walk into my room this morning without me knowing, you might have thought that I was meditating. You would have thought I was at one with peace, or well on my way. You would have thought, in the darkness of my room, because I rise before the sun, that I was chanting. But I was not. I was reviewing a list in my head out loud. Things that I'd need for this thing. Out loud because just in case there was someone in my room that I couldn't see, but wouldn't hurt me when I saw them, they could tell me what I said, but not really understand what I meant by these words. They would tell me because I would have forgotten what I was chanting when I started making out their silhouette, just started thinking that I would be killed, or robbed, not yet aware of their harmlessness. My heart beating fast and hard. That's what I think.

The thing is done. I did it before all things. And when I finished, I could not believe that I'd done it, that I was capable, that I'd pushed myself that far, the farthest I'd even been.

So the only thing left to do was take a nap, which I did. And then go to the library, which I did not.

Okay? Okay.

Yesterday was my 300th post. A milestone! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Which is to say, maybe you thought it was okay. Not excruciating.

I have some things I have to do. Something like paying bills, but different. You know what I mean--some real deadlines, some things that I should have done a month ago but then I had to do this, or that, or the other thing, or walk the dogs or go to the library or mow the neighbor's grass or what-not. These things, even if it seems like they can continue to be put off, need to be done. I have to do them. Not next week. Tomorrow.

Okay, I have aired it to the public. You people can now hold me accountable. If the next time you hear from me, I have not completed the things I told you that I needed to complete, well, you should really let me hear it. Okay?

Okay.

Good Day, Better Day

Ladybugs came through my window, smelling like dandelion and grass.

Warden tried eating every single one and I told him to quit it. I said, "Quit it!" and he howled and thumped his tail against the floor. Regrette looked on without interest. But barked at a passing truck. Jumped up and pawed the window, poked a hole through the screen, and I knew that that's how the ladybugs had come into the apartment. Crazy dogs. As crazy as people. As crazy as The Ghost.

The Ghost. "Jimenez! Get going already!" The Ghost was having a bad day, or a good day, I suppose. A good day if he likes yelling at everyone, throwing Styrofoam cups of coffee with powered creamer onto the floor and crushing them with his hard, small feet. "Jimenez!"

But he wouldn't, couldn't take away from my day. My day was for me to decide whether or not it was good or bad and in the end, it was good. The ladybugs didn't bother me. They didn't not bother me either. The Ghost didn't upset me, but didn't put me in a good way either. But I decided, not five minutes ago, that it was good day.

Good day today, better day tomorrow.
Good butter today, better butter tomorrow!

Like Ivy, We Grow Where There Is Room For Us

At one point in prison, I stopped going to Homes' writing workshops. I'm not sure why. Homes might have been too hard on me during a reading of my work, or maybe what I was writing I felt was too personal to be sharing with my fellow inmates. I just stopped going. For weeks, I avoided Homes. That can be hard to do in prison, to avoid someone. I skipped meals, and didn't go to movie night. In prison, it is hard not to go to movie night. There are only so many things you get to look forward to in a week.

Homes started leaving notes around in places he knew I would find them. Eventually, I started to go back. What else was I going to do? Nobody would spot me when I went to the weight room, and nobody would play chess with me, because I wasn't any good. It felt like there wasn't room for me anywhere but the writing workshops, and even that was a stretch.

My point, I guess, is that even if I intimate like I'm going to stop blogging at the end of the year, or if I stop posting for a couple of days, it doesn't mean that I'm finished. No, I think this blogging thing is good for me, and I'm going to keep with it. There is room for me here, on the worldwide interwebs. And I'm telling you this, because I can tell that you care!

Jimenez, out!

H-O-R-T-E-N-S-E

Once, I was young. I know what's it like to know so little, and in truth, I know just a tiny bit more than I did then. I have felt some things more deeply, like loss and happiness, and it's been a pleasure to share these feelings with you. Sometimes, I can't believe that anyone would want to read a grown man--a former prisoner, a murderer--ramble on about butter and the weather and other whatnots. Somewhere, in your busy lives, you manage to check-in with Curt G Jimenez and that has been very nice. Maybe, my life makes you feel better about your own.

Once, when I was young, I kept an old woman company at a family reunion. I didn't even know how I was related to her, only that she was old and alone. She told me that I knew so little, and that she knew just a tiny bit more than I did, but that this tiny bit made all the difference. Separated us, mentally and physically. I kept her company because I took pity on her, and she kept me company for, what I imagine was the same reason. A small boy, not yet old enough to engage in adult conversation, not young enough to be considered naive and in turn, adorable, dumb to so many perverse realities. No, I was not that child. I knew about certain things already, and people could tell that I knew. So this old woman stood by me and I, by her.

Why do you read this blog, anyways? Do you skip to the good parts? Are there any good parts? What are you waiting for? What are you seeking?

I feel like this old woman. There is too much to say, but sometimes, it's better not to say anything at all. I wonder how she died? Alone. Eating a piece of toast. Or, maybe, upon waking, waking, and then saying to herself, "What's the point?" and closing her eyes, forever. Perhaps, on a walk, thinking about the boy she met at a family reunion. Maybe, she had just enough time to stick her fingers in her mouth and taste the last thing she touched--a dollar bill, a porcelain plate, a butter knife.

When I was a boy, I asked an old woman at a family reunion if she ever carved her name into a tree. She laughed and shook her head and so, I took her to a tree and showed her how to cut into the bark with a pocketknife, steady, steady, firm. First, I carved my name, Curt. Then, I handed her the pocketknife and she started on her name, H-O-R- her hand wriggling under the pressure she applied, her breaths, sporadic. Her white hair bouncing. I wanted to hug her, to tell her I loved her. T-E-N-S-E.

I don't know where the tree is. I wonder if it still exists.

Hortense, I wonder if it still exists.

Hey!

Hello world.
Here I am!

God. Gaw.

The men took her away. Sam. The Briton. Who lived down the hall. Who arrived with the boxes. Who knows how long she was dead in her apartment. Still and rigid, letting the dust collect on her like a desk. But the men came and when I went to take Warden and Regrette for a walk, I passed the men in the hallway, and I saw them enter Sam's apartment. My ear rattled. I knew something was wrong. That was two nights ago.

In prison, people die all the time. It's not the same. Mom died while I was in prison. But I was in prison. She was out there, in the world. We were separated.

Sam is the first human death I've experienced since prison. I don't know how I feel. I didn't know her at all, but she lived next door. She was dead next door. She might have cried out for help next door. We were not that different. Two people, living alone. Involved in a world, just barely, the name no one recognizes on a class roster.

I want to say that I am sad. But I'm not. I'm hungry. There's a hole inside me now I try to fill with water. Glasses of water. There's something I'm always looking for outside my window. But I don't know what it is, but I look anyhow, at the people moving about like they understand something I don't. I tried crying, for Sam and for Mom, but nothing came out, just hoarse noise and something I said but don't remember. Something like, "God," or "Gaw." What it is inside me is too big to come out through my eyes. It needs to come out through my chest. Needs to tear through me. But I'm not ready yet to give in.

I listened to the tines of a fork on the kitchen table and thought I heard something real nice. Like a song playing faraway.

I drank another glass of water.

God, I miss Sam.
Is it silly to realize this? To miss a woman I hardly knew?
Gaw. I miss her.

Are you sure? [A Rambling]

I am going to wear socks to bed. I am going to wear socks to bed because I realized that I don't like it when my feet are cold. I realized this this morning, when my feet were cold, and I thought: I don't like it when my feet are cold. It took me more than five decades to understand, to sympathize with my feet. Poor feet!

When I realized this this morning, I thought, I wonder how many other things there are about me that I don't know. Am I just coming to understand who I really am? Do I really like making butter?

Of course! That's not up for debate...

Today, after I'd made a choice, I asked myself: Are you suuure? to see if I really wanted to follow through with the choice I'd made. You should try it sometime!

When I went to pour myself a glass of milk, I asked, Are you suuure? I had orange juice instead!
When I went to work, I asked, Are you suuure? Yes. I was sure.
When I went to take a shower, I asked, Are you suuure? I took a bath instead!
After my bath, I decided to put on some socks and asked, Are you suuure? Yes. I was sure.

From now on, I'm going to wear socks to bed.

A Conversation With Myself, About the Weather

"A beautiful day."

"It is."

"To be cherished. There aren't too many of these left before it gets cold and dreary."

"It's true."

"But, then, it's a different kind of beauty. Beauty still, but different."

"Yes, I suppose that's true. Snow, and the like. The garbage of the streets covered by pure, clean snow, and for a moment forgotten."

"Yes! And then the filthy black slush, and then wetness, everywhere."

"Yes! A Pennsylvania winter. And I always look forward to it, and then it happens, and I wonder why I looked forward to it. Why? Cold , and wet, and all-consuming. We all say we love the changing of the seasons, but aren't we just too poor or too lazy to go anywhere else? Isn't that what it really is?"

"I don't know. I've never lived anywhere else. But I do love the changing of the seasons. Things are relative, right? If it was 60 and sunny all the time, could you really enjoy it?"

"That's ridiculous. Of course you could enjoy it. What is there that you like to do that you couldn't do when it's 60 and sunny? Huh?"

"Well, ice skating for one. And skiiing."

"That's true. But to do these things, and at what cost? Do you suppose there are blizzards in heaven? And heat stroke?"

"Curt..."

"Do you listen to yourself?"

"What do you mean?"

"Tell me, what happens every time you go ice skating?"

"That doesn't matter. Other people enjoy ice skating. And skiing. Maybe I'll finally go skiing this winter. Maybe Ronny will take me."

"Do you really think you can make it to 365 posts, Curt? It feels like you're really straining."

"Maybe so. You know what Mom said. 'Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody ever does anything about it.' I think that's probably more true now than it ever has been, if you think about it."

"Who has time to think about anything?"

"That's true."

" Huh."

Need

Homes once said to me: "Curt, it is about wanting and need, wanting need."
I said, "Wanting and need?"
"And wanting need," Homes said. "Don't forget the wanting need part."
"Wanting and need and wanting need."
"Right."

I've been wanting and needing many, many things. Maybe I haven't said so directly in this blog, but I have been wanting and needing many, many things. Just read what I've written and you will read, if you've really read, my wanting and my needing of many, many things.

Maybe I should have just come out and told you my wanting and my needing when the opportunity presented itself. If I could whisper on this blog, then I would have whispered to you my wanting. Then, I would have whispered to you my needing. Then, you would know why I am the way I am and why you are the way you are. Because, wanting and needing are two different things, too different of things, and yet, they occupy the same space and this space is terrible and exciting and a disease that is neither good nor bad, but called a disease anyhow because it has the potential to be very good or very bad. We will never know, and that's okay. That is part of wanting and needing.

But wanting need? It is also about wanting need?

What it would be like to want need! Not just to have and not need to need. No, but wanting need. Having and wanting need.

How do I get there?

The Past...The Future!

Where life begins, and where it ends, I think is the question that I want to answer before it's time for me to go. I mean, I know it begins at the beginning--I know that--but consciousness is different. When you start to feel the world, you know? You start to understand yourself, and then you just wish you knew who you actually were like 10 years ago or something. Self-knowledge, that's what all those therapists and even Homes always used to talk about. Who are you, Curt? they would ask, and there was never really an answer, or at least not one that I was aware of at the time. But now, maybe, I have an answer! Call me up and ask me now, you a**holes!

Like what if I was 18, and had already tried all that other stuff, all that other bad, crazy stuff, and realized that all I really wanted to do was make butter, and blog, and try to keep my dogs from destroying everything valuable that I own. I would already know that I didn't have to go to the bar every night, and do blow in the back seat of my best friend's car, and all the other crazy s**t we were doing way back when. What if there was peace then, and not craziness. But would I have ever found peace without fate, or whatever the heck it was? Maybe I could have had twenty extra years of freedom but I wouldn't have properly valued it because I hadn't so definitively kissed the bottom.

Think about it: what if you were twenty years younger, but knew what you know now? That would be kind of cool, right? What would you change? Would it be hard to change?

Tony used to say, "there are two kinds of people in the world. Those who take what they want, and those who wish they were the kind of people who just take what they want."

Maybe Tony was just an a**hole.

Sometimes

Sometimes, it is difficult to post on here.
Sometimes, it is not.
It's hard to tell, really, what kind of post day it will be.
Wake up and feel ready to take on the world.
Sleep, defeated, having accomplished not much of anything.
Feel ache, suddenly.
Feel nothing, then.
Sometimes, it is difficult to post on here.
Sometimes, it is not.
Sometimes, it is easy to forget about the past.
Sometimes, it is not.
Listen:
The past. The future.
There's not much more to it.
Sometimes, it's hard to tell, really, what kind of post day it will be.
Feel ache. The past.
Feel nothing. The future.
Feel suddenly. The future.
Then, feel forgetful of the past.

If and Then

If an establishment is open 24 hrs, then what does 6:00 mean?
If I am what I fear in my nightmares, then what am I when not asleep?
If there is a pause in conversation, then who will speak next?
If you are allergic to bees, then who will die first after you are stung, you or the bee?
If you hold your breath for as long as you can, then how much longer can you hold it past this point?
If you are absurd, then how real are you?
If you are make believe, then how do you imagine reality?

What it's like

I retreated into myself. I think I am okay now. It was so hot for October lately that I don't think I could function normally. But here's the thing: I thought about the Better Butter Blog, and what it was, and what it has become, and what if it was all over. And I said to myself, "no, Curt, it isn't time yet. One year, 365 posts, you must make it at least that far, or you are not a man", because I am very sensitive to any challenge to my manhood so sometimes that is the way I have to motivate myself.

So, for myself, I am going to "push my limits" and make it to 365. You are probably thinking, "it's just a silly blog, usually he doesn't even say anything at all, why is he acting like it's such a miracle to do that 365 times?" And I understand what you mean, but it really isn't that easy. Try it! You'll find out.

Think about taking your medications. You have to do it every day, and it's easy, but sometimes you forget! Or sometimes you are just not in the same house where your medications are at the time you need to take them (which may or may not be your fault) but anyways, there it is, you didn't take your medications, and now you're feeling lightheaded and a little out of control. See what I mean?

That's what it's like.

Sometimes

for no reason, you are filled
with a great sadness.
That is how it has been.
I delivered papers, with the
radio off. But even that
was not enough.

Look

"Tolerate the spasmodic, the obscure, the fragmentary, the failure."

-Virginia Woolf

It is difficult. Someone told me that "look" was a weak word. I said, You look because you are looking. You are not staring. You are not searching. But looking. That is what you are doing so that is what I am going to say because it is the most truthful of words for your action. This someone had nothing to say. This someone was at the grocery store. This someone said that maybe I should "talk" to someone. This someone said "talk" like it was a strong word, like it really meant something more than "talking."

This is what happened. Exactly.

Yesterday, I purchased an accordion. Today, I took pictures of the accordion. The accordion on my bed. The accordion on the living room floor. The accordion with the dogs. The accordion at the kitchen table, with it's gleaming keys and closed bellows. The accordion in the hallway. The accordion in the bathroom. And I took this film and I got it developed in one hour.

That one hour was the longest hour of my life outside of prison! By far! I ate french fries with shaking hands. I drank sweet tea that was much sweeter than it needed to be, imho.

When I got the pictures back, I went home and looked at them. I spread them out on the counter. I chose the very best one. The one of the accordion in an olive green armchair (came with the apartment). I cut this picture so that it fit into my wallet.

Afterwards, I went to the grocery store to buy heavy whipping cream to make an Accordion Butter! and in the checkout line, I said to the someone behind me, Look. I opened my wallet and this someone looked at the accordion in the olive green armchair. This someone said nothing about the accordion. This someone said, "You know, look is a weak word." That is what this someone said.

I flipped my wallet shut, but I should have flipped them off!

Squeezebox

I work for a newspaper, and people put things in the classifieds. The ad is there, today, and I call the number. No, I've never played accordion before, but I've always wanted to learn, and what's 20 bucks? Sometimes, you have a minute to sit around and look at the classifieds, and sometimes you have a little extra money in your pocket. Think of the things you've thrown 20 bucks away on. Boxes of cereal. Rollerblades. The cologne that that girl told you she liked. Dog food.

So I call the number. "Accordion...yes! It's here! Come see it!" So I go see it. Two young men answer the door. "You're Curt!" they say, and I am Curt, and I say "yes!" "The accordion!" they say, and I nod. "Come in!" they say, and I do. The apartment is small, and a mess, with instruments strewn about. "How long have you been playing?" they say, and I never have and I tell them so. They pick up some instruments and start playing and say, "try the accordion. Try before you buy!" they say. They are enthusiastic. The accordion looks beautiful, but it smells like a wet basement. I pick it up. I know my way around a keyboard, and I play a melody over their silly chord progression. They are intense! They say, "yes!" and "alright!' even though nothing is happening.

I give them the 20 bucks, and I say "thanks" , and "see you on the flipside!", which is what I say to people when I am leaving and I don't know what else to say.

And now I have an accordion.

Spotty

My internet has been spotty.
Why? I don't know why. It seems there is a spot. In my apartment. That denies access.
A spotty spot. It is above Warden and Regrette. Rather, Warden and Regrette are below this spotty spot. Look. Look at them both. So naive. They rest in the spotty spot, or maybe they are in denial of such a spot.
I wish I could stand under this spotty spot and become less Curt Jimenez, or, a more spotty Curt Jimenez, one you can see through, kind of, if you looked hard enough.

The people above me are walking around. They walk around, planting their heels down hard. It sounds like thunder. I wonder if they know about the storm they create above me. Maybe that's it. Maybe the spot is spotty because of the storm above me. That must be it.

And Warden and Regrette. They are waiting for the rain. Waiting.

Maybe in Wisconsin I Would Not Feel So Other

I found a Bluetooth this morning, and drove around pretending I was having important conversations with important people. I discussed my real estate holdings, and coordinated construction projects with private contractors. I walked into the coffee shop and said "excuse me" to the imaginary person on the other end of the line and then "sorry about that" when I started the conversation up again. I worked on planning the next Reedsburg Butter Festival, which is going to need to be extra awesome because the last one was cancelled because of flooding.

I was sitting on a bench and a young boy was watching me for a while and then told me that he knew that I wasn't talking to anybody.

He seemed pretty proud of himself for figuring this out.

Whatever.

Heart

It occurs to me this morning.

What does it mean to do something with your heart?

I am eating cereal. Chex. With a glass of milk. This seems indulgent. All this milk. But I also have toast with butter.

But it gets to me, this doing things with your heart.

Once I start thinking about it, really, really think about it, it doesn't make sense. The heart is just an organ and who chose to assign this organ such an important role? "Warden," I say. Warden doesn't lift his head, just his eyes. This makes him look interested in what I have to say. "Warden boy, who gave the heart so much responsibility?" I say. "Regrette," with her sad eyes, "Regrette, what do you do with your heart?" The dogs are just hungry. Not hungry philosophers.

Who said, "I am doing something. Ah, I am doing something, with my heart, it seems!" Who? Who was it that said this and told other people about it? And why did these people agree? Why not, "I am doing something with my teeth? Hair? Arm? Collar bone? Tongue? Left eye? Pinky toe? The first part of my small intestine? My lungs?!"

Who jumped off the bridge with this person?

Let me tell you. I've done many things and is it sad to say that I don't know whether or not I've done anything in my life with my heart?

I make butter. Better butter. But how do I know that I've made it with my heart? Will it taste differently? Look different. Feel different?

Tell me. I want to know.

Tell me with your heart.

faces

Regrette won't go out in the rain. I know it must be really painful, holding it in, but she chooses one discomfort over the other and just sits there, looking at me, as if there is something I can do about it. It's raining, I tell her, but it's not my fault. If you've got business to take care of, you've got to take care of it. I say it out loud, because that's what people do. She doesn't understand.

Regrette has one of those faces, the kind that make you feel guilty even if you think she's happy. I think she is always thinking things could be so much better somewhere else, out in the country, chasing rabbits, pooping whenever she felt like it, no questions asked. Sometimes I wonder if I have one of those faces, too.

Velcro

Belle was wearing Velcro shoes when I bumped into her with the dogs. Warden jumped up onto her and she said, "What the f**k!" I said, "Sorry," to the Velcro shoes and when I looked up. Up, up, up, up to the face, I saw Belle and Belle saw me. She said, "Jesus, if it ain't Curt G. Jimenez!" I didn't know what to say, or how to act or, or, or, do anything really. I just thought about that knife. God. How I loved that knife. I wanted that knife. I wanted to get down on my knees and beg for that knife. I didn't, of course, because Belle gave me the finger and stomped off. Goodbye Belle Star. Goodbye, my knife!

Pfft.

Listen. Sometimes it is best to just listen.

Hugs and Kisses

You know what?
If you make something with lots of love, it tastes better! It just does. You don't have to take my word for it! Let me give you a for instance: I made butter today. And I made it with lots of love. I took out the heavy whipping cream and I kissed the carton. Muah. Muah. That's right, kissed the carton of heavy whipping cream. Planted two wet ones on it! I'm not embarrassed to admit such things! Then, I hugged the salt shaker and sprinkled salt into the heavy whipping cream and turned on the food processor. Whir. Whir. Whir. When the butter was formed, I took it up into my hands and hugged it. I squeezed it between my fingers. Let it sit in my hand. I closed my eyes and hugged this butter with so much love, I could practically feel a tiny heart beat inside the butter beating. Ka-thump. Ka-thump. No, it wasn't like it. It was more like, lub-dub. Lub-dub. Yes. It was like that.

Let me tell you how delicious this butter was--very, very delicious. The best butter I've had in a long, long time.

Love the food you make, and it will love. Plain and simple.

curt the adjective

I like that "Curt" has a meaning other than just being who I am. Someone could say "He's curt." to someone else, and he or she might be saying that I am me, or he might be saying that I am "rudely blunt or brief". It makes me feel like I was born with depth, that my birth certificate gave me a touch of ambiguity. Sometimes it makes me want to go out of my way to be curt when I talk to people, or to go out of my way not to be curt, so people might think I'm inappropriately named, or that it is ironic that my name is Curt, since I am not so curt. Today, I felt like living up to my name, so when the man at the coffee shop asked me how I was I said "eh??"obnoxiously and then just ordered my coffee. Then I told him why I was being curt because I felt bad and he told me that once I explained to him what I was doing that I wasn't being curt anymore so it got a little messy in the execution. So I thought about how I had a hard time being curt, and then my mind jumped into thinking about how sometimes I have a hard time being Curt--if you know what I mean--and I was startled when the coffee man told me that my Breve was ready and that I needed to get out of the way so he could help the next person but thanks for telling me about your little game that's very interesting.

I wonder if Preciouses think about this kind of thing. Or Hopes, or Angels. Or Joys or Gays.

Great Scott! (Belatedly)

Write a detective story when you are 12. It will be published in your school newspaper. It is cold where you live and when you are studying for your classes, that is all you will think about, that it is cold. When you are sixteen, you will be expelled from your school. How do you explain your poor grades on the weather? Some things, you just can't explain, you learn. Despite your poor grades, you will attend Princeton. You are bright! It was the weather all along. A war will begin and you will enlist. The war will end. Fall in love. Get engaged. Get your heartbroken when your lover ends the engagement. Write. Write a book and submit it to Scribner's and have it accepted. Your love will resume your engagement. Become friends with other writers. Write a masterpiece. Get rich. Become a celebrity. Your marriage is hot. Your marriage is cold. Write short stories to make money. Write more books. More money. Write an anticipated follow-up novel to your masterpiece. It is a disappointment to most. Work for Hollywood. Drink too much and not enough. Soon too much is never enough. Have a heart attack. Have a massive heart attack while eating a candy bar. Die.

People will talk about you. They will read your novels and your short stories. That cold place you grew up in will boast that you grew up in that cold place. That you were born there. That you wrote your first short story there. And that it was a detective story.

Slow Drip!

Just a slow drip. At best, I think that's all I've got.

Homes used to say, "Curt! Turn on the faucet! Let it run!"

And I would say, with urgency, "Yes! Turn on the faucet! I will, I will!" And I've been trying, for years now to turn on the faucet. But I don't know. Maybe the faucet is on, but there's something wrong with the supply. Maybe somebody forgot to pay the water bill. Maybe the reservoir dried up, or they took down the dam for environmental reasons and the reservoir just isn't there anymore. Where's the water supposed to come from now? Did they think about that?

Lately, I feel like the faucet is on, but the pipes are just empty.

I just read this, from this:

Think of being curled up and floating in the darkness. Even if you could think, even if you had an imagination, would you ever imagine its opposite, this miraculous world? The Asian Taoists called it "10,000 Things". And if the darkness just got darker and then you were dead, what would you care? How would you even know the difference?

I should write like that!

And Raymond Carver said this:

"Writers write, and they write, and they go on writing, in some cases long after wisdom and even common sense have told them to quit. There are always plenty of reasons--good, compelling reasons, too--for quitting, or for not writing very much or very seriously. (Writing is trouble, make no mistake, for everyone involved, and who needs trouble?) But once in a great while lightning strikes, and occasionally it strikes early in the writer's life. Sometimes it comes later, after years of work. And sometimes, most often, of course, it never happens at all. Strangely, it seems, it may hit people whose work you can't abide, an event that, when it occurs, causes you to feel there's no justice whatsoever in the world. (There isn't, more often than not.) It may hit the man or woman who is or was your friend, the one who drank too much, or not at all, who went off with someone's wife, or husband, or sister, after a party you attended together. The young writer who sat in the back of the class and never had anything to say about anything. The dunce, you thought. The writer who couldn't, not in one's wildest imaginings, make anyone's list of top ten possibilities. It happens sometimes. The dark horse. It happens, lightning, or it doesn't happen. (Naturally, it's more fun when it does happen.) But it will never, never happen to those who don't work hard at it and who don't consider the act of writing as very nearly the most important thing in their lives, right up there next to breath, and food, and shelter, and love, and God."

I would like to be quoted someday. To feel like I have said something, like my words were important enough to someone that a person wanted to share them with another person.

Maybe if I put a bucket under the faucet, my slow drip will eventually be enough to quench someone else's thirst.

Perhaps one of these days I'll trace the pipes back to the source, see if something is going on down there.