Some days all I can really manage to do is make an omelet. Not that I'm fishing for compliments — I'm aware and confident that this was a fucking phenomenal omelet, filled with beet greens sautéed with garlic, lemon zest, great-tasting olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and just a touch of brown sugar, then rounded out with grape tomatoes and goat milk blue cheese, and finished with cilantro. Tremendous. One for me, one for Ryan. And our kitchen conversation during the omelet forging somehow led to me drawing the following charts about the Cycle of Productive Capital:
Both of these charts represent my still-dim comprehension of the concept, and if someone else has better charts or corrections to add, please share! Minimally, this illustration should probably be in the shape of a spiral to show how M'>M, and the extra (profit) gets re-invested? I dunno.
Some images from a 5-day strike at the Children’s Hospital just a few blocks from where Ryan, Mai and I live. The contracts that the bosses are trying to push would include so many “takeaways” (cuts to previously held benefits) that nurses who work in the hospital would no longer be able to afford to bring their own children there for treatment.
Ryan and I chatted up a lot of the workers for a while, and thanked them for setting an inspiring example by actually going out on strike and fighting back. Lots of positive energy, aided, I think by the freshness of the action (it was the first of the 5 days) and a steady stream of honks of encouragement from folks driving down Martin Luther King Jr Way.
ahhhhhhh bowl o' otsuRyan's perfectly pan-fried tofuRyan's lovely diced cucumbers
Celebrating our usable kitchen, now that the water’s back on in the building, Ryan and I busted out a batch of otsu. With practice, we’ve refined our skills: his tofu frying is money, I’ve learned not to toss the cucumbers in with the soba noodle salad (to keep them bright green: they turn a murky brown when coated with the red cayenne) and my ginger-lemon-cayenne-honey-sesame dressing is extra-fly these days thanks to improved emulsifying techniques. Grateful to keep cooking and learning.
Happy Good Friday to those who observe it! To celebrate, here are two good Internet things.
One: Tibetan youth resistance hip-hop music video.
With gorgeous lines like:
“Get used to me! I am the decadent breath of your uncontrollability.”
“We are the sharp wisdom that your lectures and speeches haven’t reached!”
“We are the smooth darkness that your flame and power hasn’t absorbed.”
“I am very light, in your imagination. I am very small, in your vegetable patch.”
“Get used to dreaming. Get used to unlawful damage and uprisings. Get used to this way of living.”
And Two: this powerful, deep, soulful project by my friend Mahfam: Watch Me Cultivate. Honest, raw, and mad intelligent, she offers daily reflections and chronicles her own growth and change, symbolized by the literal growth of her hair, which she buzzed off 78 days ago (and counting).
Enjoy! Have a great weekend, folks — see you Monday.
It’s been a rough few days, folks. A really rough few days. No running water in the apartment — and that’s the least of it.
Despite the plumbing obstacles, I managed to whip up a batch of cookies for a cookbook signing -slash- potluck by my culinary crush Heidi Swanson. Her new book, Super Natural Every Day, has already made the NYT Bestseller list after like a week on the market. I didn’t even have time to let the hot cookies cool down before popping two dozen of them into two empty egg cartons (an impromptu innovation in pastry transport) and hopping on my bike to dash across the border to Berkeley.
Those that didn’t make the carton cut found their way over to my friend Noa’s place, with its lovely succulents.
When things fall apart, I’m grateful for generous, loving, and and precious friends, and for cooking. At times when I’m feeling down, or, even more precisely, when I’m focusing very intently on uncomfortable and difficult emotions and experiences, my appetite plummets and gets very particular. I crave fruit and whole-milk yogurt, water, leafy greens, things like that. (Again, this is when I’m bringing mindfulness and patience to the difficulties. When I’m flat-out stressed, and especially rushed, it’s a whole ‘nother matter, and that’s when I turn to the sugar, the French fries, the “numbing” foods, as Noa calls them — not pejoratively, but descriptively.) I feel lucky and privileged that I’m able to feed my healthier, deeper cravings as they arise. So in this case, with little appetite for anything that wasn’t recently growing on a tree, I wasn’t as keen to devour these delightfully tart versions of my favorite jam thumbprint cookies. But the act of creating food for others is grounding and healing, too.
Incredible image of Brooklyn Ballet, (c)2005 by Lois Greenfield bikes on the landing
Being sick for over a week means I’m way behind on work, so today’s post is just a tiny glimmer of an idea. Lately I’ve been thinking about choreography as it relates to political action. Now that EBSol is underway, I’ll be participating in the planning of collective direct actions — hopefully for the next year or two. Thinking about this planning as choreography is helping to uplift and inspire me to think creatively.
How can we employ different sounds, smells, textures, and movements into our actions? How can we use space creatively? How can we create productive tension among multiple people in a space?
Not all actions will involve explicit audiences to choreograph for: we’ll be doing our share of postering, flyering, and letter delivery. But even in these simpler actions, are there ways we can bring color and intentional physical movement?
I’m reminded of Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche’s advice about the garb of a warrior:
For the warrior, clothing actually provides an armor of discipline, which wards off attacks from the setting-sun world. It is not that you hide behind your clothes because you are afraid to manifest yourself as a good warrior, but rather that when you wear good, well-fit clothes, your clothing can both ward off casualness and invite tremendous dignity.
Sometimes if your clothes fit you well, you feel that they are too tight. If you dress up, you may feel constricted by wearing a necktie or a suit or a tight fitting skirt or dress. The idea of invoking internal drala [energy beyond aggression inside oneself] is not to give in to the allure of casualness. The occasional irritation coming from your neck, the crotch of your pants, or your waist is usually a good sign. It means that your clothes fit you well, but your neurosis doesn’t fit your clothes. The modern approach is often free and casual. That is the attraction of polyester leisure suits. You feel stiff if you are dressed up. You are tempted to take off your tie or your jacket or your shoes. Then you can hang out and put your feet up on the table and act freely, hoping that your mind will act freely at the same time. But at that point your mind begins to dribble. It begins to leak, and garbage of all kinds comes out of your mind. That version of relaxation does not provide real freedom at all. Therefore, for the warrior, wearing well-fit clothing is regarded as wearing a suit of armor. How you dress can actually invoke upliftedness and grace.
I also remember reading, somewhere, from someone, an invitation to move through the world as though we were exploring a spectacular golden palace. This sense of awe and decorum, of self-awareness that helps us relate to the external world, rather than getting caught up in our own worries. Golden palaces may not exactly be my thing, but I know what they’re getting at. Bringing some air of ceremony, some sense of choreography, can help us engage more deeply with our everyday actions — with people, places, beings, and inanimate objects.
Just thoughts. I’m a believer that political action should be fun and mindful, you know? So we’ll see.
Meanwhile, the weather outside is blowing my mind. Didn’t think they made days like this anymore. Happy Wednesday, everyone!
cars in the yardryan makes asparagusMr. Posie takes a rest from weed-whacking near his collard greens
I guess it is a great blessing that being sick makes a person seem grimy and messy — hacking, sneezing, all glassy-eyed, sweaty, and weak — because if it made us more beautiful, radiant, and appealing, then lots of people would flock to us and be consequently infected.
So here I am, nice and off-putting with my wet cough, taking the opportunity to read. I even get to read aloud to myself. The James Baldwin was great for that, as was the first response letter from my faculty adviser at Goddard. (She’s a poet, and shows it in her prose.)
So here are some of the highlights of what I’ve been up to, text-wise.
Similarly catching up with Maia Duerr’s thoughts, and skillful curating of other people’s thoughts, on socially engaged Buddhism over at The Jizo Chronicles
Getting down with the fabulous blog of a friend in Seattle — thorough, meaty posts on feminism and revolutionary organizing — from their perspective as a political organizer and exploited (to be redundant) Certified Nursing Assistant (CNA). Especially loved this post, and this page.
Falling in love with James Baldwin all over again through his 1964 essay Nothing Personal, recommended to me by my adviser. I don’t agree with him on everything, but damn he’s not afraid to get deep with it.
Following updates on the Berkeley steel mill strike that started yesterday, when nearly 500 workers formed a hard picket line at Pacific Steel Casting to demand the reversal of company decisions that would force workers to cover their own health care costs. Sounds like they want reinforcements down there, so if anyone reading is in the area and less ill than I am, think about heading down there to support!
Ok, friends, time for a glass of water and another nap. Hope your Wednesday’s goin well.
Hey friends — sorry for such a late post today! It’s been a whirlwind. Morning tea with a dharma/movement kindred spirit (a revival of Radical Sangha is in the works!); a super-intense two-and-a-half-hour group session with a generative somatics facilitator/counselor/consultant/rad person at the Faithful Fools; being interviewed by someone who’s making a video documentary about the Fools; and now off to prep some work with the Marxist feminist group in honor of International Women’s Day tomorrow.
Life: it’s full sometimes! And I was in a similar gear last Friday when, among other things, I showed up to join a crew of about 20 supporters of a rank-and-file picket of health care workers (above) who were illegally fired for going on strike. More on their inspiring (and victorious!) battle, including videos of Friday’s picket, here. Then, most of us supporters rolled out to a downtown Oakland rally against the gang injunctions. Here are some photos of each; sorry for the lack of commentary, but hopefully tomorrow I’ll have time to add a little more.
I don’t know if you remember, but I started going to art school. Yeah, like a year ago. I haven’t talked much about it, partly because I took a semester off in order to stay on at the Fools. Now I’m back for my second residency in Vermont. Residency is sort of a week-long, intensive, participatory, interdisciplinary art festival -slash- collaborative curriculum planning workshop. It’s wonderful in all kinds of ways, for all kinds of reasons: including the absurdly beautiful setting.
I say “absurdly beautiful,” and I guess there really is this in-credible dimension, for me, being on campus — almost like being in a lucid dream. Running late for a secret book-making meeting earlier today, I decided to leave the plowed path and take a shortcut over a hill, to the front entrance of one of the little dorm buildings. Somehow I assumed that I would simply walk over the snow. Like it would mostly compress under my boots or something.
Instead, of course, I end up thigh high in powder (not saying much since my legs are short — but still). Do I stop and go back? No. Just kept sloshing through, like, Oh well, guess this is just part of walking in snowy places: stumble-hop-crashing around and getting all soaked in the legs.
My “snow-pas” (oh god, i know) happened to occur just outside the picture-window of the room where my friends were making books. I loved the jolly way they laughed.
Kloncke 