Right off the train, through the streets of Windsor, under the Detroit River, past customs and down Jefferson Avenue and up to Harper Avenue, Lou and Deb speed me to Frank’s on the Avenue for what I crave most when I visit Michigan–coneys and chili. “Two Coneys and Fries.” It’s afternoon. I think. Time has … Continue reading Frank’s On The Avenue And Travis Restaurant: East Side Dining Comforts For The Weary Traveler.
Hours from now I’ll look at my aisle window and believe it’s Venice instead of Stockholm, eighteen-hundred and forty-six instead of two thousand and nineteen, and I’m navigating channels on a gondola in the “City of Water” on my way to a ball in ‘Going to the Ball (San Martino)’. Also, my name is Joseph … Continue reading Traveling Through Winter Dark and Light With Samuel Beckett And Assorted Food Options.
The sunset burns the sky. Such mysteries occur all the time. I might think the world’s on fire, a revealing and ending through flames silhouetting branches, trunks and needles; but no, sadly apocalypse will have to wait for another year. Still, world-altering changes have taken place, at least for the family. I moved with Gabriela … Continue reading Goodbye To Two Thousand And Eighteen With Three Single Malt Scotch Bottles From The Southern Coast Of Islay As The Sky Burns Over Nacka And I Listen To Vic Chesnutt And Elf Power.
Winter is here. Frozen, snow-covered branches and needles fill windows round the house. Winter as my eyes, memory and all those ice-covered roads masquerading as neural networks fashion winter. Cold on the outside? Well, then drink a glass of glögg, mulled wine heavy on the allspice, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg and on and on. After a … Continue reading Vinter Och Glögg Or Post-Impressionistic Impressions of Ice-Jacketed Branches And Sideboards Or What Happens in Sweden On Christmas Eve.
Outside the winter wetlands of Sweden continue to breakdown animal and vegetal matter into a rich loam feeding tree, deer, duck and wandering humans. Inside, I continue to enhance the decay of the world in a pot. A crucial step in the final bog, that rich gumbo broth, occurs with the making of a roux, … Continue reading Cooking the Bog. Day Two With Rust Cohle And Bosnian Rainbows. Darkness In The Wetlands.
Think of a community of the living and the dead, mingling together in water, jostling back and forth with each other; bones and flesh, blood and fin, and all sorts of vegetal matter bubbling and foaming, slowly turning into a dense red bog. In the beginning however, ah, in the beginning, there’s the fishmonger Melanders … Continue reading Cooking The Bog. Day One.
Trees branch across land, sea and sky here in the northern fall as you walk leaves floating in front of your face and those already at your feet; all that crumples, all that pushes upward. Lakes rustle in northern light trying to stretch and warp; roots and trunks bending like a bow. Indefinite set theories … Continue reading A Walk Through Leaves Then Snow Then Vinglögg Or Seventeen Ways Of Looking At The Svecofennian Orogeny.