Always there waiting when I arrive, though not always visited, not always directly acknowledged and approached like an itinerant believer noticing the grail, but in the end deferring. Talked of often, gestured toward, but sometimes the car continues, the night passes. But not tonight. No, as I raise a glass of Michigan whiskey raised with … Continue reading “White Castles” As My Son And I Watch “Rick And Morty,” While Space And Time Bubbles And Wobbles Away
Out and about on a day of shopping for my first gumbo in Sweden, which affords a moment to celebrate living in such a cosmopolitan, community-friendly city as Stockholm. For instance, I’ve found public transportation in the Greater Stockholm area affordable, clean, efficient, quick and yes, multicultural. I pay two hundred and fifty dollars for … Continue reading An American Cooks Gumbo In Nacka, Reveling In Migration And Public Transportation, While Surrounded By Cuisines And Travelers Of All Kinds And Sorts.
Drinking Houston means great beer, spirits and wine procured at Premium Draught and Spec’s. And the great Islay pour I first experienced at Warren’s Inn in Old Market Square downtown, remains the great dram I pour in my library. Ah, Laphroaig! Especially the Cask Strength. Drinking Houston with books has been a mainstay for me … Continue reading Drinking Houston
I read Immanuel Kant’s Prolegomena To Any Future Metaphysics after spending many years with Hermann Hesse, Franz Kafka, Jorge Luis Borges, Anne Carson, Gabriel García Márquez, and Virginia Woolf which means I understand Kant’s metaphysics through those authors, through The Metamorphosis, The Circular Ruins, Autobiography of Red, One Hundred Years of Solitude and The Waves. My … Continue reading Prolegomena To Any Future Ragù.
Midsummer in the Stockholm Archipelago and I’ve finally become accustomed to falling asleep in daylight. Important to blanket windows, shut eyes tightly, and dream about water and land washing, breaking each other. It’s about four in the morning when I wake to light and silhouette, and what can I do, emerging colors call me out … Continue reading Broth Of A Forest Floor: Walking On Storön.
As I write this, I am drinking Laphroaig, Jefferson’s, Glendronach, Yellow Rose, and more. All the whiskey that has filled my nasal passages, passed my lips and burned my throat swirls here tonight in my glass. Well, it’s a glass of WoodFord Reserve that I’m tipping back, but one whiskey references them all. Whiskey and … Continue reading Whiskey, Borges, And The Incredible Good Fortune To Wander Into A Labyrinth And Age With Astor Piazzolla’s Finale for The Rough Dancer And The Cyclical Night
A dog barks, the Lute Suites of Sylvius Leopold Weiss drift through an open window, and I pour a Stone Brewery Russian Imperial Stout and light an Alec Bradley American Sun Grown cigar. I’m sitting on my back patio in the evening, contemplating the life of the gastronome. Actually, this could also be the opening … Continue reading Gastronomic Dreams: From Brillat-Savarin to Jorge Luis Borges With A Number Of Stops Along The Way.