Away from the noisy crowd
When I see the pale
Stars rising, blooming over the oaks.
I’ll pursue solitary pathways
Through the pale twilit meadows,
With only this one dream:
You come too.” — From “First Poems,” Rainer Maria Rilke
“My brother Allie had this left-handed fielder’s mitt. He was left-handed. The thing that was descriptive about it, though, was that he had poems written all over the fingers and the pocket and everywhere. In green ink. He wrote them on it so that he’d have something to read when he was in the field and nobody was up at bat. He’s dead now. He got leukemia and died when we were up in Maine, on July 18, 1946. You’d have liked him.”
- RIP, J.D. Salinger
Yes, I know you’re a doctor—well, OK, almost a doctor. We all know you’re almost a doctor. And I promise, on behalf of all of us on the block, we won’t forget that you’re almost a doctor. So, if you want to just wear ordinary clothes like the rest of us while doing your weekend mowing, watering, weeding, etc., go right ahead. It’s fine. Really. We won’t forget.
The guy in the yellow house
now the pretty birds hover so she and so he
now the little fish quiver so you and so i
(now the mountains are dancing, the mountains)” —e.e. cummings
Jemaine: Women love weaving. They love to weave.
Bret: No, weaving is a man’s game.
Jemaine: Bret, you put a woman in front of a weaving machine and just watch her go.
ANGEL FOOD CAKE.
BY REBECCA COFFEY
- - - -
1. Allow the angel to reach room temperature. Then kill it.
2. Kill God. Set Him aside.
3. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.
4. Ecstatically whip, as if possessed by a storm-wind of freedom, 1-1/2 cups of excellent egg whites with 1/4 tsp. salt and 1-1/2 tsp. cream of tartar. Continue until peaks are as if raised to their own heights and given wings in a fine air, a robust air.
5. Gradually add 3/4 cup sugar, about 3 tbsp. at a time.
6. You are brilliant.
7. Now, add 1 tsp. vanilla and 1/4 tsp. almond extract, and then sift together 1-1/4 cups flour and 3/4 cup sugar.
8. Blend in God and the angel. Emboldened, add the egg mixture.
9. Gaze into the überbatter. The überbatter will gaze into you.
10. While prancing about in a frenzy of self-satisfaction and anticipation, use a rubber scraper to push the überbatter into an ungreased 10” tube pan, for it is destined to be there.
11. Bake on a lower rack until done, usually 35-40 minutes, while reciting to the upper rack a long, convoluted anecdote about your childhood.
12. Invert the tube pan over a bottle for a few hours. Then impetuously rap the pan. Shout, “Aha!” and slide a knife along the pan’s insides.
13. Call what tumbles out a cake if you dare. Call it miraculous even.
14. Eat it. It is delicate, morbid, loveable, and you will die depressed, delirious, and overweight.
Charlie: Oh shit. Look at that door dude. See that door right there? That door marked ‘Pirate’? You think a pirate lives in there?
Dennis: I see a door marked ‘Private.’ Is that the door you’re talking about?
Charlie: No, I was talking about . . I didn’t say . . what’d you hear?
“Your dad? Not your mom?”
“No, dad wouldn’t allow it.” — Flight of the Conchords
Each evening, when she heard his step;
How she lay at his feet and looked up adoringly
Though he was absorbed in his paper;
Or, bored with her devotion, ordered her to the kitchen
Until he was ready to play.
But the small careless kindnesses
When he’d had a good day, or a couple of drinks,
Come back to her now, seem more important
Than the casual cruelties, the ultimate dismissal.” —Excerpt from “Bitch”, Carolyn Kizer