#and on...

[ladymarrianna]

6, 18 and 22 for the handwriting asks?

Thank you for the ask! :))

[rainyhart]

to be honest the reason that i was never really able to get into ezria is probably because it existed since the first episode, while haleb, spoby, and paily all built up from a dislike into a passionate, deep, strong love

[farmrun-blog]

and on... to sicilia

On the move. Tomorrow I take a train to the southern coast of Sicily, to work on a farm near Avola. It has been precisely one month and five days since I left the United States. I do believe I am quite ready to move on. To take the next few Steps. San Giovanni a Piro has been enriching, though I have come to the sound conclusion that Sebastiano is a self-righteous dick, and his mother is irreversibly and infuriatingly locked into doing things Mama's Way. One thing that will be difficult to say goodbye to, though, will be Buffalo Mozzarella. I'm not sure how I’ll do it. Sometimes it’s best to think on your feet.Now that I’ve been on my quest for a few weeks, I’ve been wondering with myself how I am doing. How I feel. A very common question. How do you feel. How do I feel. How do you feel? How do you feel? A rather silly question, it is. Among the ranks of how are you? and what’s going on?A wise woman once wrote on the casual nature with which we resort to such unanswerable and magnificently broad questions, the responses to which could rarely begin to turn the topsoil of the underlying geology which comprises the specifics of an instant of being. We all ask them, knowing well that the answer will be a settling of sorts. But isn't it curious how we think, on some conscious or otherwise level, that a person would be able, willing, prepared, stable enough to attempt to provide an answer to the inquirer? To even be able to deal with this question on one's own - oh MY - what a daunting task! Conversing with another, one can resort to the requisite and finite answers and move on with the conversation. But there is no end to the conversation with our own minds. To be in touch with your own mental, physical, emotional state to understand how you relate to your current environment and situation is about as easy as putting on your underpants with a pair of sport fishing spears for arms. How do I feel? I feel like a particle of parmesan cheese, drifting floating mingling with daring and sociable aromas, wafting among strange and foreign kitchen space, unknown exotic ingredients being thrown into the pot with every passing minute. I feel like a mountain goat separated from the herd, high up in the clouds with no dog to guide my way. I feel like a single crash of thunder, dramatically thrown off boulders into timid ears. I feel like a pair of hands. I feel like an insatiable hurricane, straining to produce rain, not in vain but rather in spite of pain. I feel like a person. I feel like wearing a sweater! I feel like time is nothing but a nuisance, in essence. I feel like presence is fleeting. I feel like a three-dimensional circle, moving swiftly downhill. No brakes and no rearview mirrors. With potholes and old ladies with purses and yellow tape and great heights and loud noises and loud people and beautiful murals and inexplicable spirals and high speeds and paintbrushes and oh, there is so much more. There is just too much. And I feel like I am here. And I feel like going to Sicily.

[farmrun-blog]

and on... to Puglia

I don’t think that escape would be quite the right word, but it certainly was a swift and definitive departure. I left on good terms, don’t get me wrong. In fact, Lorenzo is a great guy, it’s just that twelve hour days of harvesting olives is a lot for an unsuspecting American boy. SoI left Sicily, with due notice and respect, of course, and have arrived at my next, embarrassingly lavish, accomodation. There will be, I’m sure, more to come on the intriguingly vague descriptive words I have used to denote my current location, so I will not elaborate. For now I feel the need to recap the events which led to my arrival. Thus, in the form of a list, not necessarily in chronological order, here is a recap of the most and/or least interesting events of the past few days:

Invented a new, potentially life altering dessert consisting of ground Pizzuna almonds, cocoa powder and a spoon.

Harvested approximately 1200 kilos of olives

Departed Avola with a much heavier pack than I arrived with, on account of stashing several foolishly dense goodies, including but not limited to: two litres of olive oil (in addition to the 1.5 already on board), two slightly smaller than forearm sections of olive wood (to carve a spoon and spatula, of course), an empty pasta bag full of almonds and a well crammed bag of aromatic herbs.

Purchased a total of five kilos (11 pounds) of fruit and cheese and sundried tomatoes at a market in Catania

Went to Catania

For lunch at Café Sicilia: one cannola (tube of fried dough filled with sweetened ricotta), one biancomangiare (sweet fluffy almond/cream tart thing), one cassata (Sicilian minicake with layers and white almond frosting between the layers and inexplicably green frosting on the outside and candied fruits on top), and one cone with one scoop of ricotta and one scoop of basil gelatti.

Did not take any photos

Attended a mushroom festival, complete with tent-lined streets of producers of various agricultural and culinary products and a group of young girls dressed in odd bonnets and green dresses dancing to the accordion music, at which I was stuffed full of salmis and cheeses and sweets by producers willing and eager to offer free samples.

Sat with the rain for several hours

Watched ‘The Green Mile” with a thirty nine year old Spanish ex-pat named Beatrice who came to Sicily eight years ago, was trapped on the island by a business transaction gone awry, and never left.

Ate scones for breakfast, purchased and delivered by a mailman (playing hookey with his son playing hookey), who’s wife dropped dead in her sleep two years ago and has since been raising his son á la Adam Sandler in that movie where he raises a kid, letting him pick out his own clothes even if the pants are way too big and fall off if he doesn’t hold them up, and run wild around Beatrice’s house throwing things and opening creakysqueaky dresser drawers incessantly.

Was thwarted by the Hungarian language.

For lunch on the streets of Catania: one cannola, one kind of gross chocolate cakey cookie about the size of my fist, two little green seemingly pistacchio cookieballs until you bite into them and they are brown on the inside but taste like bubblegum, one cookie that’s actually half of a stale breadstick smothered in vanilla icing, one cone with one scoop of ricotta and one scoop of pistacchio (pronounced pee-stack-key-oh) gellati.

Made seven kilos of bread (plus one pizza), utilizing the Leone family wisdom.

Cut a lot of my hair off.

Made two kilos of pasta by hand, using a cool hand-strung old-school pasta cutter that can also be an instrument that sounds alarmingly like a sitar, utilizing the Leone family wisdom.

Started pooping again.

Tried to explain, for many minutes, why a square full of decrepit old men was similar to Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds” to an exceptionally confused Italian man.

Was told to ‘fuck off’ by a flabby Italian teenager with hip sunglasses because I didn’t want one of the supermarket coupon booklets he was jamming in people’s mail slots.

Started eating again.

Felt the competetive breeze of a mountain ridge whip across my face.

Purchased four new notebooks, instead of one new notebook, as a result of a cruel bookstore clerk and an unfortunately circuitous path.

Called a pregnant stranger on her cell phone on the day she gave birth to ask if I could work at her farm.

Am staying at the farm of a pregnant woman whom I called on the day she gave birth

Ate nearly five kilos of fruit in 30 hours.

Am going to rest tomorrow

Often when I change places, I tend to make grand sweeping conclusions and opinions and declarations about life and pace and time. Desires emanating from deep within my belly to observe and analyze where I am and where We are and what this particular motion means. Try to utilize the innertia of the train and strain to sit to think a bit about the world’s turning, burning fires. Maybe this time is no different. Puglia.

[farmrun-blog]

To The Heavens! They Declared, As They Began The Ascent

I am on the move again. From the muggy buggy oh-so-deliciously sweaty capital of the United S of A, to On. First up is Maine. Lobster country, where salty wrinkled old folk gather along the craggy wragged shore in boats to wrangle the near fabled crustaceans from the sea. Where woods abut the road and mountains lick the sky. Where blueberries grow rampant and darn near every house has beans on stalks and tomatoes on stakes. Where farmstands use the honor system and patrons use the honor system. Where I have been for approximately twenty hours. And am giving a pretty good review. The point? I’ve begun a new adventure. Despite the brimming disbelief that filled my heart upon departure of my previous space in DC, time has moved in the forward direction and as it turns out, my path for the next few months will be taking me from the northeastern corner of the country, across the top and down the west coast. In an automobile. With some books and a camera and a computer and some sourdough starter and a pair of red pants and some snazzy new sandals and a head on my shoulders and a friend named Jim with a head on his shoulders and a nice pocketful of curiosity and a well fueled hunger for all things pretty tasty vegetabley vibrant light nutritious and enriching. I have not been letting my fingers to the talking very much recently. So bear with me. I’ll get the hang again. Keep your eyes peeled for some nice images of nice people. And some stories. And maybe some videos. k byebye.