Vino Tinto

Fine wine.  Never heard of it.  But nothing beats a $11 magnum of merlot (pronounced Mur- Lot in Kathryn's world).  Something about the added sugar and expected hang over that I just can't stray away from.  Its not really the wine that makes the night so good, its the conversation that comes from cheap booze that makes life grand.  A few old friends are in town for the week and reminiscing always puts a smile on my face.

But with every funny story comes some memory of a stupid moment in time when I had those Oh so dreadful "temporary lapses in judgement."  So some of those lasted several months, who cares right?  But as I thought about these, those old words of wisdom popped up, "Let the past be but the past."  Which is great philosophy.  And I only wish I could follow it.  Challenge: "Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it."  Damn it.  The past is a two faced woman.  I know, I know, that sexist pig just called the evils of the past a woman.  Well its my words so deal :)  Truth is, I am just confused about what I should and should not remember.  

So the good times.  Try to focus on the good times.  But the bad times, forget those.  But don't forget them.  Learn from them.  If you weren't confused by the last four sentences, then you should be writing, not me.   I don't understand what I am supposed to be keeping track of.  My mind is like an accounting book, full of credits an debts.  I can't really say  how I prioritize my thoughts, but I think of bad as often as good, think of childhood as much as adult.  I'll figure it out one day. Start to mature, handle how I view the past in a grown up way.   Not hold grudges, and quit making the same mistakes over and over.  But I better change.  A cheap wine doesn't get better with time.

Off to bed, not much to do when the bottle runs dry. 

© blake jackson

If you wanna grow up to paint houses like me

"Don't call what you're wearing an outfit,

don't ever say your car is broke.

Don't worry bout losing your accent,

cause a southern man tells better jokes."

        As a little boy at a loss to define the word "job," I have found out that this ain't no cake walk.  I keep on searching for something that was molded by hand with a place card in front with my name in cursive.  A place setting that will last until my days are numbered and I'm forced to live out my life on this old porch.  But as with anything that takes a decision and persistence, time is a som-bitch.  The longer I am forced to sit and wait for responses, my head fills with second thoughts and the fear that maybe this just isn't what I am looking for.

        Escaping the mundane is my plan, but then I sit and think about work.  The word itself, terrifying.  From what any greying man or crows-footed woman has ever told me, work isn't supposed to be fun.  It is some absurd situation where everyone thinks they have it the worse, where other people's 'work' is way easier.  Some always threaten to quit, other always talk about how much better life would have been had they chosen a different career path.  Needless to say, it is these folks that have cast a shadow over my optimism.

Now I'm not sure if I'm just a spoiled little child, thinking that things are going to happen, and life will grace me as opposed to everyone else.  But at this point, why bother to care.  Its tough to be the one guy dumb enough to sit back and let life happen to me, but right now, its all I can do.  Maybe I'm afraid to take a step out, too worried that the first step will be in a big pile of shit.  Maybe I'm worried that if I spend all my time worrying about a job that life will slip by.  As with every maybe in life, its probably a combination of the two. Somewhere in this mangled mess lies an answer.    

And if anyone finds that place setting, let me know.  I'll be waiting.

"Have fun and stay clear of the needle,

call home on your sister's birthday.

Don't tell em you're bigger than Jesus,

don't give it away."- 'Outfit' by Drive by Truckers

© blake jackson

3 Days with Noah

     In my short lived tenure as a high school math teacher (so far three months), I can say that what ever comes next in life just won't surprise me.  Cat fights, streakers, and just an outright lack of respect for each other makes me wonder what has happened in such little time.  Now we were by no means angels, but it was almost as if we knew better and did it anyways.  I just don't think these kids know any better.  

     And there seems to be one irritant that makes it all worse.  Just add water. 

     Coming off of a three day downpour, i have felt so very Noah-esque, two of every type of animal running around the class room:  two quiet brainiacs, two 'can't shut their mouths' brainiacs, two raised on the hard streets thugs, two raised on the hard street bible beaters, two raised on the hard street and thinks the lifestyle is garbage, two rednecks, two pot heads,  two artsy la la land lovers, two preppy yet brain cell- free jocks, two perky yet brain cell-free future sorority girls of America, and finally two average kids with average hair and average clothes and average grades.  And by far, the average kids are the least predictable.  All these other little rascals can be defined to a T.  The two quiet brainiacs will work until their finger are chapped, the two loud brainiacs will argue me on why why why, the hard thugs will act big and bad, the bible beaters will tell the hard thugs to change, the kids that want to leave the hard street will work hard to escape and won't really talk much with anyone (identity is hard to find), the rednecks will do work on Tuesdays and Thursdays after someone gets on their case (no rednecks in first hour of January/February due to impending hunting seasons), the pot heads nap and ask me about my short tenure as a band member, the kids in artsy la la land doodle and doodle and doodle, the jocks don't work, the future sorostitutes talk to the jocks, but those damn average kids- they change all the time.  They are some wild breed of untamed, average beast.  

     So the rains set in, and mild high schooler depression runs rampant through the halls (I guess its the lack of Vitamin D.)  The heads hang low, like the entire school had a pet cat, and i just backed over him.  But what do my average kids do,? They love it!  They stare out those fog laden windows and soak up all the grey weather like it was a breathe full of fresh sunshine!  These abnormal yet incredibly average joe kiddos seemed to have a bit of color in their faces, and an incredibly optimistic attitude.  I will admit, I was insanely jealous.  I was in a rainy day bummed mood. Something about the sunshine gets me going...

Ahh- and listen to Otis Spann: Best of the Vanguard Years. 

© blake jackson

Kitchen Greenery

I'm typing today with a bubbly blister on my index finger.  And since you're wondering, once again, I touched the hot stove.  Something about a road cone colored coil draws me in like stray cats to trash cans and I just have to do it.  But in honesty, I'm here to admit that I'm an idiot, wasn't paying attention to a hot pan of sauteed pasta and popped my didget on the stove.  So I, like any other self respecting male, waited until no one was looking and sucked the hell out of my finger until the pain was gone.  No tears, just a little lower lip biting and some gasp for air sounds (like the ones you let out when your mother would spray a cut with that damn antibacterial before the Band aid.)  I healed, this go around without a stinging mist of medicine, and continued cooking.  

But my kitchen cluster made me think of Mae Mae.  With calloused clay hands and hips wide enough to fit all three kids, Mae kept the peace for a family too on- the- go to notice how much they all meant to each other.  And good Lord could that woman cook.  My little blister brought me on that well needed day dream to cooking lessons in the summer, not really a structured education but more of a watch and copy.  It started with breakfast- essentials of eggs and grits and bacon and hash browns.  She'd hum some old tune that I could only make out as years of repeating the same simple menu, but somehow only getting better rather than monotonous.  I caught myself, from time to time, trying to hum something I knew.  Maybe some Billy Ray Cyrus.  George Strait even.  But I didn't seem to have it all down like her.  Something in her song made her food all the more wonderful.

She was a cook.  Not the next Top Chef, no competitor for the likes of Iron Chef.  Something more than that.  In all this commotion about chefs I just don't see where they went wrong.  In my opinion, the chef goes out to please the pallet.  A cook aims to please the heart.  The way Mae would drag her finger through seasoned flour and sprinkle the mix on her tongue just says more.  It would fall down her shirt and across her brown hands and she left it all there because that was her.  She didn't watch for trans-fats and caloric intake, she watched for color in the face and a grin, and most importantly, she didn't want the recognition.  Because that is her job.  Not to putting food on a plate, but it is almost like her divine career of feeding the well being of those she knows.  Her work with the human spirit is not comparable too many other things.  She is a healer. In my South, that is what people do.  They feed each other.  

© blake jackson