Eat Mangos

Entries from January 2007

Soulmate please read>>>

January 27, 2007 · 2 Comments

If you are my soulmate, please join me for a breakfast of the following:

BLUEBERRY WAFFLES:
3 eggs, whites and yolks separated
1 2/3 cups Horizon Organic milk, or soymilk if you are lactose intolerent
2 cups unbleached, or whole wheat flour
2 1/4 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 cup, almond oil or melted European-style butter
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon almond extract
2/3 cup fresh organic blueberries

Whisk together egg yolks and milk. Stir in flour, baking powder and salt. Stir in butter, and set mixture aside for about 30 minutes. Fold egg whites and 2/3 cup blueberries into the mixture, and the almond extract. Scoop portions of the mixture into the prepared waffle iron, and cook until golden brown.

Hope to see you soon,
Nina

 

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no strings, just warm summer rain

January 18, 2007 · Leave a Comment

Sometime this week, when you a rub-a-dub-dubbing in the shower or bathtub, pay particular attention to the ceiling above your head. You may notice some fascinating details you’ve been missing: a light that needs replacing, a spiderweb with little hot water droplets all over it, perhaps some tile that needs fixing. I for one noticed an old rusty plank extending from one end of the bathtub to the other, and after careful observation, realized it used to be a hanger for the shower curtain. One of the old residents, either the ballerina or the old spinster with cats, must have replaced it with the sliding glass doors. Probably retiled as well in the process, just because, that’s what people who own real estate do. Constantly replace everything. And then complain about it.

Sometime, when the days are longer, and the temperatures inside the ethics classroom high enough to give a lizard sunburn, and the seniors are actually granted a tasty morsel of freedom–one of those happy days I will drive to the intersection of Homestead and Hollenbeck, stop by the Safeway across the street from that rugged and beloved apartment complex that was my home, once, six years ago. Then I will travel a block down to Serra Park, my childhood playground, where the sprinklers always turn on an hour after sunset, and I will sit on the back of my car, and eat grapes. 
Or blueberries. Whichever is in season.
I will write about this incident, and people reading the entry will think, “Nina is such a crazy kid, I love her,” and leave me comments. Or they will think “Dude, why do I even know this person?” but I’ll never hear about it because there are a lot of things I will never know, and that’s okay. It will be added to the long list of things I don’t know anything about, including God, Oswald Kuelpke, the political situation in the state of Idaho, the Banach-Tarski paradox, and how to eat lobster without making a fool of myself. The point is, you’re damn right I’m crazy, but at least it makes for good journal entries.

Sometime this past fall my mom, who has a soft spot in her heart for potted plants, experienced a desire to release them back into the wild, withinin the polluted little morsel of soil that came with the rest of our property. We just got a batch of roses, three different kinds, so she’s had to do some landscaping with the other rehabilitated flora. As a result the little cactus plant has had to endure two relocations within the past six months. It hasn’t changed in size. It still thinks it’s in the pot. And now it technically resides on our neighbor’s polluted morsel of land, surrounded by redwoods, roses, and the tail end of our neighbor’s air conditioning. We give it shade, and lots and lots of rain: it is perhaps the most miserable little plant in existence. It endures though.

May tomorrow be accidentally awesome for all of you.
(and if it isn’t…then may you brave it with the steadfastness of my cactus)

 

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sniffle sniffle

January 15, 2007 · 6 Comments

I just realized by some terrible twist of fate I no longer own the board game, Scrabble. Damn.

To help me survive this momentary cause of depression, I take my rage out on the destruction of baby carrots dipped in Costco hummus, left over from the party. Thank you everyone who forgot food at my house after the party: there are now a few select items in my fridge that are not Trader Joe’s soymilk.

I kept thinking this semester would be all chill, all the time, conveniently forgetting that I have two shows, an audition in two weeks, unpracticed monologues because Ms. L-R still hasn’t replied to my email from last week about a meeting, reservations to be made, one more app. to send in today, and a Yale interview. Shit. If I didn’t have all that, I would be at Starbucks in Santana Row, reading “The Unbearable Lightness of Being,” or else cleaning my room or vacuuming my car or actually putting together the odd bits of lyrics/poetry in my notebook into something substantially useful. Or I would say screw that and call people.

As it is, it’s time to put that new kettle my dad got to use. Lipton Caramel Black loose leaf tea, with Trader Joe’s soymilk (I’ve killed all the carrots, but there’s still hummus left over…I hate it when that happens)–we will make our acquaintence. Maybe when I’m caffeinated enough all this work won’t seem such a drag.

And another thing…why is it so darn cold?

 

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thirteen ways of eating a subway sandwich

January 15, 2007 · 1 Comment

I am thirteen
sitting across the table from primitive romantic intrigue,
and the whole thing 
falls apart in my hands

****************

Sunday afternoon blue
big pale alone alone sky, red falcon bird.

He takes it apart, the whole thing:
first the olives,
then the bell peppers,
then the onions

****************

There is still sauce
Under my fingernails.

Sticky situation.

I should trim them.

*****************

The Sandwich and I
trapped in insurmountable eternity–
the succulent ambrosia of the moment.

a verse out of Keats–
my mouth salivating
anticipating,
the sandwich,
just inches
from my face!

…for ever warm, and still to be enjoy’d…

******************

Remember the day we ate Subway
on the beach?
Decadent crumbs of salty-sweet-wheatiness, mmm…
you you you you 
you

(I miss you, incidentally.)

*****************

You ate it, didn’t you?

*****************

The intestinal scale crumbles
in proximity with sweet sinful serenade.
Desire will outweigh the moral dilemma,
this time around.

*****************

The Sandwich as a phallic symbol
akin to Beckett’s banana;
makes her blush to think 
about analogous anatomical phenomena…

*****************

Sex on rye…
oops, Freudian slip

*****************

Bakersfield, CA

They sat on parked cars
And digested.

That was before…

*****************

contra-simple:
I was tempted to eat it all,
So I did.

*****************

adrift in the subtle perplexities,
i am–so tenderly real.
akin to living smoke, peacefully lulling the sun into sleep,
making a cradle of the countryside–
such beautiful bliss is sandwiched between past and present tense

******************

through double windowpanes
a furniture store displays
living rooms alit in sunlight

gently pondering the average absurdity,
chew chew chew chew 
chew

-NV 1/14/07

 

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Quick Notes

January 14, 2007 · 1 Comment

This morning, on my way to Peninsula Teen Opera rehearsal, I looked over to my right as I changed lanes on the freeway to see a vendant field alive with wildflowers. What was in this beautiful field? Cows. What were these fabulous creatures doing? Spontaneously stampeeding.

Such is California.

 

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On Trivial/Important Matters

January 11, 2007 · 2 Comments

Somehow, this morning when I was arranging the mass of papers on my desk into some kind of orderly fashion, I managed to knock over and break my alarm clock.
This should have amounted to a rather euphoric experience; after all, I had finally accomplished something that I had been threatening to do every morning for the past twelve years. What better way to begin second semester than physical manifestation of the violent tendencies formerly repressed by my subconscious mind? The truth is, however, self-analysis aside, it’s a little shocking that my old clock finally broke. When we got it, about ten years ago, it was state-of-the-art, a present from my dad’s friend in Germany, and the only maintenance it’s ever needed was an occasional change of AA batteries. I went through a phase in middle school when I wanted a radio alarm clock, or something of a different color to match my room, a clock with a night light or, for god’s sake, a snooze button…but those all either broke or failed to wake me up, so in the end I always ended up using this old thing. You could call it an abusive relationship: every time I try and leave it, we always end up back together, and no matter how hard I beg, it still won’t let me sleep through its petulant whining. But we’ve adapted, we’ve learned to function. All in all, I’m glad for the experience.
So I ended up at Longs this afternoon, searching for something to replace the clock-shaped space on my night-stand, and thinking about how now, finally, here it is: the time to move on. The task I anticipated, yet disposed myself of, was curious about yet already regretted doing, the rite of passage, the crossing of the river–that phase of disenchantment during which I am to find out exactly what lies on the other side of the cryptogram, see the coast from the other end of the bay. I’m graduating, soon. Enumerate the days; I’m leaving Harker. Goodbye to old sentiments and misunderstandings, anecdotes and allusions, the antecedents of the sea of things I see I am. I’m cutting the fine threads that engineered me and hoping the design will hold as I give up hands, faces, memories, homes and hallways, the familiarity of breaths, the idealistic connotations, the rhythms of the classes, the way the traffic lights are timed just right, the subtle changes that come with the pulsating California seasons, the people the people the people the people, that…elusiveness…that transpires through everything I’m sure I understand…but never really do. I’m buying a new alarm clock: every morning, when I wake up the first thought that is generated will fade, and implanted in its place–a new perspective.
Change is a funny little phenomenon. Beginnings are never really beginnings so much as they are in-the-middles, cut off and reattached to the same bud, allowed to entangle with the other passages of our lives. Perhaps this process allows for a new direction; at the very least it helps us in forming connections, understanding what it is that so confused us, once, but seems so simple, now, and why that is.
The new clock is on my night stand. This one is digital, flat with a wooden frame, just as annoying when it rings. Still, I’m keeping the old one, just…because. As a reminder that this new beginning of mine…it’s nothing but a recalibration of the Is with the Was, the Was with the Will Be. It’s the contrast of the Maybe with the I Want, the I Have and the I Need with the I’ve Lost, with a new clock, with the new hands, the fading faces, the pavement and the smoke lines just coming into view.

 

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Euphemisms are overrated

January 8, 2007 · Leave a Comment

Objects in the mirror may not actually be anything like what they appear to be, because what you see is actually a reflection of your own perception: namely, yourself.

And therefore because you are you, you are a lot farther away than you seem to be, and a great deal more simple than everyone else seems to think you are.

Aren’t I clever? This is my manifesto on…absolutely nothing.

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Carnations

January 5, 2007 · 10 Comments

Clutching my guitar and a box of carnations, I stepped off the bus and into the dappled December sunlight. Ahead of me lay the cobblestone driveway of the Lytton Gardens Senior Center, the second stop on my choir’s holiday tour. Here, our directors had informed us, we would perform a few pieces from our repertoire for a small audience on the nursing and special care floor. 

I don’t know why I felt so much apprehension about singing on that floor. I had heard that nursing is reserved for persons who are very sick or very old; in the elevator, our guide told us that nursing is usually the final step before an occupant passes away. My hands grew clammy on the handle of my guitar case, and I felt as if I were venturing into a place very quiet and sacred, a place most people avoid because they are afraid of the finality of life.

The elevator opened and we could see two men and a woman in wheelchairs. One of the men observed us with sad eyes, and the women didn’t seem to be able to hear or see anything. Looking around, I spotted a few more audience members in faded polka-dot pajamas. As Ms. S., our music director, gathered the rest of Downbeat for warm-ups, I wondered if these people were going to be able to enjoy our singing. I wondered if they would even hear us.

Ms. S. blew the pitch pipe and raised her arms, and suddenly, the basses burst into their syncopated rhythm. The sad man raised his gray eyes and began to beam sheepishly, and the woman next to him began clapping along. Slowly, I felt a change come over our audience; it felt as if, suddenly, the room was filled with children.

We held out last note to an enchanted silence. It was as if the audience was absorbing the last echoes of our carols. Then, suddenly, something came along to complete the magic of the afternoon. Downbeat was handing out flowers and conversing with the seniors when one of the nurses approached us, saying that a patient who was not well enough to come out wanted to hear Silent Night. Ms. L-R, our other director, asked if my friend Vyvy and I could perform it with guitar.
We followed the nurse down a labyrinth of hallways and to a closed door. “He’s just getting out of his bath, but he really wants to hear you,” she told us and went in. Vyvy and I waited for five minutes before the door finally opened, revealing what at first seemed like a mass of white sheets. In the bed was a small man with all but his head under the covers, and it was him that we serenaded. He smiled a toothless grin and turned to me as I was putting away my guitar.

“Are you German?” he asked all of a sudden.

I smiled back at him and replied, “No, Ukrainian, actually.”

“Do you speak Ukrainian?”

“No, I grew up speaking Russian,” I replied. I could not understand why he was so interested in learning about me. Then, he made the strangest request.

“Sing me a song in Russian.”

I searched my memory for something I could sing, and the only piece that came to mind was the Lullaby by Tchaikovsky that I had been working on in my voice lessons. So there, in that darkened room, I began to sing, without accompaniment or a stage, to an audience of three people and the flashing monitors by the bedside. And with each note I felt as if I were losing something, as if I were giving a part of myself away; but there was nothing sad about that loss, because in a way, we lose something with each moment of our lives that passes, and at least my lost moments would never tarnish in this one man’s memory. 

He fell fast asleep, and on my way out the door, I placed a pink carnation on his bedside.

I don’t think I was ever aware, before that afternoon, of what a crucial responsibility musicians have. I’ve realized that there is a moment in peoples’ lives, perhaps before they are born, when they hear music for the first time, and it becomes their guide up until their final breath. People seek companionship in the songs they hear, and it is up to us, to me, as a singer, to let them know that they are never alone in their journeys. There is no such thing as simply singing; the goal is to make every phrase into a message, and to part with each listener on a note of mutual understanding. Because, who knows, my song might be the first, or the last thing a person hears.

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On Proust and Starbucks

January 4, 2007 · 2 Comments

If I was ever an early twentieth-century writer in my past life, I must have been Proust…because as it is, one look at a Starbucks cup and I’m probably off writing a semi-fictionalized, 3000 page account of the various phases of my life, with an additional thesis on the role of…what was it he called it? involuntary memory. It’s a good thing Samuel Beckett and his fellow absurdists aren’t around to make fun of me. 

See, this is what I think about in my lack of free time.

 

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Absurdism in Las Vegas (a scene)

January 2, 2007 · 2 Comments

Characters: 
Jade Swanson (originally played by Sophi Newman)
Robert Endel (originally played by Joe Hospodor)
*written, and originally directed, by NV

This scene takes place in the Aladdin Resort at Las Vegas, across from the Rainstorm generator in the little café where they serve really bad espresso. For a feel of the place—it is modeled after “Arabian Nights”, where the sky is painted blue with clouds that appear to move as you walk down paths paved with what is made to imitate the stone roads of Persia. Around you are shops, but the only affordable merchandise can be found at a bikini store, and even that goes for about $30 a piece.
Coming from the general direction of the bikini store (although this fact is unbeknownst to our protagonists, nor is it of any relevance to the story) is a couple, a man and a woman, arms around each other. The expression “drunk with love” or “high on life” or “deranged and clueless,” would be suitable here, for general orientation. The only request of the playwright is that the woman wear a trench coat, one of those long, beautiful, black European kinds. This is not up for artistic interpretation: in other words, don’t mess with my costuming directions. Or else.
The woman is laughing at something that is probably not that funny, and the man kisses her in front of the fountain as they stumble into the café and sit down, lost in hysterics.

*Anything short of brilliance on the part of the actors will be interpreted as blasphemy. Consider yourselves warned.

Jade:
(amidst hysterical laughter)…and that Italian tenor in Little Venice, what was he singing…(badly she sings a few bars of “O Sole Mio” and then bursts out laughing)

Robert:
You got my shirt all wet, I can’t believe you splashed me…

Jade: 
…and…that old couple …(tries to catch her breath)

Robert:
They had no idea what they were getting themselves into when they paid for that boat ride!

Jade: 
I meant the couple by the fountain at Caesar’s

Robert:
Oh yeah, them…that…that was funny too

Jade:
Yeah, oh, it was, wasn’t it?

Robert:
Yeah, it was

Jade:
Yeah

Robert:
Yeah

Jade:
Hey Rob…um…why are we here?

Robert:
Well, the…rainstorm…is umm…scheduled for uh…10 o’clock…PM

Jade:
Oh…the rainstorm…and what time is it now?

Robert:
It’s…9:32…PM

Jade:
That leaves uh twenty…

Robert:
Twenty-eights minutes to wait

Jade:
To wait…right

(silence, Jade clears her throat)

Do you want to go to the Eiffel Tower next…Rob?

Robert:
Well, Jade, I’d be delighted but…I think it’s closed

Jade:
Oh really? Well, that’s too bad, I’ve never been up there…I hear there’s a great view

Robert: 
Yeah, the view is great…it’s too bad it’s closed, really. The view’s great…I mean, I think it’ll open up soon…yeah…and the view, the view is terrific, have you ever been up there?

Jade:
Yeah…I mean, no, I have not…yet…that’s why I was ummm…saying I had never been up there

(there is a long, long pause, during which both of our protagonists look wistfully at the little holes in the ceiling from which the water is supposed to fall…the playwright would also like to add that this is the first time she has spelled ceiling correctly without the spellchecker program’s having to interfere, and believes she deserves to be congratulated)

The clouds seem to be darker, don’t you think?

Robert:
Definitely. It’s going to rain in…twenty-two minutes

Jade:
I can’t wait.

(Robert gets up and walks back into the café to bring back two cups of espresso, which tastes really bitter and is a waste of money on his part, really. He offers Jade sugar, she declines, so he pours a packet into his coffee and stirs. He tries the coffee, grimaces in pain because it really is disgusting, then scoots his cup aside.)

Robert:
So…ummm…Jade…what do you do?

Jade:
Nothing.

Robert:
Umm…nothing?

Jade:
I don’t feel like talking about it. (She tries her coffee and grimaces). May I have some sugar?

(Robert hands her a sugar packet, she pours it in and stirs, then tries it again. The sugar doesn’t help)

Excellent coffee.

Robert:
Yeah, this place is great. And you can watch the rainstorm from right here too.

Jade:
And that will happen in?

Robert:
Eighteen minutes…and a half.

Jade:
Thanks.

(she puts in another packet of sugar, and another, and another…)

Robert:
Listen, umm…I know it’s not my place to say, but it seems that after spending the evening floating on boats with you in Little Venice and listening to Italian love songs I deserve to at least know where you’re from and what you do…I mean I already know you’re not a singer.

(Jade is silent)

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you or anything…please don’t…you know…take offense

(silence)

Jade:
Robert, have you actually ever been to Venice?

(silence, Robert shakes his head)

I mean, how do you know if this is what Venice is like? 

Robert:
Well, for one thing there are maps…

Jade:
Maps! Where is Venice on a map?

Robert:
Ummm…north of Rome?

Jade:
No, I don’t mean like that, I mean, where is Venice on the map? I mean, where, north of Rome, does it say that there are rivers and boats and Italian singers and bridges and people falling in love and you know…Venice?

Robert:
Nowhere, but I mean, there are travel guides and documentaries and Shakespeare’s “Merchant of Venice”…

Jade:
Travel guides that tell us of Venice, documentaries showing us other people enjoying Venice…all of this still leaves the question open about whether or not Venice exists as we’re supposed to see it

Robert:
I guess if you want to look at it that way…

Jade:
And take any major city really…Rome…New York…Paris. Here in Vegas there’s an Eiffel Tower, and we’re told that it’s in some proportion…

Robert:
One half

Jade: 
Of the height of the actual thing, and we’re said the Parisian tower is made of so many pieces of iron or whatever…

Robert:
Eighteen thousand and thirty eight pieces of uh…steel, actually

Jade: 
And we’re told that it was designed by so and so sometime in the past

Robert:
By Sauvestre in 1889…

Jade:
But does it exist?

Robert:
Listen, I think you have a fine point with your observation, but I still believe Venice and Paris and the Eiffel Tower really do exist. Just because you haven’t seen them doesn’t mean the millions of other people who have are suddenly wrong.

Jade:
I’m not saying they don’t exist, I’m just saying what if they’re not anything like what all the books and the people and the pictures make them out to be. What if the Golden Gate Bridge is in reality just a tiny walkway across a pond in some garden, and for all we know, it’s owned by the Mashi Maro company…

Robert:
The Golden Gate Bridge is one point seven miles long…and it’s red with a sort of golden tint in the sunrise

Jade:
How do you know?

Robert:
I’ve seen it, trust me on this one…listen, I really don’t understand what it is you’re doing here, are we going to go through all the major landmarks this way or something?

Jade:
Let me put it to you this way…have you ever been in love, Robert?

Robert:
Well…honestly…I’ve been with girls but never anything special if you know what I mean…

Jade:
You mean, never what you’ve read about, watched movies about, held on to during…you know…real rainstorms?

Robert:
Uh…I guess not, but that doesn’t mean…

Jade:
Well, what if this, us two strangers, who met about four hours ago at a Starbucks in “Paris”…what if this…pathetic situation is all romance is? Think about it, Mr. Robert Endel from the coffee shop…our whole lives we’ve been told that “love” exists, watched TV shows for the sheer sake of cheering on the protagonists…while they fed into us what to expect in our lives! Just imagine, what if love is just…letting yourself go and letting yourself dream up whatever it is you want and pretend it’s the real thing? What…what if Venice is really all we’ve seen of it…a trashed water canal in some shopping mall, where we pretend to have some purpose in life, while some minimum-wage caucasian guy in a sailor suit trills sappy love songs in our ear, half of which are in French anyway…?

(she is cut off as there is thunder and a rainstorm starts)

Should we move?

Robert:
No, it’s contained, the water only falls in the pool. (he takes a penny and throws it into the pool)…make a wish?

Jade:
No, thanks, I’ll save my money (she takes one look at her coffee and gulps it all down, forcibly)

Robert:
You shouldn’t do that…god knows what’s in that

Jade:
It’s coffee

(there is a pause as they both watch the rainstorm)

Robert:
Listen, are you one of those poor lost souls who come to Vegas to get really drunk and marry?

Jade:
I don’t drink.

Robert:
Good, it’s bad for your liver, you know…both drink and marriage

(If that seems like a terribly lame punch line…it is. And he knows it. So does she.)

Jade:
I’ll keep that in mind

Robert:
If it’s any consolation, I see your point now. We all get tired of driving down highways just to chase some mirage, if you’re into metaphors…but somewhere along the road the real thing rests and if you stop now, you’ll never reach it

Jade:
How very poetic of you…I’m guessing you have a girlfriend and a nice house in the suburbs

Robert:
Nah, I’m single

Jade:
I figured

Robert:
Oh really?

Jade:
It explains your Valentine’s Day visit. You come to Vegas just to pick up some girl and, you know, no strings attached.

Robert:
I wish it were that exciting

Jade:
It’s not too late

Robert:
I’m here on a business trip, we’re trying to find out what’s been wrong with the “Eiffel Tower”

Jade:
Oh. Engineer, huh? Well, I wish you luck, I hear its supposed to have a great view

(there is a pause, the noise of the storm gets softer)

Robert:
Looks like the weather is letting up

Jade:
Yeah

(she opens her wallet to put down the tip and at last considers and tosses a penny into the pool)

Robert:
I thought you don’t waste money on wishing wells

Jade:
I just figured if there’s enough money at the bottom they might actually clean this thing

Robert:
Good observation.

(there is a comfortable pause as they both sigh and look at the clearing skies)

Listen, Ms…

Jade:
Swanson. Just call me Jade.

Robert:
Jade Swanson…what a beautiful name…I hope you’re not here to get married?

Jade:
No. I’m here for the rainstorms, actually.

(They both chuckle warmly—please don’t ask me what that means. It’s midnight and I’m supposed to be doing homework)

Robert:
I see…anyway, Ms. Jade, I may have never been to Venice or Paris, but I have been to San Francisco and I know where to get real chocolate…

Jade:
Oh no, thanks for the offer though

Robert:
My treat?

Jade:
Well…chocolate always does sound nice after a rainstorm and…really nasty coffee

Robert:
Oh, you haven’t tried real chocolate until you’ve had Ghirardelli’s…

(they both get up and exit the café, Robert holds out his elbow and Jade takes it and they walk off down the street as the rainstorm ends and the fake sunshine begins to reflect off the remaining raindrops)

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