Or maybe the only.
Of all places, the Deming Truck Terminal Restaurant has a menu you have to ASK for!
Very moderate prices, lavish portions.
We had bismati rice, raita, palan paneer, roti, and mah dahl. Homestyle cooking, if different than the more expected chicken fried steak.
Unusual decor for Indian food–last supper on the wall.
Also in this neck of the woods, Faywood Hot Springs is open again under new management, who is lovingly caring for it. It is always pleasant to be eye level with the Chihuahuan desert. And even at this time of year, lots of orange butterflies sipping from little puddles of overflow. The water was a too hot 112 degrees but nicely lowed to 106 with cold influx.
We travel around New Mexico, and often say, oh, such and such a place is sure to come up, become an art town, etc.
Well, Silver City has never looked better.
Maybe in part it is because we had a fantastic Thanksgiving dinner at Shevek & C. Chef/owner Shevek is an old friend of Rich’s. The newish renovation of the restaurant–bar now in front–creates a lovely atmosphere. I had turkey, Rich tofu, with generous bowls of stuffing, sweet potatoes, green beans almondine, and potato kugel (happy Hannukah!).
Also, two kinds of pie.
A good place for a menorah–edge of a big tub in T or C:
Love staying at Firewater:
And looking at details all over town.
in the uncountable alphabet
bitter pine forest of words
without butter or jam
one day we’ll eat earth
and cry for more!
drink tea through a sugar cube
how is the strand of wheat
bent heavy with seed
supposed to speak
without being ground?
the night was aphasic
and the day
also said nothing
had nothing to say
it’s winter, and the wild
girl goddess has gone under–
“why me” is not a question
that bears repeating
this dough will rise
in the starter of spring
and its crust can be opened
by the mouse teeth of desire
white bread like the moon
in the eastern sky
full, sliced, gone–
A writer I have long admired, now writing as rimonim, has a new blog–Man Today Blog–http://mantodayblog.wordpress.com/
Miriam’s Well is pleased to reblog a recent entry on transgender experience:
I am a man. When I was growing up, people thought I was a girl. My life experiences include having to disclose my gender identity, having poor vision, having my wisdom teeth removed, changing my name, taking medicine for allergies, taking medicine for gender dysphoria, having surgery on my ears, having surgery on my chest, going to high school, going to college, getting an ID with a different gender marker.
Of course, some of those experiences are given a great deal of special meaning by other people, because they are very unfamiliar to them. This puts me in the awkward position of having to label myself in a way they will understand, or else accept whatever labels they choose. I also have my own desire to explain my life history in language that makes sense to me.
So what should I call myself? I like the rather simple trans man, but I don’t like to use it outside of writing, because I’m not sure people will understand and because the space is essential. I like the inclusive new term trans*, but it only works in writing. Transsexual man has a pleasing accuracy and, to my ear, sounds pretty bad ass. I really like man of transsexual experience–that one comes the closest to describing how I feel. But few have heard it, and I want a term that requires me to explain as little as possible. In many settings, I am honestly not comfortable using the word “transsexual.” It scares people. The fact that that’s messed up doesn’t make it less true. It also retains a medicalized sting that doesn’t sit well with me.
Transgender is the word I almost always use, both for myself and generally: transgender man, transgender community, transgender issues. It’s the word that other people hear most often and seem to be the most comfortable with. It’s the word that is easiest to say in public. It seems to be the consensus term. A word we can count on, because other people know what it means. Probably the most important quality in a word.
So I embrace the word transgender. In part, I surrender to the whims of history. I am content to use whatever non-derogatory term the talking public chooses. I also truly value its function as an umbrella, a category that can shelter many people: transsexual men and women, genderqueer and androgynous people, third-gender people, etc.
“Transgender” does not describe my gender identity–it denotes my existence in a politicized social location.
What terms do you use?
One incredible thing about these pieces are that they are temporary. See more!
What happens when you come to a creative impasse?
I’m facing one now.
About six years ago, I started working with text installation. I collaborated with sculptors, working with poetry in glass, clay, metal, and fabric. I did everything from making haiku earrings to gallery shows.
And now I find myself without enough training to move forward.
1. I don’t know what to do next
2. I don’t know how to work this alone
3. I don’t know how to work small and experimentally–that is, make some mistakes
Here is what does not help me–the advice to “just do it.” I’ve done it, and now that approach is expiring.
Should I go to graduated school at UNM in Land Arts of the American West?
Find a teacher–who and how?
Study art history?
Attempt to learn a craft?
This new (to me) site is an excellent source of poetry and inspiration. Check it out!
I’m delighted to be included in the Sunday Poem section, and the accompanying photographs are a revelation:
Lisa Elmaleh, Slash Pines Reflected in Pine Glades Lake, Everglades, Florida, silver gelatin print, 2010. (Photo © Lisa Elmaleh via lisaelmaleh.com)
My friend Alfred and I grew up in the same town in New Jersey, and were in elementary school together. He now lives in Texas. Miriam’s Well is very pleased to publish this piece of his:
At dinner Thursday night, I explained to a somewhat younger colleague and guest from Europe that today would be an especially sad day for Americans over 55 years of age.
Those of us who remember November 22, 1963 were young; abruptly, we lost a good part of our innocence. Each of us is older now than the young president struck down that day at a mere 46 years of age.
We are the last who remember as contemporaries how engaging and vibrant he was. Beyond the regard we had for the man himself, we are the last to remember how much the institution of the presidency was once respected by most Americans.
We lost much that day, and we have lost a great deal more since. But in remembering John F. Kennedy, let us not lose hope; let us not lose faith in our ability as free citizens to govern ourselves; let us not lose sight of those moments in our lifetimes when Americans at their best have inspired so many throughout the world.