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First unedited installation of “Arguments and Attempts to be an Awarenivore”

Since recently moving to Jericho, Vermont, I have decided to embrace the 30 minute drive into the ‘city’ and am excited to take part in things I think define a ‘country lifestyle.’

(Not completely blind to this idea, I did grow up in Maine owning and caring for an assortment of animals, but as will happen, I spent college and some years after exploring other ways of living in New York City…some things get lost in translation.)

Lucky enough to be a transplant in this area, I am less afflicted (as some neighbors my age) with the fear of being a ‘townie’ and I am able to explore and embrace my surroundings without feeling the desire to leave. At the same time, being new to the area makes it harder to know what’s good – to meet people, farmers, find even decent grocery stores or the bank, not to say even farm stands. One of my first goals is to find a place or series of farms where I can buy as much of my groceries locally as possible.

So last week I drove down River Road in search for one of these elusive farm stands (which should not be so allusive, first problem?) in hopes I would find some where that I could frequent this summer. I passed a few signs saying ‘eggs’ but stopped at one with an intriguing sign saying ‘self-serve.’

I pulled off to the side of the drive, and stepped out. A radio was quietly murmuring in the barn, and I noticed a sign saying ‘baby turkeys.’ There was no one else around, though, so I wandered through the yard shouting ‘hello?’ as to not startle anyone, and took a quick picture of the baby turkeys on my cell phone. (Their days of cuteness are numbered.) Taking a brave step around back, I came across a shirtless Steve and his wife Wendy tending to the chickens. Apologizing, I inquired as to where I could find the eggs. Steve, introducing himself and his wife Wendy said not to worry, most people can’t find them first. They are simply in a small refrigerator right under the ‘eggs’ sign. Embarassed anyway, I joked with him that I was wondering if ‘self-serve’ meant that I had to collect the eggs from the layers myself. I hoped I had conveyed the humor in what I was saying to him, as (having chickens myself growing up) it wouldn’t have been that alien to me. Driving up, I had visions of myself, in skirt and flip flops, covering my head with one arm while the other blindly searched among feathers and feet for the still-warm prizes.

For the first time I was thankful for the 94 Ford Ranger I was driving. Perhaps it provided me with some sort of legitimacy in Steve’s eyes as a Vermonter. I bought a dozen for 3.75 (well, I left a ‘5’ in the jar) – they were huge, bursting out of the recycled egg carton that Steve’s regular customers return to him. “We’ve also got extra-large, mostly double yokers…” I thanked him; jumbo was certainly big enough.

I believe these eggs are better than store bought, but does that make them so? The argument can be made that they are more ‘natural’ – they are free range (I could see the chickens running around myself), and do not under go any processing except the washing Steve or Wendy does. Then, hand, stove, mouth.

Driving home I smile, looking at the dozen sitting on the passenger seat beside me, busting from the container. I show Jamie my prize when I get home. Are they still simply a novelty for me? Natural is a term with a lot of stigma surrounding it. It barely means anything on it’s own – now every time it’s used we must define it. Despite this issue though, I think most people want more of this…natural thing.

If I feel better about serving a certain food, food with a happier story, I think it is better for those I am serving it to.

To be continued…

It’s a sunny Monday and I am tip-tapping away on the keys with these mint green fingernails of mine. Guilt wrenched me this morning, as it always does when I have been drinking the night before. I think more than drinking; it’s when I have smoked a cigarette or something, too. But all that wouldn’t matter so much if I hadn’t woken up alone.
I think that is a universal; if we share our guilty deed with other people, its memory becomes less than that of guilt, but more of ridiculousness, and an acceptable antic. Like if you were flirting with someone and told them your story about being wasted the night before, they’d just flirtingly hit you in the shoulder and say, “Oh, whateveryournameis.” And maybe even giggle.
But here’s the thing, last night all I did was have three vodka cranberries at home, with a new friend, and go out to meet two other new friends. I spent no money at the bar, and I smoked a total of one cigarette. Does guilt make one crazy? Supposedly, though, if one commits a ‘crime’ and does not feel guilty, that’s what implies the person’s insanity. But maybe that would be remorse, not necessarily guilt. What I feel most often in the morning, though, is not remorse. If anything, it’s guilt because I did not do anything to regret, and I maybe should have. This in turn, really just makes me paranoid, and paranoia makes me unable to really enjoy anything, and in turn, this must mean I actually am a bit insane. Apparently the dull kind of insane.

I’m inspired to rant today because I just finished Chuck Klosterman’s book, Killing Yourself to Live. I read it quickly, but was disappointed in the end. It’s a book you want to keep on reading, but not necessarily because it is inspiring, but because your not quite sure if what was supposed to happen, did. The title is witty and too-true, so it made me hold high expectations. His premise is super-interesting, but in the end, he really just takes a road trip by himself (which we all know would be super weird, boring and a bit depressing, spending so much time alone) and talks about the few women he has had sex with. It’s title gives me the same feeling Dave Eggars’ book of short stories did, entitled, How We Are Hungry. Eggars did a better job living up to the title’s prophecy. Both are very similar, and give me reason to believe that the stupid human feelings I have everyday are worth writing about, and may even be seen as important to some people. Hey, it’s all bout connection and feeling the one ness…yes, I have been called new age, and yes, I was insulted by the term, and got into an argument about it. I believe new age people can only live in the 90’s.
Most of us, if we are even slightly interesting, or interested in life, are killing ourselves to live, and this is because we are hungry. We are killing ourselves a bit with alcohol and/or drugs, and/or cigarettes a little bit, if we don’t end up going all the way. Maybe we are even just killing ourselves by working so hard towards some passion we may never conquer. I think these people are the best of us…And I don’t necessarily mean that they do the best or most productive things with their lives and time. It’s just the fact that they have to have some kind of desire; whether trying to reach a goal, or trying to drown out any voice that tells them they could have something to work towards (because it’s easier to do this than try and fail sometimes). This is better than boring, even if the cycle repeats. The passion is our hunger. Passion for greatness, passion for small things, or passion for cigarettes ad booze, is still passion. Love me.

http://www.thedelimagazine.com/kitchen/

“Dynamic Rockers

Published on Wed, 23 Jan 2008 23:11:18″

I like to keep this phrase in mind…perhaps it’s another reason I love travel. Time doesn’t matter either, only place, really. It’s a living in the moment kind of phrase.

I am working on the Silent Mind road journal, and this phrase is incredibly relevant to that piece and that trip.
Shows ends at 2 a.m. normally, but then there’s the settling money issues with the club owners, packing up (this time in zero-degree weather) and finding a place to sleep…but that’s not usually until 5 or 6 a.m. because the band is pumped and looking for some drinks and decompression time.

This is also actually the title of the poet, August Kleinzahler’s new book, and he took it from a Wallace Steven’s line. I like Wallace Steven’s a lot, but when ever I go to buy some of his poetry, they only sell it in huge compilations. I find them unsatisfying and physically uncomfortable to read.

To be up late kind of proves time wrong, stick’s it to him. In the sense that the sun’s rules can’t even regulate my day. I’m an invincible little goddess! Haha. Enough ego talk, but I hope you get what I mean.

The added photo was taken in Maine by my friend Liz Coleman, the next Ansel Adams.