sure, a nostalgia pancake in-
cludes some unhappy memo-
ries (which, as it turns out, are
not much more than a pinch,
even though i realize that
i usually have on my rose-
colored glasses), the men
in my life (especially; and
by men, i mean those with
whom i’ve had relations, by
which i mostly mean the men
with whom i have resided for
a good duration, with whom
i was most often living only
a week or two to a month
after falling for one in an
untested domestic bliss, in
which at least one of us did
tremendous work to main-
tain). the recipe includes
dreams (good and ‘bad’,
with the most memorable ones
recurring; serials that, as such,
became so totally real that
they become indistinguishable
from reality as time passes)
and the good fortune of a
very blessed, non-tragedic
life (without even a singular
regret), replete with a filing
by in two and threes (etc.,)
of a potential endowment
of acquaintances and crushes
from which to literally pick
(as if standing hungrily at the
entrance to the ark before the
flood, deciding in an instant as
the line progresses in front of
you whom to dismiss and with
whom to spend the next few
weeks, months or even years,
to get to know/co-exist with)
and a spoonful of kismet (even
if one counters this flavor with
a complete disbelief in fate
or karma). one of the big in-
gredients, of course, is love.
the several loves in this life
(both great and small, long
in duration or swift and pass-
ing). each of these have brought
warmth of heart, elucidation,
adventure, indelible snap-
shots in time that can be
recalled with ease, usually
one that is a paradigm of
that particular love, and
all of which bring thoughts
of good times, almost never
unhappy times, but definitely
a few moments of absurdity
or enlightenment which can
be easily recalled (this from
someone for whom recalling
is not a given, is pretty un-
usual at times, unless there
are words or photos of rem-
inder, or when the wonder-
ful moment of an odd trig-
ger comes by someone or
something that brings it all
back like it was yesterday, a
phenomenon for which i am im-
mensely grateful; like recently,
how while staring at a mop in wal-
greens reminded me of being chased
around a second floor apartment,
which was directly above a printing
press establishment on main street
in bowling green, ohio, with a broom,
escaping just in time to watch dishes
fly down from the window above by
the man previous behind the chasing
broom, [mostly] landing on the foot
of snow that was the winter
norm in that part of my life;
followed an hour or so later—
after “making up”—by a
trio of police officers at our
door asking about a domestic
disturbance that had been called
in by three or four neighbors).
also important in this nostalgic
and decadent breakfast are re-
collections of adventures of hik-
ing or camping, of many hours
of flitting around with my crazy
movements on dancefloors all
around the world, and of parties
hosted by yours truly (wherein
there might be, say, fifty or
sixty folks show up during the
course of the night in hallo-
ween attire. these memories,
this nostalgia, help me
gather perspective on
who i am based on who
i was, and most gener-
ally bring me joy, even
sealed within the isolation
tank that has been my
life for over three years
now. so much joy that
i find myself quite often
pilfering through pictures
or trying to fill in the gaps
where i cannot bring my-
self to remember an event
that i know took place, a
person with whom i know i
had a meaningful encount
er. these are usually the
durations in my life when
there is a distinct lack
of graphic evidence av-
ailable (as few or any
were made at the time)
and the timeframes du-
ring which i failed to write
much in my journals. also
important in building these
flapjack stacks are fond
of graphic evidence av-
ailable (as few or any
were made at the time)
and the timeframes du-
ring which i failed to write
much in my journals. also
important in building these
flapjack stacks are fond
memories of the long con-
versations that happened,
over meals in cafes, or
wherever i was living
at the time, in groups rang-
ing from two to twenty or
so (like the one with four
or five of us at the
apartment in which i
lived the longest, where
we talked for some-,
thing like four hours
about how gold was
made into bars). i spoon
into the batter many
stories, particularly of
love, different with
each person, but each
having a beginning
(illogical, intense),
a middle (building
your ‘place’ and
exploring the idea of
domestic bliss) and
the ending, which,
even if hellish at the
time, can now find me
grinning with glee; paus-
ing for long gazes into the
nowhere space with these
brown eyes, lost in a moment,
my face that has been fortunate
enough to enjoy hours of kiss-
ing (and of course i do
not suggest overall, but
all at once, on many
occasions), the hours of
conversations, the arguing,
the tears, the coded looks
(“please can you open this
can for me?” or “why are
you even thinking of
doing this to me?”);
whatever would bring
me to the next stage
in the journey. ad-
ventures, for sure.
happiness, obviously.
hedonism in many forms.
and so much love (i have
learned to only speak for
myself on this one; but i've
so often felt it coming at me
with as much certainty as
the fact that i am actively
returning it). admittedly,
it is easy to appreciate
the value of such a blessed
life when you find yourself
in a long drought without
most any of it, when you
find yourself in unknown,
undecipherable, troubled
times, alone, in a box
you call “helplessness.” but
you do what you know, (if
wherever i was living
at the time, in groups rang-
ing from two to twenty or
so (like the one with four
or five of us at the
apartment in which i
lived the longest, where
we talked for some-,
thing like four hours
about how gold was
made into bars). i spoon
into the batter many
stories, particularly of
love, different with
each person, but each
having a beginning
(illogical, intense),
a middle (building
your ‘place’ and
exploring the idea of
domestic bliss) and
the ending, which,
even if hellish at the
time, can now find me
grinning with glee; paus-
ing for long gazes into the
nowhere space with these
brown eyes, lost in a moment,
my face that has been fortunate
enough to enjoy hours of kiss-
ing (and of course i do
not suggest overall, but
all at once, on many
occasions), the hours of
conversations, the arguing,
the tears, the coded looks
(“please can you open this
can for me?” or “why are
you even thinking of
doing this to me?”);
whatever would bring
me to the next stage
in the journey. ad-
ventures, for sure.
happiness, obviously.
hedonism in many forms.
and so much love (i have
learned to only speak for
myself on this one; but i've
so often felt it coming at me
with as much certainty as
the fact that i am actively
returning it). admittedly,
it is easy to appreciate
the value of such a blessed
life when you find yourself
in a long drought without
most any of it, when you
find yourself in unknown,
undecipherable, troubled
times, alone, in a box
you call “helplessness.” but
you do what you know, (if
you know some good?), and
you do it with all you have in-
side of you. i will continue
with this blessed and overly
joyous existence, nourishing
myself with these pancakes,
which are drenched in maple sy-
rup (which is almost too excitable
for this tongue). and i’ll be back
there lickety-split. just watch me.
you do it with all you have in-
side of you. i will continue
with this blessed and overly
joyous existence, nourishing
myself with these pancakes,
which are drenched in maple sy-
rup (which is almost too excitable
for this tongue). and i’ll be back
there lickety-split. just watch me.
