So the biryani was pretty bad. The soggy rice was really the least of its issues. Next time I'll need to remember to use less mace and cinnamon, eliminate mint and star anise entirely, add more salt and master cooking Pakhi biryani before moving onto Kacchi.
So my wife bought me a kindle 2.0 for my birthday--actually, she gave me permission to buy it which is just as good as buying it for me--and I am fairly impressed. Speaking of my wife; she's listening to this Hindi song that sounds like a fusion of Hindi and that french coffeehouse accordion music--what's that called? It sounds remarkably beautiful. Hindi fusion songs are so frequently too heavy on one style or the other, but this song blends the two styles better than any I've heard. Not that the other Hindi songs are bad (well, some are terrible); it's just that this song masters the fusion.
I've digressed from the kindle. The kindle's ease on the eyes is really the best thing it's got to offer. I can't stand reading hundreds of JSTOR articles on my computer because of the strain on my eyes. There is a problem with reading PDFs on the kindle though. Although the kindle does natively support pdf, my experience has been that the font is too small to read easily since it tries to fit the image on the screen. Changing font size and words per line is out of the question with a pdf on kindle. I have found that you can convert pdfs with mobipocket creator though. The formatting gets messed up a little bit, but it still works for me.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Friday, March 26, 2010
Biryani and Woe
Here comes a cliche: I'm feeling extremely depressed today.
Three things are contributing to my depression: first, I've no idea what I'll do if I don't get into the M.F.A. program and I'm feeling fairly certain that I won't get in; second, I'm making biryani right now and I cooked the rice too long before starting to cook it with the chicken; and third, tomorrow is my 24th birthday.
My application packet to the MFA program was far from inspirational. Instead of writing one piece that was 25 pages long, I submitted three separate writings. Not only were they separate, but they weren't even in the same genre! I can't stick to one genre though; I love them all. I think it's because I've been playing percussion for most of my life. As a percussionist, you have to learn to master hundreds of percussive instruments; usually people specialize in one instrument, but a true percussionist is master of as many as he can learn. I feel the same way with writing. But even with that in mind, the pieces still needed at least a few more weeks of revisions before they could even be close to perfect. I guess I could apply to a different graduate program, but I wasn't even sure that I wanted to apply to the M.F.A. Honestly, I feel stagnant, like I'm entirely worthless.
The biryani mistake makes me want to bash a window with a bag of hair. I'm not actually sure if that's possible, but it's the least violent way of committing violence that I can think of. The problem with biryani is that you've got to cook the rice so that it's half-way done before you start cooking it with the chicken. Biryani requires that the chicken be cooked underneath the rice so that the rice absorbs the flavor of the chicken and its marinade. Since I cooked the rice a little bit too long, I fear that it will be mushy. Biryani is one of my favorite foods, but when it's not cooked right, it ruins the entire experience. Kind of ridiculous that I'm so disappointed about how my food will turn out, but I love (good) food. And I'm firmly of the belief that good cooking can only be the product of my own hands; these hands, unfortunately, are growing a bit more gnarled with age.
Tomorrow I turn 24. Who wouldn't be depressed to be reminded of the most traumatic experience of their life? Birth ruins us. Before we open our eyes, we are completely ignorant to the suffering of this world and as a result are better than happy. The more I learn, the more cynical and depressed I get. I don't know shit and I'm already a terribly unhappy person; I can't imagine how hopeless I'll be after even another half decade. It's not that I'm getting old that gets me down--I'm still a kid. I think what bothers me is that I'm getting older and have nothing at all to show for it. I still live in Oklahoma, I work for my mom's newspaper, I've never published anything but my 60 or so crappy movie reviews, and I feel as though I've slacked off through at least 40% of my education. Bah humbug.
Three things are contributing to my depression: first, I've no idea what I'll do if I don't get into the M.F.A. program and I'm feeling fairly certain that I won't get in; second, I'm making biryani right now and I cooked the rice too long before starting to cook it with the chicken; and third, tomorrow is my 24th birthday.
My application packet to the MFA program was far from inspirational. Instead of writing one piece that was 25 pages long, I submitted three separate writings. Not only were they separate, but they weren't even in the same genre! I can't stick to one genre though; I love them all. I think it's because I've been playing percussion for most of my life. As a percussionist, you have to learn to master hundreds of percussive instruments; usually people specialize in one instrument, but a true percussionist is master of as many as he can learn. I feel the same way with writing. But even with that in mind, the pieces still needed at least a few more weeks of revisions before they could even be close to perfect. I guess I could apply to a different graduate program, but I wasn't even sure that I wanted to apply to the M.F.A. Honestly, I feel stagnant, like I'm entirely worthless.
The biryani mistake makes me want to bash a window with a bag of hair. I'm not actually sure if that's possible, but it's the least violent way of committing violence that I can think of. The problem with biryani is that you've got to cook the rice so that it's half-way done before you start cooking it with the chicken. Biryani requires that the chicken be cooked underneath the rice so that the rice absorbs the flavor of the chicken and its marinade. Since I cooked the rice a little bit too long, I fear that it will be mushy. Biryani is one of my favorite foods, but when it's not cooked right, it ruins the entire experience. Kind of ridiculous that I'm so disappointed about how my food will turn out, but I love (good) food. And I'm firmly of the belief that good cooking can only be the product of my own hands; these hands, unfortunately, are growing a bit more gnarled with age.
Tomorrow I turn 24. Who wouldn't be depressed to be reminded of the most traumatic experience of their life? Birth ruins us. Before we open our eyes, we are completely ignorant to the suffering of this world and as a result are better than happy. The more I learn, the more cynical and depressed I get. I don't know shit and I'm already a terribly unhappy person; I can't imagine how hopeless I'll be after even another half decade. It's not that I'm getting old that gets me down--I'm still a kid. I think what bothers me is that I'm getting older and have nothing at all to show for it. I still live in Oklahoma, I work for my mom's newspaper, I've never published anything but my 60 or so crappy movie reviews, and I feel as though I've slacked off through at least 40% of my education. Bah humbug.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Folk-dreaming
Last night I dreamt a very odd dream.
It began with my wife and I trudging through the snow. We kept moving along what appeared to be the ballast beside rail tracks until my wife jumped.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"There's a snake in the path!"
I looked but saw no snake. My wife stood there in the path frozen with fear. I looked again and again I saw no snake. So I grabbed my wife by the shoulders and carried her a few paces away from that spot.
After some time passed waiting, I led the way back through the same path. My wife shrieked again when we hit the same spot.
"Snakes!" she said. I looked again and still saw no snakes.
To ease her mind, I walked back from the area again and again we waited. As we waited, I felt something bite my ankle, and looking down I saw a very small silver snake crawling out through a hole in the left leg of my jeans.
I began to push the snake over the edge of a mountain and it grew grotesquely huge as I pushed . After struggling, it finally toppled over the mountain. My wife and I continued to walk along the same path and again we retreated when she saw the invisible snakes. Again I felt the bite of a snake. This time the snake uncoiled from around my ankle and crawled out of my shoe. Again I pushed the snake over the edge of the mountain.
By this time I was panicking. We walked again along the path until we ran into a medicine man who called himself "Red Foot" (what the hell kind of racist subconscious do I have??!) and his son who didn't give a name.
He instantly saw that I was sick from the snake bites and made a brown honeyish looking paste for all of us to eat. I'm not sure why we all ate it. Night fell and my perspective changed from first to third, my lens resting between Red Foot and his son, who sat directly across from me and my wife. A small fire lit my wife's face and mine.
"Is it working?" I heard Red Foot's son ask to my left.
I watched myself slowly bounce up and down. I was breathing heavily.
"What do you see?" My wife asked.
I saw myself point over my wife's right shoulder and indicated a bunny rabbit by forming my hand into a duckbill shape and making bouncing motions with it. As I pointed, I followed an arc to the other side of my pointing finger.
"It's working," Red Foot laughed.
And that's when I woke up.
It began with my wife and I trudging through the snow. We kept moving along what appeared to be the ballast beside rail tracks until my wife jumped.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"There's a snake in the path!"
I looked but saw no snake. My wife stood there in the path frozen with fear. I looked again and again I saw no snake. So I grabbed my wife by the shoulders and carried her a few paces away from that spot.
After some time passed waiting, I led the way back through the same path. My wife shrieked again when we hit the same spot.
"Snakes!" she said. I looked again and still saw no snakes.
To ease her mind, I walked back from the area again and again we waited. As we waited, I felt something bite my ankle, and looking down I saw a very small silver snake crawling out through a hole in the left leg of my jeans.
I began to push the snake over the edge of a mountain and it grew grotesquely huge as I pushed . After struggling, it finally toppled over the mountain. My wife and I continued to walk along the same path and again we retreated when she saw the invisible snakes. Again I felt the bite of a snake. This time the snake uncoiled from around my ankle and crawled out of my shoe. Again I pushed the snake over the edge of the mountain.
By this time I was panicking. We walked again along the path until we ran into a medicine man who called himself "Red Foot" (what the hell kind of racist subconscious do I have??!) and his son who didn't give a name.
He instantly saw that I was sick from the snake bites and made a brown honeyish looking paste for all of us to eat. I'm not sure why we all ate it. Night fell and my perspective changed from first to third, my lens resting between Red Foot and his son, who sat directly across from me and my wife. A small fire lit my wife's face and mine.
"Is it working?" I heard Red Foot's son ask to my left.
I watched myself slowly bounce up and down. I was breathing heavily.
"What do you see?" My wife asked.
I saw myself point over my wife's right shoulder and indicated a bunny rabbit by forming my hand into a duckbill shape and making bouncing motions with it. As I pointed, I followed an arc to the other side of my pointing finger.
"It's working," Red Foot laughed.
And that's when I woke up.
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