7300 Bowls of Campbell’s Soups

I was stirring the oatmeal this morning and christened the 50+ year old stainless steel Paul Revere pot, “The Red River Pot.”  I chose this name because my Dad cooked Red River cereal for himself each morning in it.  I suppose I could have co-termed it the “Campbell’s Soup Pot” in fairness to Mum and the many hundreds of tins of Campbell’s she heated in this sturdy vessel.

If I take 365 days a year and multiply them by 20 years I have eaten 7300 bowls of Campbell’s soups.  I have not yet mentioned I was allergic to the great quantities of sodium laced into these soups.  These caused me to experience, “soup rage.”  I became unhinged after each serving but we all thought these out-rages were just part of me being Nicole and OD’ing on drama classes at school.  It was when I terminated conventional and manufactured foods from my diet that the reason for my reactions became quite clear = allergic! to chemicals, additives, and preservatives.

When I cook oatmeal I take my time licking the wooden spoon after filling our bowls with the sticky, nutty, batter-like organic cereal.  Blueberries, bananas, maple syrup, and cream:  perfect!

Listening to CHQM-FM and a country singer, a neighbor of Johnny Cash, is singing a song of tribute to him.  The singer says he loves crows; and Johnny Cash dressed like one!  This made me laugh.

When I’m up late in here filling in this book I feel like I’ve kindled my special powers.  I consider this time, “The Witching Hour:”  my witching hour.  It’s dark and raining.  I’ve turned on the heat.  A black figure reels down an inky Seawalk with a silver path from overhead lighting the walk under his feet.  An orange umbrella  appears like a gigantic flower moving in the black air.

"Moon Reflecting the Orange Umbrella"

Copyright © 2010 Nicole Rigets

ZenZing

Thanking my unconscious mind for these permissive ideas.

Eating lunch with a  friend at 3:30 p.m. in Capers Courtyard on Fourth Avenue yesterday. Two pigeons strutted around the table and between our feet.  I noticed they had black toenails at the end of their red toes and legs.  This is very dramatic and beautiful. I feel I need coral red fingernails with jet black tips:  very Zen!!  Now here I think the next Fashion Movement will be a ‘Zen’ look. I could do one:  Paper, water blue, soft jade green, moonlight, horizontal planes, 7″ x 7″ proportions, whispers.  Nothingness, lightness, being (3 stages of birth)… I like my new concept.

What else comes from my Zen?  Bowls, trees, discs, flow, chromium yellow and wine-stain red, high altitudes/attitudes, thinness, sticks, stones, smoothness, waving, layers, reduction, balance, harmony zones:  The Zen Zone; how would that look?  How would I combine the colors?

One stroke on a brass gong: a single strike against a brass gong!

Tastes like pepperment:  Peppermint Zen.

Smells like cinnamon-sea air.

Feels like mountain (Whistler) wind.

The energy of a horse’s mane in the air as it gallops, the flames of a fire (fire flame), a bird wing fanned out (against) or into the wind.

I like these images.

My “imagineered” design style is a place where Zen and Clutter Meet.

"Zen by Nature"

Copyright © 2010 Nicole Rigets

Candy Pink… Pink Bow

I awake from a dream holding onto Julie with my arms wrapped around her waist.  I’m saying that my Mum is just wanting to buy as much time as possible before she dies of cancer.

In this dream I see a leopard print jacket with a candy pink, pink bow, at the top of the neck – who’s touching my clothes?

The walk to Ambleside is littered with abandoned logs.

A collage collects along the low granite wall where the seams of blacktop meet with the rock.

The wind presses forcefully against me like a new lover.  It takes all my strength to walk forward into it.

The clouds spit at me and a crow sprays white splotches across my black umbrella.

I leave the library on my way home with three heavy books curled into my arm none of which I want to read when I get home.

My Mother’s apartment building shivers in cold grey as I walk by.  I let the wind pull my hair across my eyes so I don’t have to look into the dark empty windows where she once resided in warm lighting.

I tell myself all along that nothing matters but the feeling of being under twelve today and noticing how connected I am to all of nature as I walk home in fluctuating weather conditions.

Once inside I put on something warm, wipe the bird doo from my umbrella and brew bancha tea.  I ignore the days’ old rinsed dishes and the clean laundry waiting to be put away.  I can’t scrub a sink or address an envelope right now.  I turn the ringer off on the phone, and relax into nothing.

"Sleeps in Neighbor's Treetop as I Dream"

Copyright © 2010 Nicole Rigets