Pinnekjøtt

Pinnekjøtt with rutabagas, potato, carrot mash and mushy peas

The food just gets uglier here in the Wise household as we do our best to escape the gravitational pull of traditions. Not only did we skip the turkey, which had the knock-on effect of leaving us without leftovers, but we cooked up some dried-out six-month-old mutton that was likely dispatched in springtime, salted, and then hung in the rafters of somewhere in Norway before becoming this Scandinavian holiday favorite called Pinnekjøtt. Five pounds of funky dried sheep ribs exuding a slightly peculiar (not pleasant) cheese-like stench sat wrapped in a paper bag, stinking up our place for over a month. Before you ask, no, we didn’t seal it in a bag and risk it molding; it needs air to breathe, nor did we put it in our fridge, as it’s never been in one anyway.

Cooking it, on the other hand, that was where the experience got real. To me, it smelled like we were cooking the corpse of the infamous Chilean dictator Augusto Pinochet, who influences how I say the word Pinnekjøtt, which Caroline insists is pronounced: “PIN-neh-SHOHT.”

Enough of the semantics. First, we soaked the sheep ribs overnight. Then, we simmered them for nearly three hours. Oops, this was the first mistake, as that amount of time was meant to cook more than we were preparing. From there, I put them on our barbecue, trying to bring them to a crispiness, not the dried-out slivers of meat and charred fat we ended up with. It’s a good thing we have another three pounds that can linger in our apartment until Christmas, when we take a different approach to preparing them instead of just throwing them away while they continue insulting our olfactory.

Thanksgiving Seal

Canned seal meat from Newfoundland, Canada

I’m calling this bowl seal meat because I don’t want to admit that Caroline and I have taken to eating dog food so we can better afford our exorbitant travel expenses. For the astute, they’ll notice a stunning lack of photos from the Oregon Coast this Thanksgiving (a possible first), all because we cannot afford the life we’ve come to expect. Don’t feel too sorry for us; we had started with dry kibble, but the constant crunching of enough dry food to satiate us was driving me nuts. Any of you who know me will realize I have an incredibly low tolerance for things I don’t want to hear, such as others talking to interrupt my sermons.

Rrrzzzzt….rewind the tape here; where is the lie and the truth? Everything after the seal meat reference is questionable because this is legit seal meat. We’d dragged a jar of it back with us from Newfoundland, and it just continued to get uglier in our pantry. Seeing how we were skipping our annual Coastal Oregon pilgrimage due to travel fatigue and that I wasn’t about to go all traditional Thanksgiving dinner, why not break out that jar of seal meat we’ve been saving for a special occasion? That’s just what we did.

Because people have asked, I pan-seared it in butter, onion, and garlic with the guidance of one of my many Artificial Intelligence overlords that steers my life after I have given up my autonomy, and then I added beef broth, rutabagas, potato, and carrots for an authentic taste of Newfoundland. Searing it emphasizes the umami taste, while stewing it allows for tenderizing the meat, bringing out its rich, gamey flavors. That’s what the A.I. told me to share, so yes, that last sentence was cut and pasted.

Seriously, though, Caroline and I both enjoyed our first taste of seal, which surprised us. While we couldn’t be at the sea this year, we could still partake in its bounty as though the sea came to us.

Out Duncan Way

Looking west near Duncan, Arizona

Behold, the view of indulgence, the image of selfish absorption, the horizon of nothing but self. I was not traveling into the sunset but away from it. This required me to stop, get out of the car, and look back at where I’d come from as I was escaping all other responsibilities to snatch hold of my focus, holding fast to a singular purpose. On my way east into the darkening sky, I was alone and ready to be self-absorbed for days while remaining well aware of my good fortune to have such privilege. Duncan, Arizona, was my destination, and truthfully, this photo was taken with the reluctance that I somehow feel compelled to publish reports on my blog instead of leaving large gaps so that it might appear that nothing is happening out of the ordinary. That impression would be false, as every day is extraordinary when so much time is allocated to exploring some aspect of creativity, love, and dreams.

Bonnie Heather Inn in Duncan, Arizona

My excursion is leading me into a place dwelling inside my head. There are no beer taps or pool tables to be found there, though they could be manifested if the story required such props. I’m at the edge of New Mexico to explore pages that are yet empty, awaiting the tippity-tappity click-click of chicklet keys recording strings of letters being telegraphed to fingers that do the bidding of throwing down words that might one day find their way into someone else’s eyes and mind.

This photo is from inside the Bonnie Heather Inn, which, in all the years of our visits in and through Duncan, has not once been open, but today, it sees the light of day. I suppose that, in a sense, it is like the brain hiding a book, painting, or composition within it until the door is ready to be opened. As I set out on a morning walk, a delivery truck was parked next to the building; the front door was open, which was my invitation to walk into this relic that had been sitting quietly for so long. The proprietor shared how they’d sold the River Front Lodge on the opposing corner and would be opening this place on a more frequent basis. So, while it appeared long abandoned, the saloon/bar/inn is still active and ready to welcome celebrants.

Dry bed of the Gila River in Duncan, Arizona

Since mid-June, the novel I’ve been crafting/sculpting/expelling has been on hold; maybe it appeared abandoned. It was not because my fountain of blathering had run dry like the bed of the Gila River in this photo. On the contrary, I still wrote with raging intensity, but instead of adding two more novels worth of material to my draft, I posted two more novels worth of musings here on my blog in the form of travel missives.

This update is my unenthusiastic attempt at dropping breadcrumbs, while my preference would be to maintain a singular concentration on my novel now that I’ve dipped back into the flow. My visit to Duncan was meant to push into high gear the kind of persistence of vision that allows absolute intensity to be given to my pursuit of authorship, and it worked.

View north from Skyline Drive in Duncan, Arizona

After days with my head in the clouds of drifting storylines, I was ready to return to the loving arms of Caroline in Phoenix, though the embrace of my characters is also a fun place to be. As a note to myself, I came back around to my evolving manuscript on Monday, November 4th, with some anxiety because, after opening it for the first time in 143 days, I felt lost and somewhat unfamiliar for the better part of a day as I tried finding the storyline. First, I read a paragraph or two to find myself, but that wasn’t enough. I then attempted going back a few pages, looking for a thread, before I remembered to just put down any word, and the rest would follow.

Lung Leg – Fur Lined Futility

Fur-spined book of poetry and drawings titled Futility from Lung Leg (Lisa Carr)

Deep in a rabbit hole, I stumbled upon the proverbial one thing leading to another and ended up on Lung Leg’s Wikipedia page. Lung Leg is also known as Elizabeth Carr or Lisa Carr, and this is her fur-lined book titled Futility which features poetry and drawings she made in the mid-1980s and sent to me while I was living in Germany. The blur of time leaves me foggy, but I may have learned about Lung Leg from Nick Zedd and his Cinema of Transgression, or maybe from the Richard Kern video for Sonic Youth titled Death Valley 69, or it could have from someone in passing. I’ll never know.

Fur-spined book of poetry and drawings titled Futility from Lung Leg (Lisa Carr)

During that age of Mail art and fanzines, it wasn’t always difficult to find the contact information for people in any of the nascent art scenes that were bubbling up, and it was that kind of searching that led me to Lung Leg, corresponding with Nick Zedd, and exchanging a couple of things with Costes, the French version of G.G. Allin. Through Costes, I learned about the work of Suckdog and a project called Psychodrama titled Something To Offend Everyone featuring the first (and only) projectile shitting I’d ever witnessed (on video).

Fur-spined book of poetry and drawings titled Futility from Lung Leg (Lisa Carr)

Back then, the world was far away, exotic, and sometimes dangerous. At the fringe of society, I found others who were recording the filth, decay, and darkness that I felt was hidden behind a facade of fake normalcy. It turned out that while America is a hotbed for innovation where capital chases the fertile minds of genius, a vast underclass of people has failed to prosper. In that malaise, artists and creators find inspiration to document the horrors of their existence. Artists such as Jean-Michel Basquiat, Kehinde Wiley, and Keith Haring, musicians such as Eminem, Kurt Cobain, and NWA, and filmmakers Spike Lee and Harmony Korine were just a few of those who emerged out of poverty with messages that resonated with a wider population. While the likes of Lung Leg, Nick Zedd, Manual DeLanda, Jello Biafra, and Hubert Selby may have failed to capture the popular zeitgeist, they no less managed to inspire many an aspiring fellow creator with their grit, tenacity, and ability to share their truths.

Voting in a Black & White World

Caroline Wise in Phoenix, Arizona

This vote of serious consequence was the first presidential election in which Caroline had the opportunity to participate. Adamant that she would vote in person due to this fact, we had not sent in our mail-in ballot and were holding out for November 5th, that is, until I accepted one of the many election phone calls I’ve been inundated with. The volunteer from Chicago on the other end of the line made a short spiel about getting out to vote, and I assured him that we would be voting next Tuesday. Then he asked why we were waiting. I explained how my wife wanted to be there in person and not mail or drop off her ballot, and he informed me that we could vote in person today if we chose to. He offered that I could look at the website I Will Vote to find a polling place near us. Wow, finally, an unwanted call that turned out to be incredibly helpful.

At the polling station, there were far more people voting than we’d expected, considering it was about 9.30 a.m. on a weekday, almost a week before the official election day. Things went mostly smooth, except for this one guy (because there had to be that one guy) in line behind us, who asked the polling official at the door if they were going to lose his ballot like they did last time and then told her that he was going to photograph his ballot as he waved his phone at her. She calmly informed him that he would not and that it was against federal law. She then pointed him to read one of three signs next to her. The funny thing was, once inside, he was having problems with his ballot due to inconsistencies with his address. At that point, he admitted to the volunteer trying to help him with the computer that he’d only recently become a U.S. citizen and hadn’t yet updated his address on his I.D. So, his anger issues outside were nothing more than theatrics for him playing the drama of a petulant child. We can all guess who he was there to vote for, and I can assure you that it wasn’t the woman we were both voting for.

Election Vulgarities

Election sign in Phoenix, Arizona

If there was any hint that on our margins, we Americans have, to some extent, become a trash society. Our current political climate seems to show that a plurality of us are fully entrenched in a race to a level of cultural vulgarity that proves beyond any doubt that we are a nation of idiots falling into hate. While mudslinging has always been part of the fabric of politics around the world and throughout history, there seemed to be a time and place for the exchange of grievances. Today, we have returned to a time where we engage the mob in an attempt to foment the most amount of rage.

Election sign in Phoenix, Arizona

When I call us a “trash society,” what I mean is that instead of having a commonality of education that allows us to see each other as more-or-less equal, we have become a polarized people of better-educated citizens able to adapt to the rapid shift in demands for intellectual flexibility and those who have failed to embrace the demands of an economy that requires intelligence able to evolve in response to the incredible speed of change that is part of modern life. Those who are failing themselves are a volatile lot; they are easy to anger and ignored for long enough there is some likelihood they will bring revolution, one that will not serve those of us who have enjoyed the prosperity that arrived with adaptability. Looking at the Russian Revolution and subsequent Red Terror, the Chinese Cultural Revolution, the Iranian Revolution, the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia, and to some extent, Nazism in Germany, these movements shared something ugly in common, and that was that they targeted government officials and bureaucrats, military officers, nobility/aristocrats, wealthy merchants/landowners, religious leaders/clergy, intellectuals, professors, teachers, journalists, writers, artists, cultural figures, lawyers, judges, doctors, scientists, union leaders, political opponents, ethnic minorities, foreign nationals, wealthy peasants/farmers, student activists, civil society leaders, librarians, publishers, bankers/financiers, diplomatic corps members, police officials from previous regimes, urban professionals, social reformers, and democracy advocates.

Election sign in Phoenix, Arizona

I do have to give credit to a number of people who are proponents of accelerationism and the Dark Enlightenment movement. They look to push forward a collapse, believing that democracy is inefficient and leads to societal decay, traditional hierarchies and authorities should be restored, progressive social movements are destructive to civilization, technology and capitalism should be unleashed from democratic constraints, universities and media constitute a “Cathedral” that enforces progressive orthodoxy, and that the Enlightenment and its values were a historical mistake. That’s a ridiculously compressed version of the accelerationist movement, but you get the idea. Without dedicating thousands of words to the complexity of all sides of this desperate situation and those who are being used as pawns in a battle of wealth and power, I have to leave this here with my sad recognition that the vulgarities displayed on the streets of Phoenix are battle weapons, sowing division and mistrust between the diverse population that makes America a great country.