Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in cook_the_poor's LiveJournal:

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Monday, June 15th, 2009
3:57 pm	an addition to an old tale Part one: The Lake An old woman sits on a rocky shore, lacing fishing nets between her trembling hands. Her eyes alert, she scans her fishing spot for rivals and thieves. Time pours out of the creases in her face, reflecting like stardust and settling among the sediment. She sits motionless as stories swirl above her head, that she was fishing for her husband’s lost treasure, for her stillborn child, for a mermaid’s tail, for a map back home, a utopia, a nowhere. “I heard she sat at that same spot every day for forty years… I heard for fifty”. She never moved, she never left, and she was never late, in fact perpetually early. Was she always here?, no, but no one remembers a time without her. Are there fish in these waters? There shouldn’t be, warned the most reliable western scientific journals. And in the small chance there are, don’t look at them, don’t think of them, and dear god don’t even dare tasting them. There are no fish. And yet the old woman sits and waits, with a fishing line and an eye for protecting her source of income. Don’t let the western journals call her a fool, because there are fish in these waters. While I can’t confirm the quality or intentions of these fish, I can confirm they exist. One doesn’t even have to go so far as looking for the old women to know there are fish, just look at your plate. Fish. And for all the money and time and expertise spent on confirming their absence, just ask: ‘what’s for dinner?’ The lake should have been drained and filled years ago. Go back about 5 decades and several five year plans this lake should have housed the collected works of The Congress of Memorable Eulogies and Toasts, a library filled with the sweat and tears of a generation of mourners and drunks. Plans faded into plans, the library was never built, and fish continued to lay claim to the seabed floor. Chemicals, pesticides, radiation, and death all poured downstream, spreading among the seaweed. When a horrible blue cloud emerged from the lake and cause four church fires, two miscarriages, six dead chickens, and an unhealthy fear of the devil among the local population, a crew of scientists arrived to confirm: there are no fish. And when several years later several young men bathing in the lake suffered chemical burns, a completely different team of scientists confirmed the expected. None of this of course stopped anyone living by the lake from eating fish for dinner, or for that matter stopped anyone from bathing, drinking, and in general frequenting the lake. In fact a giant fish statue was erected last year to commemorate the lake with no fish, since tourism was dwindling since the whole radiation nonsense. Part Two: The Fish I dipped my big toe into the lake, half expecting to part with it forever, relinquishing it to the murky abyss. In terms of sacrifice, a toe is pittance compared to an arm or a leg, or even an index finger. But when it emerged unscathed, I was almost disappointed that the rumors of piranha fish were false. Or maybe the fish were simply off on holiday, or maybe taking a siesta. Fish are known to follow local customs only on the dinner plate. In the water they are slippery beasts, as likely to have a Russian’s soul as a Viking’s heart. Or maybe my Americanized, sterilized flesh held no appeal. Bland, unassuming, with no defined texture, my toe was the culinary equivalent of tofu. There are more interesting toes, and torsos, to consume; or at least more alcoholic ones. I see the old woman in the distance, on the other side of the lake. Her side is cradled in shadows and moss; odd plants emerge from the water only to blend with the sky. She is on the side of riddles and dead ends, paths that lead to Russian poetry where cats and chains get entangled and dragged off to sea. No matter how far I walk, I can never reach her. She belongs to a time before cities and apartment blocks, before nostalgia became a condition, before nostalgia was even a disease. Instead I am forever on the wretched sunny side, a side where there are no illusions or tricks of mind or turns of phrase. It is all clear as day. The pollution bubbles to the surface, choking up the lake into a bacteria filled swamp. No trees grow on my side, leaving only their unpacked suitcases and rotting roots. They were in a hurry to leave. I kick pebbles and pieces of glass, submerging them forever. Tonight I sit as an honored guest in a nameless relatives apartment. Awkwardly I poke at the fish on my plate. Its dead eyes reveal nothing. Mouths shut; it’s rude to spill anything now. I can only pretend to eat for so long, waste is not an option. The fish and I continue to have a one-sided conversation long into the night, my stomach turning and churning, and still the fish reveals no secrets. Atlantis? Babylon? Where have you been? The fish only winks, and continues to torment my insides. I come to understand that the fish has been where I can never go, a world I can never gain passage to. I know of this world through stories and photographs of others. But the stories and photographs are static, they offer no doorways. They are forever on the other side, with the old woman and secret paths. The fish is incompatible with my organism, and it soon escapes into the night. I should have known I couldn’t keep it forever, locked in my stomach. Shaking and pale I admit defeat, and sleep wrapped in warm wool blankets, dreaming of searching for a chocolate squirrel. The chocolate squirrel of my dreams is very much real, and is currently melting in my pocket. In the packed trolley I can’t lift my arm to rescue it, another victim of public transportation. Away from the lake now, I stand on more solid ground. The buildings around me are familiar, but are international only in style. Behind the concrete are dangerous elevator shafts and dark hallways. Utopian nightmares that disguised themselves as dreams slowly die behind broken doorbells. Another exclusive world, another denied entrance. A street vendor hawks dry salted fish wrapped in newspaper. The cheap newsprint smears the fish and your hands. News headlines imprint themselves over fingerprints; identity is difficult to pin down here. As for the fish, its source appeared unknown. But its delicious taste and friendly smile betrayed its origins. This is not a fish from the lake; this fish has been civilized to accept its fate. It even coats itself in Pravda stories to assure the eater of its intentions. This fish is Russian true and true, a brave sacrifice for another century of poor hygiene and short life spans. (Comment on this)
Sunday, March 22nd, 2009
12:56 am	" 'You're not Dostoevsky,' said the citizeness, who was getting muddled by Koroviev. 'Well, who knows, who knows,' he replied. 'Dostoevsky's dead,' said the citizeness, but somehow not very confidently. 'I protest!' Behemoth exclaimed hotly. 'Dostoevsky is immortal!'" http://lib.ru/BULGAKOW/master97_engl.txt (Comment on this)
Sunday, March 8th, 2009
10:00 pm	(1 Comment |Comment on this)
Tuesday, January 13th, 2009
9:53 pm	shit!!! holy shit, i just got the most painful tattoo ever. and i have a high pain tolerance. foot tattoos are nothing to fuck with. Current Mood: sore Current Music: nausea (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, January 11th, 2009
12:21 am	happiness i love it when two things i love (albeit things that usually exist separately in their own contained worlds) combine. in this weeks installment 1. anthony bourdain: my single celebrity crush. the man is brilliant, jaded, poetic, and an asshole. he can cook, and has a television show that follows him on his travels. he listens to old punk records and has regrettable tattoos. yes- he is my celebrity crush. 2. the wire- the best television show. ever. the end. nothing on television has ever been smarter, more complex, visionary, or truthful in its portrayal of America, urban life, or the human condition. The fact that i am an urban studies nerd only intensifies my love for this show. one day i will own the box set. now...i give you this: http://anthony-bourdain-blog.travelchannel.com/read/rust-never-sleeps i am probably the only person ever who finds this to be the greatest thing ever- and it doesn't bother me at all. (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, June 2nd, 2008
12:27 am	"La police, ne t'a pas encore trouvé?" (Comment on this)
Sunday, May 25th, 2008
11:41 pm	r.i.p utah philllips (Comment on this)
Saturday, April 19th, 2008
1:25 pm	growing up so after 6 years i finally took out my lip ring. i dont feel any more grown up yet....theres still hope. (Comment on this)
Thursday, January 24th, 2008
6:29 pm	Simulacra http://simulacra.myminicity.com/ visit my city please....i needs to be planning (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Friday, January 4th, 2008
12:53 am	where to start? i started this story about five times in five different ways. i need to rethink how i work, since i can probably write five other intros. so here is one of them: An old woman sits on a rocky shore, lacing fishing nets between her trembling hands. Her eyes alert, she scans her fishing spot for rivals and thieves. Time pours out of the creases in her face, reflecting like stardust among the rocks and sand. She sits motionless as stories swirl that she was fishing for her husband’s lost treasure, for her stillborn child, for a mermaids tail, for a map back home, a utopia, a nowhere. ‘I heard she sat at that same spot every day for forty years, I heard fifty’. She never moved, she never left, she never came. Was she always here?, no, but no one remembers a time without her. Are there fish in these waters? There shouldn’t be, warned the most reliable western scientific journals. And in the small chance there are, don’t look at them, don’t think of them, and dear god don’t even dare tasting them. There are no fish. And yet the old woman sits and waits, with a fishing line and an eye for protecting her source of income. Don’t let the western journals call her a fool, because there are fish in these waters. While I can’t confirm the quality or intentions of these fish, I can confirm they exist. One doesn’t even have to go so far as looking for the old women to know there are fish, just look at your plate. Fish. And for all the money and time and expertise spent on confirming their absence, just ask ‘what’s for dinner?’ The lake should have been drained and filled years ago. Go back about 5 decades and several five year plans this lake should have housed the collected works of The Congress of Memorable Eulogies and Toasts, a library filled with the sweat and tears of a generation of mourners and drunks. Plans faded into plans, the library was never built, and fish continued to lay claim to the seabed floor. Chemicals, pesticides, radiation, and death all poured downstream, spreading among the sediment. There should be no fish, no life. When a horrible blue cloud emerged from the lake and cause four church fires, two miscarriages, six dead chickens, and an unhealthy fear of the devil among the local population, a crew of scientists arrived to confirm: there are no fish. And when several years later several young men bathing in the lake suffered chemical burns from the water a completely different team of scientists also confirmed, the lake held no fish. None of this of course stopped anyone living by the lake from eating fish for dinner at least twice a week, or for that matter stopped anyone from bathing, drinking, and in general frequenting the lake. In fact a giant fish statue was erected last year to commemorate the lake with no fish, since tourism was dwindling since the whole radiation nonsense. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, August 26th, 2007
7:56 pm	make the world a better place kiva.org http://www.kiva.org/app.php?page=businesses&action=about&id=16355 (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, August 24th, 2007
4:59 pm	rock star death age is 27..... oh noes http://www.thesun.co.uk/article/0,,4-2007390406,00.html (Comment on this)
Thursday, May 17th, 2007
3:36 am	in communist russia... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I_TT43UayPw seriously best thing ever (Comment on this)
Friday, April 20th, 2007
9:56 pm	To feel safe, or sedated. I picture myself on a winding road, there are rolling hills in the distance, and tree branches loom low and graze my head as I walk. I pass shabby tenements and postmodern skyscrapers, towers of glass rising out of crumbling red clay bricks with their damp trappings of history. Behind them, hidden from view, are concrete soviet apartment complexes, abandoned playgrounds, and rugs being beat in the hot summer haze. Beyond even that is a park with birch trees, I am four years old. So I walk along, I keep walking. There are no forks in the road, not yet. I am still safe, I can still plan and scheme and wish and hope. I have not yet been engulfed, emptied, drained, and cast aside. No, not yet. But I cannot stop on the path; I cannot go backward in time. Forward comrades, a bright future awaits. And so I walk. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, January 12th, 2007
2:26 pm	-am i a hipster? because i wear brown... -yes, they all wear brown but your the good kind, with a soul (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, September 1st, 2006
3:00 pm	a start with no finish to a story with no reason....a rhyme Joanne Smith lived in a house on a hill, surrounded by pastures and scenic rot. She was born with strawberry blonde hair, which she kept until the age of thirteen when she became a brunette. Her eye color changed with the seasons. In her twenties she dabbled in art and fortune telling. Joanne wore butterfly earrings. And while she could count five birthmarks on her body, her lover could count six. The significance of Joanne Smith’s existence was always in question. She lived in two bipolar extremes, either a victim of chaos theory, or master of tides and lunar eclipses. Joanne dreaded hurricanes. When she was thirty a freak storm landed a tree inches away from the car she was driving. During the same year she started praying to empty heavens. It was on a Tuesday or possibly a Wednesday when Joanne burned down her house and destroyed all her belongings. After much examination no significance could be found about the date she chose, although it is rumored that on that date centuries previous Marie Antoinette had her first taste of cake. It appears all connected and spinning forever into the abyss. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Saturday, June 24th, 2006
10:32 pm	summer is dragging by, working when its beautiful out is draining the life from me. i need to escape, if even for a weekend. at least im looking foward to july 4th and the beach and fires and merriment and such..... i trap myself in tangles only to tangle myself up in escape plans..... i need suggestions of places to travel (and stay) somewhere in the east coast....im too broke to travel furthur.....and free travel plans seem unlikely...... (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, June 21st, 2006
6:05 pm	moving time... so we found another apartment (woohoo) and are set to move out sometime around the 1st. ....speaking of which we need to sublet out our place so if anyone reads this and is intrested in a place in brooklyn (border of clinton hill bed stuy) for july for 500 bucks a room or 1000 for the whole apartment (2 bedroom) lemme know.... (Comment on this)
Wednesday, June 14th, 2006
9:23 pm	kitties oh how i will miss the anarcho capitalist cats...... (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, June 2nd, 2006
7:08 pm	what is to be had when we sail off the borders of maps into memory? Current Mood: restless Current Music: devotchka (Comment on this)