REGARDING THE DLQ

Jaya, in Promise, isn’t the only character in my fiction to address a concept I’ve dubbed the DLQ, or Dedicated Laborious Quest. But she does, I’ll argue, come closest to aspiring to an artistic expression for its encounters.

The DLQ, as I envision it, is the long-range discipline of spiritual pursuit, one that can be found in any number of variations in any number of religious, artistic, social activist, or even athletic lines of action. It’s a blending of heart and head, body and soul, awareness and discovery – the poet Gary Snyder refers to something similar as the Real Work, for instance, or maybe simply “daily practice” will touch on it as well.

One of Jaya’s concerns is a search for a fitting vehicle to embody the experience. Essays are too prosaic. Poetry? Sometimes. Drawings or paintings? To a degree. Maps of a kind? Getting closer, I’d hope.

Even so, I’ve wanted to leave the ultimate form she uses open to the imagination.

And then, more recently, I came across something that comes closest. An exhibition of Shaker art and artifacts at the Farnsworth Museum in Rockport, Maine, introduced me to what are called Gift Songs or Gift Drawings or Gift Paintings, which take their name from the faithful artist’s position as a medium receiving the song or design from a deceased member of the sect (that is, given) to be conveyed to another, living member of the sect (also, as given). To be appreciated, these must be seen in the original, full size, since much of the detail gets lost in reproduction. Sometimes the words are in a secret, private language and alphabet. Sometimes they blend. The lines flow, turn upside down, sideways. The works are sprinkled with artwork as well as words. Are they magical? Or simply mysterious?

Whichever, they spring from a tradition and discipline and practice to utter something deep in the heavenly desire and earthly community of a particular recipient.

I can tell you Jaya would have been most impressed. Definitely.

Promise~*~

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JUST WHERE DID I DEVELOP THAT TASTE?

Ever look back and wonder when you first encountered an item that’s now one of your go-to menu items?

Oh, I can remember when pizzas first invaded our neighborhood – the smell of oregano easily triggers that preschool memory!

But the Greek wrap called a gyro – and pronounced HE-ro – remains a mystery. I may have discovered it, along with souvlaki, in the late ’70s in the University District of Seattle, back when we’d visit from the interior desert. Or it may have come from a takeout place we ordered from at the newspaper, a decade-and-a-half later.

I do remember a heavenly example from a wood-fired stove at the Common Ground Fair in Unity, Maine, back in 2002 – along with a wait in a very long line.

More recently, it’s been the highlight of dinner before our weekly choir rehearsals in Watertown, Massachusetts.

Just remember, no onions on mine, please.

DWELLING WITH A GHOST

New Englanders – at least those living in old houses – will occasionally speak of ghosts, and their stories can be compelling, no matter how skeptical the listener.

Of course, the specifics can differ. A dark apparition moving silently through dark hallways – or, in other modes, clumping loudly up and down the staircase. Leave empty junk food wrappers and soda cans and bottles on the counters and coffee table and even in the unmade sheets. Laugh eerily at midnight. Slide in front of you at the bathroom door, close it, lock it.

Drain the wi-fi bandwidth.

Expect steak and lobster and cheese while ignoring lettuce or eggs or peas.

But have you ever heard of a trail of stench that follows its movement? Oh, that detail is so telling. The fear of taking a shower, as well – the soap and washcloth remaining untouched.

They speak of the chill you feel, more than the dense smoky cloud. Or the echoing conversation as it’s twisted with a chortle and thrown back.

One version, in fact, has every intimate conversation accompanied by a Hollywood laugh track. And that, I’ll contend, is the most annoying.

MORE THAN THE BAKLAVA

When I moved to Baltimore, I was surprised to find all of the local pizza parlors were owned by Greeks. Not Italians?

Well, it took time before I discovered the alternatives, beginning in the city’s Little Italy.

But that occurred about the same time I was told most diners were owned by Greeks, too. And I’ve come to love diners, even though I’d been introduced to the real thing way back right after college. They just weren’t fashionable then.

Well, somewhere in-between there had been the Dairy Queen owned by a Greek-American who, though a big error by the Bank of France, wound up instantly nearly seven-figures rich – and took flight to his homeland before the error was discovered. It was a big news story where I was for the next month, before he repented and returned.

So more recently, I ordered a pizza from a local parlor. Wanted to support a young friend who works there. When I picked up the box, there was no gaudy image of a fat smiling chef on the top of the steaming box – a good sign, in my book. And then I noticed the design was mostly white with blue trim, adhering to the national Greek colors. Along with a border of … the signature Greek key pattern. OK, I thought. I get it. Even before I noticed the words gyros and pizza in a little house, side by side.

That does it. I’m definitely going back for a gyro.

And, for the record, the box is distributed from our favorite Italian grocery in Portland, Maine. Has me wondering about the rest of the story.

CHAUNCY CREEK

 

A popular lobster restaurant is perched at the bottom of a cliff. Some of its patrons tie up at this dock. Most park in a crowded roadside lot above. Their oysters on the half shell, by the way, are unbeatable.
A popular lobster restaurant is perched at the bottom of a cliff. Some of its patrons tie up at this dock. Most park in a crowded roadside lot above. Their oysters on the half shell, by the way, are unbeatable.

This lovely tidal channel links Pepperell Cove to a town park called Seapoint and sets Fort Foster off on its own island.

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At low tide, the rafts can be sitting on the rocks. The tidal changes are impressive.
Just a few hours later ...
Just a few hours later …

 

 

WATCH THOSE DRINKS

A soft drink of local note – or notoriety, depending – is thick, dark, bitter Moxie. Think molasses. Or patent medicine, as it originated.

The soda has a cult following, something that mystifies many of us. Well, in our part of New England it’s something like Dr. Pepper is elsewhere. Hardly a universal taste. Either you get it or you don’t.

Well, there’s also Red Bull, which commonly gets teamed up with Jagermeister – as the Jagerbomb. The rumor is it’s so popular with underage drinkers that anyone buying Jagermeister at the State Liquor Store will get carded, regardless of age.

So the other day I noticed one of our neighbors sitting out in the sun and sipping … Moxie.

What, no Jagermeister with it?

No, he said smoothly. Moxie goes with Captain Morgan.

AVOIDING THE CROWDS IN SEASON

At the mouth of the Piscataqua River downstream from where I live, Fort Foster has long guarded the entrance to Portsmouth Harbor. It’s now a town park.

By purchasing a season pass each year, I’ve come to consider it my private patch on the ocean — one shared with some folks who’ve become sunny friends as we swim and then warm in the rays.

The rocky shoreline allows a fine introduction to tide pool life, while the pebble beaches have their own experience. There are also some sandy pocket beaches and a trail to meander while looking out over the cobalt Atlantic.

About as unspoiled as it gets.
About as unspoiled as it gets.
An observation bunker, from World War II, now has a picnic pavilion added for groups to use by reservation.
An observation bunker, from World War II, now has a picnic pavilion added for groups to use by reservation.