"I dream of a hard and brutal mysticism in which the naked self merges with the nonhuman world and somehow survives...Paradox and bedrock."-Edward Abbey

31 May 2011


I cook a frittata of an Mesoamerican flare. Coffee brews and I finish the last of my mourning tea. Keemun. There is already sense of accomplishment for the day, having mowed for the first time this season. Milarepa and Whstler kept me company amongst the trilling of humming birds cool mountain breezes.

My daughter cat naps on the couch, rousing occasionally to see what's going on or answer a question. The two us are going on walkabout. A research expedition, as it were. Sabina, having obligations, does not get to join us, and she lets her displeasure be known. I suggest feigning leprosy, telling her obligations she needs at least a day to try and keep herself together. She shoots me a playful glare, damning me for my attempts at temptation.

I promise that my daughter and I will have a miserable time. We'll be bored to tears, most likely. My research is for some of my own obligations. Sabina's means of income involves getting swag of natural and organic on occasion. One of mine involves being able to report the field conditions of various trails to those not familiar with outback of our Sahel. Unfortunate, perhaps, but I find myself willing to take this bullet and be tossed into the metaphoric brier patch, for the team.

Making a frittata of an Mesoamerican flare is something I can do on autopilot. Against a reggae backbeat, I work on breakfast, check my correspondence, and prepare both my daughter's and my own packs. Sabina packs a lunch and makes a fruit smoothy for her and my daughter to have with their frittatas. I intend to have a seven grain mixture spiced with curry, thus making breakfast hearty.

At one point, mixing in the eggs with the meat, peppers, onions, and garlic, I hear Sabina humming softly to herself. I neither recognize the tune nor interrupt her to inquire, but I do smile to myself. Her back is to me, humming and mixing up fruit into a liquid beverage. It doesn't bother me. I'm too busy enjoying listening to her hum a tune I do not recognize, the whole time feeling a familiar sense of amazement.

...She spends her time with me. I didn't need to use roofies or duct tape to achieves this. Wow...

Breakfast is served. Coffee is poured and we all toast and set to eat. Bits of dialogue fill the atmosphere between moments of mastication. I pull back a moment to watch Sabina and my daughter. My girls. My little family. Another smirk, brief and impish, steals across my thin lips before I take another bite of frittata. In that moment, I find all I can think is how wonderful it is to simply be alive.


  1. What a beautiful reflection of your morning routine. I loved the way you built this story. My favourite line: "I'm too busy enjoying listening to her hum a tune I do not recognize, the whole time feeling a familiar sense of amazement." Simply perfect.

  2. Thank you. I was attempting to capture a moment, or a set of them, and I do not think a camera of any sort would've worked.

  3. Roofies or duct tape, hm? intriguing...
    I like the lightheartedness and simple joy of this post. You're a very good writer. I'm glad I started following you.

  4. Thank you and I'm glad you enjoyed it. The bit about duct tape is a nod to a Henry Rollins rant I rather enjoy. He's a writer I admire, who seems to have worse luck with girls than I.

  5. I enjoy reading about your daily life, your family and the beautiful surroundings seen through your writer's eyes.

  6. This was so sweet. I loved it.