Wa-hoo, I just landed the engineer’s position aboard the Adventuress! I’ll start in February for the Spring 2009 season for 4½ months. Of course bittersweet because it takes me away from Katja, Ultimate and the people I love here in Portland. But I am certainly excited to be starting this chapter… now the interim needs attention.
Below is an email inquiry I submitted to Wayword Radio, a Podcast about words that Katja turned me onto.
Hey Wayword,
I came across a definition that, as far as I can tell, needs a word. I have recently delved into baking more, and I feel my breads & cakes need more semantic distinction than just lumping them in to the rest of my culinary pursuits. So I began a wordhunt.
However, my scouring of the dictionary and thesaurus for something of or having to do with baking have yielded no lingual arc. Could this be?
1. Patisserie has perhaps a correct root, being related to pasta or dough, but conceptually/colloquially refers a pastry shop. That’s too niche. Plus, the suffix if changed to -ary, would be too aurally confusing for my taste.
2. Culinary’s root implies the kitchen, which could work, but already has an associated definition that makes it feels too inclusive.
So I went to a Latin dictionary for a new root word, and this is where I’d love your input. My Latin is in no shape to judge, so I wonder, which of these two roots do you think would be better for my vocabulary expansion.
clibanus: an oven or furnace/tray for baking bread.
fornacalis : relating to an oven
fornacula : a small oven
fornax : fornacis : oven, furnace, kilnI like that cliban- refers to baking bread
I prefer the look and sound of forna- but don’t like the inclination to anglosize the spelling, also it could be assumed to mean that it has to do with fornication.clibanary, fornacary, furnacary: of or having to do with ovens baking.
“Definition, seeking a Single, Latin, Root—for long hours of kneading, and the fire to really heat things up.
Asa Nathannael Hunt
My general inactivity in this realm, might suggest my general existance as busy and if you thought that you’d be partially right. And if you thought happy and busy, you’d be even more correct. But even that’s not the sum of it I fear. So I’ll just spill.
Laura and I moved into a nice little place near the Mississippi district in NoPo—aka North Portland. I’m getting up a little earlier, but that’s only because it’s easier to function when I feel like I’m not so rushed, ironically making me less tired. It has since evolved to somewhere between 5:10a and T-7mins, which I know isn’t earlier (or less rushed) but somehow I feel like I’m settling in.
I have a form of employment, which last week (my first) dominated my afterschool time. I’ve been working with this guy named Richard who I fear/rejoice is the one progressive diesel mechanic in all of Portland—and boy is he a social progressive. Anyone who gets his (gloved) hands dirty with grease everyday while listening to Air America and ranting about (NPR—Natonal Petrolium Radio) has got to have an opinion left of the majority.
My life has been all but consumed by my occupational choice. I go to school 6a-2p then home for some grub before off to work with Richard for 3hrs or 10 on Fridays and then home. maybe check my email, do some dishes, work on a little project here or there, then dinner. Laura’s home by 8p or so whence we spend our most rejuvenating and quality hours—together. Talking, grocery shopping, cooking, eating chocolate and massaging tired bodies before we crawl into bed at 10p, to do it again the next day, with hopefully more grace precision and love. This mad cycle yearns for the break of the weekend.
The weekend, ah what a word. So much baggage and yet so invigorating. A state of being, unscathed by adult structures, ruled like we were in neverland. It is the word of imagination and childness, rampant with so many dreams and aspirations we need Doc and Superman to turn back time. make it all fit and work out. But then there’s Lex Luther and Mr. Tannen. Monday as the entity of Bart Simpson, the biggest silver lining, cleverest brat of a bully to bully the block, comes knock-knock on the door, post Sunday.
So dastardly is the impact of Sunday dinner on one’s general psyche that Laura and I formed its counterpart, more so of natural reaction to the situation than a planned attack, and wow, it is the most wonderful ying ever. We call it Breakfast. it is Breakfast because it’s different than breakfast. in fact it’s the most bodaciously brewed breakfast that bravely boasted to be. We get up real late, like 6:30-7a. then we mosey on over to our artisan of choice (it’s been Dyer of late), and bask in the grandness of R&R that is this state, this street, this shop. forget about my week, my work, my stress and the headless horsemen. this is good, this is warm this is now, this is Breakfast with Laura.
Now I live in a cave. No, that’s overstating it maybe. A very dark room mostly underground, with two widthwise windows on the top sixth of the east wall. The sort of place where I’ll look out the window at blue skies but still be unsure wether it’s sunny out.
I’m about to embark on this new adventure. My classes start on monday and I’ve been making mild attempts at trying to get used to the schedule that I’ll have, come the 26th. It mainly consists of me declaring to Laura “Okay, I need to get to bed early tonight.” We talk for an hour or more when I look at the clock and start cursing myself yet again. “Damn, I wanted to get up on-time (5:40a or so… getting ready for school) tomorrow.”
Now for the last week or so, I’ve actually awoken at 5:30a as my alarm is set. However rising from my haze, and sleepy bed is another matter. Well… what am I gonna do so early in the morning anyway? Satisfied with my own logic, I’ve returned to that place, guilt free. But last night I came up with a plan. So if I come up with something to do before I go to bed, then perhaps I won’t so easily relinquish my consciousness to the depths of sleep!
And so far it’s working. I’m up, although by this time I’d already be late for my shuttle ride, at least it’s a start.
“I look out my window, and what do I see? A crack in the sky and a hand reaching down to me…” Okay well not really but David Bowie might as well be right, because it’s sure as hell is dark enough.
I’ve spent so much time in my life trying to identify myself. I’m unique god-dammit. So much time divorcing myself from the things that allow others to know stuff about me, things that might otherwise give them reason to not even meet me.
I remember getting to a point in my young adulthood where I prayed regularly—an image of a man that was listening to my emotions, caring for me when eleven years of life was just a little too much to handle.
Then that faith was given a black eye. I started to learn about the concepts of lemmings—bleached souls, indignant to curiosity and everything that was challenging—and all the hurt they cause. Undriven, might as well be dead. I wasn’t that. I would never be that. I would never have religion. Dead weight for my hare’s energy. So I let my hair go, and it ran long. Assumptions became rampant and predictable (or so I assumed), almost fun to anticipate. I devoted myself to everevolutionism. Antisedentaryism. Perpetualchangeism. Ispitinthineface(inthemostsubtleofways)ism.
In the rubble, wake, and debris of so many recent travesties to my fellow genus; 2792, 190, 27963, 756, 118000, thousands dead. I am compelled to stop and think about those in more dire situations than me. Ponder their woes, sympathize with what is difficult about their struggle for happiness and take action as my compassion drives me.
I dedicate my life to compassion. Representation of those less considered. Amplification for those not listened to. Tears for those less appreciated—I love reminders. Stop. Relax. Be. It’s a lot of fucking fun man.
When I start to identify with those souls I can’t help but feel companionship. A big-picture moment to breath. I feel almost spiritually connected around the notion that I’m not so unique that I, we, do have support in this struggle. See… we’re all in this together. I tell myself. Those words have already lost their meaning, but for a second I understood what I meant.
“Keep her in your prayers†she said. My usual scoff, normally quick to defend it’s territory, is caught off guard. Perhaps recently put off, by something from within. An emotion not anticipated (not even batman can think of everything). For a second I ponder the implications me… pray? I guess that’d be unique.
So sorta last minute I decided to join some of my new friends on a trip to the Eugene area. the reason was a concert with this singer-songwriter who I don’t recall, Hot Buttered Rum, Mofro, Blackalicious and lastly, Michael Frianti & Spearhead.
I decided to go in part because the people who I was going with (Jeff, Steph, Dave and RP-R), whom RP-R and I met at Pickathon, were working with Harmony Event Medicine and so if we went together, I would be allowed to camp the night with that group. So, Jeff and I drove down that afternoon got our tickets and entered. It was a fairly intimate space despite being outdoors. Essentially it is a vinyard owned by a woman who decided it would be fun to host such shows. Little did I know, that being involved with HEM, comes with perks, the most thrilling of which had to be the “backstage” access.
So the second band, Hot Buttered Rum, a string band from the bay area, spent some time between talking about their Straight Veggie Oil (SVO) bus, and after they finished, RP-R, Dave and I decided to make our way backstage to ask questions about it (considering my latest educational-track choice, I thought it appropriate).
So we talked at length with Bryan Horne (the basest) when a tall (apparently 6′6″) man with dreadlocks and a voice lower than he is tall, walked up with a woman (who I later learned was his girlfriend—as well as a birthday girl) and started asking questions of the four of us about the bus.
-are you the guys who are runnin’ on veggie oil?
-yeah that’s us, you want to see it?
Bryan spoke up.
-yeah
RP-R introduced herself, and Michael responded.
-What’s up sista’
With an arm around the shoulder, sideways-hug. We all got some of the spiel again, this time a little more refined, as it was now the second time. We discussed the benefits, mileage, systems, spearhead’s rental bus, and then migrated onto the HBR’s bus eventually Michael and friend left
This ride was tite in multiple senses of the word. But also plush. We were invited atop the roof, crawling out vent holes, where we were greeted by Nat Keefe (who plays guitar, I believe) tossing a frisbee. So as we caught it threw it back and caught it again I couldn’t help but think. “I love how playful these guys are—they must get really starved for company aside from eachother—it’s so cute!”
Where I come from, layouts are the ultimate sign of commitment—perhaps things that might compare include the ring, or a lover’s name tattoed on one’s shoulder—so naturally, definitive evidence of such a commitment are of much value when eliciting anamnesis—during bragging sessions. The “receipt” if you will, to dangle in your friends faces. A point for the story, two if it’s good. Five if there’s a bruise and ten if there’s blood. This is a wound like so many derived from that most wonderful game of Ultimate—initially a minor abrasion, which when scabbed, evolves into so much more. Especially when that scab is completely re-moved, in a situation near identical to that which created the first injury. Isn’t it pretty? No more layouts for a bit ):
The hunt for a place to sleep on an extended basis is in full swing. It’s exciting; my attitude getting into this sit-e-ation has, I think, lead to my meeting many people who are good for me to meet. Destination NoPo as some say; the neighborhood known as Humboldt. Though there are so many tough decisions to make. Solo, or con-£K¶. Then to decide between all of the wonderful options I’ve uncovered to this point. Basement room in a house of four others vs one in a house with a single mom and her eight y.o. son. A situation with more privacy and a generally higher price-tag or more sociable with a lower expense. Tough decisions because they are qualities, which possess no common denominator—no ultimately clear cipher to cancle like fractions—x/6=2/3; solve for x.
I suppose this is also the beauty of it all. There is no ultimately cut and dry answer. And so the plan is to continue. I have decisions to make and gusses to take and all I can do, is what I feel is best for me here, now given what I’ve learned and what I will experience before I’m done. Wait… what is that? Eh, geesh.
Well, I’m in Portland. After leaving Chicago, IL w/Samuel the next stop was Ferndale, CO. Then a get-together with Laura, RP-R and some of their college friends at a parental abode at Willamett river mile 42½. After the adieus, RP-R and I went west. Camping on the coast near Tillamook, OR for a few days. Then Pickathon, where we met several wonderful people, and now, finally, Portland. As I search for my next place of habitation, I dwell in the Silver Bullet.
Thus far, in my week-and-a-half presence I have met or otherwise befriended these Portland, OR/Pacific NW cohabiters:
Rebecca, facuilty of PCC, Daniel, Jeff/the guys of Harmony Event Medicine, Katlin and Moreen & family. And I am starting to feel like one among all these, and I don’t even have a mailing address yet… something like:
Asa Nathannael Hunt
#### N/SW/NE/SE/NW Streetname St./Av./etc.
Portland, OR 972##
Twenty-nine hours. I’ve never felt so numb to my activity. In a car, moving from one place to another. Ferndale, Colorado to Portland, Oregon. Sixteen hours had previously been my auto-solitary maximum. Just enough. One whole day. Wake up in a bed, go to sleep in a bed. Samuel and I did Oak Park, Illinois to Ferndale, Colorado straight. The two of us on three hour shifts; easy with Cat napping ability.
I slept about five of that twenty-nine; first three then two hours, later. However, sleeping when you’re destination-occidentated–and you don’t share the routine of the great american diesel-fueled nomads, the left-redwing flightless raptors of the road–it is an exhausting endeavor. After sleep I didn’t feel rested but rather simply not about to fall asleep. I now have a new understanding of the term “rest area”. But now I’m in portland. Embarking on a new endeavor. The next chapter, and it has a beautifully exhausted beginning; refreshing in its end and excitement. Twenty-nine hours in the making.