WHAT IS TO SURVIVE, WHAT TO PERISH

 August 5

Without a doubt, my tortoise shell kitty Nina was the leader of a girl gang in a previous incarnation. I was sitting here on the bed, waiting for either my brain or my focus to land somewhere in my body again so that I might function. I heard a metallic crash onto the kitchen floor. Instantly, I knew that I had left the pantry door ajar after feeding the first round of food. I knew that Nina had jumped up onto the counter, knocked the tin of treats on the floor. Sure enough, she and several other cats were feasting away. 

Intense dreams. I am being flooded with Grateful Dead and Jerry Garcia messages. I dreamt that I was hanging out with a non-alive Garcia. He was cool. I explained to him that I wish all the Grateful Dead messaging would stop as I had stopped being interested in the Dead before he even died. I hoped that wouldn't offend him. As a palliative, I told him he should have heard Dave Alvin and Carolyn Wonderland play Loser at McCabe's. Then I observed that perhaps, being dead and everywhere, he had managed to catch the performance.

I had a whole other thought train I wanted to get on or get down here, but all of that is gone now ... It is also Vera's morning pets shift so I have to clear my lap.

Later that same day.

Back in the ER with Janet. I should write that as a song to the tune of Back in the USSR.

And later still,  after five hours, Janet finally got a bed in the ER. I was getting cold and physically cranky, so I came home to ... restlessness? I might even go to bed, but I might have to go get her if they don't admit her. 

I picked a bad year to stop drinking. I desperately wanted a cooling gin and tonic, but given that I don't know if I have to go get Janet, it did not seem prudent. As I drink so little, I venture into tipsyhood quite easily. I settled for a glass of warm beer. Is there a rift in the universe if you put ice in beer? I am too afraid to find out. (N.B. I put some ice in a strainer and poured beer over it. Not the finest thing in history but so far as I know, no one died.)

It got warm today. My house feels like when I leave my mom alone in the winter and she turns up the temperature to Satan levels. Windows cannot be opened, although I am sure it is fine outside, because no screens, many cats.

I have a kind of "book exchange" with my friends Susan and Bill. Our digressive conversations about books can last for hours and generally result in an expanded reading list. Recently, I was given To A Mountain in TIbet by Colin Thubron about an expedition he took Mount Kailas shortly after the passing of his last nuclear family member. There are many observations which ring true as I contemplate and prepare for Janet's demise and my life after.

"... when I ask a group of passing monks about the towers – when were they built, who do they commemorate? – they do not know. And why would they care, who have been taught the transience of things?"

"Their dispossession strikes me at once as freedom, and a poignant depletion. Their buoyant laughter follows me up the valley, but I do not quite envy them. I only wonder with a a muffled pang what it would be in the West to step outside the chain of bequethal and inheritance, as they do, until human artefacts mean nothing at all."

"How to decide what is to survive, what is to perish? The value of things no longer belongs to cost or beauty, but only to memory."

"The past drops away into the waste-paper basket and oblivion, and in this monstrous disburdening, grief returns you to a kind of childish dependence. You sift and preserve (for whom?) and cling to trivia. You have become the guardian of the past, even its recreator."

"[I] stack them away, I do not know for what. This, I suppose is how private things endure: not by intention, but because their extinction is unbearable."

— Colin Thubron, To A Mountain in Tibet, Harper Perennial, New York, 2011

August 6

I slept late, to which I suppose I am entitled. I thought to go swimming, but there is too much to do. It is almost noon and I haven't even fed the cats. I have done my leçon francaise though. Watching the French series is really helping.

Off to a get a haircut shortly. Perhaps I will drive along the beach on the way home. I will be messing up whatever the saloniste does, notwithstanding that I will tell her not to. 

No word on Janet.

It is muggy and I fear the pounding heat is slithering in. I suppose I should be grateful for the mild summer we have had so far. Going up to the mid-90s for a week or so. I will bet it will get hotter.

FIVE A.M. IN THE PINEWOODS

I'd seen

their hoofprints in the deep

needles and knew

they ended the long night

under the pines, walking

like two mute

and beautiful women toward

the deeper woods, so I

got up in the dark and

went there. They came

slowly down the hill

and looked at me sitting under

the blue trees, shyly

they stepped

closer and stared

from under their thick lashes and even

nibbled some damp

tassle of weeds. This

is not a poem about a dream,

though it could be.

This is a poem about the world

that is ours, or could be.

Finally,

one of them — I swear it! —

would have come to my arms.

But the other

stamped sharp hoof in the 

pine needles like

the tap of sanity,

and they went off together through

the trees. When I woke

I was alone,

I was thinking

so this is how your swim inward,

so this is how you flow outward,

so this is how you pray.

—Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems, Volume One, Beacon Press, Boston, 1992

UNDER TRAVELS UP, AND DOWN AGAIN

August 4th

That end-times dread is the perfume I wear these days, or at least my aura,

 Schifoso. That's Italian for all fucked up. Which is how I feel most of the time. I feel it most of all at times like right now, when it is late,  when I am tired and hungry and shouldn't be writing but should be taking out the trash, putting in some laundry, getting the cats in, and feeding them. Sometimes I put my head on the pillow, and in the darkness re-contemplate the ways and means of suicide. 

It is nearly impossible to imagine a pleasant life ahead for me.

Then again I have a (not close) friend who has been dealing with ALS for many many many years. She has decided on self-euthanasia this fall, come Samhain. She still posts on FB about art and the things she loves, as well as the process and red tape of trying to get official sanction for ending her life. She really can't take the pain and the stress and the worry about money. I think she has been amazing, brave, and stalwart to last this long. Maybe I have been a bit,, too, although there will be not even the reward of relief.

People are amazed that Janet is so old. 98.5 They want to live that long. I say the hell with that. Plus,  there will not even be any family to conscript into care. 

The first order of stress is Janet. On the elevator on the way to see her nephrologist, she fainted. Nice. The building is chock full of old people doctors so there are always lots of wheelchairs and walkers. The building is big and there are only two elevators,  one often out of commission. So now there is me trying wrangle a prone Janet, only partly conscious. Don't you want to be there? 

People were kind and helped me get her out of the elevator. Of course, she shit her pants in the process adding to the delight. Incontinence, here is thy sting. 911 was called and she was taken to the hospital less than 1/4 mile away for which we will pay out of pocket around $500. Gee thanks. At least I didn't have to change her diaper. 

And once Janet reached a certain level of consciousness, she was jiving with the helpers and flirting with the EMTs. 

Her very kind nephrologist saw me without her. I wanted to get a take on what to do, hospice or palliative care. He looked through everything, all the reports from her recent hospitalizations and lab tests,  and said that she is not ready for hospice, but palliative care for sure. I cried at his kindness.

Crying happens a lot these days.

I got almost 24 hours of Janet freedom before they sent her home. No real diagnosis or prognosis. Just a salt pill once a day.

So now it is even harder for me to get away. She really can't go to the Senior Center anymore as she needs to be monitored much more closely. If one isn't on her every half hour, she will not drink water which is the cause of some of her problems. She doesn't have much of an appetite. Diarrhea most of the time. Oh, the joy of hauling out 30 pound bags of wet and shitty diapers a couple of times a week. 

She is far more vacant. Not going to play dominoes means she has almost no stimulation. As I said, she is not even playing unwinnable solitaire with her previous obsession. She wants to lie down all the time, is resentful if asked to move. 

It's no wonder I just want to sit and watch endless episodes of a French detective dramedy that takes place in a beautiful part of southern France on the Mediterranean and eat low calorie chocolate popsicles (are they really popsicles?,.. they are on a stick) and so many cashews I get ill.

Still, I try to get my exercise in four or five times a week. My private Pilates/yoga sessions with Sonia are always relief, healing, and being seen and sympathized with (she is on intense Mom care herself). I haven't been able to swim as much as I might like. 

And along the Armageddon lines, the traffic in LA has been on beyond insane. On my way to my lesson this morning, five lanes of traffic were at a dead standstill. I actually made a u-turn to drive down an on ramp to get out of traffic to try to go another way. Of course, every other freeway I got on was an utter nightmare. Another reason to get the hell out of here before the war and the bombings start. 

And the shock and awe of the reality of this country never ever for a moment stops. Dizzying to the point near unconsciousness. 

I always liked the Dead song New Speedway Boogie with the somewhat hopeful line, "One way or another, this darkness got to give ..." Not so sure about that. 

Besides grieving my mom, I have to figure out where I might be able to live which I won't really be able to do until I see what my inheritance might be. I have no idea how I am going to get along when her checks stop. I need to find out at what point I have to refund money to various sources. So many telephone calls, so little will.

I wish I had some lightness to share. Seeing Carolyn Wonderland with Dave Alvin at McCabe's was a light spot. Instead of swimming this afternoon, I opted for a most delicious nap with the incomparable Vera Paris. My yoga classes are going well notwithstanding the time (or focus) I don't have to plan class much.

THE WILLOWS

As we are made by what moves us,

willows pull up the water into their farthest reach

which curves again down

divining where their life begins.

So, under travels up, and down and up again,

and the wind makes music of what the water was.

— Marie Howe, New and Selected Poems, W.W. Norton & Co., New York, 2024 

The soon-to-be adopted kittens, Mouche and Tony Joe Black are having a frolic near the trash can in my bedroom. And it is midnight.

PLAN WELL AND COVER YOUR TRACKS

 

Stendhal’s playbook for elites under absolute rule

1. Never criticize the prince in word or deed, or voice any disloyal thought. It will get back to him.
2. Make the prince see you as indispensable, without making him resent your skills and influence.
3. Radiate prestige and prosperity at court to bolster your status and enhance the prince’s self-regard.
4. Adopt the fashions of the court, even if they are ridiculous, to show social and political orthodoxy.
5. Never appear independent-minded, virtuous or enthusiastic; it fosters suspicion.
6. Track court gossip at all times; be alert to calumnies against you and to changing princely priorities.
7. Cultivate allies among the prince’s family and intimate circle.
8. Cultivate powerful allies outside the prince’s circle.
9. Recognize that your allies may be unable to help you, or may betray you. Have backup plans.
10. Study the motives and aims of allies, rivals and foes alike, so you know how best to manipulate them.
11. Grant favors to allies, rivals and foes alike, to make them beholden to you (though it may not work).
12. Never regard your own status as secure. Work at all times to buttress it.
13. If you excite envy, expect retaliation — work to pre-empt it.
14. Anticipate attacks against you from rivals for the prince’s favor. Thwart them, and strike back in kind.
15. Know that even if the prince seems to like you, he may seek to destroy you, for sport or out of malice.
16. Act as if you are under surveillance at all times, because you are.
17. Know whom you can trust, but be careful what you let them know, and anticipate their likely slip-ups.
18. Make yourself popular with the common people as a hedge against smears.
19. Avoid becoming so popular with the common people that the prince feels threatened.
20. Be prepared to defend yourself effectively but respectfully when rivals denounce you to the prince.
21. Do not expect the law to protect you; the judiciary is surrendered to the will of the prince.
22. If your influence wanes, invent a conspiracy against the prince; punish its members to impress him.
23. If you are threatened with incarceration in domestic or foreign prisons, leave the country at once.
24. When you travel, carry a passport that will pass muster with border officials and court spies.
25. In life or death situations, enlist the help of powerful enemies through blackmail or bribery.
26. If, for self-preservation, you must resort to illegal actions, plan well and cover your tracks.

July 24th

Well, I screwed that one up long ago (meaning the title of this post).

I need to get to the library today. As if I need any more books, right? 

On Tuesday, this being Thursday, Janet threw up again. For the past five or six days, she had been more low-key and spacey. She was sleeping more. She played less of her usually compulsive and non-winnable solitaire. Her labs of late had been troublesome. She has stage four kidney disease and her numbers were way down.I called her nephrologist, who kindly called me back quickly. He took a look at her labs and suggested that we go to the ER to get her checked out more thoroughly.  As this call happened minutes before I was teaching, I thought we could go after class. Even though I was rather distracted, my students said I taught a good class. I went hope to prepare for the waiting room ordeal. 

In the world of whys, why are ER waiting rooms so much like the antechambers of Hell? They are so terribly uncomfortable. The overlighting is the most egregious for me. That intense fluorescent light is really more than my third and other eyes can take. Brightness beats on you. I don't know the bliss-ninny science behind it, but it connects directly to my solar plexus chakra, which in turn lowers my immunity and makes me extra tired. This time I remembered to take a hat. I also brought extra warmth, books, iPad, two pair of charged up earbuds, and snacks. We only had to wait 5.5 hours.

The long and short of it is that Janet was admitted. So far, no big diagnosis, only that she was low on salt. And I get a day or two of actual peace. 

July 27

See, I am stuck inside the doldrums with the Memphis blues again.

Janet came home on Thursday evening. Her walking papers included constant (or at least consistent) hydration. Low sodium and dehydration were the hospital discharge comments.This is far from an easy task to accomplish. I would have to spend nearly all my waking time focussed on getting her to drink water. That is beyond my capabilities (and they are pretty limited) as a caregiver. 

Janet has bounced back to reasonable functionality so many times, but my feeling now is that she is settling in for the long goodbye. Her mental capacities are dwindling. She has no functional memory that I can see, although she is still able to play dominoes apparently. She is not even playing unwinnable solitaire with an unrelenting fervor as she was previously. I can get her to do yoga, but it barely seems to sink in. 

I am now in the early stages of panic and grief. 

While I appreciate any support, please do not make my situation harder by giving me too much and too forceful advice, I haven't the time to manage you and the emotions such concern will cause me. I am happy to talk about it, but you cannot fix me, my lifelong behavior, or the situation unless you are coughing up cash, or a place for me to land. 

I hope that isn't too harsh, but seriously, I have enough anxiety to manage on my own.

My best homeboy Dave Alvin played two nights at McCabe's Guitar Shop ( performance space capacity 150). He was with Jimmie Dale Gilmore in a semi-acoustic duo, emphasis on the semi. My long absent pal, Debee, came down from Ventura County to go last night. It was spectacular as was hanging out with Debee for the first time in many months. As true to form, we staid up until the wee hours began to grow up, talking, primarily about music, but musing about life and relationships as well. This time, however, we forwent the many gins-and-tonics, settling for a beer or two.

I didn't sleep well and woke up too early which might partly account for the nun's habit of glum that seems to have settled over me. I am trying to forego any particular emotional plateaux or at least naming them. Perhaps a better night's sleep will foster some better outlook, but I really think I am settling into the reality of grief and upheaval that could come at any moment. (I mean, always, but particularly now.)

SPITTING INTO THE WIND?

 

July 20

"You cannot walk out your grief, ...or absolve yourself of your survival, or bring anyone back. You are left with the desire only that things not be as they are."

— Colin Thubron, To A Mountain in Tibet

Sigh. No matter my intentions to write, there are always interruptions. Right now, Mouche, the foster kitten I  bottle fed is trying to chew on my iPad cord. Cute, of course, but annoying. He is soon to get neutered and put up for adoption. However, he is ridiculously bonded to me. I hope he can bond with someone else. It will be hard to let him go, but it must be so.

Baby Mouche and Janet

I find myself ... well, not hyper-emotional, but very easily started to tears. It happens most often with music. I don't know that this is anything to be judged, but it did not happen so frequently before. 

Here are a couple that have moved me to spontaneous tears:

Hoyt Axton - Evangelina, Bread and Roses, UC Berkeley, 1977 (gets really good at about 1:20 or so. Wish I knew who was in his back-up band. Also, I was there.)

Joni Mitchell, A Bird That Sings, Chalk Mark in the Rain

Although I think I had picked up this album, I had not given it a good listen. This one showed up on random shuffle; it was instant love.

I stopped at Trader Joe's after Saturday Morning Yoga, which wasn't so much yoga, but stretching and kibitzing. I had just spent an hour after class chatting with SV. For the moment, I felt reasonably well or the denial fog had me covered. After shopping, as I was putting my groceries in the car, I saw a man with his two sons on a median, asking for help. I am always wary of these things, but something about them really moved me. I don't think you bring two little boys, under 6, to sit with you in a parking lot unless you really need to. I nearly sobbed. Knowing that I can have intense reactions to things that I later regret, I refrained from giving him the $50 I had just gotten. I walked over to him with a measly $10. He didn't speak English very well, but was very sweet and appreciative. I then went to buy a thoughtless, expensive café latte. I saw one large snickerdoodle and I bought it for the boys. I also grabbed a bottle of mineral water from my trunk and took them over. Even the boys thanked me.

I suppose I am anticipating being in need of a good deal of support with the erosion of our social safety net ... or is that wanton heartless destruction? ... The thought that this man could not keep his family safe AND that they could easily be picked up and deported knifed me in the heart. Maybe I am a sucker, but at least I tried to manifest some good in the world.

I still don't watch much news, nor read in depth. I had to take a step back to preserve what functionality I actually still have. Again, I try to keep myself from blood-pressure-rising-outrage at SCOTUS decisions, the unilateral evil and cowardice of what is called Congress, and even a thought of the beyond idiotic OrangeShitGibbon. 

The racism of this dictatorship is what strikes me the most often. The other horrors I rather expected. But the vehemence of prejudice, without any pretense to be otherwise, stops me in my tracks and lays me low. 

I am "amused" at the lawsuits coming from the rational people. The rule of law and the Constitution are clearly over. No one in our purported government is going to slow down the destruction. Law suits are useless because SCOTUS will rule for evil every time. But maybe spitting in to the wind is a good thing.

That reminded me of one of my favorite dBs' songs, Spitting in the Wind. Not all of the lyrics track, but suing the dictatorship feels like this to me. 

I can understand why you'd want a better man
But why you wanna make him outta me?
Well, I just muddle along, knowing my right from wrong
Why won't you let me be?

We split apart one cold gray rainy afternoon
And I cried aloud
Now we walk along, apart but strong
Strong enough so that we don't have to stand back in the crowd

Sometimes I feel
I feel like I'm spitting into the wind
Oh I'm spitting into the wind
But I'm learning
Yes I'm learning

My hair stands on end whenever friends mention your name
In pleasant conversation
Well, I don't like to be reminded of what used to be
I don't like the association

Sometimes I feel
I feel like I'm spitting into the wind
Oh I'm spitting into the wind
But I'm learning
Yes I'm learning

— Peter Holsapple

You might want to check out Leah Litman. Here's her recent appearance on The Daily Show. She and two others have a podcast about the Supreme Court, Strict Scrunity.

LOOK WHAT THE CAT DRAGGED IN

 July 13th

I have tried to write this year. I sat down several times after the installment (coronation??) in January, but could neither find coherent thoughts or even words to express the internal and external devastation, the reeling loss of balance, sanity, and hope. I had nothing at all to offer in terms of pleasure, joy, hope, or even interest. Other than dragging myself to teach yoga, I cannot remember anything going on, save for fear and a depression so deep I doubt that there is a word for it in any language ... maybe Eastern Europe coined one when Hitler came into power.

Now is not much better. I find myself unfocused, not just out of my usual struggles with ADHD, and concomitant disorganization, but purposely turning off higher functions out of self-protection. A spiritual and intellectual keeping my head down. Sometimes, it feels heady like those moments before passing out where things spiral and fade out of view. I prolong that mind-evacuation in self-protection.

I am not sticking my head in the sand. I stay aware of the hailstorm of devolution and calamity, I just can't inhale it. I scan The NYT, The New Yorker, The Guardian, etc., but the lead bullets of detail I dodge. I already feel so heavy, I need to keep my ability to do some movement.

On a good day my depression slows me down. The despair has a rather dissociating effect. I can see something need to be attended to, but I have to get through the veil of "why bother" to be productive. I often need to pay a motivational game such as "Do ten dishes and then eat a popsicle." Sometimes the right music, an absorbing audiobook or podcast, or an in-depth telephone chat might mask enough of despair for me to be able to function to do multi-task into productivity. Sometimes I just watch clips of how to restore old wedding dresses or house renovations. 

All that said, I am finding it harder to talk, to think ... even to read. Writing helps me focus, connect, and keep my thinking skills somewhere in working order, hence I plan to make more effort to keep this blog alive.

The Kermit Place Readers (Brooklyn book group of many many years now) is reading Elizabeth Gaskell's North and South, which I read many years ago. Such is the beauty of re-reading very good books that one finds more and different nuances and meanings in them. As always, there are books piled high around my bed. I have read or listened to some good things in the past six months, some of them just "lit lite." Among the noteworthy:

A Well-Trained Wife: My Escape from Christian Patriarchy - Tia Levings

Just interesting to see again what we are up against. Not great but good.

A Calling for Charlie Barnes - Joshua Ferris

A good look at male ambition, re-invention, and family dynamics

Still Born - Guadalupe Nettei

About two friends and their choices about having children, and the consequences. This one was longlisted for The Booker Prize if you care about such things.

The Dream Hotel - Laila Lalami

Stuck in bureaucratic limbo, and authoritarian prison (is there another kind?) Also a nominee for several awards this year.

The Frozen River - Ariel Lawson

Would not have read this if not for my friend Kaye who passed it along. A surprisingly compelling story/mystery that takes place in 17th Century New England. I ate it right up and have been recommending ever since. And everyone has loved it. 

Currently watching Ten Pour Cent (Call My Agent) before it leaves Netflix. Great for French practice.

Musically, I am in my usual "all over the place" mode. My friend Martha and I were talking about music we listened to as teenagers. Martha mentioned John Mayall's Blues from Laurel Canyon. I have listened to Mayall's Turning Point for decades but had not looked elsewhere much. I picked up a copy of Blues from Laurel Canyon and listened to it four times straight through. Mick Taylor is the guitarist so how could you go wrong? This one also fed into my '60s British blues fascination. 

I've also been spending time with Andrew Hickey's The History of Rock and Roll in 500 Songs podcast. This is like heroin and whipped cream for me. Nice place to get lost in  and/or comforted by.

And so off to dishes and popsicles and feeding the hungry cats.