Thursday, November 22, 2018


More Little Feat on the brain, but it is more of pastiche of lyrics than a single song (Sailing Shoes, Rock and Roll Doctor, Rocket in My Pocket).  Did I mention that I have managed to misplace Waiting for Columbus in the shifting sandpiles of stuff? This is a bit of a hardship, so I must make do with Hoy!Hoy!

So my local pal Rick informs me that there is a new mosquito in town, the Asian Tiger. Normally, I am in full support of most anything with Asian Tiger in the title, well, save for sports-related things. I am being tortured however. And, to make matters worse, it rained last night. I mean, we need the rain and all, but given the disaster area of boxes and planters and what not in my yard, it could be a welcoming refuge for breeding blood-suckers. My ankles and feet are all red from bites already. I will think about this tomorrow, at Tara. Probably no mosquitos in Palm Springs.

Ima keep this short as I should be preparing for a drive to Palm Springs and dinner with the Hughes-Choy clan. I bought a beautiful caramel apple pie from my talented cousins who love to bake and did a land office business selling their wares. 

It is probably good that I am not yet driving as I just put on the second pot of espresso. Finding it was taking a long ass time to percolate, I found that I had neglected to add the water. 


The whole loaf's loft
is halved in profile,
like the standing side
of a bombed cathedral.

The cut face
of half a loaf
puckers a little.

The bread cells
are open and brittle
like touching coral.

It is nothing like the middle
of an uncut loaf
nothing like a conceptual loaf
which stays moist.

I say do not adjust to half
unless you must.

— Kay Ryan


In harmony wit the rule of irony—
which requires that we harbor the enemy
on this side of the barricade—the shell
of the unborn eagle or pelican, which is made
to give protection till the great beaks can harden,
is the first thing to take up poison.
The mineral case is soft and gibbous
as the moon in a lake—an elastic,
rubbery, nightmare water that won't break.
Elsewhere, also, I see the mockeries of struggle,
a softness over people.

—Kay Ryan, The Best of It: New and Selected Poems, New York, Grove Press, 2010

Wednesday, November 21, 2018


Beaming with apparent normalness.

That line resonates in so many ways. Looking at the news and the utter terrible disgustingness of Trump and what it means to be living in this country gobsmacks me into looking for a little ledge of perspective on which to attempt to assess where I am in life. (Now that was a Proust-worthy sentence.) I suppose an easier way to say that would be simply "Where the fuck am I? And what the fuck now?"

I am drawn to the complex. Jeez, I am losing my words here. I almost wrote "I am drawn to the complicated." Now I am wondering if they are the same thing. Okay, so I looked it up and I am still confused but it is good to know I am not alone. Complex versus complicated. I need to spend more time musing on this, but do let me know your thoughts if you have any.

Whether it is complex or complicated, this strand of thought arose as I listened to music and sorted my life ... that is an ongoing process, no where near even a reasonable stopping place ... I have a (fatal? well, discouraging, at least) attraction to the multi-layered and colorful. 

You might well ask, well, what the fuck is she rambling about? I am trying to understand, get a handle on my insanity. Unravelling the "how I got here." To be sure, I am not sure if it matters so much, but you all know how I love a good narrative.

In the midst of all of this, I have had an odd and unseasonable mosquito infestation in my room. The number has dwindled down, but I cannot even figure out how they got here. And mosquitos in November? California is so hot and dry I have kind of given up on my hair. 

I am the Tour d'Argent for mosquitos. And I am also allergic to them. We can safely say I have been miserable, being riddled with bites. The worst of it seems to be over, but I have many small wounds from where I scratched. They couldn't get a me very well last night, so I have around 10 on my two hands which were the only parts sticking out of covers. 

Time to take Janet to the Senior Center.

Although this post is not very satisfying, I need to let it stand and get on with shoveling my life. 


I've been down, but not like this before
Can't be 'round this kind of show no more
All, all that you dream
Comes to shine in silver lining
And clouds, clouds change the scene
Rain starts washing all these cautions
Right into your life, make you realize
Just what is true, what else can I do
Just follow the rule
Keep your eyes on the road that's ahead of you
I've been down, but not like this before
Can't be 'round this kind of show no more
All of the good, good times were ours
In the land of milk and honey
And time, time has its scars
Rainy days they turn to sunny ones
Livin' the life, livin' the life lovin' everyone
I've been down, but not like this before 
Can't be 'round this kind of show no more

Paul Barrere and Bill Payne

Tuesday, November 20, 2018


Seeing the stream rise from my first cup of Major Dickason’s as I look out at the neighbor’s bright roses improves my mood just a bit. There is a moment of comfort in all down-snuggly on a cool morning. Vera Paris’ collar clinks against the dish as she indulges in a mid-morning snack. I think she is the only cat we re-collared after the last round of flea medicine.

The last post I even began, but did not complete and upload, was in mid-August. It always feels so strange to "pick up the pen" after a long time. Now what was my voice again? It isn't just the constant stream of nagging, derision, with dips into a clutching existential despair is it? I seem to recall other thoughts with more positive and engaging ideas.

I thought maybe once the coffee kicked in that I would be more directed in trying to communicate something valuable to someone. That does not seem to be the case. I am sure more coffee is in order.

  1. 1. 

    matter, material, articles, or activities of a specified or indeterminate kind that are being referred to, indicated, or implied.
    "a pickup truck picked the stuff up"


    • a person's belongings, equipment, or baggage.
      "he took his stuff and went"

      synonyms:belongings, (personal) possessions, effects, goods (and chattels), paraphernalia;

The stuff of stuff. Stuff is my reality these days. Having all of it in one place for the first time something like 41 years is a big deal for a slightly nomadic non-home owner with the heart of a collector. I do get down on myself for having so much, but then again, I am not my biggest fan. Shoveling and sifting through as many vintage tablecloths and dishtowels as my friends suggested that I have. I am stunned at my acquisitions. I have so much cooking stuff I could run a restaurant. 

Middle English (denoting material for making clothes): shortening of Old French estoffe ‘material, furniture,’ estoffer ‘equip, furnish,’ from Greek stuphein ‘draw together.’

In a nod toward fairness to me, I have the flotsam and jetsam of the physical "estates" of my father and my deceased brother, not to mention the actual estate of my mother. So I can't take entire credit for the ridiculous number of knives, cutting boards, and rolling pins. 

In absolutely text-book Sally Anne style, I am reorganizing every room and drawer in the house, save for those in Janet's room (for the moment). It is like living in a windy desert of belongings, with piles shifting like dunes only to reform somewhere else. 

No one wants to live like this. I am so exhausted, overstimulated, and overwhelmed I am cowed into inertia. (As if it were not my middle name.) But occasionally, there is a breakthrough and some areas can be declared organized for the moment.

It is lovely to be reunited with beloved objects and to see them here and there around the house. My poetry collection! It's not all together yet as I am only about half unpacked and still less of it is organized. However, I did get pleasure out of looking through the ones I did unpack. The goal is to be able to relax and read some.

And, then there are the cds. I was completely stuck on the kitchen which was so full of stuff I couldn't do any more than boil water. And then I recalled that there was a lot of music nearby. I randomly opened a box that had been sealed up and found some gems. When I went to bed, the kitchen was functional again. It was Waiting for Columbus that got me through the most of it. There have been days of repeat playing of Mercenary Territory. Play it very loud. Jesus Lowell, deliver me from disorganization.

I've spent my time in your rodeo
It's been so long and I've got nothing to show
Well I'm so plain loco
Fool that I am I'd do it over again ...

P.S. Here's the whole lyric. You really need the music for the whole experience.

Lyrics by Lowell George

Is it the lies?
Is it the style?

It’s a mercenary territory
I wish you knew the story
Been out here so long
Dreaming up songs
I’m temporarily qualmless and sinking

I did my time in that rodeo
It’s been so long and I got nothing to show
Well, I’m so plain loco
Fool that I am I’d do it over again

Is it the lies?
Is it the style?
Is it the days into nights?
Or the “I’m sorry”s into fights?

Now there’s some kind of man
He can’t do anything wrong
If I see him again
I’ll tell him you’re waiting
‘Cause I’m devoted for sure
But my days are a blur
Well your nights turn into my mornings

I did my time in that rodeo
Fool that I am I’d do it over again

Is it love that keeps you waiting so long,
Makes you say “I’ll see you around”?
The forces that be, they just don’t see
While my nights turn into your mornings.

Is it the lies?
Is it the style?
Is it the days into nights?
Or the “I’m sorry”s into fights?

Tuesday, July 31, 2018


Isn't dovetail a lovely word? Such nice connotations, even that of a dove's tail. The first printed use of dovetail was in 1573, a year that also brought us one of my favorites, huzzah, as well as lappet, prink, mathematics, and seedcake among others. 

I managed to get up a bit earlier today and a better person would be dressed in dirty gardening clothes and out there toiling and tilling before the heat lands on us again. But no, I sit here on the bed in the full blast of a decent fan, working on my arcana. Arcana would make an interesting name for a child or a pet.

Soundtrack this morning is the Beatles again, which is a bit unusual as I rarely chose to listen to them. A Day in the Life. It must be the opening line, "I read the news today, oh boy." I tried to look at the news, which was pretty much like throwing an anchor in the sea of my soul and plummeting myself down to the bottom. Drowning sounds good.

I am not so much depressed as oppressed.

a archaic suppress
b to crush or burden by abuse of power or authority  
  • The country has long been oppressed by a ruthless dictator.
  • oppressed minorities

2to burden spiritually or mentally weigh heavily upon  
  • oppressed by a sense of failure
  • oppress by intolerable guilt

(I realize I have said this before.) I can't really read the news anymore. I duly open to The New York Times and The Washington Post, but then am overwhelmed by the smorgasbord of rabbit holes of despair to jump into.  In my minds's eye, I fall asleep with the bloody heads of dead lions stuffed into the overhead compartments of jets while Orange Wankmaggot look alikes drink airline martinis, blood dripping on their heads. I can see strip mining with El Capitan above, a neon Trump Hotel crumbling in front of it. 

I am sure you have your own pictures.

And what I sincerely do not understand is how caring, compassionate, justice and fairness advocates could fail to react in a similarly overwhelmed and despairing way. I know people who can't pay attention for fear of suicidal ideation, which is legit, but how can all of this be denied or ignored. And really, I would that someone could calmly and without jingoistic bile, explain to me how you can NOT care? In the souls and deepest spiritual thoughts of those who can ignore what is going on, what do they believe in? How do they FEEl about seeing children traumatized, for life, by being summarily and violently separated from their parents, even if the parents have some legal issues?

Saying "wankmaggot" to myself is a bit cheering, though.

The current political reality has sent me back to examining Watergate. I am not sure how useful this is or if it allays my oppression, but it is fascinating and does provide insight as to how we got where we are. Not that I think Trump will be impeached, but the process is interesting, Not to mention the hubris, depravity, and utter lawlessness of Nixon and his crew. John Dean was clearly an ambitious putz.

Fifty years ago, America was in agony. Its unity at home, and its standing abroad, were deteriorating. Today, the country again faces a profound political crisis, and the summer of 1968 is instructive. One party controls the White House and both chambers of Congress, as was the case then, when Lyndon Johnson was President. But this crisis differs in a fundamental way: fifty years ago, the President’s party had the will to respond. On April 4th, Martin Luther King, Jr., was shot dead in Memphis, and riots erupted in a hundred cities. The next day, Johnson wrote to House Speaker John W. McCormack, a Massachusetts Democrat, imploring Congress to pass the Fair Housing Act, saying, “When the Nation so urgently needs the healing balm of unity, a brutal wound on our conscience forces upon us all this question: What more can I do to achieve brotherhood and equality among all Americans?” The act passed, over a Southern filibuster, on April 10th, the day after King’s funeral.

But Democrats did not shy from using their checks and balances against Johnson. The Tet Offensive, launched in January of that year, undermined the Administration’s claim that it was winning the war in Vietnam. Senator J. William Fulbright, of Arkansas, had previously concluded that escalation was folly, and had privately tried to change Johnson’s mind. When that failed, he invoked the Senate’s constitutional responsibility to advise and consent, and, in 1966, convened a series of unprecedented public hearings on the handling of the war. By the following year, most Americans disapproved of it, and Senator Eugene McCarthy, of Minnesota, entered the race against a sitting President of his own party, arguing that duty called on him to challenge policies of “questionable legality and questionable constitutionality.” 

— Evan Osnos, The G.O.P. Stands By as Trump Upends American Security, The New Yorker, July 30, 2018 (Here's a link to the whole damn article.)

That was then. This is now.

I wonder what drugs David Remnick gives the his stellar staff writers to have them so consistently and rapidly publish articles that are so fucking trenchant and precise. Or is this the kind of intelligence we should just have generally?

So, I didn't get out to the garden this morning, but I wrote and that is something constructive.  I've got arugula growing wild(ly). Some of it just ended up in the weed pile. I pulled a bunch yesterday and got it into the refrigerator so that I can give it (in kiss-ass fashion) to my yoga teachers tonight. 

And lest you despair for me too much, I am still swimming, still doing yoga, not drinking often nor eating too outrageously.


An honest work generates its own power; a dishonest work
tries to rob power from the cataracts of the given.
— Annie Dillard

If we could be less human,
if we could stand out of the range
of the cataracts of the given,
and not find our pockets swollen
with change we haven't—but must have—
stolen, who wouldn't?
It isn't a gift; we are beholden
to the sources we crib—
or someone's rib hidden in our breast;
the answer sewn inside us
that invalidates the test we set ourself
against the boneless angel at our right
and at our left the elf.

— Kay Ryan, The Best of It: New and Selected Poems, New York, Grove Press, 2010

Monday, July 30, 2018


The word fluvial appeals to me today. Of or pertaining to a river. I can’t see that it has particular relevance to my life, unless I want to awkwardly wade into the poetic, philosophical. If I were a better person, which we have fairly definitively established that I am not …having written that clause I cannot remember the “then” part of that thought. And so it goes ...

Waking up to heat and new flea bites. Ah, wall-to-wall carpeting. After I get Janet to the senior center, perhaps I will find the diatomaceous earth and spread it around. 

It's kind of funny that Try A Little Tenderness is one of my favorite songs, as I am severely challenged to do that with my mother. Why aren't there any good rock and roll songs or former Broadway ballads to rhapsodize about the universal experience of dealing with aging parents and really the living loss of a loved one?

In another aside — although can rambling legitimately have asides? — I have terrible lower back pain today. With all the yoga I have been doing and my general back flexibility, this seems unlikely. Oh well,  swimming starts in an hour and perhaps that will help. (July 12.)

Several days later.

Back still hurts, however, I am going to try a yoga class subtitled, Healthy Back. I think I twisted and stretched at the same time a bit too often last week. This may well be my last class of the week.

We cannot paint a beloved face without passionately distorting it—and who speaks willingly of the things that belong to real love? But we can catch and hold—with words or with the brush—the crimson flush of dying leaves, the green of a meteor against the blue night, a movement of dawn, a catastrophe. Pictures which of themselves have no sense or depth, but which we invest with meaning or sharp foreboding—they bear for ever the stamp of a particular year, mark the end of a run of bad luck, or the culmination of a spell of prosperity. For that reason no one of  us can ever swear tat he has painted, contemplated, described in vain.

— Colette, My Apprenticeship,1936

Now July 30.

I'm Only Sleeping popped up on my shuffle the other day and it is in a pretty constant loop in my head. And that's an okay thing

I just can't with the news this morning.Generally, I make a cup of coffee and sit back down on the bed to peruse the The New York Times, The Washington Post, The New Yorker, and Lit Hub Daily. I do the easy crossword puzzle in the NYT.

Not so today. Every article in the NYT seems to be about something horrible. Hey Brock Turner wasn't actually trying to penetrate that unconscious woman, he was just trying to use her unconscious body to get off. I mean, are unwanted fingers in a vagina penetration? Evidently not. Poor guy. Six whole months in jail for sexual assault. What have we come to?

Well, that is a question we ask ourselves on an almost constant basis. For many of us, it is a mantra, in that it stops, and in this case, dulls our minds while zapping our spirits to almost nothing.

When I realized that I was a failure and that I had to give up my dream/reality of living independently, leave my Park Slope apartment, and that I was pretty much done, I tried to climb under my bed (which was very close to the floor) and hide, float in a small space. (I have likely mentioned this before.)

I feel like that almost every day now.

I have so neglected the garden that it is now quite a task to get it somewhere near control. I might not even both had I not picked up some bargain plants that I want to get in the dirt before the simply dehydrate in this heat. My backyard tomato plants need fertilizing badly. I am going to post this, just to feel a bit of productivity, take my second cup of java outside, and see if I can make a dent in the greenery before it is too hot to live.


            — The Autobiography of Charles Darwin

I marvel at how generally
I am aided, how frequently
the availability of helpis demonstrated. I've had
unbridgeable distances collapse
and opposite objects coalesce
enough to think that duress itself
may be a prayer. Perhaps not chance,
but need, selects; and desperation
works upon giraffes until their necks
can reach the necessary branch.
If so, help alters; makes seven vertebrae
go farther in the living generation;
help coming to us, not from the fathers,
not to the children.

— Kay Ryan, The Best of It: New and Selected Poems, New York, Grove Press, 2010

Wednesday, July 11, 2018


This is one of those nights where I know I am not going to sleep well, if at all, and not going to wake up anywhere near rosy and enthusiastic. I sit here with two fans and an air conditioner blowing toward me, Butterscotch half-mooned on the bed corner because I was bugging her. The bed is strewn with (excellent) books, the tv is on but not tuned to anything but a screen saver, there's half a glass of going-flat Diet Coke on the bedside table. I just took my meds.

I am not sure if it was the late afternoon yoga class, the beer I had at Taco Tuesday dinner at Taco Surf, or just the stress of dealing with someone who has lost much capacity and cannot even remember that. Janet treats me like a servant. When I mention this to her, she acts surprised. 

It was hard enough growing up as the female anomaly in what would have been a pretty happy boys' town without me. I remarked to my niece because it occurred to me while swimming laps that my father would have been a better parent, the family would have been happier and more prosperous if my younger brother, Carl, and I had not been born. 

Wally doted on my older brothers, taught them to shoot and to drive, took them to work and on other excursions. He took me, too, sometimes, but he was clearly more bonded with them. He got tired of the family. He couldn't control it once we were older and he seemed to be just tired of it. He relinquished much of the day-to-day and pretty much all of the emotional wrangling to Janet. It wasn't her forte either. She just wanted her cats and her yoga.

The trait or bad habit I inherited from both of them was dismissiveness. For a long time, I thought it was passed father to sons. But then I saw it in myself. And what a shitty thing it is. Of course, I dismiss myself almost as much as I dismiss everything else. And then I realized Janet does it too.

Is it some sort of defense mechanism? A decision in a series of decisions to not deal? Not to hear, not to listen, not to heed, not to respect. Not to consider. Well, I am here to tell you that it gets worse when you get older. 

I know my mother is old and losing it, but she has also lost her awareness of other humans. SHE NEVER DOES ANYTHING KIND FOR ME. I mean, she might make enough of her coffee for me to share, but that is about it. (I drink espresso, not drip.) She doesn't think nor offer to do anything else. I exist to serve her. I guess I am some sort of slave as I don't get paid but room and board, and I can't leave.

I dislike who I am these days. Not all of that is due to this situation, this care-taking. Being so isolated rather strips you down in an unpleasant light. You get to see the imagined you you thought you were ... as I quoted in the last post ...

You had so many ways of deciding which way to live your life. It made his head spin to think of them. It hurt his heart to think that he decided on the wrong way.

A thing seemed important until there was something more important.
— Carys Davies, West

oooh yeah, that wrong way is a damn doozy.

I do not want to be a graceless, mean, impatient, dismissive, angry caregiver. Yet, I do not know nor see a way to be patient, gracious, loving, and kind. I cannot see a path. I cannot break my reactions down into steps. I can't make progress with that end of goodness in sight. 

And I know I will be devastated when Janet is gone. I will regret not kissing her goodnight every night. I will regret my anger and swearing and frustration and dismissiveness. More remorse up ahead.

The fleas are terrible, although the cats have all had their flea meds this month. The hot weather is good for those fuckers. They like me too and every trip to the garden or across the lawn results in those bites and the cycle of itching, scratching, bleeding, infection, soreness. The ladies at the pedicure place tsk at my scarred legs. Perhaps I can get the flea abaters in again. 

And then there is all of our despair about the fall and failure of the American dream or even some of the American reality. The Craven Capitalists have won and we are strictly in Auden country. Come on, say it with me:

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity ....


There was a substitute teacher in the Sunday Restorative Yoga class. I knew she would have patience for Janet, who is a bit slow on the uptake and can't always hear well. After several rounds of going/not going, I had given up due partly to the heat. At the last minute, she decided she wanted to come, thought it would be good for her. The class was terrific. The teacher paid extra attention to her and was most kind. At the end, Janet sat on the floor and wept. She had not been in this kind of "yoga space" for so long.

Janet sleeping in a chair.

Janet talks about Ariel every single day, several times a day. Her sorrow and her missing Ariel is so sad. There is no comfort I can give. I know Janet is mourning herself and her life, but when I try to get her to think or talk more deeply, she won't (or can't) do it.

Ariel was the kindest being of any species I have ever met or known. She was never an asshole to anyone. She was loving, appreciative, and had an extremely calming presence. She was Janet's familiar and there will not be anyone or anything to replace her.


Most losses add something—
a new socket or silence,
a gap in a personal
archipelago of islands.

We have that difference
to vist—itself
a going-on of sorts.

But there are other losses
so far beyond report
that they leave holes
in holes only

like the ends of the
long and lonely lives
of castaways
thought dead but not.

— Kay Ryan, The Best of It: New and Selected Poems, New York, Grove Press, 2010