HER MADNESS IS MY MADNESS

I am sure it will come as no surprise to any of you that (a) Cooder is looking for Greenies; (b) I have not made enough progress in The Island of Dr. Moreau; and (c) I am sleepy. And now on to other concerns.

I did listen to a couple more sections of the lectures for Know Thyself. You can still join me and Louise and 70, 000 other students! I don't know if it helped but I did do the meditation and breathing practices. I now know that the Athenian jury that tried Socrates had 501 jurors. Stay tuned for more interesting factoids.

We also had to list some of our characteristics. There was some talk that folks aren't very good judges of themselves. Be that as it may, and notwithstanding that we aren't supposed to share them, I am going to share with y'all. You won't tell Mitch.

Considerate, communicative, smart, passionate, Romantic (in the fatally intellectual way), affectionate, sad, relaxed, curious, short-fused, self-conscious, underdisciplined, spendy, good listener (attentive?), forgiving, fair-minded (or strive to be), entrepreneurial, media-obsessed, argumentative, insecure, persistent, unsuccessful, empathetic, interested, homebody, insistent, loyal. (Did I miss anything?)

I shall keep you posted as the class progresses, assuming I stay in. Louise likes it.

I was pretty down today. Kind of life-panicky on all fronts. Had a hard time concentrating. Very fearful and, well, sad. I suppose the occasional day of anxiety is to be expected. I still have a lot of life decisions to make. And why would my good spirits and optimism last? Gotta get rid of those delusions. Maybe I should add delusional to the list.

Allview House on a snowy March morning.

I did do some cooking tonight for the first time in ages: orecchiette with roasted broccoli, roasted onions with balsamic and garlic, roasted brussels sprouts, fresh parmesan, and panko bread crumbs. Richie is home from college for a week, so we are back to thinking vegetarian.

Is "lost" a character trait?

Well, I hope the anxiety and depression madness passes. We do lose an hour but maybe gain some sunshine tomorrow night. I know. I didn't mention that I had a correspondence with a FB "friend" this morning, someone I only know from a photography group. She was lamenting her life and I thought I would mention that she is not alone. That was kind of a depressing interchange, but it was likely a decent, human thing to do.

Is "human (all too)" a character trait?

Afternoon walk with Albert.

We did hit some magic hour light.

It does seem as if I had some other things to tell you. The day started off well enough with another FB "friend", one who curates a Rethinking World Literature Group saying

•  Awesome, SallyAnne! BTW, I know I don't comment, but I very much admire your beautiful blog.

  23 hours ago via mobile · Like
• 

  SallyAnne Syberg Why thank you! I had no idea you ever read it. That makes my (snowy) day.

  15 hours ago · Like · 1
• 

   I find it to be an amazing piece (or pieces) of writing. Think BOOK.

  14 hours ago via mobile · Like
• 

  SallyAnne Syberg Oh pshaw! (Blushing.)

  14 hours ago · Edited · Like

So that should have floated my little boat for the day. But no. Okay. Bed time. Here's a poem because I haven't posted or sent any in forever.

Tis Late  by April Bernard Of course the tall stringy woman draped in a crocheted string-shawl  selling single red carnations coned in newsprint the ones she got at the cemetery and resells with a god bless you for a dollar that same woman  who thirty years ago was a graduate student in playwriting who can and will recite "At the round earth's imagined corners, blow--" announces silently amidst her louder announcements that the experiment some amateurs mixed of white fizzing democracy with smoky purple capitalism has failed. We already knew that. Her madness is my madness and this is my flower in a cone of waste paper I stole from someone's more authentic grief but I will not bless you as I have no spirit of commerce and no returning customers and do not as so many must actually beg for my bread. It is another accident of the lab explosion that while most died and others lost legs some of us are only vaguely queasy at least for now  and of course mad conveniently mad necessarily mad because  "tis late to ask for pardon" and we were so carefully schooled  in false hope schooled like the parrot who crooks her tongue like a dirty finger repeating what her flat bright eyes deny.

And here's my favorite picture of the day.

Tis Late  by April Bernard Of course the tall stringy woman draped in a crocheted string-shawl  selling single red carnations coned in newsprint the ones she got at the cemetery and resells with a god bless you for a dollar that same woman  who thirty years ago was a graduate student in playwriting who can and will recite "At the round earth's imagined corners, blow--" announces silently amidst her louder announcements that the experiment some amateurs mixed of white fizzing democracy with smoky purple capitalism has failed. We already knew that. Her madness is my madness and this is my flower in a cone of waste paper I stole from someone's more authentic grief but I will not bless you as I have no spirit of commerce and no returning customers and do not as so many must actually beg for my bread. It is another accident of the lab explosion that while most died and others lost legs some of us are only vaguely queasy at least for now  and of course mad conveniently mad necessarily mad because  "tis late to ask for pardon" and we were so carefully schooled  in false hope schooled like the parrot who crooks her tongue like a dirty finger repeating what her flat bright eyes deny.

Tis Late  by April Bernard Of course the tall stringy woman draped in a crocheted string-shawl  selling single red carnations coned in newsprint the ones she got at the cemetery and resells with a god bless you for a dollar that same woman  who thirty years ago was a graduate student in playwriting who can and will recite "At the round earth's imagined corners, blow--" announces silently amidst her louder announcements that the experiment some amateurs mixed of white fizzing democracy with smoky purple capitalism has failed. We already knew that. Her madness is my madness and this is my flower in a cone of waste paper I stole from someone's more authentic grief but I will not bless you as I have no spirit of commerce and no returning customers and do not as so many must actually beg for my bread. It is another accident of the lab explosion that while most died and others lost legs some of us are only vaguely queasy at least for now  and of course mad conveniently mad necessarily mad because  "tis late to ask for pardon" and we were so carefully schooled  in false hope schooled like the parrot who crooks her tongue like a dirty finger repeating what her flat bright eyes deny.

Tis Late  by April Bernard Of course the tall stringy woman draped in a crocheted string-shawl  selling single red carnations coned in newsprint the ones she got at the cemetery and resells with a god bless you for a dollar that same woman  who thirty years ago was a graduate student in playwriting who can and will recite "At the round earth's imagined corners, blow--" announces silently amidst her louder announcements that the experiment some amateurs mixed of white fizzing democracy with smoky purple capitalism has failed. We already knew that. Her madness is my madness and this is my flower in a cone of waste paper I stole from someone's more authentic grief but I will not bless you as I have no spirit of commerce and no returning customers and do not as so many must actually beg for my bread. It is another accident of the lab explosion that while most died and others lost legs some of us are only vaguely queasy at least for now  and of course mad conveniently mad necessarily mad because  "tis late to ask for pardon" and we were so carefully schooled  in false hope schooled like the parrot who crooks her tongue like a dirty finger repeating what her flat bright eyes deny.

Tis Late  by April Bernard Of course the tall stringy woman draped in a crocheted string-shawl  selling single red carnations coned in newsprint the ones she got at the cemetery and resells with a god bless you for a dollar that same woman  who thirty years ago was a graduate student in playwriting who can and will recite "At the round earth's imagined corners, blow--" announces silently amidst her louder announcements that the experiment some amateurs mixed of white fizzing democracy with smoky purple capitalism has failed. We already knew that. Her madness is my madness and this is my flower in a cone of waste paper I stole from someone's more authentic grief but I will not bless you as I have no spirit of commerce and no returning customers and do not as so many must actually beg for my bread. It is another accident of the lab explosion that while most died and others lost legs some of us are only vaguely queasy at least for now  and of course mad conveniently mad necessarily mad because  "tis late to ask for pardon" and we were so carefully schooled  in false hope schooled like the parrot who crooks her tongue like a dirty finger repeating what her flat bright eyes deny.

Tis Late  by April Bernard Of course the tall stringy woman draped in a crocheted string-shawl  selling single red carnations coned in newsprint the ones she got at the cemetery and resells with a god bless you for a dollar that same woman  who thirty years ago was a graduate student in playwriting who can and will recite "At the round earth's imagined corners, blow--" announces silently amidst her louder announcements that the experiment some amateurs mixed of white fizzing democracy with smoky purple capitalism has failed. We already knew that. Her madness is my madness and this is my flower in a cone of waste paper I stole from someone's more authentic grief but I will not bless you as I have no spirit of commerce and no returning customers and do not as so many must actually beg for my bread. It is another accident of the lab explosion that while most died and others lost legs some of us are only vaguely queasy at least for now  and of course mad conveniently mad necessarily mad because  "tis late to ask for pardon" and we were so carefully schooled  in false hope schooled like the parrot who crooks her tongue like a dirty finger repeating what her flat bright eyes deny.

Tis Late 

by April Bernard

Of course the tall stringy woman

draped in a crocheted string-shawl 

selling single red carnations

coned in newsprint the ones

she got at the cemetery

and resells with a god bless you

for a dollar that same woman 

who thirty years ago

was a graduate student

in playwriting who can and will

recite "At the round earth's

imagined corners, blow--"

announces silently amidst her louder

announcements that the experiment

some amateurs mixed of

white fizzing democracy

with smoky purple capitalism

has failed. We already knew that.

Her madness is my madness

and this is my flower in a cone

of waste paper I stole from

someone's more authentic grief

but I will not bless you

as I have no spirit of commerce

and no returning customers

and do not as so many must

actually beg for my bread. It is another

accident of the lab explosion

that while most died and others lost legs

some of us are only vaguely queasy

at least for now 

and of course mad conveniently mad

necessarily mad because 

"tis late to ask for pardon" and

we were so carefully schooled 

in false hope schooled

like the parrot who crooks her tongue

like a dirty finger

repeating what her flat bright eyes deny.