Sometimes I look at the photo of Cooder that is my screen saver and I cannot believe that I cannot get to her anymore. Inasmuch as I get a kick out of the new kitties, and I do think Scotch will be an excellent cat in the long run, I still miss Cooder terribly. There is a part of my brain and/or my being that does not accept that I cannot make time go backward, that I can not just back up to those better days.
Emmylou continues to be a good and amusing kitty. I’ve been sitting on the bed reading quite a bit with her as my companion. But she is not, as I have often said, a cuddly or comforting kitty who will sleep nearby to get you through a rough night. She likes her face pets.
Dave Alvin was sitting in with The Blasters tonight. I wanted to go, but I realized I am not even in the mood to have fun. Hovering somewhere between numb and depressed, I didn't have the gumption to get out of the house.
I find listening to books nearly as compelling as compulsively reading one that has you by your short hairs. Once I got rolling on Margaret Atwood's The Heart Goes Last, doing anything that did not allow me to listen did not get done. Literature it was not, but it was a good yarn.
Mom was wifty again today, a bit more fragile and distant than some days. We were having a bit of trouble keeping her on her medication schedule, so I hope that is what it is. As I mentioned, we are having a bit of a rough week, so perhaps she is feeling sad or alienated from me.
We did get a nice surprise visit from Miyako next door (who has a birthday today) and Milo who is now four months and getting ready to crawl. Both Mom and I got to hold him and bounce him around. Even Scotch came over to give him a friendly smell.
I feel like I am in some kind of coma or suspended animation where nothing much interests or appeals to me. Skating under thin ice.
Notwithstanding that, I was able to overcome the inertia to some degree and accomplish a few small items instead of putting them off. And perhaps there is a glimmer of positivity there.
I pulled out Jay Parini's The Columbia Anthology of American Poetry, which I am beginning to appreciate. I even took a look at the introduction which certainly seems worth a serious read. He had a very nice selection of Emily Dickinson. (I still recommend the biography, Lives Like Loaded Guns.)
I CAN WADE GRIEF
I can wade grief,
Whole pools of it, —
I'm used to that.
But the least push of joy
Breaks up my feet,
And I tip — drunken.
Let no pebble smile,
'Twas the new liquor,—
That was all.
Power is only pain,
Stranded, through discipline,
Till weights will hang.
Give balm to giants,
And they'll wilt, like me.
Give Himmaleh, —
They'll carry him.
I often don't understand Dickinson; I have to squint to see it, but I often find that sitting with it is worth the time. She certainly slams that imagery: wading grief, whole pools of it.
I think I need exercise, stimulation, and perspective.