Saturday, March 19, 2016


March 18, 2016

Now why did I think I need to stop straightening up for guests, sit down, and immediately write? What needed to be written? I guess anything to avoid the work that, if it were finished, would grant me some serenity and mental peace. Oh procrastination, I am thy slave. (Plus, it feels good to write.)

Mom is in the kitchen clattering dishes. I can hear the collar bells of the cats wandering around to find their morning nap areas. We have five now.  Five. Cats. I know. That’s a lot. La Maman and I are the perfect demographic for crazy cat ladies. But she’s 89. She fell in love  with a beautiful stray(nger). It is difficult to not want to indulge her.

Okay. The floor with books and fabric and clothing is not getting any cleaner as I sit here. The box room is still terrible. My embroidery projects in progress are around the living room. And I have yet to get very far in the menu for the Salon tomorrow. Only RV has volunteered to bring empanadas. What goes with that?

Early in the morning March 19 ...

Trying to husband my last sleeping med as there has been a continued mix-up with getting my meds renewed, although I was pretty on top of it. Oh well.

Feeling somewhat bittersweet and j'ai un peu de tristesse. Someone else very close and dear is struggling a bit. Yeah, well, who isn't I guess.

Salon menu decided except for dessert. Perhaps I will wake up feeling like baking something. Box room still a mess but other things are organized enough. Michael and Alicia came down from Oakland today and we all sat outside to enjoy the garden.


I'll never forget the day this beautiful woman
right out in the office said I was "sneaky":

I didn't know I was sneaky. I didn't feel
sneaky: but there are mechanisms below our

mechanisms, so I assume the lady was right:
living with that has not helped my progress

in the world, if there is any such thing,
progress, I mean: also it has hurt my image

of myself: I have used up so much fellow-
feeling on the general—all of which I have

forgotten specifically about, as have the
fellows—no offices, no clear images or

demonstrations—I don't understand why that
one remark holds its place ungivingly in me;

and now to talk about it, admit to the world
(my reading public, as it happens) that I am

scarred by a old, old wound about to heal and
about to bleed: this may do confessional good

but I will no longer appear perfect to others:
conceivably, that could be a good thing:

others may be scarred, too, but who wants to
be like them: one should: perhaps I really

do, because lonely splendor is devastatingly
shiny but basically hard and cold, marble

walls and glistening floors: one comfort,
which I am reluctant to relish, is that the

lady is now dead—surely I am sorry about that,
she was a person of intelligence and

discernment, which is one reason she hurt me
so bad—well, but I mean, she won't hurt

anybody else: she probably did enough good
in her life that the Lord will forgive her:

I am trying to forgive her myself after all
she left me some room for improvement and

a sense of what to work on. . . .

A. R. Ammons, The Best American Poetry 2000

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