12 January 2017
The world can be a strange place. At this point, I refer not to the reality freefall we find ourselves in, but that Mambo Italiano was in my head this morning. If you aren’t familiar, (and even if you are!), you should check it out. In the world of absurd, it fits and it might cheer you up. Rosemary Clooney is excellent, and some rockin' harpsichord. And that's not something you hear all that often ...
On a positive note, in the wee small hours, I surfaced from sleep to have a purring cat tucked under my chin with a nice background of steady, heavy rain. Oona is not Cooder, but she does like to curl up and purr. She is not as dependable as Cooder, or even Maria Tallchief or Miep, about getting into bed and cuddling.
Hopefully, I will return to this later today with something actual to say, besides "I am trying."
18 January 2017
So much for my getting back in the writing groove. Yet, we persevere, I suppose.
The doldrums surround me. (In maritime usage, the low pressure characteristics of the doldrums are caused by the expanding atmosphere due to heating at the equator, which makes the air rise and travel north and south high in the atmosphere, until it subsides again in the horse latitudes. Some of that air returns to the doldrums through the trade winds. This process can lead to light or variable winds and more severe weather, in the form of squalls, thunderstorms, and hurricanes. The doldrums are also noted for calm periods when the winds disappear altogether, trapping sail-powered boats for periods of days or weeks.) Not being maritime, there is this: Colloquially, the "doldrums" are a state of inactivity, mild depression, listlessness, or stagnation. The word is derived from dold, an archaic term meaning "stupid", and -rum(s), a noun suffix found in such words as "tantrum". In the future, when I say I feel dold, you will know of which I speak.
I must confess that I have not been swimming, although the pool has been open for a week. The weather has been blessedly rainy and surprisingly cool. I lost my momentum or mojo there, for swimming. Eventually, my guilt will drive me. That, and that I feel better when I swim.
Today, I feel as if I want to hit the three B's (bathing, bourbon, books) and perhaps add on a fourth (bed). I just started listening to the Toobin book about Patty Hearst and I just want to lie in bed and listen to it. However, I will likely move along to another task before I make a quiche for dinner.
Too much info. As I have said before, I have misplaced my writing "voice" and even the will to do it.
Like a lot of people, I am cringing from and in some superficial denial about ... Trump. I generally eschew writing that name or referring to that person, but I suppose that does not help the matter. While I am disappointed that I won't be able to attend the Washington March, I will be in downtown LA on Saturday. And perhaps that will renew my will to fight. One foot in front of the other. One daily action.
A friend just called to suggest a scheme wherein we obliterate or otherwise lose January and probably February. Tough months in this hemisphere, and even more difficult this time around. We didn't figure out a specific plan of action, but I'll let you know if you can be of help.
Here's my current reading. Actually, I finished Homegoing. If anyone wants this copy, let me know, as I will be releasing it into the reading wild after my book group next week.
And she saying, I cannot quite
hear what she says, but he, standing
in clothes washed too often still
to be warm, looks out at the land.
And she saying, I cannot hear
what follows his name, and he, "What's
it all mean, Lizzie? We've made
a living and no one doubts our name.
And he remembering the years
before the green combines and long,
open barns for machinery
and their hands on each other young.
And she saying, I cannot tell
whether or not it's comforting,
until he turns to a door that
is not a new house, and goes on.
And she saying, I can hear now,
"If the words are old, let them be.
It's hard enough with a dream;
here, what can you see of a plan?"
And he nodding, I can no longer
hear what she says, the house shadowed
by combines and long open bars,
the fields planted and bare for rain.
—Trent Busch, originally appearing in The Nation, 2001