Friday, January 25, 2019

PERHAPS MANY SOMETHINGS

Real cream. That’s right you read it. 100% full fat cream. In my coffee. Every morning now. Bite me. (I’m creamy.) I mention this because it tastes soooo good. And immediately adds some endorphins to counteract the cortisol of reality. It gives me a fighting chance for a better day.

I finished reading my 8thbook of the year. It’s not a competition against anyone but myself and the mountains and boxes of books around. I keep waiting for the magic mindset that teaches me to let go and downsize my library. And, of course, I staid up too late to finish said book, Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay. Now, only one more Ferrante to read (in the Neapolitan quartet) and I will be liberated from this obsession. 

But I will go to bed earlier? I woke up after 10am. I don't like sleeping so late. I have a hard time getting into a productive mode when I wake that late, but I don't really sleep well until morning. Going to yoga for a 7:30 class that gets out at 9 does not help me to a deep sleep at a reasonable hour. 

The "quartet" nature of these Ferrante's put me in mind of the only other "quartet" I can remember reading, which was the Alexandria Quartet by Lawrence Durrell. I read them in my mid-20s, and my love interest of the time read them along with me. I did really love them but perhaps it is time to re-read? 

"This is not because Mr. Durrell has hit upon a felicitous method. It is because he is a genuine poet who seems to have survived morally and literally the disasters that have typically shattered his post-Joycean, post-Proustian generation. He is a "waste-land" intellectual who has come through. Once a disciple of Henry Miller, he has not only surpassed his gifted master, he has been able to cope with the disintegration that was his legacy to indicate a really new movement in literature. It is especially significant that he reports truthfully the sordidness of his material and makes something strong, healthy, wise, sad, amusing and beautiful of it. He has the eloquence of the twice-born."

— Gerald Sykes, It Happened in Alexandria, NY Times, 8/25/57

I like that "waste-land intellectual." (Of course, I haven't read The Waste Land. I need to find the audiobook.) I was emailing with one of my book group friends about books. ES is a fan of re-reading books. I have read a few (all of Jane Austen, Middlemarch, Swann's Way, Gone with the Wind, Dracula, Frankenstein, Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass, Moby Dick, Jane Eyre, Gaudy Night come to mind) twice if not many times. I think Justine has to go back on that list.

Janet needs to be driven over to a lunch for one of her senior friends. I rather want to give Diane a gift as she is really nice to Janet and good at communicating with me. Then again, I don't buy or give things to the others who are also nice and I would not want to cause resentments. 

Wow. Just went to order a copy of Justine from the Los Angeles County Public Library system. There isn't a copy extant in the entire system. How fucked up is that? There is one copy of Mountolive (book three, I believe). That is just a wow. And disheartening.

Later, after another wasted day ...

I had to drop off my mom right next to one of my favorite thrift stores, so how could I avoid taking a peek? I didn't buy much, but it is a good time to be looking for used cds as that is one of the things folks are de-accessioning. 

Since I returned home after a library run, I had a pointless argument about Bernie Sanders on FB. I do not plan to vote for another older white man, particularly one who yells at me. It's time for a new breed, even if they are assholes and/or make mistakes. I like a lot of Bernie's ideas, but I don't want him as President. 

"And no one knew better than I did what it meant to make your own head masculine so that it would be accepted by the culture of men; I had done it, I was doing it."

— Elena Ferrante, Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay

I always have trouble explaining this concept. When a professor first pointed out the idea of dominant hegemony, I was furious and angry. He was pointing out the what was then the first Star Wars movie was nothing more than reinforcing those myths. By the end of the semester, I could see it. By the next year, I was about to get thrown out of the one class I needed to graduate when I pointed out what a piece of shit the film The Breakfast Club was (is). That professor required it as viewing as a fresh piece of film-making. I destroyed his point in a lecture and was almost expelled from class for disagreeing with him. By the end of that semester, he agreed with me. So thanks Robin Wood.

"Maybe there's something mistaken in this desire men have to instruct us: I was young at the time, and I didn't realize that in his wish to transform me was proof that he didn't like me as I was, he wanted me to be different, or, rather, he didn't just want a woman, he wanted the woman he imagined he himself would be if he were a woman. ... I was an opportunity for him to expand into the feminine, to take possession of it. I constituted proof that he knew how to be not only a man in the right way but also a woman."

— Elena Ferrante, Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay

LACQUER ARTIST

There is a nacreous gleam
in certain areas of the mind
where something must have been
at some time—
perhaps many somethings, 
judging by the pearlescence;
maybe the same weightless pleasures
or the same elusive lessons
repeated and repeated
with the patience
of the lacquer artist seated
at his task—eighty
coats per Japanese box.


FULL MEASURE

You will get your full measure.
But, as when asking fairies for favors,
there is a trick; it comes in a block.
And of course one block is not
like another. Some respond to water,
giving everything wet a little flavor.
Some succumb to heat, like butter.
Others give to steady pressure.
Others shatter at a tap. But
some resist; nothing in nature softens up
their bulk and no personal attack works.
People whose gift will not break
live by it all their lives; it shadows
every empty act they undertake.


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

I may have posted that last one before.






Thursday, January 24, 2019

SHE ISN'T INSISTENT

You have certainly heard it before: I staid up too late reading, didn’t sleep well, and then

in too late. It’s after noon, and I am only now finishing my second cup of coffee and looking at the news sites. 

I didn’t read much of the current news this morning. I am interested in the Covington KY school boy story, but I doubt I can get anything resembling the truth, so I will leave it alone for now. Perusing the New York Times obits, the Overlooked No More entries were fascinating, leading, as such meanderings so often do, to me placing more books on my To Read List (currently with about 2,000 entries). 

Here are the folks who caught my attention. 

Annemarie Schwarzenbach


It sure feels like this. 

So, Janet and I made the chicken soup, which came out quite well, although she hasn't had any yet. She swears she will never cook anything again. I am not so sure of her resolution. It takes me awhile to remember that I actually like cooking and not just the idea of it. Janet hummed while she chopped which either means she was soothing herself or grooving on it. 

So, yeah. I was up late reading the third book in Ferrante's Neapolitan quartet (Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay) and listening, not at the same time, to the Marie Colvin biography.

Sitting here in a one lamp lit room, I could hear the (not) dulcet tones of cat bathing. I looked around without being able to see a source a couple of times. No cats on bed or dresser. Oh, there she is on the high shelf where the tv is. Oh that Scotch.


Okay, time to drag myself to yoga. And hopefully get some sleep tonight. I need to get up before 10:00.

On to the next day.

Writing from an unmade bed. And yes, Scotch is contributing to the unmade-ness, however, I had an opportunity while she was eating. 

I feel accomplished, although I should push myself to more tasks, in that I finally reorganized my mother's sock drawers. She constantly complains she has no socks because she has forgotten when she kept them. I just put them where she now looks, while trying to corral the many odd socks into pairs. I also made appointments for her blood tests and for a steroid shot. That all felt like a lot.

The weather is just nippy enough to discourage moving around and to encourage climbing into napping. I am almost finished with the Marie Colvin bio (which is due today, at any rate). However, I shall find some slippers, make the bed, and try to find my damn registration in the morass. I can listen whilst I sort.

Now on to Thursday. Still plugging away at this.

I might have mentioned in the last few months that I am trying to reroute my quick and reactive nature to things and become a bit more focussed on taking the time to complete things. I think my experience as a producer taught me to pile on steps and make progress wherever it could be shoehorned in or addressed. This made lead to progress on many fronts, but absolutely adds to being frenetic and never getting the satisfaction of completing anything, really completing it past "good enough for now." Which only keeps the to do list ... and when I going to carve out time for that ... ever growing. Just like my reading list which already has more entries than I will ever be able to read in my  life.

I have tried to keep the phrase, "take the time" in the forefront of my pea brain so that I slow down and do things more thoroughly. 

I think the stress, always the stress, is that my mother is old and fading and where will I go and what will I do with all this stuff. That's my bedrock all the time. 

And rather than encouraging me to just do it ... never my strong suit, having been bred to indolence and denial ... I just want to sleep and read and space out. That's my instinct. Motivation for much of anything has been crushed in the many horrible realities and generally feelings of uselessness, hopelessness, and, in some ways, end times. 

And and and again ... I needs must stop this musing to get Janet over to her blood test in about ten minutes. 

HER POLITENESS

It's her politeness
one loathes: how she
isn't insistent, how
she won't impose, how
nothing's so urgent
it won't wait. Like
a meek guest you tolerate
she goes her way—the muse
you'd have leap at your throat,
you'd spring to obey.


CONNECTIONS


Connections lie in wait
something that in
the ordinary line of offenses
makes offense more great.
They entrap, they solicit
under false pretenses,
they premeditate.
They tie one of 
your shoelaces
to one of a stranger,
they tie strings to purses
and snatch as
you lean down, eager
for a little something gratis.


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



Monday, January 21, 2019

RECOMBINE OR SINK

This morning's hit parade kicked off with Sexual Healing (damn that Marvin Gaye had a beautiful voice) followed up by The Streets of Baltimore. And this is a nice version of New, New Minglewood Blues from the Dead.



See? I started this on January 18th and suddenly it is January 21st. 

No matter what I accomplish in a given day, it is never ever even close to enough. I wonder what feeling satisfied after a day's occupation would even feel like. Or even waking up with an anticipatory vibe. Having hung many of my pieces of art, photography, antique mirrors, and French film posters around does push the needle toward being pleased, but then more reality sets in. I would have hung more art today, however, I misplaced the hammer in my last hanging extravaganza and now I must wait for it to resurface.

After a week of rain, we have a quite blustery day. I cannot really hang out in my room as the broken window keeps getting blown out. I might just have to marshal another down comforter if the wind doesn't die down tonight. It is so windy, my skin in very dry.

I could jump into my yoga clothes for the Monday night class, but I have set myself some tasks today and i haven't yet finished them. Practice four times a week is probably good for now. And Janet had made noises about making chicken soup so I should help her get started with that.

She never wants to do anything. Watching death move on your mother every day, little by little is terribly hard. The fight and spunk has drained out of her. Her health is okay, and would be better if I could just get her to move a bit more. That would take a greater deal of organization on my part, to get up early so that she could get in some exercise before she goes to the senior center (which always takes a hassle).

I had a Palm Springs two-nighter planned. I wanted to see how Janet might do as I have not left her alone for quite a long time. I decided I could not really afford to go, so I gave myself some fool around time here instead. I put in some time with The Power Broker and am a whole 13% done. I do really enjoy it, but it is quite a bit to absorb. Only 1200 pages to go!

I recommended the Marie Colvin biography as well, In Extremis: The Life and Death of War Correspondent Marie Colvin.

And last night I finally settled in to watch a film in the annual MyFrenchFilmFestival offering. I have been subscribed for four or five years now. If you don't feel you get to see enough contemporary French films, check this out. It is only about 10 dollars and you get to stream a lot of interesting stuff. Last night's flick was Gaspard va au marriage. I liked it quite a bit. Who knows maybe I will revisit the challenge of getting my MacBook Air connected to my Smart TV so that I can watch on the bigger screen. I thought getting an HDMI to USB cable would be a plug and play solution, but, and you can quote me on this

NOTHING IS EVER EASY.


So, notwithstanding my Sisyphean sense of not accomplishing anything, I did run an errand for my mom, do laundry, work on the unpacking project, recycled, hand-washed, and am now looking to spend some time looking for my car registration so that I am not angling for a big ticket. I did register the car on time, but what happened to the sticker??? Stay tuned.



CIRQUE

Even the clean
blue-green water
of the cirque,
with nothing
in between
the snow and it
but slant,
can't speed
the work,
must wait
upon whatever
makes it white
to dissipate.
It seems
so hard to think
that even lakes
so pure
should start opaque,
that something
always
has to recombine
or sink.

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






Thursday, January 17, 2019

TRYING TO GET THE GROOVE THING GOING

I am going to start this and see how far I get. Historical record shows that I often do not complete posts, but with hope springing eternal I will begin nonetheless.

The rain continues although it is supposed to be easing up. Spoke to KMH who pointed out that there will likely be a superbloom in the desert again as it has been raining like crazy in Palm Springs. Maybe we can take out the Porsche for a drive when the weather clears (hers, not mine).

This has happened before, but Dreams of the Everyday Housewife has appeared in my mental playlist. Maybe it was just getting up to house chaos of cats having barfed, clothes and dishes needing to be cleaned, cats wanting food, the tv blaring, mom in her nightgown having decided to stay home today. And I have volunteered to help my pal Patrick pick tile so that he doesn't order beige and brown.

FORCE

Nothing forced works.
The Gordian knot just worsens
if it's jerked at by a person.
One of the main stations
of the cross is patience.
Another, of course, is impatience.
There is such a thing as
too much tolerance
for unpleasant situations,
a time when the gentle
teasing out of threads
ceases to be pleasing
to a women born for conquest.
Instead she must assault
the knot or alp or everest
with something sharp
and take upon herself
the moral warp of sudden progress.

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

Did cats invent the baleful look? Well, it's not really baleful because that is kind of menacing. Then again there is some implied threat, if only of their own and your future misery and guilt. It's not quite baleful, as I was misusing that word (means threatening). It is more a combination of disappointment/anger/and jesus you are an asshole.

I have been watching the old MTV cartoon, Daria. I had heard it was a good show back in the day. I think it is great, very well-written. The theme song is intolerable however.

So, not much information here, but trying to get the groove thing going again. I need to sleep. Don't be beguiled by Parker Posey's new book either. No damn good.






Wednesday, January 16, 2019

AT OUR LEFT THE ELF (Random Notes, #1)




Random Notes #1

Item: The plumbers were here and gone in under ten minutes. The leak isn’t fixed but the problem is diagnosed. And, of course, it is never an easy fix if you are always scrambling for money. For the moment, the bucket under the sink will work until I can look for the paperwork for the original faucet which was installed not all that long ago.

The sweet plumbers, recommended by friends, were an old school father-son team, exuding a great vibe. You don’t see too many of them around anymore. Also, they are hard-core Democrats. 

So the kitchen dishes are done, breakfast has been eaten, and I can get on with my day.

Item: Posting felt so good, I decided to write a bit more today. (Bed got made, too.)

Item: I may have mentioned this in previous posts, but when I was a child I was very worried about volcanoes and the fall of the Roman Empire, not to mention the Great Depression which positively scared me. I suppose it is a good thing that I didn't hear about the French Revolution until later. 

We are headed for violence and mayhem. Spiritually, psychologically, morally, we are buffered and battered every day by senselessness, evil, and corruption. Weariness has set in. 

Maybe I am getting brain dead, but I get so confused. I had to read this article about sanctions being lifted against Deripaska three times. Was it bad writing? Seems to be weirdly focussed on partisan politics which made the actual information difficult to discern. Or maybe I read it too fast.

A clear path is not currently clear.

Item: And then there is this nuttiness about Gillette razors. And that human-sized maggot who murdered two people so that he could abduct and abuse their daughter. Some folks just aren't going to get it. 

My fury exhausts me.

It is getting late and little has been accomplished other than some writing and a lot of non-productive skittering around the internet, half-reading.

THE TEST WE SET OURSELF

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—
always something's overflow.
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 Boyle, The Best of It: New and Selected Poems, New York, Grove Press, 2010




Rosemary Blossom Creme Brûlée.





SOMEHOW OR OTHER THE WHOLE DARN THING WENT WRONG

I still like Elvis Presley more than many of my friend cohort. I have no idea where the other boomers fall on this question. What I hear from most of my friends is an unyielding affection for the Beatles, Stones, and Zep. It is also true that most, not all, of the people who will even entertain a conversation about music are males. I say that without judgment or malice as music was so ridiculously macho-ized (thanks Jann Wenner) that music did a good job of excluding female points of view. Clearly, these are broad and personal statements, which would require deeper exposition and a good deal more thinking.

But I am not here for an exegesis on popular music. A minor Elvis song came into my mind this morning and has remained there. Only The Strong Survive.

And then ...

That was thirteen days ago, fresh into the New Year with hope and resolutions. Doesn't always work out that way.

Happily happily, the rains have come to Los Angeles. Given my special powers to mitigate and qualify everything, this would be even better news had I been able to work on my garden this year. Having moved all my worldly goods to one place and the various realities (expenditure of resources, space, future living accommodations, contraction/constriction of my life/dreams) has stopped me from anything other than baby steps and new levels of procrastination/denial.

I did attempt to write, but I just looked at the clock and realized that the plumbers are coming to look at the leak under the kitchen sink in 20 minutes and the kitchen is a hot (well, cold today) mess. And the plumbers called to say that they are on their way.

So, I will just post this and see if I can begin to build some writing momentum.

Butterscotch advocat(e)s the unmade bed.

I SHOULD DO THE SAME

17 of 100 May 24th It is hard to make plans to have fun when you would rather disappear into the earth. The depression continues, yet I am s...