WISH I COULD TELL YOU WHAT I AM FEELING

May 29

Going in to week three my obsession with Steve Wonder’s Talking Book. One could do worse. The songs kind of snippet themselves together, musical phrases and lyrics commingling, although Blame It On The Sun is getting a lot of brain space at the moment. Perhaps that is due to the overcast morning. The music is so rich. 

May 30

No morning tortoise shell kitty, but Idris is sleeping on the breezeway above my head. Ms. Tortie is likely put off by the chain saw in the house behind as my neighbor is annihilating the passion flower vine that has far exceeded its boundary. I was yanking on it myself last night as I continued to eke out some space and clean up the backyard a bit. It looks as if he is chain sawing his roses as well, which is a disappointment to me. I could see their blooms bobbing above the brick wall. To that end, I did dig out a corner of the Swimming Pool Garden to plant some zucchini, a tomato and more basil. I also put my honeysuckle vine in place. I even tried my hand at sawing off some branches on the popcorn cassia that  needs to be entirely removed so that the pomegranate can take its place.

The front yard garden is coming along. The roses are particularly happy. I mentioned to my book group that I probably had 10 or 12 rose bushes, but I counted more like 16 or 17 if included the miniature roses. The gardenias are coming in. I had not fertilized this plant in ages (or like ever) so the blossoms are a bit meager. I finally fed them as I do love their scent. Last night, there was a combination of jasmine and gardenia here at my desk.

I know I refer to William Stafford's poem, A Ritual to Read to Each Other very frequently. This poem has become a mantra or a prayer for me. With all the insanity of riots and pandemics, sociopaths and racists, these stanzas come to mind

     And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,

     a remote important region in all who talk:

     though we could fool each other, we should consider—

     lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

     For it is important that awake people be awake,

     or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;

     the signals we give — yes or no, or maybe —

     should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

At this time, when camaraderie and cooperation would be so crucial, we cannot gather without careful consideration, if at all. You all know this but "it is important that awake people be awake" and we stay in touch, we continue to think and share and act when we can. For sure, "the darkness around us is deep" and seems to be getting deeper.

IT MAY BE TEMPTING (OR Y9vjkc)

It may be tempting to binge-watch our way thorough these next months. But TV washes over you. Reading draws you in. Books that absorb us, books that calm us down, books that comfort us, books that remind us we are not alone but part of the grand sweep of history, books that surprise and enchant us — this is what we’re looking for..
— Sarah Lyall, Let Books Create Your Summer, NYT, 5/24/20

Sunday, May 24th

I need no convincing on this front. Instead of giving in to watching last night, I was completely absorbed in Dark Towers: Deutsche Bank, Donald Trump, and an Epic Trail of Destruction. The information is dense, but fascinating in that car-wreck, rubbernecking way. Letting it sink in, connecting all the dots to our current situation as well as our past is daunting. I need an historian and an economist to help me see where all of this toxic morass seeps and spreads. The threads, historically, run back to Nixon and Reagan and maybe even the installation of Harry Truman over Henry Wallace as Vice President in the 1944 Democratic Presidential Convention. That is my largely uninformed and undocumented thesis.

Writing that made me sleepy again. I've been getting up around 7:30 am, then taking a late morning/early afternoon nap. I am supposed to head over to Patrick's in about an hour to take Jason Cull's strap wall class, and then off to Kava to work with a student comrade. That seems like a lot of energy and there are a few project that really need attention.

Where have I been these last few days? I had a few medical appointments, so perhaps that threw off my days. There was some gardening in there. I had to go to urgent care on Friday as I had a bug bite in the middle of the arch of my left foot that itched so much I couldn't sleep undisturbed. Having been hospitalized for a black widow spider bite, I am a bit anxious about bug bites. Also, hard to do yoga if you can't comfortably stand.

Across the yard and the bougainvillea, the morning tortoise shell kitty is sitting on the very edge of the shed. Sitting is hardly the verb. She is rolling around, lolling in the sun, and cleaning herself in a montage of precarious cat cleaning positions. Still she remains on the roof. On my trellis, I can see the black lump of Idris watching here.

May 28th (Idris contributed the parenthetical title)

And just like that another week is gone. Phffftttt ... where did it go? Gardening took up a lot of this week. I am at that point of maybe having gotten in deeper than I can sustain. On the other hand, I do sit and stare at it all. The colors have a positive synaptical effect on me. I swear, the flowers interrupt that usual mental flow toward some eddy, superficial or deep, of discontent all the way to despair. My friend Peter has been resurrecting his large vegetable garden after several years of neglect. He says he does the same thing. When he gets stuck, he goes out and fiddles in the garden for a while. It provides reset.

Lots of people are finding gardening a good pasttime for sheltering and curtailing one's activities. The lines at the garden stores and nurseries are quite long. My favorite nursery is about to close down this summer so that the land can be developed into condos or another shabby housing development. I have another favored nursery but it is not as convenient ... or at least my mind tells me so. I am not so sure. Nurseries are so far superior to garden stores like Lowe's. There isn't a lot of variety in those mall shops. I go straight to the back to look for the plants that need some extra tlc to see if I can bring them back to life.

And there has been a lot of reading, or, rather, listening to audiobooks. Sometimes I can be otherwise productive while listening to books, other times I just play solitaire to keep my hands busy. I finished Dark Towers just before the library would vanish it from my Libby account. I have one or two other audiobooks on hold that continue the exploration of Trumps/Kushners and all.

Meanwhile, somehow my number finally came for the new Hilary Mantel, The Mirror and the Light. And let there be rejoicing in the land. But this book is 37 hours of listening to get through in 14 days. I would much rather have the paper copy, but I've no idea when the library will reopen. I guess I could buy it but I don't like to have hardcovers around so much.

Just espied the morning tortoise shell kitty working on her waking up ablutions. I wondered where she was. A hummingbird came by the windows and did an excellent hover for 30 seconds. It was terrific. There are lots of hummingbirds in my jungle. The morning tortoise shell kitty is defying gravity on the edge of the patio roof. She is on her back and her arms are stretched in supta urdvha hastansana. Idris is walking around above my head on the breezeway mewing her broken meow.

Somehow this Elvis Costello song wafted across my mind: All This Useless Beauty. Not that the garden gorgeousness is useless. I am sure there are salutary neurotransmitter benefits that I haven't read about. Sometimes it feels like a lot of time and expense for what? Another place where I might not be husbanding my assets quite intelligently. When I look at the garden, I do think what if I had put all that energy into studying harder for yoga teacher training? Then again, yoga expertise is something that takes time and breathing room.

One of the other books I finished this week was Serenade for Nadia, written by a popular Turkish cultural figure. The book had many faults literarily, but it was very engaging and interesting. Likely it read better in Turkish. Oh hell to the yes!
"... It was while reading an essay on Pascal by Auerbackh, titled "The Triumph of Evil". He quoted Pascal's statement that it was right to pursue what was just, but it was inevitable that the strong would lead. Justice without power is ineffectual and power without justice is tyranny. There would always be those who would undermine and overthrow justice that lacked power. We had to integrate justice and power by making the just powerful and the powerful just.
     Justice is difficult to define, but we recognize power at once. We could not empower justice because power has negated justice and asserted itself to be just. Since we have been unable to make what is right powerful, we have made power right."

A swallowtail butterfly as big as a hummingbird is checking out the goods, goods in this case being bougainvillea and the fennel running amok. I was interrupted in trying to wrap things up by the insistence of Idris.

ALL THIS USELESS BEAUTY

It's at times such as this she'd be tempted to spit
If she wasn't so ladylike
She imagines how she might have lived
Back when legends and history collide
So she looks to her prince finding since he's so charmingly
Slumped at her sideman tv5kllrlr74eie
And she's waiting for passion or humour to strike

What shall we do, what shall we do with all this useless beauty?
All this useless beauty

Good Friday arrived, the sky darkened on time
'Til he almost began to negotiate
She held his head like a baby and said "It's okay if you cry."
Now he wants her to dress as if you couldn't guess
He desires to impress his associates
But he's part ugly beast and Hellenic deceased
So she finds that the mixture is hard to deny

What shall we do, what shall we do with all this useless beauty?
All this useless beauty

She won't practice the looks from the great tragic books
That were later disgraced to face celluloid
It won't even make sense but you can bet
If she isn't a sweetheart or plaything or pet
The film turns her into an unveiled threat

Nonsense prevails, modesty fails
Grace and virtue turn into stupidity
While the calendar fades almost all barricades to a pale compromise
And our leaders have feasts on the backsides of beasts
They still think they're the gods of antiquity
If something you missed didn't even exist
It was just an ideal -- is it such a surprise?

What shall we do, what shall we do with all this useless beauty?
All this useless beauty
What shall we do, what shall we do with all this useless beauty?
All this useless beauty

Dos gardenias para ti ...

THINGS YOU CHERISH MOST

May 18th

‘Tis a rainy morning here, more drizzly than real rain. Oona stood outside the window screen and bellowed until I got up to open another window. She is now conked out beside me. I would like another cup of coffee, yet I don’t want to disturb her. 

I am very tired for some reason. I slept fitfully and listened to My Cousin Rachel in between times. With this inclement interlude, there will be much argument and evidence for staying where I am. And now I am hemmed in between Oona and Idris who are clearly dedicated to Morpheus this morning. There is something very soothing about the slow rise and fall of a furry cat belly. Idris isn’t really sleeping but working on some philosophical cat question.

May 19th

The jungle is not vanquished, however, I did begin a serious assault on the invasive passion flower vines.  The butterflies and bees so enjoy them, but they will take over if given half a chance. I would rather see roses or wisteria or jasmine taking over the back wall. So, yes it is a little bare, but I am making room to plant the lime tree, patiently waiting in a pot, and the pomegranate. Also, there is a volunteer pepper tree that has stalwartly returned every year and I feel it is time to give it a better shot.

I made better space for the gladioli, although there is not much I can do for them this year as they will be flowering shortly. And I do need to take out the kale, Tuscan and Black Russian, as they are crowding out the wisteria on that side. In the front yard, in an inappropriate place there are two healthy tomato volunteers that I would move else where. Given everything I tore down and cut back today, I may well be filling up my neighbor's green cans again.  I even uncovered a hibiscus fighting for space between the bougainvillea and passion flower. I need sharper cutters to get the bougainvillea branches.

I finished My Cousin Rachel, which is the Kermit Place Readers' SIP choice for this month. It took me awhile to get into it, but I think it has replaced Rebecca as my duMaurier of choice. I have yet to watch the film, but I did get a damn kick out of the book.

What next? This library closure has been tough on me, as I have said, forcing me to read the books I had already checked out and those in my own library. I have opened and read a few pages of Artemisia which looks to be quite a handful, but interesting. I have read several mid-twentieth century British female writers of later, Margery Sharp (of The Borrowers fame) being one and a recently begun Elizabeth Bowen being another. They are generally soothing, amusing, and fairly fast reads. I am not sure where my head is in terms of more challenging reading but perhaps I will dip back into Leo Damrosch's The Club which I listened to a good half of and then wanted to read more closely. I am also listening to Dark Towers: Deutsche Bank, Donald Trump, and an Epic Tale of Destruction. It is good but it is dense and I likely won't make it all the way through this time.

Although it is noon, I think I will take my lie-down a bit early today. My hands are a bit sore and torn from the gardening. Those bougainvilleas are almost more dangerous than roses. And those boysenberry pricklies are no joke either.

Lovely nap. Much longer than I anticipated. Should I be guilty about my indulgence? It was nice. In my post nap stupor, I attacked the passion fruit vines again and picked some more boysenberries before trudging out to the curb to bring in the trash cans.

Some significant spacing out minutes later.

The breeze comes up at this time of day. There is likely a meteorological reason for this, currently unknown to me. I must say this is sensuously mesmerizing, enough to stop in your tracks to drink it and wish that you were wearing a light skirt to blow around you.

The cats have many secret, shady napping places in the yard, heretofore unknown to me. Oona sleeps in the shade of bougainvillea, very close to the gladioli. Fortunately, they are too tall to be good for sleeping on. Earlier I found Vera Paris in what was formerly the shade of the popcorn cassia. It is bare in that corner now, but, as I have rambled before, the pomegranate will be there soon. And, if I work a bit more in the area adjacent, I can, for this year, put in the zucchini and transplant those tomatoes.

This breeze keeps bringing the first line of Joni Mitchell's Cary to mind, "the wind is in from Africa ..." There were two earworms this morning, Sunny Side of Heaven, from Fleetwood Mac's Bare Trees. I think it will make a good yoga class song. I can't quite tell if it is Danny Kirwan or Bob Welch, but guitar tone is so phat and rich. The song is not mind shattering in any way, but good for morning and evening listening. The other was another Stevie Wonder song from Talking Book, Looking For Another Pure Love. (Listen for Jeff Beck's pinging harmonics in the introduction.)Although I have been listening to Talking Book for almost forty years, I am not sure I had honed in on the exquisite interplay of musicians. And both releases were from 1972. Go figure.

Never tears or sorrows came before me in my mind

I had no problems, never a problem in my life

Never a worry on my mind

All my days before today were happy

And secure until your phone call

You were tellin' me goodbye

Now I'm lookin' for another love

I'm lookin' for another pure love in my life

Oh

And I'm lookin' for another love

I'm lookin' for another pure love in my life

Now the wheel of fate has turned

I'm worried 'bout the new love you've discovered

He is a problem in my life

I have a problem on my mind

Things you cherish most in your life

Can be taken if they're left neglected

Leavin' a problem in your life

'Cause now I'm lookin' for another love

I'm lookin' for another pure love in my life, ooh

And now I'm lookin' for another love

I'm lookin' for another pure love in my life, ooh

I'm lookin' for another love

I'm lookin for another pure love in my life

I'm lookin' for another love

I'm lookin for another pure love in my life

You know, I'm lookin' for another love

I'm lookin for another pure love in my life

A chapter later.

This druggy, unengaged feeling is nice. Although I am officially unemployed, there is still a pressure to do, do, do, go, go, go. I do feel somehow wrong to be crawling along in a low gear, this unfocussed state is just so nice. The YTT is on break and while there are things to do, some of the pressure is off.

A bird just landed in the Russian black kale. At first, I thought it was a hummingbird, but it was something I did not recognize, which would go for 99% of bird species. It was near enough to Oona to get her attention, but flew away without incident.

Life must be picking up out there as the sounds of the 605 freeway have returned.

The chapter was from Serenade for Nadia. This one of three books I check out of the library in March not yet read. One of the others is about Germans committing suicide after WWII and I just don't know that I am up for that.

THE FABRIC OF LIFE

It is very stretchy.
We know that, even if
many details remain
sketchy. It is complexly
woven. That much too
has pretty well been
proven. We are loath
to continue our lessons,
which consists of slaps
as sharp and dispersed
as bee stings from
a smashed nest,
when any strand snaps—
hurts working far past
the locus of rupture,
attacking threads
far beyond anything
we would have said
connects.

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

FACE WITH SOBER SENSES

May 18, 2020 

I came across this post from March, 2013 that I had somehow neglected to upload. I think it has aged enough.

"All that is solid melts into air, all that is holy is profaned, and man is at last compelled to face with sober senses, his real conditions of life, and his relations with his kind."
— Karl Marx

Back in Brewster, up again after falling asleep at 8:15 p.m.

Romantics live in possibility and expectation, I have decided. And while possibility and expectation can be okay, they really don't lead to the concrete and possibly the productive. I mean, we all flibbertigibbit from one lovely plan to a new idea and we might not even realize failure or a less than ideal outcome when we see it, because we are still in possibility land. There's always some creative spin or reuse or redemption.

I have lived my life this way, waiting for things to fall into place, (watching the dectectives?) missing some harder, corporeal, tangible, hell maybe even fungible results or rewards. See, when you are a romantic, there is always the future. Around any corner. Maybe next week.

But romantics age, too. And here we are, not just me, later in life with, well not nothing to show for it, but not security (and we all know that's a relative thing anyway) but accomplishments or satisfaction either. I'm not the only way with boxes full of projects and ideas, all the trimmings for a house and a life I don't and won't have. And yet still utterly attached to all the things, the ideas, the hopes.

One wouldn't want possibility to be an unpleasant, ugly, or perjorative word. But what have you got when nothing gels or materializes. Not even anything solid to melt into air. Certainly, the real conditions of life are understood these days in ways neither the Baby Boomers nor their parents, even though they faced hardships, really considered. Or did they?

IS PEACE NOT HERE FOR ME TO SEE?

(Columbine, not bougainvillea.)

Taking a moment this morning to stare out the window and hope that my brain kicks in. The magenta bougainvillea on the side wall utterly taunts me with its garden space imperialism. Besides expanding into Luz’s backyard (she probably needs the color as I think her yard is largely cement), it is lurching into the open space (and I use that term loosely) in my jungle. Yesterday, I spent a few minutes beginning the trimming operation to clip out the encroachment over my stalwart gladiolus which appear yearly with absolutely no attention during the year. I barely water out there. I see that the canna and wisteria are similarly soldiering on, while the Russian kale stands around like palm trees at an oasis, expecting to be admired simply because they are.

Above me on the breezeway trellis, I can see the shadowy meatloaf shapes that can only mean cats. Oona Minnie Pearl Moonlight and Idris like to sleep up there, probably to avoid fleas, but they also have a good view and they are conveniently close to me should they need to send a text or just generally make a standing statement on my keyboard. 

There's a cloud bank eddy to the west, this grey miasma being visually sliced by several trees, one of which is a magnolia or some other flowering tree. Perhaps I should walk around the block and investigate. To my right, there is the same tree but backed with blue sky. 

And in the very far corner on the catercorner man shed of the neighbor, there is still another roof borne kitty enjoying the sun and having a rounded back leg extension bath. She is a tortoise colored kitty who looks so much like Butterscotch that I always have to look hard to see who it is. I don't know if she is of the family of strays or she actually belongs to someone. The late Pogonip's brother, a stray I have named Corram after a character in Philip Pullman's trilogy, The Book of Dust, lounged on a chair that often housed Pogonip. He is a handsomer cat being a tabby, my personal favorite.

Okay, I have wandered and meandered enough and I really need to finish writing my sequence. 

I went to YTT yesterday not feeling very well, particularly in my shoulders from all the hoeing and digging. I took some mega-pain pills. That said, after a few sun salutations we spent the rest of that class working on the strap wall and I completely forgot about my shoulder pain. I know it is petty and not in the path of spiritual yoga, but after feeling less-than so often, given the physical dexterity, mobility, and strength of my fellows, it was nice to feel I was in my home space and in command of my practice there.

I had occasion to listen to Stevie Wonder's Talking Book recently. I am pulling together some music for the summer wedding of a close acquaintance (one of my cousin Sue's best friends). And then I was unpacking the vast empire of cds that make up most of my wealth. Anyway, this song, Blame It On the Sun wafts through the brain this morning.

BLAME IT ON THE SUN

Where has my love gone?
How can I go on?
It seems dear love has gone away
Where is my spirit?
I'm nowhere near it
Oh yes, my love has gone astray

But I’ll blame it on the sun

The sun that didn’t shine

I’ll blame it on the wind and the trees

I’ll blame it on the time that was never enough

I’ll blame it on the tide and the sea

But, my heart blames it on me.

Who poured the love out?
What made this bitter doubt?
Is peace not here for me to see?
Wish I could tell you
What I am feeling
But, words won't come for me to speak

Oh, but I'll blame it on the sun
That didn't fill the sky
I'll blame it on the birds and the trees
I'll blame it on the day that ended once too soon
I'll blame it on the nights that could not be
But my heart blames it on me

THE DAY MISSPENT

Why yes, my cherry tree does have blossoms.

May 10th

There was the exquisite in the evening tonight. The jasmine which is overtaking the side of the house let off a powerful, heady aroma. The clouds were Tiepolian but better because not baroque and overdone. And as the sun set yet the sky was still blue, the clouds blushed pink. And it was relatively quiet for a few moments.

May 15th

Surely it has been more than five days since I last posted. I feel awash in various streams of reality and responsibility: backyard jungle, boysenberry picking, front yard weeding, sorting and organizing patio, garage, bedrooms, patio, laundry, reading, kitchen floor mopping, yoga sequence writing ... just waking all the way up. I did get a load of laundry washing. I did go out to inspect last night's gardening (and found it wanting).

My biggest project for the week besides teaching a yoga student, was reorganizing my office/art room. I had to let go of a couch I liked in here because all it did was serve as a place to pile shit up on. It took me the better part of a day but I feel more space around me and, although the decision is difficult for me, I am getting rid of the loveseat. I like it and I haven't had it for very long, but I am not sure it really serves me.  It's still on the premises,  however I am leaning towards moving towards putting it on the curb.

Much of the yoga training seeps into other aspects of my life much more than asana practice, which I am doing far less of as the studio is closed for all intents and purposes.

Later that same morning.

Settling down and concentrating is not coming easily today. It is all about the fits and starts, the small steps in too many directions. Teri Ann's Zoom yoga class is in about 30 minutes and I will be forced to relinquish my laptop.

Maybe I just need a nap. I didn't sleep all that well. Besides a bit of a nap can be a bit of a reset. Sometimes, closing my eyes for a bit allows me to refocus and I jump up to productivity.

I will admit to overall world weariness. This pandemic is resetting the world in more ways than are easily comprehensible. Out the window, I see mylar balloons rising in the air to pollute and wreak havoc on the environment. I am tempted to print out an article about how shitty they are and leave in in their mailbox. I think people just don't know.

There has been a bit of a discussion, from two directions, about the philanthropy of the likes of Gates and Bloomberg. I am wary of men who have accumulated that much money, no matter how much good they do. If they became mendicants or were actually working on the streets, I might have more patience for them. I see men, again with the men, again with the patriarchy, choosing their battles. Now, I know that it is good to not take on too much, to have focus, but something about men, power, and money just naturally makes me uneasy. I warrant this is not a well-thought-out argument, but just how I feel at the moment.

The front garden is coming along. It's a lot of work to dig deep enough to interrupt those lawn grasses and dandelions. The part I have dug up and planted now needs weeding. Here's what you learn: leave enough space between plants to be able to dig up weeds without crushing other plants. Duh. I will take some snaps when it gets filled in a bit better and the special poppies (not opium) are blooming.

Getting on to yoga time, and I definitely need a nap.

What a difference a nap makes. Much more focussed.

Sometimes I wonder why I am doing yoga teacher training as at the moment, I don't have a lot of enthusiasm for it. Had the pandemic not kicked in, I think I would be much more engaged now and my personal practice would be improving rather than ... well, not stagnating, but not getting a lot better. I have so much information that is not quite settling down in either mind or body. I expect this to change.

Even though I was aching for nap, I couldn't sleep. I tried listening to My Cousin Rachel, which is the Kermit Place Readers book choice of the month. That wasn't quite helping, so I turned it off and just concentrated on my breathing. Now, there was the ticket.

WASTE

Not even waste
is inviolate.
The day misspent,
the love misplaced,
has inside it
the seed of redemption
Nothing is exempt
from resurrection.
It is tiresome
how the grass
re-ripens, greening
all along the punched
and mucked horizon
once the bison
have moved on,
leaning into hunger
and hard luck.

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

And speaking of a day misspent, here's another old Radio Sally Mix I unearthed in my unpacking of too many cds.

Radio Sally

A Working Man Can’t Get Nowhere Today

(01) XTC: Earn Enough For Us    02:54

                                    (Partridge)

                                    from Skylarking, Geffen, 1986

(02) Peter Case: A Working Man Can’t Get Nowhere Today          03:31

                                    (Haggard)

                                    from Tulare Dust, Hightone, 1994

(03) Slim Harpo: I Need Money (Keep Your Alibis)   02:21

                                    (Moore)

                                    from The Best of Slim Harpo, Excello, 1989

(04) Fenton Robinson: Somebody Loan Me A Dime                           02:56

                                    (Robinson)

                                    from Somebody Loan Me A Dime, Alligator, 1984

(05) The Beatles: You Never Give me Your Money                               04:03

                                    (Lennon/McCartney)

                                    from Abbey Road, EMI, 1969

(06) Robert Palmer: Sneakin' Sally through the Alley                             04:21

                                    (Toussaint)

                                    from Sneakin' Sally through the Alley, Island, 1974

(07) Greg Brown: Where’s My Everything?           03:22

                                    (Nick Lowe)

                                    from Labor of Love, Telarc, 2001

(08) Josh Rouse: A Well-Respected Man03:13

                                    (Davies)

                                    from This Is Where I Belong, Rhino, 2002

(09) John Hiatt: Shredding the Document                   05:01

                                    (Hiatt)

                                    from Walk On, Capitol, 1995

(10) Christine Collister: Can’t Win 05:09

                                    (Thompson)

                                    from Blue Aconite, Koch, 1996

(11) Traffic: (Sometimes I Feel So) Uninspired         10:29

                                    (Winwood/Capaldi)

                                    from Shoot Out at The Fantasy Factory, Island, 1973

(12) Rosie Flores: I Push Right Over                               02:53

                                    (Fulks)

                                    from Speed of Sound, Eminent, 2001

(13) The Bobs: Please Let Me Be Your Third World Country           03:25

                                    (Madsen/Greene)

                                    from My, I’m Large, Great American Music Hall Records, 1987

 (14) David Lindley & El Rayo-X: Texas Tango    03:24

                                    (Bob “Frizz” Fuller)

                                    from Very Greasy, Elektra, 1988

(15) Devil and Bunny Show: Crossing Muddy Waters                        03:37

                                    (Hiatt)

                                    from The I-10 Chronicles, Vol. 2: One More for the Road, Narada, 2001

(16) Ron Kavana: Blackwaterside                                03:18

                                    (R. Kavana)

                                    from Home Fire, Green Linnet, 1991

(17) Waylon Jennings & Emmylou Harris: Spanish Johnny               03:48

                                    (Siebell)

                                    from Waylon & Company, RCA1983

(18) Smog: Cold-Blooded Old Times                          04:10

                                    (Callahan)

                                    from Knock, Knock, Drag City, 1999

(19) Steve Earle: Hurtin' Me, Hurtin' You                     03:21

                                    (Earle)

                                    from I Feel Alright, Warner Bros., 1996

(20) Mary Black: No Frontiers       04:10

                                    (Jimmy McCarthy)

                                    from Bringing It All Back Home, Vol. 1, Valley Entertainment, 1998

AS THOUGH IT MADE SENSE

I really have no business writing anything at this time as I have not really gotten that sequence into any presentable shape. I have plenty of notes, though. 

Besides listening to several versions several times of For Everyman, I answered email, two to yoga teachers who are mentoring me on the sidelines. But listen to this version of For Everyman. It is more melancholy than the one I previously posted from The Bread and Roses Show. And after you listen to Jackson a few dozen tries, check out this version of Suite: Judy Blue-Eyes. I cannot number the times I listened to this in this very house. Puts me right back to high school.

[Part 1]
[Verse 1]
It's getting to the point where I'm no fun anymore
I am sorry
Sometimes it hurts so badly, I must cry out loud
"I am lonely"

[Chorus]
I am yours, you are mine
You are what you are
You make it hard

[Verse 2]
Remember what we've said and done and felt about each other
Oh babe, have mercy
Don't let the past remind us of what we are not now
I am not dreaming

[Chorus]
I am yours, you are mine
You are what you are
You make it hard

[Instrumental Bridge]

[Verse 3]
Tearing yourself away from me now--you are free
And I am crying
This does not mean I don't love you--I do, that's forever
Yes and for always

[Chorus]
I am yours, you are mine
You are what you are
You make it hard

[Verse 4]
Something inside is telling me that I've got your secret
Are you still listening?
Fear is the lock and laughter the key to your heart
And I love you

[Chorus]
I am yours, you are mine
You are what you are
And you make it hard
And you make it hard
And you make it hard
And you make it hard

[Part 2]
[Chorus]
Friday evening, Sunday in the afternoon
What have you got to lose?
Tuesday morning, please be gone, I'm tired of you
What have you got to lose?

Can I tell it like it is?
(help me, I'm suffering)
Listen to me, baby
It's my heart that's suffering, it's a-dying
 (help me, I'm suffering)
And that's what I have to lose

[Chorus]
I've got an answer
I'm going to fly away
What have I got to lose?
Will you come see me Thursdays and Saturdays?
What have you got to lose?[Instrumental Bridge]

[Part 3]
[Verse]
Chestnut brown canary
Ruby throated sparrow
Sing a song, don't be long
Thrill me to the marrow
Voices of the angels
Ring around the moonlight
Asking me, said she's so free
How can you catch the sparrow?
Lacy, lilting lyrics
Losing love, lamenting
Change my life, make it right
Be my lady

[Outro]
Do-do-do-do-do, do, do, do-do-do-do
Do-do-do-do-do, do, do, do-do
Do-do-do-do-do, do, do, do-do-do-do
Do-do-do-do-do, do, do, do-do
¡Que linda!
Do-do-do-do-do, do, do, do-do-do-
la traiga a Cuba
Do-do-do-do-do, do, do, do-do
Do-do-do-do-do, do, do, do-do-do-do
La reina de la Mar Caribe
Do-do-do-do-do, do, do, do-do
Do-do-do-do-do, do, do, do-do-do-do
Quiero sólo visitarla allí
Do-do-do-do-do, do, do, do-do
Do-do-do-do-do, do, do, do-do-do-do
Y que triste que no puedo. ¡Vaya!
Do-do-do-do-do, do, do, do-do
Do-do-do-do-do, do, do, do-do-do-do
Do-do-do-do-do, do, do, do-do
O Va! O Va!
Do-do-do-do-do, do, do, do-do-do-do
Do-do-do-do-do, do, do, do-do
Do-do-do-do-do, do, do, do-do-do-do
Do-do-do-do-do, do, do, do-do

So before I return to watering my newly planted roses and cherry tree, 

I am going to take five days off from writing.

Now

May 7th

This week has been short on writing but long on what I might call breaking on through to the other side. I don't think The Doors really thought about the pain and frustration that might be involved in such an endeavor.

BREAK ON THROUGH

Densmore/Kriger/Morrison

You know the day destroys the night
Night divides the day
Tried to run
Tried to hide
Break on through to the other side
Break on through to the other side
Break on through to the other side

We chased our pleasures here
Dug our treasures there
But can you still recall
The time we cried
Break on through to the other side
Break on through to the other side
Break on through to the other side

Everybody loves my baby
Everybody loves my baby
She gets, she gets
She gets, she gets

I found an island in your arms
A country in your eyes
Arms that chain us
Eyes that lied
Break on through to the other side
Break on through to the other side
Break on through to the other side

Made the scene from week to week
Day to day, hour to hour
The gate is straight
Deep and wide
Break on through to the other side
Break on through to the other side
Break on through to the other side
Break on through, break on through
Break on through, break on through
Yeah, yeah, yeah,
Yeah, yeah, yeah, ...

Not meaning to turn this into a nostalgia fest or anything, but I find it interesting to look at these song and lyrics as freshly as I can. Great music here. Ugh on most of the lyrics. I am talking about Break On Through here. Suite: Judy Blue Eyes is beautiful.

Normal People is a short series streaming on Hulu. I didn't exactly binge watch it as much as I was in thrall to it. The series is intense and intimate to the point of making, at least this viewer, utterly vulnerable. Having had a relationship that was singular in the connection and intensity that is portrayed in the series made this exponentially more real and sad and poignant. Maybe everyone has had this. Not many discuss it. I don't even discuss it.

So, on that level, it has been an emotional and vulnerable week.This is in no way a bad thing, but it is a different thing. 

In the midst of this was the project undertaken with my excellent cousin Shelly to clean out the garage and the patio. The project was necessitated by the presence of a possum digging around and some gnarly smells coming from my belongings which had been ruined on our leaky patio. They smell so bad that it is traumatic to get near them. I keep hoping they will dry out in this heat, but so far, not happening.

The garage has not been cleaned or organized since my father died in 2003, since my brother died in 2009, since my mom shoveled her shit out there to not deal with it. And my extra layer of belongings I moved from Berkeley and New York. I don't think the thesaurus has a good synonym for clusterfuck. Of stuff. Of memories. Of whatever you might add to the mix.

Shelly is a champeen organizer and has the right amount of discipline and indulgence to deal with me when it comes to throwing things away. She is an amazingly hard worker She loves soul music and the blues, so we are quite work compatible. She can herd sheep or cats, as needed. 

N.B. My other cousins are no less awesome, just that they are not helping me with this project. 

So, some order is coming into these areas, but it is not the project of a couple of days. The driveway looks like Green Acres. 

One of my YTT classmates is a big believer in sustainability. Shelly will throw away anything. My tendency (understatement) is to try to save, recycle, reuse. I do see Shelly's point in needing to, metaphorically speaking, scrape that shit off your shoes and move on. It's a dilemma for me. This is the echo of the 1930s depression resounding, I am sure.

But things are all shook up. I had to go through my deceased brother Carl's letters yesterday. It was difficult to not read each and every one, nor to save them, to try to unravel the mystery that he was to his siblings. Romances that never reached the family acknowledgement level; are there clues to my own  romantic and commitment life? I won't know because I chose to throw most of them away without deep scrutiny. You know, I would be in there reading like a novel if I thought it would serve me.

And then there is the constant presence of my father. This garage is a 1950's hobbyist dream. He was a machinist so there are not end of books about that subject, about guns, about war, about taking girly pictures. All there. Most of it leaves me cold, but I don't have it in me to throw away Popular Mechanics and Popular Science Magazines from the 1920s and '30s.The art is so good.

In the far up reaches of the garage, Patrick and Shelly found a box tightly bound. Upon opening it, we found my father's US Navy uniforms that must go back to the 1930s. He joined in 1932 when he was 16. He was so tiny. But it is all so beautiful and well kept. That was another strike at my vulnerability. I found some tendresse there.

I don't find dictionary meanings have the same feeling I have when I think of tenderness. It is beyond just kindness and caring, tenderness means vulnerability as well, although I don't see that spoken of. To be tender, there needs be openness and acceptance. Kindness and caring can be accomplished without much of this.

Not surprisingly, Aretha nails one of my favorite versions. You might not like the strings in place of her more nuanced funk, but her vocal does it all. 

Strawberry jam hand pocket pastry courtesy of Shelly who is here working on the project from hell.

Last night in our YTT discussion, we talked about saucha, which is all about kinds of cleanliness. I didn't share what an armageddon of crap, belongings, dreams, and schemes litter my life. On the other hand, I had been practicing this yama earlier this week with Shelly.

Okay, I need to be working on this week's sequence as I only have until 11:00 when it is yoga time for Mom and I have to give up the computer.

FORGETTING

Forgetting takes space.
Forgotten matters displace
as much as anything else as
anything else. We must
skirt unlabeled crates
as though it made sense
and take them when we go
to other states.

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

And try a little tenderness.