SUMMER HAD CLOSED IN

70 of #100daychallenge 

Trying to understand another human being is often a dismal task. And if not dismal, thankless.

— Errol Morris, Donald Rumsfeld’s Fog of Memos, NYT, 7/3/21

I just came across that in an article today. No one is really trying me at the moment, save for the Janet. And her consternating is mostly about her sad loss of memory. 

How did it get to be 12:20am all of the sudden? I am deep into the series Genuis: Aretha. I don't know how I even forgot about it. I had started watching it a few months ago, but then I went into not watching much visual narrative. 

I made it to 8:30 am yoga which is also, as my friend Sonia would say, a small victory that needs be acknowledged. I like it when Janet sleeps through my getting up so I have some time to myself in the morning, but this was not to be. I am pleased to say my own practice is improving and coming back faster than I would have imagined. Heidi's class was in a mirrored room so I was forced to look at myself now and again, and I was surprised to see I looked pretty good.

Maybe I shouldn't attribute (or blame) it on my father, and maybe I should cut myself some slack and call it a defense mechanism, but I am dismayed at my hard-heartedness towards my mother. I need a program that instills grace towards those that occupy your life against your will. I am so often so harsh, not yelling, just clipped and sarcastic towards her. My heart is quite closed toward her. I don't have a lot of patience towards her or anything else around here, even Fox is subject to my irritation. 

I say my father because there was that hardness and sarcasm ... or even short-temperedness with being asked and queried about things. I have mentioned it before in these pages but his powers of dismissal and reducing another to smallness were impressive, if you want to use that term. Think about telling a child who asks for something "People in hell want ice water." 

Not a very kind or even explanatory excuse. I mean, for a child isn't that kind of like saying "Fuck off and maybe die?" So, as my mother repeatedly asks me for things or I have to repeat the same task for her, I lose patience, grace, and mercy. And then that eats at my spirit. It's like I can't get to the auto-reponse box to switch it to "Anything you need, dear mother." or "No problem." or "I'll get right on that."

And watching her fade and deteriorate is heart-wrenching. I have said that before. Will probably say it again. 

And here I was writing about kindness this week. Goes to show how blind you can be about yourself.

Alright then. Janet wants some oatmeal and I need to get ready for my next sewing circle of two with my cousin Christina. Will post results as progress actually happens.

I have made it to page 100 in Ulysses.

WALDEN IN JULY

The clouds were fishbone

high. Downwind.

From the pond,

water color rose toward the sun

like heat, and voices

carried from a boat.

Four feet from shore,

two executive bass

meandered by,

bored by bait

and waiting.

Armed,

a crawfish backed

from underneath a rock;

a boy amused his girl

by skipping stones

across the cove;

a lone Canada goose

dove under; some cloven crows

flapped out of a pine

like a frayed black bow

untying.

Summer had closed

in. At dusk,

the waterfront began

to clear; tiptoeing

bathers crossed the gravel

to their cars. Kibbies

cupped their noses

up for flies and

popped the watertop. A

band of Negroes with a banjo

settled in.

The smell

of warm fresh water

wafted toward the shore;

across the cove, where

Thoreau built his

hut, seventy frogs

were bulling

“chug-a-rum,

chug-a rum.”

The night was opening

like a cotyledon.’

— Donald Junkins, The New Yorker,  July 14, 1962 issue