A PERFECT FLOAT WAVE

 

24 of 100

June 16

I tried to listen to the House hearings about January 6th, but the current witness, Judge Luttig, speaks so slowly that it is impossible to stay interested to get the meaning of what he is talking about. Having had a deep-sea deep sleep cycle this morning, I am more than hard pressed to come to any kind of consciousness. Even two-double espressos are not penetrating the depth of this fog.

June 22

While it is true that I have not been blogging, it has been in the service of a greater good. My dear friend, the marvelous Debee came to Santa Fe Springs for a few days to help me out. Not only did we get some of the peskier gardening done, she was able to clean out the garage as well as helping me (with Patrick) getting some more ruined furniture to the dump. There is still much to do, but at least I no longer feel suicidal about it all.

"Yet more concerning was the fear that it wasn't rock music that was tapped out, but me. Maybe you're only allotted a finite number of musical epiphanies in a lifetime, and I'd used mine up. No more capacity for a true sense of wonder, for unhinged delight at hearing something new.

And I recognize this is something everyone says about life after college. It's natural to feel the greatest affection for the music we associate with our carefree high school and college years. The records we associate with being stuck in traffic on your Monday morning commute, or changing diapers in the middle of the night, or writing mortgage checks? These are not the albums you want to have with you when you're stranded on a desert island.

— Marc Fagel, Jittery White Guy Music: True Rock and Roll Confessions from a Guy Who Bought the Album, self-published, 2020

August 4

That book seems like a lifetime ago.

September 7

My Hong Kong Orchid Tree is in severe distress. The large leaves are turning yellow. There is a two week moratorium on outside watering here in LA County to repair a leak in the water system from the Colorado River. It is quite an inconvenience but it needs to happen. My young Black Tulip Magnolia and Japanese Maple are similarly stressed. The cherry tree hates the sun and dryness (I know, what did I plant that one? Hope of cherry blossoms?). 

On the other hand, the citrus, olive, fig, and pomegranate trees in the backyard are toughing it out. I haven't been out ...

September 8

Oh the feeling of a drip of sweat trying to slide down your back to your asscrack, but is somewhat impeded by the humidity of your skin itself.

Some of you may have heard that the weather is quite warm here in California. My brother in Oakland said it was 118 degrees on his porch yesterday afternoon. Janet and I spend a lot of time scantily clad while sprawled on beds. My tv watching has increased. Nina and Vera think the hallway is the coolest part of the house, having the added bonus of being kitchen adjacent should there be any food slung around. If I can get a thing or two done a day, I am doing well. 

Today I had to take two kitties, McCoy and Bebop (more on her anon) to the vet for shots and boosters. It wasn't easy getting them in their carrying cases, nor finding the cases even though I have five or six of them. They've been moved (maybe by me) and were not in their usual place. I taught a yoga class. I swept the living room carpet. I did the dishes. 

One of the themes of the past few weeks has been self-care. For me to make a point of washing my face twice and day and moisturizing is a small step. Writing to you is another. Writing to you is also writing to myself. Win-Win. 

Okay, nattering could continue but it is after midnight and I still need to wind down, brush teeth, clean feet, etc. I will leave you with this:

A paltry Queen Elizabeth story.

In 1983 when she visited San Francisco, I had to wait at the bus stop at Geary and Van Ness for a good hour. I had no idea what was going on but no buses were coming by and the streets were completely empty. Finally, after what seemed forever, a flotilla of motorcycle police and limos came by. The Queen waved at us, standing on the corner, only interested in the damn bus. But I did see her, live and in person, executing a perfect float wave.

REGARDING THE PURSUIT OF LIFE

 23 of 100

June 14 redux

Notwithstanding having sat here for quite awhile, like hours, and notwithstanding the half-adderall I took, I am not making much progress on my class for tonight. Where does the time go? The hummingbirds are enjoying the Meyer lemon blossoms. It must be too hot for bird hunting as there is none of the usual scrub jay dive-bombing of cats as there often is. Fox has found me sitting at my desk and has hopes of finding a relaxing perch from which to nap as he likes to do of an afternoon. Little hope for him there as things are still precariously piled. Janet would insist that I move things to make room, but I won't. Idrisse has found a comfy place on the clean (not anymore) clothes. 

Ernesto has finally finished cleaning my car as he is finally washing the outside. I am trying to get done some tasks I have avoided or just not been able to focus on. Made an appointment for a mammogram. Have contractors coming out to give me bids for cleaning the gutters, patching the patio roof, repairing the mesh over the breezeway in the back. Debee will help with some gardening and trying to get a start on the garage and organizing for a September yard sale. Perhaps I will relax some and feel a sense of accomplishment. Right now, I just feel money worry. (Reggae helps.)

Idrisse went out and is now settling down on the printer. She often hangs nearby, unless, of course, it is night when she wants to be as or when Vera is nearby. Nothing like seeing a sprawled cat butt out of the corner of your eye on a quiet afternoon as the fans whirr.

June 15

"Years later I learned from Trungpa Rinpoche, another of my teachers, that we use speediness to maintain ego, to keep our hard shell intact."

— Diane diPrima, Recollections of My Life as A Woman: The New York Years, Viking, New York, 2001

I like her acknowledgements also:

"... my dharma teacher, who taught me that writing is a wonderful way to bring light and vastness into others' lives..."

The newly detailed Honda is beautiful and did not cost the millions of dollars I thought it would because the fellow was here for so long. So, that was a relief. Right now, I am waiting on the first of a few contractors as mentioned above.

It is the June gloom this morning, which is far preferable to the punishing heat and overbrightness to come. McCoy, who I am currently calling Johnny Stecchino after the Roberto Begnini film, has come to get some pets in window. Stecchino means toothpick in Italian and McCoy is toothpick skinny. As the shyest of the cats, he does not get very much petting so it was lovely to have a few moments with him. Vera, meanwhile, has come to sit in the window and watch the scrub jays.

In other news, I had 20 people attend my yoga class last night. Some of my newer students are more experienced practitioners, so I have to up my game and get going with my own practice to keep up with them. I admit to amazement. I would be hard pressed to describe my current occupation as 'yoga teacher' yet that is how I am earning some money after many years. Having 20 people move at your direction is an an unusual perspective. I was so tired, I feel asleep before 10 o'clock.

Later

The kitchen is partly cleaned up. Nina is in the Swimming Pool Garden/Jungle getting attacked by scrub jays. Janet is all ready to go the senior center, having had physical therapy this morning. I am trying to not be overwhelmed by the many things I should and could be doing. 

Later

In order to seduce myself into cleaning the kitchen floor, I set out a frozen lemon ice to soften and promised myself that I only had to wash half the floor at a time. I do not know why I hate mopping floors so much, but it likely goes along with my general distaste for the cleaning side of housekeeping. 

While I ate my lemon ice, I plunged back into The Fortune of the Rougons. Zola really knew how to write unsavory and disgusting characters. He can be rather amusing.

"In the closed, isolated town of Plassans, where class divisions were so clearly marked in 1848, the impact of distant political events was very slight. Even today the voice of the people is hardly heard there; the bourgeoisie shows its usual prudence, the nobility its silent despair, and the clergy its shrewd cunning."

"An old almond-dealer, Monsieur Isidore Granoux, was the leading member of this group. His terrible harelip, his round eyes, and his expression of smugness mingled with bewilderment made him look like a fat goose living in terror of the cook. He said very little, having no command of language; and he pricked up his ears only when someone accused the republicans of wanting to pillage the houses of the rich, whereupon he would colour up to such a degree that people were afraid that he was about to have a seizure, and would mutter low imprecations in which the words 'layabouts', 'scoundrels', 'thieves', and 'murderers' constantly recurred.

— Emile Zola, The Fortune of the Rougons, translated by Brian Nelson

The kitchen floor is now clean.

One of my dearest friends is dealing with the waning days of her mother's life. I asked how her mother was doing. "She expresses great joy to see me then swirls with confusion, with inquiry, regarding the  pursuit of life. I stroke her hair, kiss her a lot, and reassure her that the answers are inside her."

A ROLE AT THIS FEAST

22 of 100

"It was neither the beginning nor the end of anything, but it was a hinge. A turning point for many of us. People, I think, came to realize they would die, and they began to take steps, to move toward the work they most wanted to do."

— Diane diPrima, Recollections of My Life as A Woman: The New York Years

Up early for me as I have an appointment to get the Honda Fit detailed. The floor has so much spilled dirt from hauling potting soil and such, I think I could farm there. I know I won't have time, energy, or focus to deep clean the car, so I am splurging. That said, I need to go get the yoga props, books, things not brought into the house from thrift store excursions and all out. Nina and Fox are sitting next to me in the window, hoping that I will shortly head for the kitchen and morning feedings.

This Charlie Haden song is wafting through my head. En La Orilla del Mundo. Charlie Haden-bass/Gonzalo Rubacalva-piano/Ignacio Berroa-drums/Joe Lovano-tenor sax/Federico Britos Ruiz-violin.

A bit later.

The detail guy was late. Now that I am a crabby old person, I want to take him to task in a review. Where is the kind person who thinks "Ah traffic and such..."? I probably won't be negative. We Crabby Old People think we can cure the world with our observations and criticisms. If only.

So to continue with the Janet story.

The whole vacation had a life and death aura around it. I was very sick before I left, wherein I wondered if I would be able to go at all. The week before I left, my nextdoor neighbor, Sally, lost her father after a long illness. I arrived on a Saturday. On Sunday morning, my friend Tad's mother died. On Thursday, Janet had to be taken to the emergency room. On Saturday, Betts told me that her father in Houston had taken a serious turn for the worse. My friend Michael's sister-in-law passed. Lili's mother went into the hospital. CIndy's dog died. Betts' father died. Another friend's only brother was fading fast while refusing to get dialysis.

Here's the life part. My nephew and niece-in-law had a new baby while I was there. Here she is being indoctrinated into the family cat worshipping cult.

On the same day/night that the baby was born, David was called into Janet's room wherein she could not stand. David called the EMTs. They refused to take her to the good hospital of which we are a part of their extended health care and took her to hell's waiting room. As I mentioned previously, I called Christina to help spring Janet from that horrible place. David and Christina took Janet out against medical advice to get her to the good hospital where she got adequate care. Hell's waiting room did not ask for ID from neither David nor Christina. 

So ... the last full week of my trip was a bit stressful while I tried to negotiate my time with getting to see the new baby, her older sister, and worrying about my mom as it took several days to diagnose her with c.diff, a possibly serious bacterial infection of the intestines. Janet was in the hospital for eight days.

My conversations with David led me to believe that Janet had taken a large turn for the worse overall, perhaps a much reduced ability to walk, a constant need for incontinence duty, wanting to sleep all the time (rather than being bored and nap ready at any time). David and I had some tough conversations that will need to be continued. It was all quite sobering.

When she was released from the hospital, I sent my dear family friend Patrick over to see Janet. He took this picture of her. Looking pretty good for 95 and after 8 days in the hospital. She was pretty listless and depressed when I first got home, but she is perking up and going back to Senior Lunch and dominoes.

Leave your tricks and schemes behind.

Go mad with Love.

Like a moth hungry for light,

dive into the blazing heart of the flame.

Be a stranger to yourself.

Wreck the house you call self.

Wake up in Love’s house.

Live with lovers. Be a lover.

Why lie in a grave,

fearing judgment, hands idle?

You have a role at this feast.

Rise up. Open your arms, a haven.

Grudges and spite weigh on the heart.

Let seven streams of water wash them away.

Make room for Love’s wine.

Be its cup.

Thoughts stray and drag you with them.

Heart, leap over your head.

Arrive before you know it.

You’re not a rook bound to two directions.

You’re not a pawn, a crooked queen,

a shortsighted king.

Be a mirror for your beled.

Reflect what you adore.

Once mineral, then animal.

Now blessed with a soul,

be Love.

Preacher, how long will you rant

door to door, roof to roof.

Give your jaw a rest. Be silence.

— Rumi, Gold, translated by Liza Gafori, New York Review of Books, New York, 2022

I THINK TOMORROW

21 of 100 (yeah, right)

May 21st

Brooklyn, NY 

Writing this from Betts’ kitchen (and dining) table. I was awoken about an hour ago by David. Janet called out to him in the night to help her out of bed. Her legs would not support her and she collapsed into his arms. David called an ambulance, the second time in a week. They took her to the shit hospital where Carl died, partly because of less than stellar service. 

June 5th

Santa Fe Springs, CA

Yeah. Writing this from the same messy desk in the same messy room in the same messy house as per usual. Things have changed some though. 

Back to May 21st. I called my cousin Christina who is good with medical matters (remember my undiagnosed hernia from a couple of years back), and also willing to be necessarily assertive to get her way. She headed over to the Norwalk Community Hospital to assess the situation, concluding with the rest of us that it was one of hell's field hospitals for the damned. 

June 13

Santa Fe Springs, CA

I cannot relate the past many weeks in any sort of reasonable narrative, so I am jumping into just writing again. The task just got too daunting. I found myself avoiding writing and yet wanting to.

Long story short here: Janet is okay, pretty much back to her pre-hospital self. The cats are all fine. The house is a bit of its usual disaster, but Debee is coming on Thursday to help me sort again and get rid of my far-too-many belongings. When she was here before I left for New York, I was too sick to help her. She just jumped in, organizing things for later sorting, and taking care of Janet as I nearly bed-ridden.

Since I have been back from New York (June 2), napping has had a high priority. Previous to my trip, I was not napping at all, nor was I able to actually nap while I was gone. What is causing Morpheus to visit me so sweetly is unknown, however, I plan to enjoy it while I can. 

Concomitant or not, I also have the concentration to read books again after many many months. My reading skills are such that I am hard-pressed, in my alone time, to do other than flounce down on the bed for one or both of these indulgences. I admit to being delighted to find my reading self again as my non-reading self was still ardent about book reviews and used book buying.

I attribute renewed reading with finding the right long book to draw me in. On my last weekend of vacation, Betts took me to her 1790 Connecticut farmhouse share that she has been going to for 13 years or so. It is basically a communal house from May to October, not roughing it at all, but not really luxe. Having been several times over these years (I go every time I go to NY), I know all the housemates and am glad to have a visit with them.

View from the Farmhouse Terrace.

View from the Farmhouse Terrace.

Swimming pond near the farmhouse.

Sky and trees at pond.

Swimmer contemplates chill at pond.

The farmhouse had been recently painted and the current occupants had decided to get rid of most of the books that had been getting musty on the shelves for who-knows-how-long. Amongst them was Diane DiPrima's Recollections of My Life as A Woman: The New York Years. Having, in my youth, been interested in the Beat movement, and, as a rule, being interested in poets and poetry, I set to perusing it, only to finding myself thoroughly engaged. Engaged enough to get through 400 pages in a week. Engaged enough to read on the 'plane home. Engaged enough to mention to friends. Engaged enough to order some DiPrima books, not being familiar with her poetry nor her more famous Memoirs of A Beatnik. Engaged enough to power through the other book I picked from the pile, Lara Vapnyar's Memoirs of A Muse, which, while not amazing, compelling in just the right way to get me to read it. I imagine it was left there by a previous denizen, the writer Anya Ulinich. (Here's an article about DiPrima's Revolutionary Letters.)

And so I continue with reading, very much to my relief. I find myself flickering through things to watch on Hulu, Netflix, Amazon Prime, HBO, etc., but preferring to delve into Chernow's biography of Alexander Hamilton or a feminist take on Greek mythology. And this is all good.

In other news, when I returned from vacation, I called to see how many people had signed up for my next session of yoga teaching. That Friday, there were four. I duly wrote a class for the four regulars I expected. Instead, there were 15 people!! Most of whom I had never seen before. I had to shift gears and jettison the class I had prepared. When I had them settled into a savasana to start, they looked to me like Moonies on the tarmac, a photo that appeared in Rolling Stone a million years ago. (Could not find it on line.) I rose to the occasion, surprised that I could feel comfortable. And pretty damn excited.

So enough to get us re-started. Here's the one of the only diPrima poems I could find (readily) on-line. For your listening pleasure, I submit Billy Strings Away from the Mire.

The Window

BY DIANE DI PRIMA

you are my bread

and the hairline

noise

of my bones

you are almost

the sea

you are not stone

or molten sound

I think

you have no hands

this kind of bird flies backward

and this love

breaks on a windowpane

where no light talks

this is not time

for crossing tongues

(the sand here

never shifts)

I think

tomorrow

turned you with his toe

and you will

shine

and shine

unspent and underground

AND OH! THAT JASMINE

 

20 of 100

April 27

I don't know who took this photo as I snagged it off of FB. But it is so beautiful I had to share.

I just rescued a monarch butterfly from Nina who had just brought it in to present to me. I got it away (she had dropped it at my feet), outside, and it flew away. That's always a win.

The Big "D" moved on to more porous terrain. I am still sick, but not in terrible emotional straits anymore. That was a firestorm of childhood silencing and abandonment, but once those chemicals passed through my tears and some close friend counseling, I have come back to a comfortable place. 

But, in the course of my min-maelstrom (is that oxymoronic?) I came to think of the film Fight Club. I didn't much like it and have never understood the hoo-hah and hubbub about it. I figured it was lack of adequate? requisite? testosterone. The thing that gets quoted the most is "What is the first rule of Fight Club?" I think the answer is you don't talk about Fight Club. Blah blah blah. More macho posturing as far as I could see.

But then I extrapolated over to Love Club. What is the first rule of Love Club? For me, it is knowing that I am being appropriately considered by those who love me and whom I love. I will admit that can be a slippery slope, and I am severely challenged by demonstrating this rule with my mom. But I do try. When I feel I am being unnecessarily overlooked and unconsidered, I can get to a childish, enraged state (just FYI "rageful" is not acceptable to auto-correct.). 

I'd been interested to hear if any of you have a first rule for Love Club.

April 28

I have at least three cats hanging nearby. Vera is next to my desk in the window, which I would not leave open if I could get her to leave. I can hear McCoy's collar bells as he walks below the window, and Idrisse is sitting on a stool that has been randomly left outside. The "June Gloom" has arrived early so the day starts overcast. Besides my latptop, the desk is strewn with poetry book, vintage patterns, an Edith Wharton novel, medical referral papers, and a couple of gardening catalogs. I sometimes think I will buy more bulbs for next year, but manage to refrain.

The front garden denizens appreciated the hard work I put into taming the weeds. The rose bushes that were getting choked are producing fragrant bloom, the strange bulbs I cannot remember have doubled in size, and what I think are hollyhocks are moving along. The buds are growing so slowly I am sure they won't have bloomed until I get back from NY. The jacaranda is going purple. Beautiful tree but extremely messy.

In the greatly overgrown backyard, the boysenberries are starting. They will likely peak while I am away so will go unpicked, save by the brave birds. The jays were wise to build their nests in the bougainvillea this year so the cats cannot get to them. They try but the thorns are a great deterrent. The jays must have watched Snow White for tips.

And the pomegranate blossoms! I had that tree in a pot for a year or more and only planted it in the Swimming Pool Garden in the last year or so. Many pomegranates ahead?

I didn't sleep very well. I tried listening to a podcast but that was more agitating than soothing. I put on Live Dead and Dark Star put me to sleep, such as it was. Before coffee, I wondered if I could get it together to teach my last class tonight. Debee is coming later to work with me on the house for a few day in anticipation of David coming to take care of Janet. Were I to attempt it alone, I would sink into my usual procrastination and torpor. After all, there are a lot of series to catch up on.

THESE PRINTED WORDS ARE A PLACE

These marks on paper tell of places within,

scratchings of the mind, spirit, and the other.

Records of a location where I lived for a while

and may return. Where he visits, and where

a radiance burns in him. Ordinary light

can make him vanish in the nearly empty rooms.

These words tell a story of my infinite caring,

of a quaking there as if something wants our

disembodiment. We lie naked on the mattress,

covered with a single sheet, the door closed

to make more darkness, entering another world.

The door opens by itself after, showing the light

has changed in the window of that other room

where a glass of water stands waiting on a table,

pears on a plate like gifts from a century before.

— Linda Gregg, The Sacraments of Desire, Graywolf Press, Minneapolis, 1991

EVEN MY SELF-WILLED DARK

19 of 100

April 26

I should be feeling my oats today as I scored the right answer on Wordle in two guesses before my second cup of coffee. I have only done that once before on my first wordle try. The birds are quite loud. The clouds are, so far, cooling off the day. I only have two yoga classes left. 

But I am so upset with a close relationship that I gave myself a stress cold. Looking back over the past couple of weeks, I can see that something was deeply troubling to me. Forgetting my pin for the debit card should have been a serious clue but all the repressed feelings started surfacing in a long slow wave that crested with me in tears and the miasma of sorrow and depression.

It has been so long that since I have been seriously depressed, I had almost forgotten about the big "D." How fast and subtly it can creep up on you. The dementors have yet to make a showing, so that's a plus at least. And perhaps I will feel a bit better after a nap. Looks as if I will be depending on an older class I have written and I will use the afternoon to rest and try to hurry this cold along.

I don't know how many of you have had to care for any elders, particularly female elders. You should be forewarned, if this in your future, that they have black hole pockets in their clothing. No matter how much care you try to take in emptying their pockets before laundry, there are ALWAYS several pieces in that black hole that will be flushed out in the wash, thus making a huge mess. Particularly for those of us who don't use dryers (mine is still broken) and have no recourse to a dryer cleaning it off.

(Aunt Bird Said She Had to Heave Herself from Sleep)

Aunt Bird said she had to heave herself from sleep

to study how the wind’s blade whisked the air,

that she wanted to grasp the reckless motion of being —

its spit and grime and ruin —

because nothing expired completely

except time eating its own body.

She taught me I was made out of crumbling

and to bring into the open the damaged

heart of even my self-willed dark,

although fear sprouted from my skin

and my voice was a wing flapping wildly.

— Yerra Sugarman, Aunt Bird, Four Way Books, New York, 2022

(I briefly studied poetry back in the 1990s. Yerra was one of my classmates with whom I staid in touch.)