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