AS INTO DAYS

13 of 100

11 fevrier

Although it is entirely unruly and overgrown, there is some beauty in the backyard out my desk window. A bright orange tabby cannot fail to be striking against a nearly neon green of the wild grass and the tangelo tree. The vine that has a name like "carolina" is budding little yellow flowers and beginning to bloom. Out of the other window the wisteria is budding like mad. The neighbor's purple bougainvillea stands out against the gray stormy sky, and what ho! Fox has jumped up there to add another color dimension.

I did manage to garden in the front yesterday. The knee made it pretty difficult to move. I hadn't realized how often I needed to get up and down. I seemed to make appropriate accommodations, though I experienced some bad pain and stiffness last night, the discomfort went away. 

Patrick and I are having breakfast this morning with two of our former Kava friends, Vicky and Rita. We keep trying to make plans but something always comes up. Until anon.

Almost tomorrow.

Breakfast was delicioso and muy rica Mexican food. None of us could finish breakfast as we ate too many warm chips and fantastic salsa. Patrick's burrito was ginormous. So much for light eating. We were all happy to see one another again. Vicky and Rita used to come to the Saturday Yoga Wall class which was very small and that is where we got acquainted. Turns out they are screaming Democrats as well, so we had a lot to chat about. Hope to see them again sooner than later.

After physical therapy, I came home and accidentally turned off the pilot light for the floor furnace. This was a bad move on my part. Janet stands over the heater several times a day at this time of year. And, it is a little bit colder today. Patrick walked over with a small space heater. I just bundled up or got under the covers. The gas company comes on Wednesday. 

Speaking of which, our gas bill was $250 last month which is three times normal. Janet is always cold and just turns up the heater as high as she likes. I cannot get her to dress more warmly, no matter than I try.

I didn't really get anything done in the world of progress today. I did quite a bit of Duolingo French and read my next Kermit Place Readers book, Monkey Boy by Francisco Goldman. This is rather the perfect book for the moment, being just literate enough to be engaging but not daunting.  I am very much of a mind to keep on reading, but the cousins are taking out Janet for a belated birthday breakfast tomorrow. We need to be down there at 10:00 (Coffee Cup in Long Beach), so I will need to get Janet up around 8. Which means I need to be up then. Vera is already curled up on my pillow, which I prefer to her sleeping on my legs or feet, particularly as I am not yet comfortable with my new knee. 

PLACES I CIRCLE BACK TO

The first time no one listened

becomes that home I seek

again and again when I

speak, thinking each time

my voice carries —

it vanishes in others’

visible breath. I haven’t found

a room I can fill.

Outside, plants grow and shed leaves

where they find themselves, and the horses

stamp at flies without a trace

of anger. Sometimes I vanish

comfortably under the sun

and undivided sky

while puddles shrink

invisibly after days of rain

leaving, instead of dust, a mud

that holds everything in place —

this is how the ground gives up

the moisture that has come

and come to it beyond

what it can drink. A blessed

tiredness. As sometimes when I’m reading

and the words pull themselves together into a story —

into a person more right than wrong

in a recognizable dilemma —

someone not blurred by decisions

or divided into faulty halves

but leaning into

her fate, one long dance,

as into a day of work. As into

days of work we seek

and do and seek respite from, to

tell ourselves we are really here.

— Leslie Ullman, Dreams by No One’s Daughter, University of Pittsburg Press, Pittsburgh, PA 1987

ONE CORNER AT A TIME

12 of 100

six de fevrier

Janet had a doctor's appointment this morning, a little on the early side for us. It felt more on the early side as I am just not falling asleep as soon as I would like to. Like now. I might not have mentioned this before, but Janet will often fall into a ditty or a song, even when you would rather she did not. For instance, at dinner in a restaurant. Or just sitting in her chair, rocking. This morning, trying to calmly wrangle her into getting dressed on this accelerated schedule, I found over the heater and not in her bedroom getting ready. 

Since there has been talk of a nursing home, I have been infinitely nicer to her and far more patient. Which is not to say that I am always patient. But no notable yelling or scolding in quite awhile, although I will own up to a bark or two. Instead of calling her from the doorway to get up, I've been sitting down on the bed and making up songs of my own. Nothing I can remember, of course. Turns out she responds to this better than being spoken to in a sharp tone. 

At any rate, she started reciting/singing, "Have you ever been in the shade/ with marmalade?" as if it were a 1940's standard. She asked me if I knew that song. I think she made it up.

We made it to the doctor's office in fine time, even after a quick stop at Patrick's to drop off my vehicle registration (he's borrowing my stick shift Fit) and pick up my dry laundry (still no dryer). The doctor's office was busy, of a Monday, with plenty of older folks and wheelchairs. We were sitting in the office waiting room when a trio sat near us. The family relationships were not easy to discern. One person was very old, in a wheelchair, and bent over as it straightening up was no longer an option. (It sounds as if there are chipmunks in the kitchen making that cccccaaaaacccing sound. Now cats are fighting, which is odd because Vera Paris is usually beating up Idrisse when that happens.) 

At any rate, one old person coached the wheelchair person about doctor's office etiquette: "I don't want you singing, and I don't want you farting, okay?"

Today has not been a good one, pain wise. I finally took an oxycodone (and some single malt scotch). I got some relief right away, but I just looked at my knee and it all looked red and swollen. I did not do much of anything but walk around quite a bit. I always have errands to run, things to clean, etc. Difficult to NOT do those things. I have an ice pack on my knee right now, but my ankle and foot look a bit more swollen than in recent days. 

So I was in a crabby, pernicious low-level pain wet cat mood all day. I misplaced my (add your own expletives here) Apple Earbuds. They are so hard to keep track of. In a household of playful animals, one never knows who found what and how they might have played with them. This frustrates me incredibly as I know I saw them yesterday when I recharged them. 

This pain (not severe but there) and the whole healing process are getting to me. I just cannot move around as I would like. I am not capable of doing as much as I would like to be doing. 

Reading, though, reading is good. Finished the Marcella Hazan memoir and moved on to Sister Novelists: The Trailblazing Porter Sisters Who Paved the Way for Austen and The Brontes. Fun read. Besides this which is most enjoyable if very long (440 pages), I have my French workbook, a poetry anthology (The Yale Younger Poets Anthology), Berlin Diaries 1940-1945 (Marie Vassiltchikov), Last September (Helen Rose Hull), and Jane Gardam's A Long Way From Verona, taking up bed space. Bebop does not approve of the bed space being used thus.

 MEMO

Touch was all.

Many nights of touch

and only yourself to trust.

Your hands led you

through caverns of other hands.

You brought nothing from the journeys,

lost nothing each time the mind

took back its roots,

learned nothing 

when people withdrew with pieces

of what you thought was heart.

The hands set out plates, opened cans.

Your age arrived, one corner

at a time. The familiar hungers turned

their backs. Only the hands

kept up with you,

folding the loose garments,

fingering the sheets

on the thin bed, showing more and more

of their frame, their muscle.

— Leslie Ullman, Natural Histories, Yale University Press, 1979

DELIGHT DOES NOT MAKE THE HEART CHILDISH

11 of 100

5 de fevrier

Another morning wherein I had a lot of ideas about writing. Clearly, given that it is 10:00pm, that did not come to pass. Whatever philosophy I planned to impart has disappeared in the washes of the day. Cannot remember a single thing.

I've come to realize that Fox is actually Fred Flintstone. If not Fred, then one of those other demanding, hollering tv husbands of yesteryear. Whenever he comes into the house, he starts yelling for food or who knows what. I know he thinks of me as Wilma. I think that constant miaouing is one of the reason I have a certain level of disdain for him. I know this is not rational as he is a cat, but I can only handle so many demanding beings at a time.

When I was growing up, I thought marriages were like the Kramdens or the Flintstones. I thought it was acceptable for men to come in yelling and demeaning to the left and to the right. Janet had to disabuse me of the notion that it was okay for husbands to hit wives. My father was not much of a yeller and certainly not physically abusive, but he could demean in subtle and unsubtle ways. 

Janet's birthday was pretty good. Christina, Patrick, and I took her to The Bread Lounge in the LA Arts District. Very good pastry. Very good tuna salad. Very good bread. Cool place. Janet insisted on singing Happy Birthday to herself. The whole restaurant joined in and then clapped for her. Whereupon she shouted that she was 96 and could stand on her head. Instead, she tried to put her foot behind her ear. She didn't manage it, but she did a better job than the vast majority of us. Of course, at this moment, the very thought of that makes me wince.

100 people on FB wished her happy birthday including famous people Dave Alvin, cartoonist Mimi Pond, and director Tim Hunter. Probably more than I will get.

There's a big week of physical therapy, doctor's appointments and such this week and it is getting on late, although I am pretty interested in the Bernie Madoff documentary on Netflix. I don't think I did a single chore today, save laundry, cat feeding, and finding my car registration sticker. 

GLISTENING

As I pull the bucket from the crude well,

the water changes from dark to a light

more silver than the sun. When I pour it

over my body that is standing in the dust

by the oleander bush, it sparkles easily

in the sunlight with an earnestness like

the spirit close up. The water magnifies

the sun all along the length of it.

Love is not less because of the spirit.

Delight does not make the heart childish.

We thought the blood thinned, our weight

lessened, that our substance was reduced

by simple happiness. The oleander is thick

with leaves and flowers because of spilled

water. Let the spirit marry the heart.

When I return naked to the stone porch,

there is no one to see me glistening.

But I look at the almond tree with its husks

cracking open in the heat. I look down

the whole mountain to the sea. Goats bleating

faintly and sometimes bells. I stand there

a long time with the sun and the quiet,

the earth moving slowly as I dry in the light.

— Linda Gregg, The Sacraments of Desire, Graywolf Press, Saint Paul, Minnesota, 1991

A HANDSOME OFFER

Here's that picture of a cute Vera I wanted to post last time.

10 of 100

I sauntered into the office/guestroom thinking to knuckle down to do some focussed writing, but opted for updating my OS. My friend Michael in Oakland is a bachelor for the weekend, so he had time to wander around our little worlds of interest for more than an hour. But the pain in the knee was beginning to increase and I don't want to stay up too late so we rung off, far from exhausting our conversational powers.

This healing business is tough. My pain med use is maybe too low. I think I took 440mg of Alleve all day. Tomorrow, I will be more attentive and not try to go without. The deep depression aided by oxycodone just freaked me out and then again, I might be trying to be a tough guy. 

Healing is boring. I have not been attentive enough to my physical therapy, either. I move around a fair amount and I do a few reps of this and that. I don't think it is enough. Perhaps I am in some kind of denial, although I look at the proof in the form of a ropy scar at least twice a day when I apply the scar treatment that the sweeties known as Kaye and Bruce sent to me.

I'm still trying to do a few chores every day. I have set myself a higher bar in that I am hosting another dinner party in two weeks. Debee did enough housework so that even a bit more effort pays off. Wish I had some money to get someone in to help do some spring cleaning. It's fun to have a lot of cool stuff, but then you have to dust it!

I'm staying true to my French studies, branching out from Duolingo which can get boring, to an old-fashioned workbook. It's good to practice skills in another way. I found a French dictionary which is now parked bedside so that I can pick up one of the books Lydia gave me. I find looking up words on the internet far more cumbersome and less efficient. When you look up thing in a French dictionary, you get the advantage of just looking at other French words and perhaps picking up something else along the way.

My cats thank my recent and upcoming houseguests for their insistence on decent sleeping accommodations. Nina and McCoy particularly like stretching out on their own beds. I have no companions at the moment, but I imagine Bebop and Vera will find their way before the night is out. This is better as my chances for finding a comfortable place to sleep are greatly improved sans felines. (Reading my mind and always needing to be contrary, Vera just came in. At least she hasn't tried to climb onto my chest for purring and drooling, but that is always a possibility.)

Last night, Janet and I went to the Friday Night Dinner at the Mediterranean restaurant with the rest of the crew. I have only been once since I had surgery. There was a celebration for Janet's birthday (tomorrow). Every one was so nice and Janet so clearly enjoyed and connected with people, I might have cried. They are so accommodating, helping her get appetizers, keeping her water filled, and pretty much responding to all the other redemandquests she makes. One couple invited us all over and served her cake and coffee. I nearly tear up as I write this. We haven't known them long, yet they are fond enough of her to extend extra hospitality.  I need to remember the kindnesses that exist out there.

When my next-door neighbor Sally noticed that I wasn't around and there was a different car in the driveway, she checked in to make sure all was well. I told her I had just had surgery, etc. Forty-five minutes later, the doorbell rang and there stood Sally and her daughter Sydney. In their arms were flowers, chocolates, and a bottle of wine. Kindness. And on this side, gratitude.

(After a brief stop on my chest, Vera is spread across my feet and working on her grooming.)

A couple of people responded to the issue of downsizing. My friend Kathleen Hulser responded with 

HOUSEHOLD CIVILIZATION                                                             

Implements of our lives

the toothbrush that

teaches gums a lesson.

The snow shovel that

lives the bite of icy crust.

The wandering car key,

a nomad hiding in odd spaces.

The music stand holding

scores on a slant

or more often

coats, hats, and shoulder bags.

Each object a key

unlocking small scale facets of life

idiosyncratic and universal

the material culture

of household civilization.

— Kathleen Hulser, 12/28/22

HOME IS OUR MUSEUM

We are stuff, memory haunts things we save as though feeling can endow objects with immortality. Home is a museum: material culture of our lives collected and preserved.

The Museum of T-shirts, faded and spotted, folded in drawers. Just part of the ludicrously numerous shirts waiting to make a jailbreak from the bureau. Antique pens from defunct banks, tire shop, pet boutiques, and eager solar salesmen. 

In the Pantry Gallery souvenirs from foreign delegations line up for state dinners. Rare spices from the East, the urn of Za’ater, the scoops of yellow and red lentils in their Sahadi packaging testify to menus concocted for the lactose intolerant, the fatophobe, the halal and the kosher, the vegan and the paleo.  Ancient grains from amaranth to farro jostle the bale jars of quinoa and pearl barley. Tapenade, caponata, bruschetta and pesto rub shoulders with balsamic vinegar and Extra-Virgin Olive Oil in seductive bottles. 

The Gallery of Apparitions where numinous remains lurk in forgotten corners. A dog collar with a rabies tag still attached features hair caught in the weave. Along with dog show trophies from obedience trials of the 1960s, the prize-winning Louis Douze poses in a charcoal portrait. A modern meso-American face jug complements the ashes of its owner still in a tin box urn stashed in a New Yorker magazine tote. A vivid self-portrait with pixie cut red hair is mom’s only known painting.

The Coffee Cup Collection: tall, short, bulging, insulated in purple, blue brushed chrome, and red trim. Boot Hill: zipped, laced, lined  – with tread to squelch mud and grip ice. The garbology tombs. Waste bins, old pretzel cans, gift popcorn barrels, wicker hampers, Shaker baskets, pastel resin bathroom chuck-it away, all bowing to the kitchen’s imperial shine, an aluminum skyscraper with step pedal. In every room a handsome offer to discard everything.

— Kathleen Hulser, 1/8/23

HOME IS OUR WEATHER

Sheltered cove or eye of the hurricane

Home is our weather.

Contrary winds

blowing pictures askew,

snuffing candles

before meekly yielding

to the calming blanket

of prevailing affection.

Love currents tame waves from below.

Depth takes white caps by the hand

and sets them

on the forgiving couch of togetherness.

Home is our weather.

— Kathleen Hulser, 12/11/22

SPACES WE LEAVE EMPTY?

 9 of 100

le premier jour de fevrier

In my morning drowsy cocoon, one cat under the covers, another curled at my hip, I looked the top of my dresser piled with miscellaneous scarves, earrings, cloth bandages from my knee, and then over to a glass fronted bookshelf only to wonder who do I think I am. Who do I think I am with all these possessions, most of them non-functional. And just in general, who do I think I am? Stay tuned as I AM clueless at the moment. Cats to be fed, bladder to be emptied, mother to be motivated.

Much later.

I meant to start a conversation with Wendy on the topic of stuff and identity. However, as we often are, we scurried to the catch-up corners of our various friends lives, our own lives, and looking around. Wendy grew up on the other side of LA and has not spent much time in my LA County world. I took her around to the schools I attended, showed her some of the "historical" sights and gave a short running commentary on growing up around here. We then jetted down to Long Beach for lunch at The Coffee Cup, a quick tour of my Long Beach haunts, some excellent Mexican pastries at a bakery she knew about and then home. She had not been here since Carl died and thought the house looked "super cute." That was nice to hear since I am so loathe to let people in.

I did come home with an aching knee and some tiredness. I watched an HGTV show about this male couple who refurbish and decorate REALLY crappy homes in Detroit. I appreciate their effort, even if I don't always appreciate the results. This one, Bargain Block (?), is better than so many of the HGTV shows. We all love a good renovation, don't we? They give us hope for ourselves.

I tried to take a nap this afternoon, although my discomfort rather prevented that (which does not bode well for the sleep I intend to undertake shortly). I did close my eyes and begin to listen to the audiobook of Bono's memoir Surrender (we will see how far I get. I will never make it all the way through the Jim Thorpe book on this check out, so I might return it early anyway.), I thought about all the stuff so many of us have, particularly those of us we are loathe to self-categorize as baby boomers. I thought that all the stuff, belongings, trash, artifacts, THE ALL OF US, is rather like another casualty of WWII. That young generation lived through the depression, went to war, came back high on life and consumption, further fueled by the military industrial complex and big industry who wanted to continue their war profiteering, and we children of that thought that buying would solve something, fill something, tell us something about ourselves.

I freely admit that this is neither a well-thought out nor well-written thesis. It was just a thought I had and wanted to work on putting down as I despair for myself and so many I know who are just caught up in stuff. 

I need to wind down from screen time. I had a very cute picture of Vera under the covers to illustrate this post, but could not figure out how to add it. Something is wanky with my laptop so ... you'll have to do with the cooperative picture of McCoy.

SPACES WE LEAVE EMPTY

The jade slipped from my wrist

with the smoothness of water

leaving the mountains,

silk falling from a shoulder,

melon slices sliding across a tongue,

the fish returning.

The bracelet worn since my first birthday

cracked into thousand-year-old eggshells.

The sound could be heard

ringing across the water

where my mother woke in her sleep crying thief.

Her nightgown slapped in the wind

as he howled clutching his hoard.

The cultured pearls.

The bone flutes.

The peppermint discs of jade.

The clean hole

in the center, Heaven:

the spaces we leave empty.

— Cathy Song, Picture Wife, Yale University Press, New Haven, 1983