PERFECTING GRACE

This is from Jeff's post today ... the italized was written by William Hazlitt. I haven't read him but I think he's now on the list ...

 . . . perfection is slow of attainment, and we must have time to accomplish it in--that's what we think at the start of the game. And then by half-time, it turns out that the one art we have any shot at perfecting is the grace of knowing that we never will.


the italized was written by William Hazlitt. I haven't read him but I think he's now on the list ...

Yeah, perfection, maybe even acceptable ability or passable accomplishment, is slow of attainment. And the grace of knowing ... and accepting that we won't be perfect.

Well, I wasn't so focussed on perfection, at least, not consciously, and now I see I am thinking about it after just having posted Ron Padgett's long poem, How to Be Perfect, as Poem of the Week.272. Must be touching something inside.

I have felt frustrated or sheepish or ashamed that I don't much strive for perfection; is that because I think it is unattainable? Unreasonable? Too much effort? Or even that the state of perfection is not static?

The next morning.

Yeah, up and getting ready for another one. It was stormy all night and I slept fitfully. Maybe it was eating too much too late. Anyone out there ever done that? And then you spend a good amount of time in the self-loathing dance.

But today is sunnier, although the swaying tree outside the front window indicates that it is still blowing. So, this weekend I will try to slow down and stay a bit more aware of where I am.

And there is the element of grace mentioned in Jeff's note. One friend frequently remarks that mercy is unearned grace. I am not sure I understand either.


Should any itinerant blog walkers come upon this post by chance, here's the Ron Padgett poem again.

Poem of the Week. 272 (2/24/12)

Damn, How To Be Perfect, is a good book of poetry. Here’s the title poem. A long one, but I just love it. Copied and emailed with no permission but by your leave.

Ron Padgett, How to Be Perfect (Minneapolis: Coffee House Press, 2007)

HOW TO BE PERFECT

                                                                        Everything is perfect, dear friend.

—           Kerouac

Get some sleep.

Don’t give advice.

Take care of your teeth and gums.

Don’t be afraid of anything beyond your control. Don’t be

afraid, for instance, that the building will collapse as you sleep,

or that somebody you love will suddenly drop dead.

Eat an orange every morning.

Be friendly. It will help make you happy.

Raise your pulse rate to 120 beats per minute for 20 straight

minutes four or five times a week doing anything you enjoy.

Hope for everything. Expect nothing.

Take care of things close to home first. Straighten up your room

before you save the world. Then save the world.

Know that the desire to be perfect is probably the veiled

expression of another desire—to be loved, perhaps, or not to die.

Make eye contact with a tree.

Be skeptical about all opinions, but try to see some value in each

of them.

Dress in a way that pleases both you and those around you.

Do not speak quickly.

Learn something every day. (Dzien dobre!)

Be nice to people before they have a chance to behave badly.

Don’t stay angry about anything for more than a week, but don’t

forget what made you angry. Hold your anger out at arm’s length

and look at it, as if it were a glass ball. Then add it to your glass

ball collection.

Be loyal.

Wear comfortable shoes.

Design your activities so that they show a pleasing balance

and variety.

Be kind to old people, even when they are obnoxious. When you

become old, be kind to young people. Do not throw your cane at

them when they call you grandpa. They are your grandchildren!

Live with an animal.

Do not spend too much time with large groups of people.

If you need help, ask for it.

Cultivate good posture until it becomes natural.

If someone murders your child, get a shotgun and blow his

head off.

Plan your day so you never have to rush.

Show your appreciation to people who do things for you, even if

you have paid them, even if they do favors you don’t want.

Do not waste money you could be giving to those who need it.

Expect society to be defective. Then weep when you find that it

is far more defective than you imagined.

When you borrow something, return it in an even better

condition.

As much as possible, use wooden objects instead of plastic or

metal ones.

Look at that bird over there.

After dinner, wash the dishes.

Calm down.

Visit foreign countries, except those whose inhabitants have

expressed a desire to kill you.

Don’t expect your children to love you, so they can, if they want

to.

Meditate on the spiritual. Then go a little further, if you feel like

it. What is out (in) there?

Sing, every once in a while.

Be on time, but if you are late do not give a detailed and

lengthy excuse.

Don’t be too self-critical or too self-congratulatory.

Don’t think that progress exists. It doesn’t.

Walk upstairs.

Do not practice cannibalism.

Imagine what you would like to see happen, and then don’t do

anything to make it impossible.

Take your phone off the hook at least twice a week.

Keep your windows clean.

Extirpate all traces of personal ambitiousness.

Don’t use the word extirpate too often.

Forgive your country every once in a while. If that is not

possible, go to another one.

If you feel tired, rest.

Grow something.

Do not wander through train stations muttering, “We’re all

going to die!”

Count among your true friends people of various stations of life.

Appreciate simple pleasures, such as the pleasure of chewing, the

pleasure of warm water running down your back, the pleasure of

a cool breeze, the pleasure of falling asleep.

Do not exclaim, “Isn’t technology wonderful!”

Learn how to stretch your muscles. Stretch them every day.

Don’t be depressed about growing older. It will make you feel

even older. Which is depressing.

Do one thing at a time.

If you burn your finger, put ice on it immediately. If you bang

your finger with a hammer, hold your hand in the air for twenty

minutes. You will be surprised by the curative powers of ice and

gravity.

Learn how to whistle at ear-splitting volume.

Be calm in a crisis. The more critical the situation, the calmer

you should be.

Enjoy sex, but don’t become obsessed with it. Except for brief

periods in your adolescence, youth, middle age, and old age.

Contemplate everything’s opposite.

If you’re stuck with the fear that you’ve swum out too far in the

ocean, turn around and go back to the lifeboat.

Keep your childish self alive.

Answer letters promptly. Use attractive stamps, like the one with

a tornado on it.

Cry every once in a while, but only when alone. Then

appreciate how much better you feel. Don’t be embarrassed

about feeling better.

Do not inhale smoke.

Take a deep breath.

Do not smart off to a policeman.

Do not step off a curb until you can walk all the way across

the street. From the curb you can study the pedestrians who are

trapped in the middle of the crazed and roaring traffic.

Be good.

Walk down different streets.

Backwards.

Remember beauty, which exists, and truth, which does not. Notice

that the idea of truth is just as powerful as the idea of beauty.

Stay out of jail.

In later life, become a mystic.

Use Colgate toothpaste in the new Tartar Control formula.

Visit friends and acquaintances in the hospital. When you feel it

is time to leave, do so.

Be honest with yourself, diplomatic with others.

Do not go crazy a lot. It’s a waste of time.

Read and reread great books.

Dig a hole with a shovel.

In the winter, before you go to bed, humidify your bedroom.

Know that the only perfect things are a 300 game in bowling and

a 27-batter, 27-out game in baseball.

Drink plenty of water. When asked what you would like to

drink, say, “Water, please.”

Ask “Where is the loo?” but not “Where can I urinate?”

Be kind to physical objects.

Beginning at age forty, get a complete “physical” every few

years from a doctor you trust and feel comfortable with.

Don’t read the newspaper more than once a year.

Learn how to say “hello,” “thank you,” and “chopsticks”

in Mandarin.

Belch and fart, but quietly.

Be especially cordial to foreigners.

See shadow puppet plays and imagine that you are one of the

characters. Or all of them.

Take out the trash.

Love life.

Use exact change.

When there’s shooting in the street, don’t go near the window.

TULIPS AT THE DELI

11: 49 p.m.



I guess a definition of pessimism is feeling the large problems unleavened by anything positive. The good stuff probably comes under the radar in that  "not known, not looked for / But heard, half-heard in the stillness / between two waves...".  The issue is, one supposes, to see that positive trend, hear that possibility, and to follow it. Reminds me of the Louvin Brothers song that I learned from Emmylou Harris, You're Learning. However the lyrics have nothing to do with my learning to move toward the positive. The harmonies are beautiful, though, and the last refrain, "Yes, you're learning." is cool

Because I have not mentioned or checked in on the progress here, I'll give you a little report card. Dishes are done. Walk was taken. Books returned to the library. Netflix disc mailed (the new version of Brighton Rock. Very depressing, but Helen Mirren with red hair!) Posted to blogs. Worked on book with KaHug. Sold some items. I even worked at CodeAcademy on JavaScript.

And I even did some yoga. Interesting how that practice just falls away when the going gets toughish. I must learn to prioritize that, but why don't I do it? Because it causes me to slow down? And that's not instantly desirable why? I complain about how stressed and tired I am, yet it would seem as if I am not taking advantage of some relaxation easily within my budget and skill set. Calming your mind in order to get your mind calm.

Realizing that another day had gone by with more solitaire than yoga, I just stopped after my teeth brushing, face pampering (another new to do), and thought "why not start with even two or three minutes of tadasana?" Small, incremental steps if need be.

As I stood quietly, I was (and I mean this) blessed with the voices of my teachers (Susannah, Dana, Kira) gently correcting me, grounding me. I could make the adjustments. I could sink more deeply into the simple pose of standing still. And then, in that stillness and breath, came some tears. I started to trace the cause, but then returned my attention to stretching my toes and ankles. The tears just came. And then stopped. I moved into a slow forward bend, and lo! I could touch my toes (don't think I could last time I tried). Then Emmylou curled and snaked in between my ankles as best she could to see if petting was an option. (It was.)

And now to bed, in a slightly calmer, more positive frame of mind.

There were tulips at the deli.

NOT KNOWN, BECAUSE NOT LOOKED FOR

I have quoted him here before, but Jeff Nunokawa nailed something this morning: maybe because of some conversations and email and yesterday's therapy, but this rather floored me this morning.

3296. "You must save what you can of your life;

by Jeff Nunokawa on Wednesday, February 22, 2012 at 4:36am ·

you mustn't lose it all simply because you've lost a part (Henry James, Portrait of a Lady).

A good man, strong as oak and clear as day; lucid and passionate with all of his might for the half destroyed and quite entrapped woman he loves: He would give his whole life to help protect what part could be saved of hers: She had wanted help, and here was help; it had come in a rushing torrent. What keeps her from accepting the rescue he offers? I've spent a long time thinking about it, and I've never really been able to figure it out. For the life of me, I can't see why. Running beneath the surface of the renunciation of all comfort and joy, there must be secret sources among which research will discover nothing irrelevant(Hugh Kenner on "Ash Wednesday").

Maybe, amongst these, (hope so) there are secret sources of salvation, as well as doom; underground springs whose waters--like a resurrection or a warming season--might help revive a parched and perished life. Who knows? Could be. Meanwhile--what was that? Did you hear that?

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Note: At the source of the longest river

The voice of the hidden waterfall

And the children in the apple-tree

Not known, because not looked for

But heard, half-heard, in the stillness

Between two waves of the sea (T.S. Eliot, "Little Gidding", Four Quartets).

reposted sans permission and all copyright held by the good professor, JN.

I particularly liked the Eliot quote, "not known, not looked for / But heard, half-heard in the stillness / between two waves..." There are those sparks of life, love, content, spiritual and intellectual purpose in between the two waves of quotidien concerns of making it through the day. And the night. One's own intense dance between the crushing rock of what is and how might I make it better.

And so I will to the dance for the day, having caffeinated, fed, and fooled around some. And it's only 10:10.

A KNIFE, A FORK, A BOTTLE, AND A CORK

Yeah. Quiet from this quarter. Not debilitated with depression or anything, kind of busy, kind of non-communicative. And there might even be a twinge of "falling off" the habit/commitment wagon.

Yet here I am again. After therapy, before meeting Iris to go to a lecture tonight, I dragged along my laptop so that I could camp out at the New York Public Library (not the one with the lions, although that is just across the street). I'm sitting a a small table near the squeaky escalator. There are laptop plug-ins, so we are always good with that. And I am the one white person at this table of six. I find that interesting.

I am not sure I really have time to go to a lecture sponsored by the Initiative for the Theoretical Sciences on The Origins and Evolution of the Universe, given that today is eBay posting day, but perhaps I will find it enlightening. It might confuse me. Sigh. Guess we will see.

Opposite me, across the room is are two windows. There is a huge American flag blowing in one of the windows. (This will not be a very good photo.) Just something I don't see every day.

Not surprisingly, I would that I were taking a nap. I have a bit of a headache, likely due to under consumption of water. That's not going to change right away.

Later that same night ... so I was glad I went. It was wonderful to see Iris. The lecture was fun and interesting. I felt as if I were part of the New York intelligentsia, and that felt good. I couldn't quote anything that was said, but I understood the general gist.

I left before Iris as I needed to get home and get that eBay thing going, but as I hurried to the subway I had to stop and grab this image of the Empire State Building. That's New York, right?

A HAMBURGER WITH A TRUMPET

I took the day off from therapy so that I would have a long stretch of relatively free time. But, like so many other things in life, it is never enough, never satisfying. 'Twas pleasant to sleep in a bit, but the earlier morning training has taken and it is not easy for me to sleep past 8:00 or half-past these days. Also, Cooder and Emmylou are pretty sure I need to be up. I suppose I should discount their votes, as they will soon be asleep again, but pawing makes sleeping difficult.

I had a good and productive work day with Louise yesterday and felt good and positive. Maybe it was a series of telephone calls with friends who are having tough times, different than mine, but sad, tragic, challenging, and other modes of difficulty and struggle, might have clouded my nascent good will for the day.

A sunny morning has given way to a gray day. The lure of napping is high. I am going to the city tonight as one of the B's has comp tickets to Wynton Marsalis' Stan Kenton Centennial at Jazz at Lincoln Center. I'm sure I will be delighted by it all, but right now, Ms. Let's-Hide-and-Be-Grumpy just wants to nap and not to be bothered by anything remotely resembling a commitment.

Well, I am going to try to ignore that personality, and see if I can make some progress on something besides being in a slightly depressed and despairing state.

I did take a nap, and woke up feeling better, started a work-related email I have been fuming on for a couple of weeks now, so that was a good call.

A perpetual state of slight bummerness or a state of perpetual slight bummerness?

It's 12:01a.m. and stupid cold in here again.

So, House of Swing was fun. Lee Konitz played and it was wonderful to get to hear someone who played with Charlie Parker, et al. He was terrific. He and Wynton, plus the rhythm section did a jam on Stella By Starlight. Afterwards, Konitz left the stage. A jazzed, if you will, Marsalis said that after a musical conversation like that, it was hard to use simple words. The instruments, the music said it so much better. It was, however, "hard to order a hamburger with a trumpet. You might just starve."

Here's a Stella By Starlight with Pat Methany and Jaco Pastorius. Absolutely nothing like Lee and Wynton.

CAN YOU DO IT CAN YOU DO IT CAN YOU DO IT

Back to waking up (if that's what you would call the blind-kitten bumbling) to strange songs in my head. This morning, it was the chorus from Cool Jerk

Can you do it can you do it can you do it

Can you do it can you do it can you do it

Can you do it can you do it

(and now that's some kind of ... eye-opener? challenge?) don't ya think?

Last Sunday, which was very cold, the heat was out in the apartment for many cold hours. Now, it is stupid hot again. I mention this as I have the overhead fans on. The fan in the middle room bumps and ticks and I realize I feel a bit as Martin Sheen did at the beginning of Apocalypse, Now: "Saigon, shit. I'm still only in Saigon."

Going to therapy three times a week is a privilege, of course, but it can also effect you in mysterious ways. You might stumble across something, you might connect with something that you don't even get on the conscious level, which can send your psyche into hiding. At these times, all I know is that I cannot focus. I need to, want to, dive into the canyon that is sleeptime and be away from consciousness.

So, I gave myself forty minutes to check out. Only when I set my alarm, I unconsciously set it for a.m. instead of p.m. My responsible, get-stuff-done self managed to surface and question how long "we" had been gone. 2.5 hours. I did struggle to move around again, but I can still feel the tugging.

If you are wondering what the point might be, so am I. I feel I am still swimming back to my control center, and the current is pretty strong in the other direction. Of course, I am always pleased that I am not terribly depressed, down, but not depressed.

DO THE JERK (JUST ME AND YOU)

The day after.

Get on up. That is all I am trying to do. And, as it turns out, it is not easy. Does it ever feel as if life is a hungry beast that you must struggle to feed every damn day? No time out. And, appearances can be deceiving; just because I don't have a regular gig does not mean that I have stress free time. This is not a complaint, rather, an explanation or just to share with those fortunate among you who work and have worked almost all your adult lives at fairly regular jobs.

Enough of that. One of the dangdest things about getting older is when ideas/notions/suggestions you have long rejected begin to make incredible sense. And I'll just be positive here, apologies to my comrades-in-bummerness, but I am glad I am seeing it now. The ah-ha! for me continues to be stuff. Holy moley. For the longest time (say, up to now), I did not care nor pay any heed to how much stuff I had accumulated. Folks would say, "Wow. What's going to happen to all of this when you die?"

For years, in SallyAnneFantasyLand™, the thought was "Get lost! All this fabric will be used, patterns used, wool knitted, books and magazines read. All the objects will be more comfortably dispersed in my country home(s). Stop judging me and find something else to do." As I mentioned yesterday, I see that time, while there is some left, is getting shorter. All of these things will not be accomplished. Moreover (oh, that word felt good!), carting around all these thoughts, dreams, schemes, plans, and even ideas about myself prevent me from being fluid and flexible now and in the future.

And, just for those yet to see the sanity of this, digging out is painful and time-consuming. I realize the disparate aspects of psychology, consumerism, history-lust, etc, that have brought me to my personal stuff zone, and I am trying to be chill and kind with myself. But shit, there's a lot to do.

So, for all of you dear friends who were worried about what would happen if I ever moved again, I am working on making that less of an onerous task. And I am trying to focus on the things I love love love and want to be able to see and enjoy more. Less visual noise. More calm. (Well, not too much.)

And now we return to our regularly scheduled programming.

i'm trying my best
to dance dance dance ...

FOR SOME TIME I THOUGHT

No, no, no. I am not falling off the map here. I am just a bit tired of what feels like ritual or forced reporting and holding out for something of more depth. Then again, that takes more time and a different sort of attention, so that I end up not writing anything. And clearly, this is not a good idea.

Pam is having surgery today. The last reports I received, and again, these are not so clear, is that she has improved and that she will likely NOT lose her hand, and possibly even not her finger. Those closer correspondents promised to keep me informed, so I will just stay as positive as I can.


Meanwhile, I posted/sent a poem over the weekend that has such resonance in my life, is so on point, I can scarcely believe it exists. Most of you probably read it, but for the record, here it is again:

THE NEW SONG

For some time I thought there was time

and that there would always be time

for what I had a mind to do

and what I could imagine

going back to and finding it

as I had found it the first time

but by this time I do not know

what I thought when I thought back then

there is no time yet it grows less

there is the sound of the rain at night

arriving unknown in the leaves

once without before or after

then I hear the thrush waking

at daybreak singing the new song

— W. S. Merwin, The New Yorker, December 12, 2011

The next day or the day after that ...

All the Pam news is not yet in, but it seems as though her hand is intact, and her kidney function is improving. She lost part of her middle finger, but not clear to the first or second knuckle.

So, back to the Merwin poem, the idea that I will not be able to accomplish everything I have wanted to, nor everything I have collected or "hoarded", depending on your viewpoint, with an eye to tomorrow. Tomorrow, or at least soon, or at least sometime, I will have time (and money and energy) to knit, sew, cook, read, upcycle, travel, et cetera et cetera.

And now I think there isn't enough time. And that what I have collected slows me down, clutters me, maybe even hinders me from some of what I think I want or want to do or want to be.

And at the first, that just stops me in regret, and where there is regret there can also be recriminations of the personal kind. Yesterday, I just wanted to take everything and throw it out the window. Which, upon reflection, sort of makes it other people's problem.

This might be my favorite poem ever. I might even memorize it.

UNENLIGHTENED SHADOWS CAST

Did you ever think about how ominious is the song Hurdy-Gurdy Man? As it came out when I was still quite young, and I was yet to be obsessive about deconstructing my favorite songs, I did not give it much thought. Well, it is on my mind this morning. Better than a commercial theme song I suppose.

Later.

It finally dawned on me why this week, and Pam in the hospital, is so extra difficult for me. Four years ago, this week, my mother's sweet boyfriend ...  hard to call an 86-year old "boy" ... but her sweetie, went into the hospital. Vern was a terrific person and we were so happy that my mother had found someone who "got" her and cherished her so deeply. Vern did after about two months in the hospital.

The following year, the same week, within a day or two of Vern going into the hospital, Carl was hospitalized. He, too, died a within a month of Vern's passing, and within a day or two of my own father's death several years before.

So, this is a tough week for me, the memories of it being cold, the stress of being at the Kidscreen Conference, blah blah blah blah. And this might account for my afternoon dives for a deep nap.

All in all, things are improving for me. I just feel better, notwithstanding that I haven't done any yoga in three weeks. This week, however, I felt as if part of me were living somewhere else.

SLEEP NOT CELL PHONES

I well understand the prohibitions on cell phones in bed. But when you use it as your alarm clock, you need to keep it close, right? And, as it turns, there is the temptation to look at it when you wake up for water.

So, I admit, I am addled today. My friend Pam is still in the hospital, and Kansas Janet is out of town this week, I do not have a clear idea of what is going on with Pam. I got this text message from Pam at midnight:

"Surgery is scheduled for Monday. Thanks for keeping friends informed."

I woke up a bit later and asked, "What surgery?"

Two hours later Pam answered:

Finger/hand. Depends on degree of infection, which came back with a vengeance. Did you say you were listening to Sticky Fingers? Because that's the last thing I listened to before trip to hospital."

And all night I kept waking up, thinking what it would be to lose your right hand. Not just for all the things you do with it, but, for some reason, the idea that you couldn't touch and feel. Cannot touch. Cannot feel. I could not get this out of my mind and woke several times after restless sleep.

And hence the addledness. Not just tired. But so weighted down with the sadness of this loss that it is all I can do to stay upright and awake.

No touch. No wringing of hands. Clasping of hands. Clapping of hands. No "here's the church, here's the steeple..."

Later that night.

I haven't heard from Pam again. I managed to get in touch with her son, who is in Korea, but trying to keeps tabs on his mom. He says things are somewhat better and that the surgery on Monday is to clean out the infection, that she might lose the finger, but even that is not clear.

This all threw me for a pretty big emotional loop, though. Or maybe it was hitting on some other issues in therapy today.

Things are pretty good, except that I feel emotionally run-over. I'll try to sleep through the night and ignore the cell phone, even if it pings.

YES, HERE I AM

Okay, yes, it is true. I am challenged by writing this blog these days. It is not because I am not thinking, musing, and all of that. I am quite ... what? ... full of ... stuff ... thoughts, ideas, plans, frustrations, anxieties, commitments, ... One might say, "Suck it up, sister. That's life."

Not having a regular job requires invention, assessment, and motivation every day. The to-do list changes as the number of set duties and time to accomplish them is up to me. ("And how crazy is that?") While I am quite accomplished at setting priorities for others and keeping them on track, doing it for myself is not such a clear-cut matter. And ascertaining what is most likely to lead to cash, every day, is a moving goal.

So, not complaining, just explaining. This week is one of the big kids' media business conferences, Kidscreen. I can't afford to go, as most of my immediate cohort cannot either. We always talk about doing a panel, but then we don't quite get around to proposing it and all. So another year goes by. I don't do well at this kind of event. Often, my ADHD kicks in. And as if I didn't feel day-to-day angst about the "presentation of self in every day life, " Kidscreen poses even more challenges: you are being judged, and you are competing.

And then comes the ambivalence and insecurity about being in the kids' business. I do love making media for children, but do I love it more than anything else I do? And where is the business going? Really, the question is "where am I going?"

But you knew that.

So, that's where I am at the moment. Time to get back to moderating on occupylive.org, get ready for an editorial conference with KaHug, and figure out what I am going to wear to the Women in Children's Media Cocktail party tonight.

FIND A SPOT

I don't know about you, but it sure takes nuthin' for the day to zoom by. That certainly did not feel to be the case when I had a regular office job. Now, I get up and start working and, suddenly, it is noon, and I have not accomplished even close to what I had hoped. And the hours between 1:30 and 4:00 are totally strange. Time stops and starts. And then it is twilight, and that's when I get wiggy and contemplative.

Tipsy, in a quiet life-tizzy. But getting on. How about I give you this for today?







GROUNDHOG DAY

Celebrate this unlikely oracle,
this ball of fat and fur,
whom we so mysteriously endow
with the power to predict spring.
Let's hear it for the improbable heroes who,
frightened at their own shadows,
nonetheless unwittingly work miracles.
Why shouldn't we believe
this peculiar rodent holds power
over sun and seaons in his stubby paw
Who says that God is all grandeur and glory?

Unnoticed in the earth, worms
are busily, brainlessly, tilling the soil.
Field mice, all unthinking, have scattered
seeds that will take root and grow.
Grape hyacinths, against all reason,
have been holding up green shoots beneath the snow.
How do you think spring arrives?
There is nothing quieter, nothing
more secret, miraculous, mundane.
Do you want to play your part
in bringing it to birth? Nothing simpler.
Find a spot not too far from the ground
and wait.


 — Lynn Ungar, Blessing the Bread (Boston, Skinner House Books, 1996)

YOU DON'T WRITE YOU DON'T CALL

Saturdays tend to go right by me. After getting up in time to moderate occupylive.org and get to the Upper East Side by 10:15, I am somewhat logy the rest of the day. A grey day, like today, does not help the feelings of being displaced, lost, and just floating along. The kitties are fast asleep. I just got out of a long-ish bath. What else is to be done but nap?

And now we are on to Sunday.

I know. You don't write, you don't call.

I just have this free-floating anxiety today. I am disturbed and overly saddened by Miss Becky's loss of her kittyfriend, Lola, yesterday? And I overwhelmed by myself, as I so often am? I have not heard from or about Pam in days and I have no idea how she is? Am I suffering from a bit of under-exercise and no yoga? Do I think I should be watching the SuperBowl?

I will say I really want to climb into bed and take an afternoon nap. What I am going to do is put on my shoes and coat and go for a walk.

Stay tuned.

Okay. I walked. I took a short, sweet nap, interrupted by some football fan screaming drunk before the game. But I wrote and watched Downton Abbey with Tupelo instead of watching the SuperBowl. No regrets on that front.

Now, I am ready for some true sleep. I am posting this so that y'all don't think I am sliding into a bummer or anything.

NOT A SINGLE TOPIC

John will kill me for this photo.

As it John's birthday, and as Melinda is taking us out to dinner in celebration in about an hour, I just thought I would get down to it and write a bit now. There's always that chance that I might not be 100% sober later.

A very up and down day. Just as I was running through the house trying to find my other winter shoe and get out of the house on time, I got a message from Pam who is back in the hospital, very ill again, and this time, from what I have been able to find out, seem about to lose her finger. Not that I can figure out why, but this was made the  more poignant by my having received, yesterday, some rings to sell on eBay from my dear friend JH-M. Although I rarely wear rings, I pulled some out of the cache she sent, and had them on when I received  Pam's message.

And I still haven't found that other shoe and it is cold and I need it.

Therapy was fine. Then I headed over to Louise's apartment to work, thinking about the sad trajectory of parts of Pam's life; how abuse untreated and unaddressed can lead to such profound inability to take care of oneself, denial, and a lot of other things. Pain inflicted on children, and on adults, but children particularly, reverberates in ways that are not instantly apparent. That gun of abuse from Pam's childhood, it just went off. Again. With clearer consequences.

Work with Louise was fine and productive. I got word from Pam's friend in Kansas about how bad it might be.

Then I came home to find out a debt of mine had been turned over to a lawyer for collection. Is that too much information? I could be devastated, but it's just a current reality. I would love to pay it; it's a medical debt and I feel terrible about it. But right now, I am just keeping what money I get (and it is gradually increasing, thanks to those helping) in constant circulation and trying to keep the lights on, the internet running, and the cats fed. (Okay. I am eating, too.) Well, this is a "tomorrow at Tara" topic. Things are tough, and yet they have to be dealt with.

So, I just wanted to share this outside of myself so that I didn't dump it on John and Melinda while they are trying to celebrate. And I didn't want to keep it inside as that might cause me to drink to quash the anxiety.

And you all wanted to share, right?

P.S. It is Graham Nash's birthday, too. He's a good guy.

QUO VADIS?

Brooklyn Public Library with half-moon.

I did sleep better last night, or at least most of it. I woke up a few times to such quiet. There is generally a bit more traffic on the street, but, strangely to me, thing are nearly snow-muffled, though there is no snow. Parking is a little bit easier. Traffic is lighter, foot and car. The kids are not as noisy when released from school, though it is more than unseaonably warm. Having not experienced this neighborhood without some more winterly weather, I don't know if it is just a normal rhythm or something else.

KaHug and I have, in our verbal perambulations, talked about the expectations of our generation. And how they are being so sorely disappointed. Given that many of us were spawned and reared in the bubble of optimism, accomplishment, pride, and hubris that followed WWII, it is no wonder that many of us are back to being, on some level, mewling animals trying to navigate a new world blindly.

I worry for myself, of course, what will become of me, sooner than later, if I can't find steady employment. I have neither the tools for perspective nor problem-solving. Hell, I am not sure I have the appropriate guidelines to even define the scope of the problem, to begin to get a handle on all of it.

7:46 p.m.

I can barely keep my head off of the desk, but 8:00 p.m. seems a bit early for bed. I am not sure if this sleepiness is due to the stresses of the day and all that I am sorting out (much of which has not been trotted out for discussion), the general, daily stress of money and life, or ? ... the weirdness of the weather? It was 61 degrees out today. I walked to the library wearing a pullover sweater and no overcoat. And that ain't right.

The issues around mid-lifer/Baby Boomers out of work and out of illusions continues to dog and intrigue me. And what are quite a few of us to do as we are not prepared for retirement and the job landscape has shifted so that we might not be qualified to do the work there is ... and I am not sure what work is out there.

OBSTACLES TO SUCCESS?

Forbes Thought Of The Day

“ The greatest obstacle to your success is probably you. ”

— Frank Tyger

No doubt. But that doesn't solve the problem in the slightest.

No Downton Abbey last night. Instead I had vague meandering threads of the life of KaHug. Must have been doing a work session with her a bit late in the evening ... perhaps it is best to stay with my own mental dramas at that hour. I seem to be quite susceptible to the problems of others, whether or not they "actually happened" ...


And as I was making my first cup of coffee, (why yes, I am starting this in the morning), I was singing Sympathy for the Devil (it is a good wake-up song), replacing the lyric, "just as every cop is a criminal" with "just as every cat is a criminal." You know I don't think that but Emmy can be challenging.


Just went over to work on my political tweets for occupylive.org. Some doozies out there today: 

Irked by abortion bill, Va. senator adds rectal exams for men

WSJ Publishes Op-Ed From 16 Climate Deniers, Refused Letter From 255 Top Scientists

Winter sun on red brick building. This is not quite brilliant enough.

Utterly egregious crap. No question as to who is running the Wall Street Journal.


10:05 p.m.


Ahhh ... listed enough items for this week on eBay. Tedious work. I hope a couple of things sell, of course, as that is how I am making ends almost meet better. I am not sure if that is proper language there, but I am pooped. It is amazing or maybe merely remarkable how difficult it is even to get rid of things you don't need and aren't using. That might have something to do with the aesthetic value, but I did have trouble even planning to shake loose of some of these items.


This young lady stormed onto the train with a mission, which was to fling herself down and drown herself in her book as soon as humanly possible. And we always love that. I had to see what she wa reading: The Amber Spyglass by Philip Pullman. Of course. I should have known just by the Johnny Depp as the Mad Hatter bag she was carrying. She had pink hair, too. Charming.

I hope I sleep better tonight.

SIGH-O-NARA

8:05 a.m.

Here's an experiment in different living for me. I guess it started with Downton Abbey last night. Breaking my rule, I brought my laptop to bed so that I could watch the most recent episode. Media watching on the bigger screens has been verboten for a while as I have enough trouble sleeping as it is. But my narrative junkie was screaming for a fix, so I succumbed.

The episode was about the end of WWI and a couple of good characters had bad things happen to them. My sleep was restless and anxious; every time I broke sleep's surface, I was thinking about the episode. Good thing I did not continue watching Mesrine or The Onion Field. both of which I have been watching on Netflix. 

So, when I woke up this morning at 7:15 or so, a good 30 minutes before I had scheduled myself to begin the process, I jumped (kinda) out of bed, made it, and am now trying to get a bunch of stuff done. First up, after having had some breakfast and coffee, is to get going on laundry. It's all ready to go, however, having no clean clothes to wear outside presents a problem. Oh well, I'll go dig around. And then it's eBay shipping time.

8:48 a.m.

Clothes awashing. There is already quite a bit of activity in the laundromat, which I expected for a Monday. There's going to be a lot of jockeying for position for dryers, I can already tell. When I came back to the building, who should be shivering on the doorstep but Melinda who had grabbed the wrong keys when she went outside to do a quick errand. That's some kind of serendipity. How often am I up (okay, usually these days), but also dressed and running around?

10:33 p.m.


So much for any insights. I am not sure where the entire day went. EBay packages were mailed, KaHug was advised, ironing was done, items were prepped for photographing for eBay tomorrow. And I could try to write something smart here, but I think taking down the ironing board, (although Emmylou will be greatly saddened and forced to find an alternate sleeping place), and doing even a little bit of yoga would be the best use of my limited (I hope) awake time. Although I didn't walk far today, I did walk up and down my apartment building stairs quite a bit ... I'll have to figure out what that metric is.

Sigh-o-nara.

Oh, and turns out the drunk dude is a regular at this subway stop. Here he is on Thursday, earlier in the day, hence less trashed. Why this woman is speaking to him is utterly beyond me. Perhaps he is more pleasant before he is completely trashed. I will keep you posted.

ANOTHER PLEASANT VALLEY SUNDAY?

Address tiles on the mews near NYU.

It's not a good sign when the song stuck in your head is the theme from The Beverly Hillbillies.

I realize I have been remiss in attending to this blog, to you, and to some extent myself. The good news is that it is not depression, sadness, or despondency that has kept me away from this writing. I have been busy with other things, moving toward more work, and not so prone to self-reflection and communication.

So, just to get you mildly up to date on "the struggle" ... after drinking wine and a martini with Jen and Jay last night, I was not full of vim and vinegar today. I did clean the kitchen floor and kitchen, do some work, and take a nice nap. I realized, inasmuch as I was thoroughly cosy, that I really should make myself take a walk, that when I didn't walk or leave the house, it tended to push me more toward depression or some kind of lethargy.

So I took kind of long one, even though it was dark by the time I left the house. I walked all the way down 8th Avenue to Flatbush, then cut down to 7th Avenue and back home. It was about 2 miles and well beyond the 20 minute walking goal.  That part of town had seemed so far away, it had never really occured to me to walk it.

So, what do I do with this blog if I am not thinking anything? I can report that I feel more hopeful than I did even a week ago. I made a little more money (close to $60 on eBay today).



I must be mentally gestating some things. I haven't done any yoga in days and I need to. That will have to be high on the agenda for tomorrow, along with going to the library, and moving the car. I don't feel particularly creative, but I have been helpful to KaHug and I had some good ideas about getting MW moving along again.

For the moment, it's a life that is creeping in a better direction. I hope to have more good progress or even insight to report ere long.

Looking down Sixth Avenue where the World Trade Center Towers used to be.