BENEATH THE WAVES OF

Begonias in Rhinebeck.

And so we find ourselves in November. 
And it is early at that, for me.
I suppose I am still adjusting to the time.

Emmylou sits at the window to the backyard, longing to be outside. As it is the crepuscular moment, when coyotes roam, I will not let her out despite her insistence. I can hear the jangle of Oona's bird bell as she wrassles with Idris down the hall. The cats are ready for action.

Belvedere Castle, Central Park in the mist.

Several hours later. 

I think reading the paper in the morning is a bad idea, as I find myself back in that place of despair. 'Tis difficult to squarely place the blame on any one thing. Much of it comes back to the Orange Shitgibbon or the Man Who Might/Would Be Dictator. Or a Congress so shameful and avaricious that I am nearly weeping in frustrated anger, ... I guess like Orange Shitgibbon is too because he cannot directly intervene (yet) in the judicial and law enforcement processes.

Gosh, a day or two later?

It is all a bit of a blur to me. It is most useful to note to myself that getting up at 4:00 after little sleep, does not set me on a good path once I am back at ground zero. On the positive side, I have been going to bed and getting up early, which is a habit I have been hoping to improve upon. On the less positive side, I am ever so much of a zombie. And then the monkey wrench of the time change throws off the delicate balance.

I encourage myself that it need not all resolve at this very moment and to just do the best I can.

There was a lot of settling in and laundry to do. My mother had enough t-shirts and blouses so that a laundry was not essential. As a result of decimating the t-shirt drawer, we found the several-months-missing cell phone belonging to Mom so she is back in that business. 

I only managed to get the suitcase put away today, amongst final laundry folding (for this time), first steps at redeeming garden, and some other household cleaning chores. This week holds doctor's appointments for Mom, whose complaints about arthritic pain have increased since I left. 

I am not sure why, but I am trying to not be undone by this latest killing spree in Texas. After the Las Vegas killings, I was fairly worthless for a week in my grief and frustration. I was a mere mile from the latest New York terrorist attack and had been on the very spot a mere five days before. Not defending that at all, but why the fuck does that make major news and hand wringing, whereas ANOTHER WHITE GUY GOES APESHIT KILLING PEOPLE and there is a collective fucking shrug. I  put my my Tibetan prayer flags as a reminder of today.

I need to stay calm as, I had observed to a friend, I am skirting the blues and I don't want to go full pantsing.

So the darkness falls. It is 5:15 and only a faint lights the horizon. 

After a spell of not writing, I am kind of like that cat or dog who circles to find its place again. I am never sure where to write or just what this particular voice might be. All in all, I had a terrific trip with plenty of delights, surprises, and emotional turns. I thank all of you whom I saw for the enormous love, affection, hospitality, and generosity. I feel somewhat renewed and patient.

While on the streets of Brooklyn, I found a copy of Billy Collins' Picnic, Lightning and thought I might find some inspiration there while I was still in New York. I did not, of course. But when I opened the book today, for the first time, this poem had been bookmarked.

JOURNAL

Ledger of the head's transactions,
log of the body's voyage,
it rides all day in a raincoat pocket,
ready to admit any droplet of thought,
nut of a maxim,
narrowest squint of an observation.

It goes with me
to a gallery where I open it to record
a note on red and the birthplace of Corot,
into the tube of an airplane
so I can take down the high dictation of clouds,
or on a hike in the woods where a young hawk
might suddenly fly between its covers.

And when my heart is beating
too rapidly in the dark,
I will go downstairs in a robe,
open it up to a blank page,
and try to settle on the blue lines
whatever it is that seems to be the matter.

Net I tow beneath the waves of the day,
giant ball of string or foil,
it holds whatever I uncap my pen to save:
a snippet to Cattulus,
a passage from Camus,
a tiny eulogy for the evening anodyne of gin,
a note on what the kingfisher looks like when he swims.

And there is room in the margins
for the pencil to go lazy and daydreams
in circles and figure eights,
or produce some illustrations,
like Leonardo in his famous codex—
room for a flying machine,
the action of a funnel,
a nest of pulleys
and a device that is turned by water,

room for me to draw
a few of my own contraptions,
inventions so original and visionary
that not even I—genius of the new age—
have the slightest idea what they are for.

Picnic, Lightning, Pittsburgh, University of Pittsburgh Press, 1998