COVERED SPACE OVER

Many things are odd in life, this you might have noticed along the way. An oddity for me is hearing my mother remark how odd it is that she won't exist much longer. Not only am I not sure what to feel about this, I am not even sure how to think about it, from her perspective, or come up with any response. Yes, there have been many times when I wished to cease to exist, but those feelings were generated from pain, disappointment, humiliation, and shame. But thinking of the world without you in it. That is a different thing.

Mom is not degenerating very rapidly, mostly. I suppose it would be better to say that she is holding her own for the most part. She has good and better and even fine days, but other than being unbearably annoying to me, she is okay. Her lung CT came back clean, and if she is faithful or even observant about taking her inhaler, she doesn't cough. The gym wears her down, but also energizes and focusses her. And when I drag her from the dominoes table to drive her over there, she is generally thoroughly cheerful and nearly enthusiastic.

Anyway, that was something that I have been meaning to mention. Now, I am going to bed.

March 16

This morning carries a chill so I am half under the covers, waiting for my second espresso pot to produce more coffee. Truth be told, I would probably be here anyway as I herd and harass Mom to get dressed for the senior center. She refuses to accept that it takes her a minimum of 90 minutes to prepare to leave the house. She was never quick to do anything, and ancient-ality has increased this tendency.

Windowboxes are nice. I have red dianthus and yellow and red marigolds in these boxes, and the red dahlia may well bloom again. So far this year, I don't think I have killed any recently purchased plants, although I did buy a half-price, drooping anemone that I will probably lose. One of the marauder cats found poor Butterscotch sleeping in the window last night and attacked her through the glass. That's how that window was broken last year. Still haven't looked in to replacing it.

Meanwhile, I should get dressed, get that second cup of joe, and get on to other issues.

Other issues and an outing later. About to run out to the gym. Had a landmark chat with my dearest Melinda for which one can be thoughtful and grateful.

In California, when it is overcast, one wants to curl into oneself. It's not all cold, but it feels so uninviting. I want to lose myself in books or more TV other than the writing I should be doing. But, I am going to muster myself to the gym and finish this later. Just know that in my head, I am curled up under the covers listening to either the end of Marlena or the first part of Speak No Evil.

Irritation is a cat mewling nonstop for no reason while she walks around, bird bell clattering, and the next-door dog, Kayla, in her endless endless barking.

Don't look too closely at this picture of the garden after the rain. Lots of weeds, and dirt spots.

On to Sunday.

I need to get my clock reset to getting to bed earlier. I am on a 1 to 9 schedule and that makes a lazy morning become the entire day. Of course, many such days have been spent being hungover and at least that isn't the case. I was oddly productive yesterday. I did a wee bit of gardening, scored at the thrift store while managing to put some treasures back, made soup, did three loads of laundry, and washed the kitchen floor, as well as finishing two books (one I pretty much read or listened to) and cleaning my closet some. That was pretty busy for me.

"How do people do it, I used to wonder. Well, I learned. That sort of secret feels like an illness, the way the world slows to a crawl as though for your inspection. So much clarity and consequence—it was like enlightenment, it was like being in the truth, which is a funny thing to say about deceit."

— Molly McCloskey, Straying

That's a good opening paragraph. Maybe not "Call me Ishmael." but intriguing enough.

A strange collection of music in my head: Al Green, Let's Stay Together, Ralph McTell's From Clare to Here, (Nancy Griffith does a nice job, too) and the Emenee toy theme.

Janet has gone back to bed, I am pretty sure. I will check when I get up to make my third cup of coffee and check the chicken soup on the stove. It smells very rich, and although it is lunch time, I still want my breakfast. (Yep, she's asleep while the talking heads yap away on the tv in the front room.)

There are few things more pleasurable than waking up in a warm, soft bed with a tabby curled and purring at your shoulder. At least until the big bossy Siamese decides she needs to whack the tabby. Vera and Oona really have it out for Scotch. Oona is jealous of her being with me. Vera Paris is just tough.

Whatever else I was planning on has been forgotten, so I should get to a poem and get to my tasks. The day is getting colder which makes climbing under the covers to watch Collateral on Netflix so much more tempting.

In more exciting news, picking up the new (used) washer and dryer on Tuesday. It will be awhile before I get them installed, as I have to clean up the garage, but hopefully this will be impetus.

LEAVING SPACES

It take a courageous
person to leave spaces
empty. Certainly any
artist in the Middle Ages
felt this timor, and quickly
covered space over
with griffins, sea serpents,
herbs, and brilliant carpets
of flowers—things pleasant
or unpleasant, no matter.
Of course they were cowards
and patronized by cowards
who liked their swards as
filled with birds as leaves.
All of them believed in
sudden edges and completely
barren patches in the mind,
and they didn't want to
think about them all the time.

— Kay Ryan, The Best of It: New and Selected Poems, New York, Grove Press, 2010

FROM CLARE TO HERE

Ralph McTell

There's four who share this room as we work hard for the crack
And sleeping late on Sundays I never get to Mass

It's a long way from Clare to here
It's a long way from Clare to here
It's a long, long way, it grows further by the day
It's a long way from Clare to here

When Friday comes around Terry's only into fighting
My ma would like a letter home but I'm too tired for writing

It almost breaks my heart when I think of Josephine
I told her I'd be coming home with my pockets full of green

It almost breaks my heart when I think of Josephine
I told her I'd be coming home with my pockets full of green

And the only time I feel alright is when I'm into drinking
It sort of eases the pain of it and levels out my thinking

It almost breaks my heart when I think of Josephine
I told her I'd be coming home with my pockets full of green

I sometimes hear a fiddle play or maybe it's a notion
I dream I see white horses dance upon that other ocean

It almost breaks my heart when I think of Josephine
I told her I'd be coming home with my pockets full of green

It's a long, long way from Clare to here.