DO NOT ADJUST TO HALF

More Little Feat on the brain, but it is more of pastiche of lyrics than a single song (Sailing Shoes, Rock and Roll Doctor, Rocket in My Pocket).  Did I mention that I have managed to misplace Waiting for Columbus in the shifting sandpiles of stuff? This is a bit of a hardship, so I must make do with Hoy!Hoy!. 

So my local pal Rick informs me that there is a new mosquito in town, the Asian Tiger. Normally, I am in full support of most anything with Asian Tiger in the title, well, save for sports-related things. I am being tortured however. And, to make matters worse, it rained last night. I mean, we need the rain and all, but given the disaster area of boxes and planters and what not in my yard, it could be a welcoming refuge for breeding blood-suckers. My ankles and feet are all red from bites already. I will think about this tomorrow, at Tara. Probably no mosquitos in Palm Springs.

Ima keep this short as I should be preparing for a drive to Palm Springs and dinner with the Hughes-Choy clan. I bought a beautiful caramel apple pie from my talented cousins who love to bake and did a land office business selling their wares. 

It is probably good that I am not yet driving as I just put on the second pot of espresso. Finding it was taking a long ass time to percolate, I found that I had neglected to add the water. 

HALF A LOAF

The whole loaf's loft

is halved in profile,

like the standing side

of a bombed cathedral.

The cut face

of half a loaf

puckers a little.

The bread cells

are open and brittle

like touching coral.

It is nothing like the middle

of an uncut loaf

nothing like a conceptual loaf

which stays moist.

I say do not adjust to half

unless you must.

— Kay Ryan

SOFT

In harmony wit the rule of irony—

which requires that we harbor the enemy

on this side of the barricade—the shell

of the unborn eagle or pelican, which is made

to give protection till the great beaks can harden,

is the first thing to take up poison.

The mineral case is soft and gibbous

as the moon in a lake—an elastic,

rubbery, nightmare water that won't break.

Elsewhere, also, I see the mockeries of struggle,

a softness over people.

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

MAKES YOU REALIZE

Beaming with apparent normalness.

I’ve been down but not like this before

That line resonates in so many ways. Looking at the news and the utter terrible disgustingness of Trump and what it means to be living in this country gobsmacks me into looking for a little ledge of perspective on which to attempt to assess where I am in life. (Now that was a Proust-worthy sentence.) I suppose an easier way to say that would be simply "Where the fuck am I? And what the fuck now?"

I am drawn to the complex. Jeez, I am losing my words here. I almost wrote "I am drawn to the complicated." Now I am wondering if they are the same thing. Okay, so I looked it up and I am still confused but it is good to know I am not alone. Complex versus complicated. I need to spend more time musing on this, but do let me know your thoughts if you have any.

Whether it is complex or complicated, this strand of thought arose as I listened to music and sorted my life ... that is an ongoing process, no where near even a reasonable stopping place ... I have a (fatal? well, discouraging, at least) attraction to the multi-layered and colorful. 

You might well ask, well, what the fuck is she rambling about? I am trying to understand, get a handle on my insanity. Unravelling the "how I got here." To be sure, I am not sure if it matters so much, but you all know how I love a good narrative.

In the midst of all of this, I have had an odd and unseasonable mosquito infestation in my room. The number has dwindled down, but I cannot even figure out how they got here. And mosquitos in November? California is so hot and dry I have kind of given up on my hair. 

I am the Tour d'Argent for mosquitos. And I am also allergic to them. We can safely say I have been miserable, being riddled with bites. The worst of it seems to be over, but I have many small wounds from where I scratched. They couldn't get a me very well last night, so I have around 10 on my two hands which were the only parts sticking out of covers. 

Time to take Janet to the Senior Center.

Although this post is not very satisfying, I need to let it stand and get on with shoveling my life. 

 ALL THAT YOU DREAM

I've been down, but not like this before
Can't be 'round this kind of show no more
All, all that you dream
Comes to shine in silver lining
And clouds, clouds change the scene
Rain starts washing all these cautions
Right into your life, make you realize
Just what is true, what else can I do
Just follow the rule
Keep your eyes on the road that's ahead of you
I've been down, but not like this before
Can't be 'round this kind of show no more
All of the good, good times were ours
In the land of milk and honey
And time, time has its scars
Rainy days they turn to sunny ones
Livin' the life, livin' the life lovin' everyone
I've been down, but not like this before 

Can't be 'round this kind of show no more

Paul Barrere and Bill Payne

TEMPORARILY QUALMLESS AND SINKING

Seeing the stream rise from my first cup of Major Dickason’s as I look out at the neighbor’s bright roses improves my mood just a bit. There is a moment of comfort in all down-snuggly on a cool morning. Vera Paris’ collar clinks against the dish as she indulges in a mid-morning snack. I think she is the only cat we re-collared after the last round of flea medicine.

The last post I even began, but did not complete and upload, was in mid-August. It always feels so strange to "pick up the pen" after a long time. Now what was my voice again? It isn't just the constant stream of nagging, derision, with dips into a clutching existential despair is it? I seem to recall other thoughts with more positive and engaging ideas.

I thought maybe once the coffee kicked in that I would be more directed in trying to communicate something valuable to someone. That does not seem to be the case. I am sure more coffee is in order.

stuff

/stəf/

noun

1. 1. 

   
   

   matter, material, articles, or activities of a specified or indeterminate kind that are being referred to, indicated, or implied.

   "a pickup truck picked the stuff up"

   
   

   synonyms:

   material, fabric, cloth, textile; More

   • 
     

     a person's belongings, equipment, or baggage.

     "he took his stuff and went"

     
     

     synonyms:

     belongings, (personal) possessions, effects, goods (and chattels), paraphernalia;

The stuff of stuff. Stuff is my reality these days. Having all of it in one place for the first time something like 41 years is a big deal for a slightly nomadic non-home owner with the heart of a collector. I do get down on myself for having so much, but then again, I am not my biggest fan. Shoveling and sifting through as many vintage tablecloths and dishtowels as my friends suggested that I have. I am stunned at my acquisitions. I have so much cooking stuff I could run a restaurant. 

Origin

Middle English (denoting material for making clothes): shortening of Old French estoffe ‘material, furniture,’ estoffer ‘equip, furnish,’ from Greek stuphein ‘draw together.’

In a nod toward fairness to me, I have the flotsam and jetsam of the physical "estates" of my father and my deceased brother, not to mention the actual estate of my mother. So I can't take entire credit for the ridiculous number of knives, cutting boards, and rolling pins. 

In absolutely text-book Sally Anne style, I am reorganizing every room and drawer in the house, save for those in Janet's room (for the moment). It is like living in a windy desert of belongings, with piles shifting like dunes only to reform somewhere else. 

No one wants to live like this. I am so exhausted, overstimulated, and overwhelmed I am cowed into inertia. (As if it were not my middle name.) But occasionally, there is a breakthrough and some areas can be declared organized for the moment.

It is lovely to be reunited with beloved objects and to see them here and there around the house. My poetry collection! It's not all together yet as I am only about half unpacked and still less of it is organized. However, I did get pleasure out of looking through the ones I did unpack. The goal is to be able to relax and read some.

And, then there are the cds. I was completely stuck on the kitchen which was so full of stuff I couldn't do any more than boil water. And then I recalled that there was a lot of music nearby. I randomly opened a box that had been sealed up and found some gems. When I went to bed, the kitchen was functional again. It was Waiting for Columbus that got me through the most of it. There have been days of repeat playing of Mercenary Territory. Play it very loud. Jesus Lowell, deliver me from disorganization.

I've spent my time in your rodeo

It's been so long and I've got nothing to show

Well I'm so plain loco

Fool that I am I'd do it over again ...

P.S. Here's the whole lyric. You really need the music for the whole experience.

MERCENARY TERRITORY

Lyrics by Lowell George

Is it the lies?

Is it the style?

It’s a mercenary territory

I wish you knew the story

Been out here so long

Dreaming up songs

I’m temporarily qualmless and sinking

I did my time in that rodeo

It’s been so long and I got nothing to show

Well, I’m so plain loco

Fool that I am I’d do it over again

Is it the lies?

Is it the style?

Is it the days into nights?

Or the “I’m sorry”s into fights?

Now there’s some kind of man

He can’t do anything wrong

If I see him again

I’ll tell him you’re waiting

‘Cause I’m devoted for sure

But my days are a blur

Well your nights turn into my mornings

I did my time in that rodeo

Fool that I am I’d do it over again

Is it love that keeps you waiting so long,

Makes you say “I’ll see you around”?

The forces that be, they just don’t see

While my nights turn into your mornings.

Is it the lies?

Is it the style?

Is it the days into nights?

Or the “I’m sorry”s into fights?