HER HOME HER HOME

I don’t know about you, but I have been sleeping a lot. I hear that some of you all are too freaked and depressed to sleep. I have a surfeit of trazadone if anyone needs some. It rained last night. Instead of listening to a book to fall asleep, I just let the rain soothe me. One wishes the rain would wash away the virus. 

I just read that LA County schools will be out of session until May. I feel for all those kids who not only can’t go to school for socialization, but can’t visit with their friends either. That must be some kind of hell for all involved.

Janet has been on lockdown for two weeks now. When it is not too cold or rainy, I get her to take a walk around the block. She fights me, but not too hard. I am going to try to get her to start reaching out to her friends via telephone because I can see that the lack of social interaction furthers her dementia. She’s slightly less oriented to the world around her. Her senior center friends are still gathering to play dominoes but I just think caution is the better part of health here. She's pretty depressed and somewhat bewildered.

I am just waiting, not thinking about it obsessively. Being mindful and careful and monitoring the news, but really trying to use the quiet to make progress on the shambles of my life.

Blooming milkweed. Welcome monarchs!

I am not bored, of course. I have enough to do to get me through a life time or two. Gardening and cooking are at the top of my to do list. The plan is to tear up the front lawn and just plant native plants and flowers flowers flowers! I had bought a clematis last year and was just on the verge of throwing it away when I spotted green. I managed to get it into the ground and the hydrangea as well. I have several roses, a purple hibiscus, and a hawthorn that need homes in the ground. I still have bolted basil that looks somewhat ratty, but the bees love them, as do the hummingbirds and butterflies so I cannot tear them out. I am much torn and scratched from battling with a Happy Chappy rose in the bed in front of the house. 

The backyard, being ringed by concrete walls and deck, get a bit too hot for some plants. The poppies, nasturtiums, calendulas, and bougainvillea all do well, but others, like roses, not so much. I have three or four more trees to try to squeeze into the pool area: pomegranate, cherry, and lime. The lime tree has been in a container for about two years and is full of blossoms this year. Well, if we are under quarantine for many more months, I just may get it done. Digging is hard work, though.

I am most torn between wanting to garden and needing to be on KP. I have some Jim Lahey No Knead Bread that has been sitting around for too long while it waits to be baked. Might be a failure, 

but who knows.

Janet is heading back to bed, which is a bit disturbing. She is bored but as she can't see enough to read so tv is her only option. After I get the bread in the oven, I should put more focus on entertaining and stimulating her. Her favorite yoga teacher, Teri Ann, is about to offer online classes, so I will try to get her to practice.

Much to the chagrin and horror of most, my teacher training continues. The yoga studio is closed for the most part. Cindy does an instagram cast a few times a week. There are only four of us in the training so we are able to keep a good distant in that big room. I feel as if this is the time for me to do this, so I will persevere. 

Two weird songs battling for brain space: Pretty Ballerina by The Left Banke and Dance to the Music by Sly and the Family Stone. If anyone can see a connection here, give me a shout out. Pretty Ballerina is hells-fey, but gorgeous if overly sentimental. Dance to the Music warrants no comment.   

My audiobooks are Andrew Delbanco's The War Before the War: Fugitive Slaves and the Struggle for America's Soul from the Revolution to the Civil War and The Girl on the Velvet Swing: Sex, Murder, and Madness at the Dawn of the 20th Century. The latter is little more than a potboiler and not as compelling as American Eve: Evelyn Nesbit, Stanford White, The Birth of the "It" Girl, and the Crime of the Century. The Delbanco book is excellent but not really fall asleep material.

Okay, off to kp and laundry land for now. Vera is of the opinion my time and raison d'eire would be better served as a luxurious lap for napping. Much less than I should force her to suffer the ignominy of washing the sheets. She is not to be denied.

THE SECOND

In any collision, one strikes;

the other is stricken. This

is a given with the nano-

calculations made possible

through silicon.

Earlier centuries depended

on testimony to know

the bender from the bent

and often judged an act

by how it ended. Many bumps

were simply abandoned to the

morass of simultaneous action.

Love being among them.

For who would second

as I find myself seconded—

the original feathered weapon

tattered. I love you seconded

for seven year. Whose love

comes second forever bears

a quiver of unsayable words,

unusable gestures; a boldness

lost—as if Ruth had not said

Whither thou goest, but merely gone,

making Naomi's people her people,

her home her home.

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

Here's the bedside stack that I am barely looking at: