WON'T SHIFT THE VIEW

April 27

FOR EVERYMAN

Jackson Browne

Everybody I talk to is ready to leave
With the light of the morning
They've seen the end coming down
Long enough to believe
That they've heard their last warning
Standing alone
Each has his own ticket in his hand
And as the evening descends
I sit thinking 'bout Everyman

Seems like I've always been
Looking for some other place
To get it together
Where with a few of my friends
I could give up the race
And maybe find something better
But all my fine dreams
Well though out schemes
To gain the motherland
Have all eventually come down
To waiting for Everyman

Waiting here for Everyman
Make it on your own if you think you can
If you see somewhere to go I understand
Waiting here for Everyman
Don't ask me if he'll show, baby I don't know

Make it on your own if you think you can
Somewhere later on you'll have to take a stand
Then you're going to need a hand

Everybody's just waiting to hear from the one
Who can give them the answers
And lead them back to that place
In the warmth of the sun
Where sweet childhood still dances
Who'll come along
And hold out that strong
That gentle father's hand
Long ago I heard someone say
Something 'bout Everyman

Waiting here for Everyman
Make it on your own
Make it if you think you can
If you see somewhere to go I understand

I'm not trying to tell you
That I've seen the plan
Turn and walk away if you think I am
But don't think too badly
Of one who's left holding sand
He's just another dreamer
Dreaming 'bout Everyman

Yesterday evening I was driving down to SW's house when this one came up on an old Radio Sally Mix I had just uncovered, made in 2005 called Scrapple from the Apple. (I'll post the playlist at the bottom.) Maybe I am overly focussed on Covid-19 but the image of people fed up and taking off, of doing for themselves and not for the greater good quite struck me. 

And right after that was The Circle Jerks' When The Shit Hits The Fan and damn if that one wasn't fitting as well.

In a sluggish economy
Inflation, recession, the land of the free
Waiting unemployment lines
Blame the Government for hard times

We just get by
However we can
We all have to duck
When the shit hits the fan

Ten kids in a Cadillac
Stand in line for welfare checks
Let's all leech off the state
Gee! The money is really great!

We just get by
However we can
We all have to duck
When the shit hits the fan

Soup lines
Free loaves of bread
Five pounds blocks of cheese
Bags of groceries

Social security
Has run out on you and me
We do whatever we can
Gotta duck when the shit hits the fan

We just get by
However we can
We all have to duck
When the shit hits the fan

Soup lines
Free loaves of bread
Five pounds blocks of cheese
Bags of groceries

Social security
Has run out on you and me
Do whatever we can
Gotta duck when the shit hits the fan

I think I have hit the depression layer. I woke up before the 7:30 alarm but spent the next two hours dozing and sleeping, having anxious dreams. The anxiety is compounded by my mother being anxious. Somehow, she is stuck on the fact that there is just too much for me to do around the house. You hear me talk about the backyard being a jungle, however, I am not kidding. Some of it is beautiful and some of it is not. I don't know why I have focussed so much on the front yard, perhaps because it is so much cooler out there and I see it when we come and go. From this desk, I can see poppies, and overgrown bougainvillea as well as geraniums, calendula, and dinner plate sized nasturtiums. And weeds weeds weeds weeds.

Very hard to stay the course of making progress on the inside of the house when I just want to escape (which, as my brother David would attest, is the family way). I keep thinking that when teacher training is over I will have more time to put into maintenance, but we shall see. Sometimes it is just hard doing everything myself. I would have been a terrible single mother. 

April 30th

Ever find yourself with so many things to choose from that playing solitaire or watching Netflix seems like the easiest answer. I think that is going unconscious. And there may be nothing wrong with that. But there probably is.

In the annals of procrastination, I have put off writing my first 90 minute class all week. I have mentally and physically skedaddled here and there without significant forward motion except for finishing some books. Finally, I sat down and started sketching things out and doing some research, but that's another form of procrastination ... is there such a thing as positive procrastination? Must have another name.

Yesterday, I did an online class. Afterwards, I came back to my desk to see if I couldn't take some notes. Across the desk in the window sill was The Marauder Cat, aka Pogonip. He didn't look too good, as he is one beat up tom. I noticed there was a large section of cheek flap hanging down. I got up and went to confer with Janet about what to do. We agreed I should take him to a vet to see what it would take to fix him up some. Janet got her stimulus check and although we had other earmarks on it, we felt the critter deserved care.

I found a walk-in, inexpensive vet clinic not too far away. Lured by food, he went into the kitchen where Janet and I were able to capture him and get him in a cat carrier. I cruised him over to the vet. He scarcely moved and did not make a sound. At the vet's office, I could hear he was hyperventilating so they got me into a room fast. He hissed coming out of the carrier, but he did let me hold and pet him. We saw that in addition to his cheek, he had a bad bite and infection on hid leg. The vet came in, said he would fix him up. I asked him to neuter him at the same time.

Around 4, I called to see if he was ready to pick up. They said yes. Pogonip died shortly before I got there, 20 minutes later. 

I didn't know what to think or how to feel, other than shock. Pogonip wasn't our cat, really, but he was part of our everyday cat world. He took his naps on the lawn furniture and begged for food. Janet, as you know, wanted to adopt him.

The cause of death was undetermined, but the vet thought that Pogonip died of stress and possibly some other underlying issues. He looked awful in death. It may be wimpy and unkind of me, but I am glad I didn't have to hold him as he transitioned to another place. As he didn't know my body, my smells, and my touch at all, it likely would not have comforted him much.

We miss him. We were/are sad. 

And this morning, one of his brothers was walking around the front yard, already ready to take over the territory.

RIP Pogonip.

The Kermit Place Readers had a surprisingly lively conversation about Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca this evening. Afterwards, we hung around on Zoom to swap quarantine updates and commiserate about what might be next. There was not a general feeling of positivity. New York is waiting to see if the quarantine is extended, as we are here in California. It seems the height of freedom to be able to congregate in small groups with close family and friends. 

WINTER FEAR

Is it just winter
or is this worse.
Is this the year
when outer damp
obscures a deeper curse
that spring can't fix,
when the gears that 
turn the earth
won't shift the view,
when clouds won't lift
though all the skies
go blue.

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

Radio Sally

                  SCRAPPLE FROM THE APPLE

February 12, 2005

(01) Dexter Gordon: Scrapple from the Apple        7:23

                  (Parker)

                  from Our Man in Paris, Blue Note, 1963

(02) Afro Celt Sound System: Dark Moon, High Tide   4:12

(Emerson/Spillane)

                  from Volume 1: Sound Magic, Real World, 1996

(03) Bananarama: Aie a Mwana          2:43

(Kluger/Vanguard)

                  from Deep Sea Skiving, London, 1983

(04) The Magnetic Fields: When You Were My Baby   2:43

                  (Merritt)

                  from The Wayward Bus, Feel Good All Over Records, 1991

(05) Phillips & Driver: Ready for Love                4:08

                  (Ralphs)

                  from Togetherness, Bar None, 2003

(06) 5 Chinese Brothers: All I Need   3:23

                  (Foglino)

                  from Singer, Songwriter Beggarman, Thief, 1-800-Prime, 1992

(07) Ray Lamontagne: Jolene                 4:14

                  (Lamontagne)

                  from Trouble, RCA, 2004

(08) Gregson & Collister: I Shake         4:24

                  (Gregson)

                  from The Last Word, Rhino, 1992

(09) Robben Ford & The Blue Line: Good Thing                7:12

                  (Ford)

                  from Handful of Blues, Blue Thumb, 1995

(10) Jimmy Witherspoon, Long John Baldry, and the Duke Robillard Band: Time’s Getting’ Tougher Than Tough       6:53

                  (Witherspoon)

                  from Jimmy Witherspoon with the Duke Robillard Band, Stony Plain, 2000

(11) Van Morrison: Allow Me              3:53

                  (Morrison)

                  from Poetic Champions Compose, Warner Bros., 1987

(12) Judy Collins: Since You Asked 2:53

                  (Collins)

                  from Wildflowers, Elektra, 1967

(13) Jackson Browne & David Lindley: For Everyman       5:41

                  (Browne)

                  from Bread and Roses Festival, 1977 Vol. 1, Fantasy, 1979

(14) The Circle Jerks: When the Shit Hits the Fan       3:13

                  (Hetson/Morris)

                  from Golden Shower of Hits, Rhino,1983

(15) Sharon Jones & The Dap Kings: This Land Is Your Land       4:33

                  (Guthrie)

                  from Naturally, Daptone2005

(16) Glory Fountain: Rosary                  5:28

                  (Blakey/Chumbris)

                  from The Glory of 23, LaJoy, 2001

(17) The Kingsbury Manx: Fanfare      4:41

                  (Kingsbury Manx)

                  from The Kingsbury Manx, Overcoat, 2000

MAKES ME TRY

YTT is on a break so that I don’t have 8 hours of training this coming weekend. Of course, there is plenty to do as we should be deep into practice teaching, studying, and learning other stuff. I thought perhaps I would get to some other time consuming, put-off chores but we shall see. At this point, I am behind on laundry by a least a week, only now getting things out of the dryer and washing that have been sitting around. My practice in this regard is to breathe and to work on the patience to complete tasks. This will be a challenge in itself.

After weeks of not attending in-studio classes, I plan to try to get myself to a slightly more physically challenging flow class, although it would be plenty easy to just hang around, laze in bed, and read. We will see how this goes.

Well, it is a week later. I have not done any classes. And I didn't do any writing either. I had hoped to for a refreshing break, to come back with energy, perspective, and verve.

Not so much.

I did get some things accomplished. For instance, I am writing this from my desk that has been inaccessible due to too many things piled on top and under. There is still organization of some of that stuff, but here I sit. I need to work on sequencing some yoga classes and I wanted to sit up on a chair and not on the bed, my usual writing place of late. Had to get my bitchen vintage desk chair fixed and that happened as well.

The bike got repaired and new lights so that I can ride at night a bit. Of course, now I have to find the helmet that is lost in the morass of unpacking on the patio.

I spent a day cleaning up the organizational project in the living room and figuring out how to connect the laptop to the new tv so that Janet could take Teri Ann's yoga class. It was some kind of moment to see her In front of the TV where it started with Richard Hittleman in around 1963. When I was in high school, my friends and I would troop in and there she would be doing some kind of pretzel-pose with her feet nearly behind her head. Vera Paris was quite drawn to the props and took a long savansana.

Now onto the second cup of Major Dickason's and having broken a 1950's Japanese deco design vase, I am here again. I am listening to a cd I found in the pile, John Martyn's Solid Air Revisited. It has been maligned as soft rock, and I see that, but it makes for great Saturday-morning-during-the-apocalypse music. I see the point with the Quiet Storm orchestration, but I think John's near-Van-Morrison mysticism comes through.

I am just not sure I have so much to say. I appreciate hearing from those of you who missed my meanderings this week.

Staying with teacher training at all has been an extra challenge this week. I knew that confrontation of deeper self and construction of personal reality would be part of the practice. Well, now I am in the river and swimming hard, even if there is not much outward appearance of that.

One of the topics in this week's philosophy round-up is Daya, or compassion. (This stupid autocorrect changed daya to data. Somehow that is discouraging.) Self-compassion and self-appreciation do not come easily to me, particularly when I am isolated, depressed, and hot. Somewhere between my solar plexus and my heart there is a weighted line, taut and frayed (not to be confused with Torn and Frayed. I find it hard to listen to The Rolling Stones these days, as much as I love their music.).

I just picked up Nine Gates: Entering the Mind of Poetry to place it near the desk where I hope to be working more. It's damn oracle for me. Although, again, this is talking about poetry, I think it has a lot to add to meditation on yoga

Not for poetry the head-on meeting of inquiry and object found in the essay, the debate, the letter to the editor. A poem circles its content, calls to it from afar, looks for the hidden, tangential approach, the truth that only grows apparent by means of an exile's wandering., cunning's imagination, and a wide-cast, attentive silence. Poems do not make appointments with their subjects — they stalk them, keeping their distance, looking slightly off to one side. And when at last the leap comes, it is most often from the side, the rear, an overhead perch, some kind of  word-blind woven of brush or shadow or fire.  — Jane Hirschfield

Finding the depth of asana practice is much like this. You may need to approach the asana from many different directions, with subtle changes in other poses as well as the one you think you are focussed on. The all-hand-on-deck-forcing-yourself-to-look-like-the-picture method rarely succeeds, even if you do succeed in looking like the picture. The internal, the intention, the magic, and the joy are likely lost. 

Perhaps finding self-compassion is like this as well. It's not just an item on my endless-and-ever-growing to do list, but something I that does not need head on address. Maybe I need to look for the subtleties of mercy for myself.

It's all a sweet little mystery.

SWEET LITTLE MYSTERY

Just that sweet little mystery that breaks my heart

Just that sweet little mystery makes me cry

O that sweet little mystery that's in your heart

It's just that sweet little mystery that makes me try

My friends all tell me that I look so sad

They don't need to ask me why

They know the reason that I feel so bad

Since the night you said goodbye

It's not the letters that you just don't write

It's not the arms of some new friend

It's not the crying in the dead of the night

That keeps me hanging on, waiting for the end

Just that sweet little mystery that's in your heart

Just that sweet little mystery makes me cry

Oh that sweet little mystery that's in your heart

It's just that sweet little mystery that makes me try

I watch the street, I watch the radio

I don't need to turn it on

Another friend comes by and tries to say hello

Another weekend's almost gone

It's not the letters that you just don't write

It's not the arms of some new friend

It's not the crying in the depth of the night

That keeps me hanging on, just waiting for the end

It's that sweet little mystery that's in your heart

It's just that sweet little mystery that makes me cry

Oh that sweet little mystery that's in your heart

It's just that sweet little mystery that makes me try

The time is flying fast, and I don't care

To spend another night alone

I want to see you, but I don't know where

Till then I'm walking on my own

It's not the letters that you just don't write

It's not the arms of some new friend

It's not the crying in the depth of the night

That keeps me hanging on, just waiting for the end

It's that sweet little mystery that's in your heart

It's just that sweet little mystery that makes me cry

Oh that sweet little mystery that's in your heart

It's just that sweet little mystery that makes me try

That sweet little mystery that's in your heart

It's just that sweet little mystery that makes me cry

Oh that sweet little mystery that's in your heart

It's just that sweet little mystery that makes me try

Sweet mystery, sweet mystery

Sweet mystery, sweet mystery, sweet mystery

Sweet mystery, sweet mystery, sweet mystery

Sweet mystery, sweet mystery, sweet mystery

WHAT WE CAN'T SEE COMING, GOING

Friday, 17 avril

I slept a lot today. The thing is, I am sleepy, deeply and deliciously, in a way I thought I might not sleep again. In a world with too few pleasures, that one of relaxation and indulgence is difficult to turn away. After all, it costs nothing out of pocket, does not no harm, and has no calories. What is not to love?

After the nap, I did a couple of hours of mostly digging and destroying the roots of the grasses that were once a lawn. Most of the plants I had bought a week or two ago are in the ground. I did not do a great job of organizing the colors and the textures, but perhaps it is enough that I am establishing a new bed. I did get the two hollyhock bulbs planted and marked. I won’t be seeing any signs from them for a good long time.

In the evening, the neighbor grandma and her great grand-daughter Kaylani go for an evening stroll. Kaylani has just learned to pedal herself on tricycle thingy. She knows my name now and greets me whenever they pass. She is fascinated with the kitties. She couldn’t understand why Oona was insistent about digging in the dirt. Frankly, I am surprised at her affinity for being filthy myself. Emmylou, the neighborhood greeting cat, rubbed up against Kaylani and grandma. Anything for head scratches or water. 

Now cleaned after a nice soak, I am headed into the kitchen to try to do some cooking. I just heard the oven timer tell me that we had reached “speed”. Oona is sticking close to me and would prefer that I just chill for the evening, but I am hopeful I will bake something.

Flowering sage.

Aretha made the gardening all that more pleasurable and I wanted to blast it down the street and have a dance party. Have you heard Aretha's cover of Border Song? I love her arrangement. She turns it straight gospel. "I have been deceived." Indeed.

BORDER SONG

Holy Moses I have been removed
I have seen the spectre he has been here too
Distant cousin from down the line
Brand of people who ain't my kind
Holy Moses I have been removed

Holy Moses I have been deceived

Now the wind has changed direction and I'll have to leave
Won't you please excuse my frankness but it's not my cup of tea

Holy Moses I have been deceived

I'm going back to the border
Where my affairs, my affairs ain't abused
I can't take any more bad water
Been poisoned from my head down to my shoes

Holy Moses I have been deceived
Holy Moses let us live in peace
Let us strive to find a way to make all hatred cease
There's a man over there
What's his colour I don't care
He's my brother let us live in peace
He's my brother let us live in peace
He's my brother let us live in peace

— Bernie Taupin and Elton John

And here's some Aretha and Duane Allman funking out with The Weight.

On to the 18th ... grooving on more Aretha as the lemon-lavender curd shortbread bakes. I thought to take a treat to teacher training today. SW's husband does amazing things for us sometimes. Hard to choose my favorite between chocolate covered strawberries and apple pear pie. I rarely make things from mixes so we will have to see how this turns out. I also made a quiche last night while drinking white wine and chatstorming with a similiarly tipsy Melinda. And the kitchen floor finally got cleaned. Now, who knows what is possible?

My mom can barely stand Aretha. She frequently asks me to turn it down. She hates my favorite singer. Well, at least she is okay with Van Morrison, Joni Mitchell, Ry Cooder, and Richard Thompson. Aretha is the one who cheers and engages me the most. I think it is her piano playing that nabs me. I always wished for an Aretha solo on piano recording, but that's not going to happen. I will have to play it in my head.

Evidently, there is another storm headed our way.  I hope it is not too cold out there on the rainwater pond today. I would just as soon curl up again today. Maybe a nap after YTT? My mom is sleeping too much. I need to focus on her. Hell, there are several things I need to get down and get funky with, for instance my yoga practice and teacher training. 

My newly installed plants will like more rain. I have more freesia and ranunculus bulbs to try to get into the ground as well as black-eyed susans (rudebeckia) and more aquiligea (columbine). The colors really cheer me up in a relatively colorless neighborhood. Not a neighborhood of gardeners although a few do a good job. When I get the bike back, I will maybe document a few good ones and some other absurdities of the area. 

On the other hand, am I reverting to possibilities and not "sticking to my knitting"?

COMING AND GOING

There is a
recently discovered 
order, neither
sponges nor fishes
which is never
at the mercy
of conditions.
If currents shift,
these fleshy zeppelins
can reverse directions
from inside—
their guts are
so easily modified.
Coming versus going
is therefore
not the crisis
it is for people,
who have to scramble
to keep anything
from showing
when we see
what we can't see
coming, going.

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

AND I SAW MY DEVIL

Later on the 16^th.

Maybe it is just the news and the reality, but I am jumpy and ill-at-ease this afternoon. Even hovering, if momentarily situationally, between sadness and depression. I don’t find any of the eternal lightness of being or any sunshine of any spotless mind. More like suspended in rank aspic. 

I don’t want to do anything, except maybe sleep.

Patrick and I took our bikes to the bike shop as planned. Maybe in the future, I can take a whirl on the bike when I feel so jumpy. There’s no really great place to go around here, but at least the traffic is low. We did notice more traffic, though, on the freeway when we drove to Trader Joe’s. Maybe the unease is not just mine.

I know some of it is the governing coup d’etat’s rapacious continual raping. That could make anyone feel pretty bad, if they were paying attention. And the sadness comes partly from walking meat suits who even in the face of life and death disaster choose to continue to feed on the less fortunate and kindlier. Again, this is something that does not compute with me, hence the disorientation and frustration. 

I am going to see if I can change this energy and find a scrap or leftover of joy or even pleasure for a bit. 

Slightly later. I cleaned my computer keyboard and screen, so that was something. Emily Nussbaum, who writes for The New Yorker posted this on Twitter: This makes me feel better. Think I will change into my gardening clothes and see if I can't get those hollyhock bulbs in the ground. 

Turns out that hollyhock bulbs need to be soaked before planting so I will get two (out of four) into the dirt once I finish this.

Another day when I am still on bed at noon. I was reading and snorkeling around the internet, sort of a sweet hangover from a good sleep and nice dreaming. I dreamt I was publishing a book. I found a groove and a voice and wrote about a third of it in one sitting. IRL, the NYT had published some international obituaries of people who have died from the virus. I found that Aurlus Mabele had died. Looking for more about him, I came across this video. Some good dance moves in here, too. Also, will cheer you up.

Besides the obituaries, there was an article about downward mobility in this country, which I have been trying to talk about for the last 10 or so years. Those long time readers of this blog will recall the number of times I have written about being a failure. Only one of four children in my family was upwardly mobile. I almost made it, but failed in the long run. I really wanted this to be part of Hilary Clinton's campaign, specifically addressing age discrimination and the lack of a social net, but I heard nary a word. (I must admit that I did not do a thorough examination of her platform.) 

Last night on our weekly yoga talk, we spent some time on the Yamas and Niyamas. When discussing brahmacharya Cindy asked asked what we were drawn to that might have excessive weight and distract us from our spiritual path. At the time, looking around a room that is quite literally strewn and stacked with books, I said media, meaning not the streaming or television sort, but also music and books. This morning, upon further reflection, I realized what I am really really drawn to is possibility and promise. 

On the surface, that doesn't seem like such a terrible or debilitating thing, but in my case, all of the books and music and long lists of things to watch, all of the piles of yarn and fabric and patterns and pattern books are all about possibility. The batterie de cuisine and all the cookbooks and dishes all speak to something I think I want, something I hope to do at some point. But the day to day is about maintaining the goods and possibilities, not manifesting them.

Another concept was dhriti, which in short is to act with determination. The question posed was what gets in the way of your dedication to the path. And for me, this is non-commitment. Commitment limits the wider range of possibilities. I guess there is some fear of missing out if I commit too much. And what if I get tired? Or change my mind? Or something better comes along?

Then one of my best and smartest friends called and we had one of those too wonderful and too rare far-ranging conversations which usually include current events, history, philosophy, religion, and music. He ended citing  The Return of the Grevious Angel #1

Won't you scratch my itch sweet Annie Rich
And welcome me back to town
Come out on your porch or I'll step into your parlour
And I'll show you how it all went down
Out with the truckers and the kickers and the cowboy angels
And a good saloon in every single town

Oh and I remember something you once told me
And I'll be damned if it did not come true
Twenty thousand roads I went down, down, down
And they all lead me straight back home to you

'Cause I headed West to grow up with the country
Across those prairies with those waves of grain
And I saw my devil, and I saw my deep blue sea
And I thought about a calico bonnet from Cheyenne to Tennessee

We flew straight across that river bridge, last night half past two
The switch-man wave his lantern goodbye and good day as we went roling through
Billboards and truck stops pass by the grievous angel
And now I know just what I have to do (pick for me James)

And the man on the radio won't leave me alone
He wants to take my money for something that I've never been shown
And I saw my devil, and I saw my deep blue see
And I thought about a calico bonnet from Cheyenne to Tennessee

The news I could bring I met up with the king
On his head an amphetamine crown
He talked about unbuckling that old bible belt
And lighted out for some desert town
Out with the truckers and the kickers and the cowboy angels
And a good saloon in every single town

Oh but I remember something you once told me
And I'll be damned if it did not come true
Twenty thousand roads I went down, down, down
And they all lead me straight back home to you
Twenty thousand roads I went down, down, down
And they all lead me straight back home to you

— Lyrics by Thomas Stanley Brown, music by Gram Parsons and Earl Montgomery

                                                                                            

THE DIAMONDS OF PATIENCE

Later on April 15th.

There’s nothing quite like feeling “Well, I got that one out of the way. Now, I can garden and get some stuff done” only to be derailed by an elderly Mom exclaiming “Thank God you’re home!” as you enter the door. So much for actually getting something to eat and getting to gardening. The toilet had overflowed. As if this weren’t messy enough, old folks need access to toilets pretty regularly and often very quickly, so she was in a bit of a panic. My poor mom thought we had to call a plumber and then my older brother to get money to pay the plumber. She couldn’t find any telephone numbers.

So, I had to find my missing flip flops so that I could drive somewhere, because we have little to nothing in this town, to find a plunger as, of course, ours is lost in the melee and likely dead rubber as well. Fortunate smiled as I found my flip flops and headed to the car when I saw my good neighbor out. She had one I could borrow. Problem solved in a moment and I will certainly get to the bathroom floor mopping later today. 

And so it goes. Maybe I can have breakfast and get some digging done before it gets any hotter.

How's your day going?

April 16th

Had to start this morning with some Aretha Franklin which is really helps offset the disaster. I must admit to some disbelief at the depths of venality the GOP party shows. I am astonished and startled anew almost every day. I cannot think of their behavior as other than rape, dismemberment, and murder. How can it be that so many are so bereft of any sort of mercy, decency, or what I used to think of as humanity?

I started off with Aretha doing Day Dreaming, which is certainly something we can embrace in the face of the terrorists raping the USA. It is her version of Bridge Over Troubled Water that really grabbed me this morning (although now we are on to her versions of Ben E. King's Don't Play That Song (You Lied). I read somewhere that Paul McCartney wrote Let It Be for her.

Later that same morning.

I got all caught up in youtube videos for awhile there.

And again.

Lost my focus and now I am hungry. I have enjoyed not pressuring myself to go get things done. In an hour, Patrick and I are going to take our bikes to the open bike shop to get tuned up. It would be nice to bike ride while the traffic is so low.

Yesterday did end up being acceptably productive. I have a couple of major tasks like finishing a thorough kitchen and bathroom clean and finishing the laundry I started. But the my sheets got changed and how sweet it was to enjoy the smooth coolness when I got into bed, late, but not too late, last night. I need to get onto some cooking today. Getting more of those plants into the garden calmed me some.

The Kermit Place Readers have an impromptu Zoom cocktail meeting on Thursdays. As everyone but me is in lockdown in NY, it is a good way to visit. When we have our book group meetings we try to stick to our knitting and talk about the book we have read. This gives us a chance to kibbitz without restraint. Today, though I will keep my involvement short as 4:30 to 7:00 is prime front yard gardening time.

I am not doing much yoga practice other than the training and a Zoom class on Sunday morning. I do think about it. I have a dim feeling that some of it is soaking in, somewhere, as a different approach to life. I really wanted to dance to Aretha this morning.

The milkweed did not make it. I have had that growing for about three years and those plants were large and robust. Back to the drawing board as I need to support those monarchs. They were in the corner of the yard where the basil plants have gone to wild seed. Oona likes to sleep there and it may have been she who destroyed the other plants with her stretches and sleeping.

Clematis.

PATIENCE

Patience is
wider than one
once envisioned,
with ribbons
of rivers
and distant
ranges and
tasks undertaken
and finished
with modest
relish by
natives in their
native dress.
Who would
have guessed
it possible
that waiting
is sustainable—
a place with
its own harvests
Or that in
time's fullness
the diamonds
of patience
couldn't be
distinguished
from the genuine
in brilliance
or hardness.

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

Copyright Barry Blitt, posted without permission.