AND OH! THAT JASMINE

 

20 of 100

April 27

I don't know who took this photo as I snagged it off of FB. But it is so beautiful I had to share.

I just rescued a monarch butterfly from Nina who had just brought it in to present to me. I got it away (she had dropped it at my feet), outside, and it flew away. That's always a win.

The Big "D" moved on to more porous terrain. I am still sick, but not in terrible emotional straits anymore. That was a firestorm of childhood silencing and abandonment, but once those chemicals passed through my tears and some close friend counseling, I have come back to a comfortable place. 

But, in the course of my min-maelstrom (is that oxymoronic?) I came to think of the film Fight Club. I didn't much like it and have never understood the hoo-hah and hubbub about it. I figured it was lack of adequate? requisite? testosterone. The thing that gets quoted the most is "What is the first rule of Fight Club?" I think the answer is you don't talk about Fight Club. Blah blah blah. More macho posturing as far as I could see.

But then I extrapolated over to Love Club. What is the first rule of Love Club? For me, it is knowing that I am being appropriately considered by those who love me and whom I love. I will admit that can be a slippery slope, and I am severely challenged by demonstrating this rule with my mom. But I do try. When I feel I am being unnecessarily overlooked and unconsidered, I can get to a childish, enraged state (just FYI "rageful" is not acceptable to auto-correct.). 

I'd been interested to hear if any of you have a first rule for Love Club.

April 28

I have at least three cats hanging nearby. Vera is next to my desk in the window, which I would not leave open if I could get her to leave. I can hear McCoy's collar bells as he walks below the window, and Idrisse is sitting on a stool that has been randomly left outside. The "June Gloom" has arrived early so the day starts overcast. Besides my latptop, the desk is strewn with poetry book, vintage patterns, an Edith Wharton novel, medical referral papers, and a couple of gardening catalogs. I sometimes think I will buy more bulbs for next year, but manage to refrain.

The front garden denizens appreciated the hard work I put into taming the weeds. The rose bushes that were getting choked are producing fragrant bloom, the strange bulbs I cannot remember have doubled in size, and what I think are hollyhocks are moving along. The buds are growing so slowly I am sure they won't have bloomed until I get back from NY. The jacaranda is going purple. Beautiful tree but extremely messy.

In the greatly overgrown backyard, the boysenberries are starting. They will likely peak while I am away so will go unpicked, save by the brave birds. The jays were wise to build their nests in the bougainvillea this year so the cats cannot get to them. They try but the thorns are a great deterrent. The jays must have watched Snow White for tips.

And the pomegranate blossoms! I had that tree in a pot for a year or more and only planted it in the Swimming Pool Garden in the last year or so. Many pomegranates ahead?

I didn't sleep very well. I tried listening to a podcast but that was more agitating than soothing. I put on Live Dead and Dark Star put me to sleep, such as it was. Before coffee, I wondered if I could get it together to teach my last class tonight. Debee is coming later to work with me on the house for a few day in anticipation of David coming to take care of Janet. Were I to attempt it alone, I would sink into my usual procrastination and torpor. After all, there are a lot of series to catch up on.

THESE PRINTED WORDS ARE A PLACE

These marks on paper tell of places within,

scratchings of the mind, spirit, and the other.

Records of a location where I lived for a while

and may return. Where he visits, and where

a radiance burns in him. Ordinary light

can make him vanish in the nearly empty rooms.

These words tell a story of my infinite caring,

of a quaking there as if something wants our

disembodiment. We lie naked on the mattress,

covered with a single sheet, the door closed

to make more darkness, entering another world.

The door opens by itself after, showing the light

has changed in the window of that other room

where a glass of water stands waiting on a table,

pears on a plate like gifts from a century before.

— Linda Gregg, The Sacraments of Desire, Graywolf Press, Minneapolis, 1991

EVEN MY SELF-WILLED DARK

19 of 100

April 26

I should be feeling my oats today as I scored the right answer on Wordle in two guesses before my second cup of coffee. I have only done that once before on my first wordle try. The birds are quite loud. The clouds are, so far, cooling off the day. I only have two yoga classes left. 

But I am so upset with a close relationship that I gave myself a stress cold. Looking back over the past couple of weeks, I can see that something was deeply troubling to me. Forgetting my pin for the debit card should have been a serious clue but all the repressed feelings started surfacing in a long slow wave that crested with me in tears and the miasma of sorrow and depression.

It has been so long that since I have been seriously depressed, I had almost forgotten about the big "D." How fast and subtly it can creep up on you. The dementors have yet to make a showing, so that's a plus at least. And perhaps I will feel a bit better after a nap. Looks as if I will be depending on an older class I have written and I will use the afternoon to rest and try to hurry this cold along.

I don't know how many of you have had to care for any elders, particularly female elders. You should be forewarned, if this in your future, that they have black hole pockets in their clothing. No matter how much care you try to take in emptying their pockets before laundry, there are ALWAYS several pieces in that black hole that will be flushed out in the wash, thus making a huge mess. Particularly for those of us who don't use dryers (mine is still broken) and have no recourse to a dryer cleaning it off.

(Aunt Bird Said She Had to Heave Herself from Sleep)

Aunt Bird said she had to heave herself from sleep

to study how the wind’s blade whisked the air,

that she wanted to grasp the reckless motion of being —

its spit and grime and ruin —

because nothing expired completely

except time eating its own body.

She taught me I was made out of crumbling

and to bring into the open the damaged

heart of even my self-willed dark,

although fear sprouted from my skin

and my voice was a wing flapping wildly.

— Yerra Sugarman, Aunt Bird, Four Way Books, New York, 2022

(I briefly studied poetry back in the 1990s. Yerra was one of my classmates with whom I staid in touch.)

THINGS TIME-EATEN, SEA-BITTEN

"We become conservative if we’re still trying to preserve the mythologies of our youth.”

— Philip Rodriguez 

18 of 100

April 23rd

After finishing Adam Schiff's book, I am in an uncomfortable place - emotionally, energetically.Alighting anywhere, emotionally, energetically, physically, is not easily accomplished. I dug out another rose bush, besieged by grasses, uncovered some sage and rosemary, and cut the dead stalks off of some other flowers that seem determined to come back this year.

April 25

Today is being spent (wasted?) in an orgy of music on YouTube. Currently grooving to Taj Mahal and Ry Cooder. Sometimes Ry's playing keeps me alive. And today is rather one of those days. 

The jasmine is in bloom. That sweet smell perks me up from time to time. The LA heat is upon us so things are pretty still out there. The breeze comes up every once in awhile, blowing the sounds of the freeway this way, as well as the jasmine scent. 

As I mentioned in my previous post, I have been a bit sad for the last day or so. And that was before Elon Musk bought Twitter. My technology forward friends think he is the greatest thing since the last greatest thing. My "spidey. senses" (and do remember I was bitten by a black widow spider back in 1994) tell me that he is a giant schmuck and means the world no good. All we need is another lumbering, egomaniacal narcissist getting more exposure and power in the world. There have been plenty enough of them.

My New York trip is less than two weeks away. Perhaps some of my mood is the usual stress of going away anxiety. I have to remind myself that it is unlikely that it will be as exuberant and exultant as my last east coast tour. I already have my trepidations about some of my plans. If it doesn't get above freezing in the Adirondacks, my Schroon Lake adventure is in jeopardy. 

On the other hand, once I get over my current state of mind, perhaps I will find new adventures and time to spend with folks I haven't had much time with.

I need to focus on getting three things done today before I head back over to Christina's to complete my dress which she largely made for me yesterday (I did help) plus the two shirts that are almost done.

dysania

 - The state of having a hard time waking up and getting out of bed in the morning.

Who knew that this was an actual thing that can need treatment by medical professionals? I just thought it was me.

I guess this round of depression has been creeping up on me. I haven't been abusive to myself in any way, no bingeing on bad food or alcohol or tv or even too much spending (been a bit close there, getting things for my trip). One day last week, I forgot the pin number to Janet's debit card as I was trying to buy her lunch. Just. Could. Not. Remember. This, of course, set off alarms and I couldn't use it until we called the bank today. Fortunately, thanks to cousin Dan, I. had funds in my personal account that took care of Trader Joe's visits and such in the meantime. 

With Steven and Joe (husband of Steven) in the Galapagos, and Andrew on limited mobility due to his arm injury and surgery, it left Sonia, Cindy, Ashtynn, et moi to our own devices for Saturday yoga. We practiced on Cindy's roof, which was pretty cool. But it was very hot up there, even at 9:00 am. I took off my t-shirt and just practiced in my bra. Sonia had written up some notes for class, but we decided to take turns calling out asanas or short vinyasas which was very mellow. None of us was willing to do a full inversion on a roof with safety railing. We decided to go to breakfast instead of practicing next Saturday, which will be my last group meeting.

Calling our Saturday yoga meeting a class is misleading. Yes, someone has usually written an entire 90 minute practice for us, but it does not have a "class" feeling at all. I have yet to come up with the best way to describe it. It's more like a yoga klatsch, although we generally don't have refreshments save for water (I have brought citrus on several occasions) and we do more yoga than chatting (which shows our dedication and fortitude) but often enough someone will make a comment that might not strictly be related to an asana we are doing. 

Cindy and I are the worst of the lot, and probably me the most. I do stop and ask questions about postures or how to deal with particular teaching issues. But then again, I might just think of something random and burst out with a "can you believe?" or a "did you see?" This never stops the practice, we just carry on with our downward facing dogs, planks, and crow poses.

Arugula-walnut pesto, shaved fennel and raw artichoke, parmesan/romano on olive-oil toasted brushetta.

I said earlier this month that I made a pesto and bruschetta from my garden to take to the #3113 yoga party. We all had such a splendid time. Out on this coast, I rarely, but NOT NEVER, feel the intense simpatico one feels when one is with one's own. So much fun. The dinner was enormous and just so delicious. So much wine, laughter, and wise-cracking. What a joy to find actual friends at this and in this advanced age. Andrew is, among other things, a woodworking artist, and he made a mandala for each of us. 

Sonia had commemorative t-shirts made.

Lucky me.

FOUR HAND IMPROVISATION #3

Love is in two places and I will tell you

of the one behind the other,

beyond the apple trees of unripe fruit

and green leaves. Fullness is made of pulp,

of memory compacted powerfully.

The male shifts his weight and slides,

move his weight until he is where green

apples enter his heart. A wrong place.

Music is created the way dense seas

cast up all things time-eaten,

sea-bitten, creased with our salt.

The scent of coming and going.

We leave the way the ocean leaves.

The kind of going in which all goes,

the dense shade getting darker.

What is behind love is another love.

The rending is a reason. Not a thing alive

in nature, but nature itself.

We go down the hill into the trees

where we are stunned by a silence made

of our earthly parts. We prepare ourselves

and go toward, dragging the here.

All the evidence gone.

— Linda Gregg, The Sacraments of Desire, Graywolf Press, Minneapolis, MN, 1991

I WENT TO SLEEP A LITTLE SAD

 

17 of 100

April 22

This was not how I intended to start this post, but I ran across this image on FB. I am so-ever-so-ever-so-ever-so-fucking tired of the casual sexism of this. Maybe it was growing up in an environment where there were girly pictures, pin-ups, pornography, and sexual pictures of my mother in my father's domain, the garage. Then there was the pervasive and casual misogyny of my father's friends, many of whom I found creepy from a very young age. 

One of them, I believe his name was Bud Schroder, was a friend from my dad's camera club days. (There are still magazine and manuals about how best to light girlie pictures in the comfort of your own home in the garage.) For some reason, my father commissioned Bud to take family pictures of us. I was around 12 or so, and very uncomfortable around men. Particularly so when I had to wear my bathing suit for them and sit by the pool. I tried to shrink myself, hunching over and crossing my arms in front of my still-pretty-flat chest. I clearly remember how invaded I felt and how awful Bud was. I felt that way before I was subjected to his gaze at the command of my father.

I writing this only a few feet away from where this happened.

When the slides were developed, I heard Bud and my dad inappropriately commenting on the images. Bud said something about me looking like a little mermaid or some such. 

All that to say I am tired of random nudes and drawings and the billboards for men's clubs featuring women with "come on let me blow you" faces. I am tired to having to deflect and defend against all of this as if it did not affect me. As if this rapacious and visually greedy imagery was something I could go along with. Or ignore. Be blinded to it. Talk about your death by a thousand pin pricks, it is so enraging as to be flatteningly exhausting. 

And there is the fear of being labeled a fat old spinster fuddy-duddy. (Think again. You wish.) No sense of humor, blah blah de blabbity blah blah. I love double entendres, flirting, evocative sexy/eroticism. I am just tired of the eternal quotidian of having to be subjected to this careless bombardment of demeanment. 

On to better subjects.

(Is Fox asserting the patriarchy by putting his butt on the keyboard thus hindering my writing? He has taken over all the putative empty space.

The next day.

I went to sleep a little sad. I had been re-reading some of my blog posts. I always thought that depression, distraction, unburdening of possessions and cats were the major themes. But I have written quite a lot loss and grief, too. And here I was thinking I didn't know a thing about it ... or not so much.

I dreamt I had to drink a Coors last night. Might have been a Coors Lite.

I have been listening to Adam Schiff's Midnight in Washington: How We Almost Lost Our Democracy and Still Could. It's quite a long book and I have two hours of listening before it gets automatically returned. So I should do that. I recommend it highly, although it assails and astonishes one with the number of crimes committed by the Fucknutshitgibbon Administration. The utter callous, calculating, and cowardly behavior of the GOP is stupefying. One wonders where the reality, the common ground might be. Maybe we are all just free-falling.

Let Love,

the water of life

flow through our veins.

Let a Love-drunk mirror

steeped in the wine of dawn

translate the night.

You who pour the wine,

put the cup of oneness in my hand

and let me drink from it

until I can’t imagine separation.

Love, you are the archer.

My mind is your prey.

Carry my heart

and make my existence your bullseye.

— Rumi, Gold, translated by Haleh Liza Gafori, New York Review of Books, New York, 2022

LIKE A DUCK IN A PEN

16 of 100

My new peony.

April 10th

Back in the day, whatever day that was, Sunday mornings might be dedicated to reading, a religion for some of us. I was just perusing the New York Times online and so many articles looked like excellent rabbit holes to go down. When you stop to think about it, it is nothing short of remarkable that so much excellent writing is available on a DAILY basis. My quotidian meander includes NYT, Washington Post, The New Yorker, The Daily Beast, and often The Atlantic. No wonder it takes me hours to get dressed and moving in the morning. 

Today is a fits-and-starts kind of day. I have been sitting here for hours and not getting anything done at all. The day started out overcast but has morphed into a cool, breezy, sunny day. The neighbors have retired to their back yard to blast crappy music, so it must be the kids. The mom likes a good combination of soul oldies and Mexican music favorites which is okay by me. Rather than wrangle, I have just put on my ear buds, although I find it easier to write without music most days.

SMS suggested I pull stuff from my garden to make an appetizer for the #3113 soirée. I ended up making toasted baguette with olive oil, arugula-walnut pesto, shaved fennel and raw artichoke, with shaved romano/parmesan on top and lemon juice. The arugula, fennel, artichoke, and lemon were all from my garden. The Meyer lemon was sooo juicy and happy.

Yep. Later. The neighbors are having another bbq or something. For hours, they have been playing that heavy bass meaningless music. All we can hear over here is the bass. I could not nap, even as far away as I could get in my room with pillows over my head. Don't know if my mom will be able to nap either. 

Imma give up on this.

April 16th

Quiet for a Saturday afternoon. Janet just headed for her nap. The sun finally came out giving us a lovely, mild Spring day. The cats are even napping somewhere. I haven't seen them since Fox came begging for dry food snack.

Today was my last day doing yoga in Steven's garage. He and Joe leave for the Galapagos this week. By the time they get back for the last two meetings, I will be in NY. CZ had offered to host us on her roof so we won't stop doing yoga together.

I also managed to get my next booster shot. 

I guess I spoke too soon. Latino pop music with lots of accordion is now on neighborplay. At least it has accordion rather than a lot of bass.

Speaking of bass, Patrick and I went to see Billy Strings at a club in Santa Ana this week. Billy is probably the most adroit, fast-fingered lead player I have ever seen. Not impressive, incredible. I enjoyed the show, however, the stand-up bass was a bit loud on the lower strings. My clothes were moving, it was so loud. Billy used to be a metal head and it shows in his playing, as well as his bluegrass roots. The spirit of the Grateful Dead was hilariously everywhere. I observed to Patrick that given that I had smoked dope with Jerry Garcia, I could probably sell cosmic handshakes for $5 a pop. Maybe even more money could be made if I took my pair of Jerry Garcia's pants. I could tour them like the shroud of Turin.

April 21.

Have you heard me talking to you?

My yoga class ends next week, after which I will be gone for a month. When I planned the trip, I had no real idea that I would have a stable and enthusiastic following for my class. I am amazed by this. A core group, a community is forming. Two of my students do not speak much English, but they clearly enjoy the class. I am so impressed by them. 

Meanwhile, I somewhat naively volunteered to write up a bit of a practice that everyone could work on during the five weeks between classes. As if writing two classes a week doesn't take up enough time/energy. 

Friday is generally the closest thing I have to a day off. There is always the Janet to deal with, but I don't generally have a lot of plans and obligations. 

I scheduled my 4th booster last Saturday after my yoga practice (more on that later). The day went pretty. normally, meaning I don't know how it went by. As I pulled up my comforter to sleep, I realized I was hot and cold. This is never a good sign. The subsequent ten hours were filled with flu-like symptoms, including thinking I was flat like a playing card and that I could be flipped and shuffled, hallucinations, nausea, and chills. When that subsided, I could not stay awake. When I did manage to get anywhere near up, I was dizzy and more than usually stupid. 

So, beware of boosters.

I anticipated this reaction to some degree as I am increasingly more reactive to vaccines. Which is why I have yet to get my shingles vaccines, although now that I know I can get one on a Saturday minimizes my excuses for not getting them. I can just go to my Saturday practice and collapse for a day or two. June it is!

Fox has made himself comfortable on the chair behind me. It is a large chair and I am sitting on the edge of it 

So exhausted and pained was I after the six hours of gardening I did yesterday, I had to take an extra half-adderall, gabepentin, and ibuprofen to get to class tonight. Which is probably why I am blabbing on and on here.

The beautiful and elusive Idrisse.

And so it goes.

In gardening delights, my two Itoh peonies that I thought were completely dead have come back. They are a long way from any blossoms, but I am so glad to see them. Those long hours gardening yesterday have taken a significant toll on my gluteus and lower back muscles. However, my back does not hurt at all. And my nearly weed-choked roses are bound to love me for my pains. I will post our results.

This song, Rocky Top, was my wake up song. Enjoy here. And here's Dolly Parton's take.

And just for fun, here's Billy Strings doing Jethro Tull's Thick as A Brick.

YOU FOUNTAIN OF GRACE

 

15 of 100

8 April

Just as I have said, it is of little use to get up early in the morning in order to have some quiet time as Janet gets up as soon as she hears anything.

9 April

And we can see how all of that went.

She's asleep again. Yesterday, she had an MRI to check her brain after her fainting spell about a month ago. No, Wait. The MRI was Wednesday, yesterday was the bone density scan. Fun, fun fun. Yesterday was so hot (100?) that I spent large amounts of the day sprawled across my bed, under the too big fan, with either Nina or Vera. We watched some series or listened to podcasts and books for hot hours. Not the hot hours of my younger years, to be sure. We made it through the day, and today is cooler.

Again, I got up early to get a couple of things done before I went to my Saturday class. Mom got up just in time to get underfoot while I was rushing around to get out the door. Now she is back asleep so I can think for a few minutes before I head back into the kitchen to finish cleaning and prepare my little appetizer for tonight's party.

SW who has been hosting our Saturday morning class is moving to the (much beloved) Central Coast in two months. He is hosting a party for our little core group that staid together all through covid. We will miss him and his garage terribly. But CZ is already advocating a train trip to San Luis Obispo for yoga and yakking. There are plans to find a place to continue our Saturday class.

Although I am not as reliable an attendee than the others, (for one, I have to drive a lot farther), they kindly tolerate my inconsistency and are not judgmental about my advanced beginner practice. I love it. Besides the benefit of a group practice, I get to air my trials and triumphs (such as they are) as a teacher. It means everything to have their guidance, counsel, and suggestions. Teaching is harder than I thought it might be.

SW lives in a small, gated community next to a seasonal marsh or lake. When we practiced outside for teacher training, we often had to suspend instruction due to a duck and goose fight or just to look out over the water for a bit. There is a back gate to the community where we come in (Fox is glaringly orange standing out besides the bougainvillea and the uncut grass in just a patch of sunlight.). This morning, as both CW and I wound through the streets, there was a whole flock of ducks taking up about 2/3 of the available street space. There were thoroughly unconcerned as each of us drove by, not so much as moving a tailfeather. Talk about confidence and comfort.

And on top of that ... it was a cooler beautiful morning. My shuffle was on point somehow mixing Josquin (I almost skipped forward but decided I should slow down my overstimulation and actually listen) with Eric Taylor with Louise Taylor with Ry Cooder with Patty Griffin and Gillian Welch and some Bach played by my beloved Daniel Barenboim (Goldberg Variation, BWV 988, Canone alla Terza). An embarrassment of riches there, and a bit more soothing than listening to either of the excellent political books I have in process, Adam Schiff's Midnight in Washington: How We Almost Lost Our Democracy and Still Could and Wildland: The Making of America's Fury by Evan Osnos (good review there in Foreign Affairs).

And now, at 12:00, Saturday is in full swing as my neighbors vacuum their cars and groove out to some jam with a heavy beat. I suppose I won't even try to compete with my Barenboim Bach at this moment. Whatever else I had to say has drifted away. 

(UNTITLED)

You wake the dead to life,

you fountain of grace,

you fire in thickets of tangled thought,

Today you arrived beaming with laughter—

that swinging key that unlocks prison doors.

You are hope’s beating heart.

You are a doorway to the sun.

You are the one I seek and the one who seeks me.

Beginning and end.

You greet need with generous hands.

You flood us with spirit,

rising from the heart,

lifting thought.

Rare one, you reveal the pleasure

of wisdom and practice.

Beyond these, what is there

but excuses and deceit?

We lust after the afterlife.

We stew over trinkets.

We stages battles between black and white.

Our ears are plugged with twisted delusions.

You carry the cure.

Silence!

I’m in a hurry. Leave the paper. Break the pen.

The cupbearer is here, jug in hand.

Meet us in the land of insight,

camped under ecstasy’s flag.

— Rumi, Gold, translated by Haleh Liza Gafori, New York Review of Books, New York, 2022