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