I THINK TOMORROW

21 of 100 (yeah, right)

May 21st

Brooklyn, NY 

Writing this from Betts’ kitchen (and dining) table. I was awoken about an hour ago by David. Janet called out to him in the night to help her out of bed. Her legs would not support her and she collapsed into his arms. David called an ambulance, the second time in a week. They took her to the shit hospital where Carl died, partly because of less than stellar service. 

June 5th

Santa Fe Springs, CA

Yeah. Writing this from the same messy desk in the same messy room in the same messy house as per usual. Things have changed some though. 

Back to May 21st. I called my cousin Christina who is good with medical matters (remember my undiagnosed hernia from a couple of years back), and also willing to be necessarily assertive to get her way. She headed over to the Norwalk Community Hospital to assess the situation, concluding with the rest of us that it was one of hell's field hospitals for the damned. 

June 13

Santa Fe Springs, CA

I cannot relate the past many weeks in any sort of reasonable narrative, so I am jumping into just writing again. The task just got too daunting. I found myself avoiding writing and yet wanting to.

Long story short here: Janet is okay, pretty much back to her pre-hospital self. The cats are all fine. The house is a bit of its usual disaster, but Debee is coming on Thursday to help me sort again and get rid of my far-too-many belongings. When she was here before I left for New York, I was too sick to help her. She just jumped in, organizing things for later sorting, and taking care of Janet as I nearly bed-ridden.

Since I have been back from New York (June 2), napping has had a high priority. Previous to my trip, I was not napping at all, nor was I able to actually nap while I was gone. What is causing Morpheus to visit me so sweetly is unknown, however, I plan to enjoy it while I can. 

Concomitant or not, I also have the concentration to read books again after many many months. My reading skills are such that I am hard-pressed, in my alone time, to do other than flounce down on the bed for one or both of these indulgences. I admit to being delighted to find my reading self again as my non-reading self was still ardent about book reviews and used book buying.

I attribute renewed reading with finding the right long book to draw me in. On my last weekend of vacation, Betts took me to her 1790 Connecticut farmhouse share that she has been going to for 13 years or so. It is basically a communal house from May to October, not roughing it at all, but not really luxe. Having been several times over these years (I go every time I go to NY), I know all the housemates and am glad to have a visit with them.

View from the Farmhouse Terrace.

View from the Farmhouse Terrace.

Swimming pond near the farmhouse.

Sky and trees at pond.

Swimmer contemplates chill at pond.

The farmhouse had been recently painted and the current occupants had decided to get rid of most of the books that had been getting musty on the shelves for who-knows-how-long. Amongst them was Diane DiPrima's Recollections of My Life as A Woman: The New York Years. Having, in my youth, been interested in the Beat movement, and, as a rule, being interested in poets and poetry, I set to perusing it, only to finding myself thoroughly engaged. Engaged enough to get through 400 pages in a week. Engaged enough to read on the 'plane home. Engaged enough to mention to friends. Engaged enough to order some DiPrima books, not being familiar with her poetry nor her more famous Memoirs of A Beatnik. Engaged enough to power through the other book I picked from the pile, Lara Vapnyar's Memoirs of A Muse, which, while not amazing, compelling in just the right way to get me to read it. I imagine it was left there by a previous denizen, the writer Anya Ulinich. (Here's an article about DiPrima's Revolutionary Letters.)

And so I continue with reading, very much to my relief. I find myself flickering through things to watch on Hulu, Netflix, Amazon Prime, HBO, etc., but preferring to delve into Chernow's biography of Alexander Hamilton or a feminist take on Greek mythology. And this is all good.

In other news, when I returned from vacation, I called to see how many people had signed up for my next session of yoga teaching. That Friday, there were four. I duly wrote a class for the four regulars I expected. Instead, there were 15 people!! Most of whom I had never seen before. I had to shift gears and jettison the class I had prepared. When I had them settled into a savasana to start, they looked to me like Moonies on the tarmac, a photo that appeared in Rolling Stone a million years ago. (Could not find it on line.) I rose to the occasion, surprised that I could feel comfortable. And pretty damn excited.

So enough to get us re-started. Here's the one of the only diPrima poems I could find (readily) on-line. For your listening pleasure, I submit Billy Strings Away from the Mire.

The Window

BY DIANE DI PRIMA

you are my bread

and the hairline

noise

of my bones

you are almost

the sea

you are not stone

or molten sound

I think

you have no hands

this kind of bird flies backward

and this love

breaks on a windowpane

where no light talks

this is not time

for crossing tongues

(the sand here

never shifts)

I think

tomorrow

turned you with his toe

and you will

shine

and shine

unspent and underground