SOME SMALL COMFORT

Dreams aren’t supposed to break your hearts, are they? I’m not talking about conscious dreams, I’m speaking of sleeping dreams. I had this wonderful dream about getting an amazing job. It was some sort of card/paper goods/publishing company, probably somewhat akin to Chronicle Books. The job was both creative and managerial and had some interesting, “cutting edge” technology as well.

The job was very demanding. The interviewer was working on a calendar project that had to do with finding cool events and tidbits for every day, which doesn’t sound that amazing, but it looked great. I was able to offer up an off-the-cuff dialog quote from a tv show that impressed her.

The city we were in was New York, but it was a New York crossed with Venice, canals and beautiful stone or brick buildings, lots of fog. We went to a fabulous upscale, but “underground” restaurant (with a view of the canals, senza dubbio) and somehow my friend Jacqueline, with who I worked in Paris, was there. We had to walk through a strange, funky restaurant that was popular on Sex and the City, to get to this beautiful room with a view.

I was crushed and dismayed to find it had only been a dream.

Last night we put away the pets' food and water as Albert is having surgery today. Cooder drinks a lot of water, so I moved her water dish under the bed where Albert could not get to it. This morning, I came upstairs to see her sitting, patiently, if wearily, in the bathroom where her water dish is usually placed. In her mind, that's where the water is. End of story.

Oooh ... not feeling great today. I went to the grocery to get the rest of the items I needed to make Red Curry Carrot Soup and almost walked out the door without what I had just bought. I napped a lot. But I made the soup. And now I am going back to bed.

Albert had surgery today to remove a tumor in his mouth. So far, the prognosis is good and we are all thankful. The end of the tomatoes.

The end of the tomatoes.

“A life spent making mistakes is not only more honorable, but more useful than a life spent doing nothing.”

―George Bernard Shaw

I don't know, I think you can do both.

YEAH, YEAH, OH YEAH

Sunday

The wind is roaring this morning. I hope I don’t get a tree limb through a windshield. It’s nice to watch the bare tree tops sway against another Simpson’s opening background of blue and white. The wind was as loud as the ocean. I swear, both MMA and I remarked on that. 

Now on to Monday.

Listening to The Hill and Wood, wondering if they are as lovely and good as I think they are. The harmonies just intoxicate me.

Still Monday, but much later.

I only made it to the library around 4:30. It was a beautiful beautiful temperate autumn day and Albert was in the mood for a walk, so I took him to the Milltown Road reservoir. It was a perfect time of day for snapping pictures, but Albert wanted to move, so I didn't get as many as I would have liked. Here's a bunch.  I was experimenting with lenses and film on Hipstamatic. More text at the end. 

 I thought there were some worthwhile snaps in that bunch. I saved some for another day when it is harder to get pictures. Like when I am in Los Angeles.

It's not as cold at the library today but then again, it was warmer today. 

I am clearly not creating any kind of narrative or inner thought pattern here. And there isn't a lot to report. Still struggling, but the (shhhh and whisper it) dementors apparently have other victims to stalk in this very moment. I'm just making plans to head to California with Cooder for an extended stay with my mom. Emmylou will stay with her Aunt Melinda, Uncle John, and their new used cat, (currently named Shadow ... but I think they are going to change it). 

I'm kind of perky for it being 8:30 in the evening. As usual, I didn't get to some of my much needed work, but I didn't spend the day in bed, so that's always a good thing. I swear, I am in such a terrible and depressed mood when I wake up. And that's after the fun dreams I have like last night wherein I engaged in a long discussion about the benefits of Bitcoin. Ya. Bitcoin is not anything I would have expected to dream about. 

Tomorrow, MMA, AKA, and I are doing some deep cleaning in preparation for upcoming holiday festivities. Check out this version of Sharon Jones singing Just Dropped In to See What Condition My Condition Was In. Hard to believe that song was written by Mickey Newbury and recorded by Kenny Rogers. Pre-yacht rock. Okay, you can sing along. I need to get out of here. I had better take some sleeping aid as soon as I get in or I'll be up all night.

Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Was In)

start of lyrics (Yeah, yeah, oh-yeah, what condition my condition was in)

I woke up this mornin' with the sundown shinin' in

I found my mind in a brown paper bag within

I tripped on a cloud and fell-a eight miles high

I tore my mind on a jagged sky

I just dropped in to see what condition my condition was in

(Yeah, yeah, oh-yeah, what condition my condition was in)

I pushed my soul in a deep dark hole and then I followed it in

I watched myself crawlin' out as I was a-crawlin' in

I got up so tight I couldn't unwind

I saw so much I broke my mind

I just dropped in to see what condition my condition was in

(Yeah, yeah, oh-yeah, what condition my condition was in)

Someone painted "April Fool" in big black letters on a "Dead End" sign

I had my foot on the gas as I left the road and blew out my mind

Eight miles outta Memphis and I got no spare

Eight miles straight up downtown somewhere

I just dropped in to see what condition my condition was in

I said I just dropped in to see what condition my condition was in

Yeah yeah oh-yeah

FALLING ASLEEP INWARDLY

I need this mug (like I need a hole in the head, but I like it.)

A hopeful sign or two for Friday: Cooder ate the Greenies that yesterday she eschewed and I saw the cardinal! I was facing the stove, watching the water boil as one does when one is waiting for coffee, when a sliverblur of red was able to penetrate my daze. And there he sat, in the remaining green with a fanflash of autumnal gold behind him. He was the fall equivalent of The Birth of Venus, the shell being the gold leaves … kind of nifty.

Emmylou, on the other hand, was no where to be seen downstairs. For a moment, I panicked thinking she had managed to escape while others were sleepily heading into the day. She was, however, in the front room on Mouse Watch. Being the good kitty she is, she attended when I called her. 

It must have been yesterday when I saw another bird, sitting on the banister outside. In some strange confusion, I thought at first it was a cardinal, given its beauty and bearing. But it was a bright blue jay, strutting about the dying nasturtiums and morning glories. I think it was the brilliance of hue that caused a momentary confusion about what kind of bird it was. Then it flew at the window and up onto the roof.

Here at the Mahopac Library again, spending too much time listening to music. If you have some time check out The Hill and Wood and The Honeycutters. It's good to know that I haven't entirely lost my lust for music and that there is some great music being made ... which I suspected, of course, I am not that much of a fucking fogey. It took some digging around to come upon these ... now I am grooving along. 

Damn, it is cold in here. Huge windows next to a lake, I shouldn't be surprised. I'm going to have to move back to see if there are any empty carrels. 

Here's a version of the Richard Thompson Trio doing White Room. Carl would have been all over this. Sigh.

More from Seven Lives and One Great Love: Memoirs of a Cat

To make my meaning plain: They sit as we do, for hours and hours on end in the same spot, unmoving, unspeaking, undoing. They are thinking, they claim. I very much doubt it. I think that they eventually get abstracted from all the thinking and fall asleep inwardly, the way we do. I don't want you to misunderstand me, I count this in their favor. Doing nothing is, in all seriousness, one of the hardest things in the world. Plato and Aristotle even pointed out to their students that the principle of non action is one of the most spiritual in the world.

They are loners and misanthropes. They want their peace and quiet and so do we. They keep you at a distance and they come to you only when they choose. We aren't accountable to anyone as a matter of course. 

Here's another treat, Bonnie Raitt with Lowell George doing Blind Faith ... Lowell George was another damn Aries. Should have known (faves Richard Thompson, Aretha Franklin, and Emmylou are all Aries, too). Listening to Willin' now. That makes me sad as it was a song some of us Mexico buddies used to sing, Pammie in particular. Linda sounds good for a change.

It's still cold although I moved. Now I might be sitting under a vent. Arrggh ...

As to yesterday's post about hurry sickness, that is one of the themes in Sean Wilsey's book of essays, More Curious. I have been looking for a quote but without much success. Here's two though

Lies tell the truths we can't. As a society our central lie is velocity. That we can keep all this up.

To better understand the comedy and poverty of the United States, I decided to cross them very slowly.

This time of year is challenging for me in that I never make the transition to coats and boots easily. Inasmuch as I prefer cooler weather, I don't much like wearing lots of clothes, so there's a conundrum for you (and me). AKA mentioned that it is cold today, but that didn't encourage me to get more layers and now I am paying the freezing-at-the-library price.

NEVER BEING ANYWHERE

“hurry sickness” – always going somewhere, never being anywhere. High-stress, high- velocity living with constant deadlines, fast-food, power naps, and speed dating makes it difficult to pause and savor the passing moments of our lives. The result is “burnout.” 

I am surprised to be subject to this modern ailment. One would surmise, given my lack of a full-time job, that I would, at least, be free of feeling constantly pressed, but such is not the case. I am always worried, always have an unfinished list of things to do. Not having a home means always moving stuff around, unless, of course, one is reasonable enough to just chuck everything.

Moving in a tangential direction …

I mentioned a post or two ago, that a dear friend from the past had resurfaced. We’ve been sending one another email, catching up. Her eloquence is refreshing. She raised two children on her own and responded to a question about whether she had had time to pursue her own interests she wrote:

It doesn't help that I'm doing it by myself; I think I had a romantic and misguided notion that all of my local friends would band together to form a ragtag family and support system, which is what did happen for a few years.

It’s the “romantic and misguided” phrase that most struck me as romantic and misguided often feel like my most noticeable qualities (faults is the word I really feel, but I am trying to be positive). Romantic, misguided, and regretful … and trying to not be too passive in the face of that failure weight. Here's where non-romanticism would help: it wouldn’t bother me so much if not for the patina of nostalgia and "what could have been."

That romance and misguidedness still obtains. I have yet to face the reality music to get rid of my cookbooks, my CDs, my vintage linens, my Parisian artifacts and all the things I have collected and love(d). There's still that fantasy that I will regain my independence, my livelihood, and my own place. You know, the Virginia Woolf trope, a room of my own ...

My long-lost friend's email was so lovely I keep reviewing it. So resonant and so interesting to see how our paths have differed yet we have some of the same issues now.

Meanwhile, I need to get back to planning my next move and then a couple of steps beyond that. The view over the lake is spectacular today with storm clouds that look like the opening of The Simpsons. The sun shines below them, illuminating the remnants of fall color on the far shore of the lake. I’m listening to my grand-niece’s radio show, although it gets too raucous from time to time and I turn down the sound. I need to be able to think and write and The White Stripes don't cut it for contemplation.

"When hurry becomes a chronic condition, when we run even when there is no reason to, when we rush while performing even the most mundane tasks, it may be said that we have become addicted to hurry. This need for speed can diminish the quality of our lives and put a negative spin on patience, discernment, depth, joy, and dialogue. What lies behind this worship of the fast life?”

Here's a Halloween treat. And a great cartoon from sunday: