COVERED SPACE OVER

Many things are odd in life, this you might have noticed along the way. An oddity for me is hearing my mother remark how odd it is that she won't exist much longer. Not only am I not sure what to feel about this, I am not even sure how to think about it, from her perspective, or come up with any response. Yes, there have been many times when I wished to cease to exist, but those feelings were generated from pain, disappointment, humiliation, and shame. But thinking of the world without you in it. That is a different thing.

Mom is not degenerating very rapidly, mostly. I suppose it would be better to say that she is holding her own for the most part. She has good and better and even fine days, but other than being unbearably annoying to me, she is okay. Her lung CT came back clean, and if she is faithful or even observant about taking her inhaler, she doesn't cough. The gym wears her down, but also energizes and focusses her. And when I drag her from the dominoes table to drive her over there, she is generally thoroughly cheerful and nearly enthusiastic.

Anyway, that was something that I have been meaning to mention. Now, I am going to bed.

March 16

This morning carries a chill so I am half under the covers, waiting for my second espresso pot to produce more coffee. Truth be told, I would probably be here anyway as I herd and harass Mom to get dressed for the senior center. She refuses to accept that it takes her a minimum of 90 minutes to prepare to leave the house. She was never quick to do anything, and ancient-ality has increased this tendency.

Windowboxes are nice. I have red dianthus and yellow and red marigolds in these boxes, and the red dahlia may well bloom again. So far this year, I don't think I have killed any recently purchased plants, although I did buy a half-price, drooping anemone that I will probably lose. One of the marauder cats found poor Butterscotch sleeping in the window last night and attacked her through the glass. That's how that window was broken last year. Still haven't looked in to replacing it.

Meanwhile, I should get dressed, get that second cup of joe, and get on to other issues.

Other issues and an outing later. About to run out to the gym. Had a landmark chat with my dearest Melinda for which one can be thoughtful and grateful.

In California, when it is overcast, one wants to curl into oneself. It's not all cold, but it feels so uninviting. I want to lose myself in books or more TV other than the writing I should be doing. But, I am going to muster myself to the gym and finish this later. Just know that in my head, I am curled up under the covers listening to either the end of Marlena or the first part of Speak No Evil.

Irritation is a cat mewling nonstop for no reason while she walks around, bird bell clattering, and the next-door dog, Kayla, in her endless endless barking.

Don't look too closely at this picture of the garden after the rain. Lots of weeds, and dirt spots.

On to Sunday.

I need to get my clock reset to getting to bed earlier. I am on a 1 to 9 schedule and that makes a lazy morning become the entire day. Of course, many such days have been spent being hungover and at least that isn't the case. I was oddly productive yesterday. I did a wee bit of gardening, scored at the thrift store while managing to put some treasures back, made soup, did three loads of laundry, and washed the kitchen floor, as well as finishing two books (one I pretty much read or listened to) and cleaning my closet some. That was pretty busy for me.

"How do people do it, I used to wonder. Well, I learned. That sort of secret feels like an illness, the way the world slows to a crawl as though for your inspection. So much clarity and consequence—it was like enlightenment, it was like being in the truth, which is a funny thing to say about deceit."

— Molly McCloskey, Straying

That's a good opening paragraph. Maybe not "Call me Ishmael." but intriguing enough.

A strange collection of music in my head: Al Green, Let's Stay Together, Ralph McTell's From Clare to Here, (Nancy Griffith does a nice job, too) and the Emenee toy theme.

Janet has gone back to bed, I am pretty sure. I will check when I get up to make my third cup of coffee and check the chicken soup on the stove. It smells very rich, and although it is lunch time, I still want my breakfast. (Yep, she's asleep while the talking heads yap away on the tv in the front room.)

There are few things more pleasurable than waking up in a warm, soft bed with a tabby curled and purring at your shoulder. At least until the big bossy Siamese decides she needs to whack the tabby. Vera and Oona really have it out for Scotch. Oona is jealous of her being with me. Vera Paris is just tough.

Whatever else I was planning on has been forgotten, so I should get to a poem and get to my tasks. The day is getting colder which makes climbing under the covers to watch Collateral on Netflix so much more tempting.

In more exciting news, picking up the new (used) washer and dryer on Tuesday. It will be awhile before I get them installed, as I have to clean up the garage, but hopefully this will be impetus.

LEAVING SPACES

It take a courageous
person to leave spaces
empty. Certainly any
artist in the Middle Ages
felt this timor, and quickly
covered space over
with griffins, sea serpents,
herbs, and brilliant carpets
of flowers—things pleasant
or unpleasant, no matter.
Of course they were cowards
and patronized by cowards
who liked their swards as
filled with birds as leaves.
All of them believed in
sudden edges and completely
barren patches in the mind,
and they didn't want to
think about them all the time.

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

FROM CLARE TO HERE

Ralph McTell

There's four who share this room as we work hard for the crack
And sleeping late on Sundays I never get to Mass

It's a long way from Clare to here
It's a long way from Clare to here
It's a long, long way, it grows further by the day
It's a long way from Clare to here

When Friday comes around Terry's only into fighting
My ma would like a letter home but I'm too tired for writing

It almost breaks my heart when I think of Josephine
I told her I'd be coming home with my pockets full of green

It almost breaks my heart when I think of Josephine
I told her I'd be coming home with my pockets full of green

And the only time I feel alright is when I'm into drinking
It sort of eases the pain of it and levels out my thinking

It almost breaks my heart when I think of Josephine
I told her I'd be coming home with my pockets full of green

I sometimes hear a fiddle play or maybe it's a notion
I dream I see white horses dance upon that other ocean

It almost breaks my heart when I think of Josephine
I told her I'd be coming home with my pockets full of green

It's a long, long way from Clare to here.

TANGLE UP AND FLOAT

A rainy day check out with The Wire. How nice to do my own version of mouth breathing for a day. Little thought going on. I even tried some knitting which I had to tear out and will now have to start over. My hands are a bit sore. Could this be arthritis? I sure hope not.

G. Love and Special Sauce were excellent. I wasn't overly familiar with their oeuvre, so it took me some time to get all the way into it. And the Troubadour has changed quite a bit since I was last there ... forty years ago (maybe only 35). I think Maria Muldaur was the last show I saw there. They have taken out the tables and it is all standing room now. At any rate, an excellent pizza dinner and delicious green salad freshly picked from my yard. And cocktails. Not a lot of them, but in my healthier condition, I felt a bit slow today. Oh, the pleasures of sobriety. I am coming back to you.

Thursday, Ides of March.

Sally Anne has been out of the writing pocket. Damnation.

Little bits of progress, and more reading. I think the reading has been taking up my spare thought cycles. And then there is The Wire. Almost through the second season. I finished Americanah.

This entire week, there has been a cloud show every day. Often with a cloud show, there is a nice sunset as well. Given the recent switch to daylight saving time, I have been in the garden around dusk to see it.

The weeds and the poppies are so happy with all the rain showers. They are going crazy. Hopefully, I will get caught up with a couple of things tomorrow and be able to do a bit more straightening up of the the backyard and weeding. I did get most, not all, of the bulbs planted and the first crop is, well, cropping up. Much to my amazement, a rose bush I thought I had killed is coming back to life. The Meyer lemon and the lime are rife with new buds. I finally installed the hummingbird feeder, up high so that I could watch from my desk window, but the cats have no chance of getting anywhere near them.

A purple freesia, the first of the year that I planted last year, is budding nicely. I put in a bunch of bulbs last year, but do not, of course, remember what all of them were. I see some gladiola shoots, more tulips, some narcissus, and not sure what the rest might be. The cats dig around and dislocate the bulbs if they are not planted deeply.  One of my Mexican sunflower seeds has a shoot. The butter or whatever kind of lettuce, is volunteering in various parts of the yard as is one tomato, and one tomatillo, which already has flowers.

And more artichokes.

EXTRAORDINARY LENGTHS

The only justification
for extraordinary lengths
is extraordinary distances.
Yet you don't find this
in the majority of instances.
No, rather you see lengths
swagger from balconies,
ribbons of lengths rippling
languidly, lengths spooling
from enchanted cavities and
grots. Actually there is
hardly a spot of sky or pool
of water uncolored by some
extraordinary length or other.
Brothers fling bolts of gossamer
off buildings with spectacular
results. Bird negotiate an
aerial spaghetti, sure-footed
goats find themselves unsteady.
Poor people in brightly
lacquered boats just help
themselves to lengths
that tangle up and float
as pleasantly as kelp.

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

IT ISN'T EVER DELICATE

Yes, another poor decision. Even though I have to get up early to get to Carole's Memorial Mass, I decided I had to make another quiche tonight. Now it is 11:00, I am sleepy, but the quiche is baking. I could go to sleep right now. I suppose I should get to my tooth ablutions; sometimes I wait until I am hysterically, desperately sleepy and I curtail the appropriate dental care.

Scotch is enjoying sitting and sleeping in the window lately. It seems too cold to me.

On the good news side, my reading groove has returned. There are times when I can't concentrate or the reading is sluggish. I am deep into Americanah, a re-read of The Handmaid's Tale, and Brotopia: Breaking Up the Boys' Club of Silicon Valley. I won't finish that last one as it is due in two days and I am only halfway through. I started listening to Grown-Up Anger: The Connected Mysteries of Bob Dylan, Woody Guthrie, and The Calumet Massacre of 1913. This one is a good nap and bed time listen.

Okay then. Off to dental hygiene. And look! The artichokes cometh.

Well, we drove down to the Mass but missed it all. We did see one niece and had a nice visit. Plus, if I can find a truck and some moving help within the next 9 days, we can replace our washer and dryer! Whee!!

Janet almost cancelled going at all, but I was able to get her out of the house. Oh well, we did try some. This niece, A, looks pretty well for all the stresses of the past few months, plus moving to be in Sandy, Utah with her peeps next week. I think this will be good for her. I had to give her some tips about adjusting to living with snow.

Wednesday.

Janet and I are listening to Katy Tur's memoir, Unbelievable: My Front Row Seat to the Craziest Campaign in American History as an audiobook in the car. I mention it because I think it it making me anxious to relive the horror of the campaign as well as our every day life.

(Stacked cats.)

Friday friday friday. Going to The Troubadour tonight to see G. Love and Special Sauce if I can remember how I bought the ticket. Up and down week, but I did make some progress on some odious tasks, so am feeling a bit better.  I lost an ATM card last week and I think that's how I bought it. Plus, the roses are blooming and the azalea is blooming for the first time since I planted it two years ago! I also have more of a gardening plan (move two rose bushes in the front elsewhere, and move the beautiful lemon grass plants all to the front yard).

SPIDERWEB

From other
angles the
fibers look
fragile, but
not from the
spider's; always
hauling coarse
ropes, hitching
lines to the
best posts
possible. It's
heavy work
everyplace,
fighting sag,
winching up
give. It
isn't ever
delicate
to live.

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

(Yes, they need food. I didn't feed them at all last year.)

SO MUCH WE DON'T CONTROL

I did try. I found the seeds I bought for this year, read the directions on several packets, then realized I am not ready, really, for the most part to plant much. I did start a small tray of Mexican Sunflowers from seed. Supposedly, they look like this. I have never had much luck with them. I also cleared out a patch for some bulbs (can't remember what), if the cats don't find it a perfect place for pooping. I am suspicious as Oona was out there, already helping me.



"They say the darkest hour is right before the dawn..."

I finally improved my life a little bit by purchasing an inexpensive bluetooth speaker. Now, I can listen to some of my music when I am in my room. I am a bit limited to what is on my iPhone, but still. I took the speaker into the bathroom with me and as soon as Antonio Carlos Jobim floated out of the speaker as I steeped into the steamy tub, I felt luxury. More music. That's what I need. Now I am sitting all warm listening to Blood On The Tracks, perfect for a rainy night.

A rainy morning here. I had one hell of an anxiety dream/nightmare. I was in a hurry, trying to get some falafels and such to my friend, Jason Rosen, who was in a stressful situation (trying to escape something), but staying at Martha and Jay's in Brewster. I was driving a truly hot car that I was considering returning to the dealership as I wasn't sure I could properly drive it. I couldn't properly coordinate the clutch and the accelerator. But the weird part was all the stuff in the car that somehow kept getting in my way and tangling me up, like a big black wool sweater. I wasn't sure how it was confusing my feet, but it was.

My takeaway was that this was a dream about having so much stuff that I cannot move forward fast enough nor operate my life properly. But who knows. And nary a one of you had better throw this back at me.

Meanwhile, my mom just sauntered down the hall, drawling, "Sally, did you know that Jesus died?" Normally, this is the kind of question that moves me along the postal scale, but her delivery was so relaxed and fey that I didn't have my usual negative reaction. Evidently, some Christians were working the Easter angle and wanted to make sure we were informed.

Black-Throated Wind has been floating through my brain this morning. (Lyrics at very end.)

My jeans are all in the wash, or rather now, the dryer, so it's okay that I am still in my nightgown at the advanced hour of nearly one, right? Cartoon County: My Father and His Friends in the Golden Age of Make-Believe is due at the library today with no more renewals, so needs must be finished. Highly recommended for any one who loves comics, comic strips, the lure of 20th century suburban Connecticut, and John Updike.

Monday.

Tomorrow is mass for my sister. If Janet and I can get it together, we are going. Getting anywhere on time is almost always an issue with us. But you knew that.

I am very disappointed that my friends Max Porter and Ru Kuwahata did not win an Academy Award for best animated short.

The being tipsy or drunk part, I don't really miss in these days of mostly not-drinking. The ritual, the activity, the stimulation of taste, those things I do think about in the evenings. At this point in the year, the evenings seem quite long. That will change this weekend when daylight savings' time returns.

SHIFT

Words have loyalties
to so much
we don't control.
Each word we write
rights itself
according to poles
we can't see; think of
magnetic compulsion
or an equal stringency
It's hard for us
to imagine how small
a part we play in
holding up the tall
spires we believe
our minds erect.
Then North shifts,
buildings shear,
and we suspect.

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



































Perhaps the gardening will improve with a later dusk. I do have quite a few bulbs to try out. The cats certainly enjoy humans hanging with them in the back yard. They rush to throw themselves on their backs, squirming around in welcome.

BLACK THROATED WIND
lyrics by John Barlow

Bringing me down
I'm running aground
Blind in the light of the interstate cars
Passing me by
The buses and semis
Plunging like stones from a slingshot on Mars

But I'm here by the road
Bound to the load
That I picked up in ten thousand cafes and bars
Alone with the rush of the drivers who won't pick me up
The highway, the moon, the clouds, and the stars

The black-throated wind keeps on pouring in
With its words of a life where nothing is new
Ah, Mother American Night, I'm lost from the light
Oh, I'm drowning in you

I left St. Louis, the City of Blues
In the midst of a storm I'd rather forget
I tried to pretend it came to an end
'Cause you weren't the woman I thought I once met

But I can't deny that times have gone by
When I never had doubts or thoughts of regret
And I was a man when all this began
Who wouldn't think twice about being there yet

The black-throated wind keeps on pouring in
And it speaks of a life that passes like dew
It's forced me to see that you've done better by me
Better by me than I've done by you

What's to be found, racing around
You carry your pain wherever you go
Full of the blues and trying to lose
You ain't gonna learn what you don't want to know

So I give you my eyes, and all of their lies
Please help them to learn as well as to see
Capture a glance and make it a dance
Of looking at you looking at me

The black-throated wind keeps on pouring in
With its words of a lie that could almost be true
Ah, Mother American Night, here comes the light
I'm turning around, that's what I'm gonna do

Goin' back home that's what I'm gonna do

Turnin' around
That's what I'm gonna do

'Cause you've done better by me
Than I've done by you

AS ONE REITERATES ONESELF

A morning spent bickering with the Janet can really set off a spiral of frustrated depression. I have so much to do and the heart and spirit go out of me after wrangling with her. I know I should just let it go. I should be of good cheer. I should. I should. I should get something done.

Meanwhile, the cats are circling me like hungry sharks. I don't think it is hunger that causes their perambulations. I am sitting at the desk overlooking the garden. A human to harass is too much for them to ignore. But the desk is really narrow. And there are papers every where. Getting access to me is not easy.

The next day wherein it is rainy rather than just cold (for California).

I am feeling a bit Verlaine-esque ("it rains in my heart/as it rains in the village"). All week I have felt on the cusp of tears, exhaustion, and sadness. Apprehensive. Unsettled. Except in the morning, when I am all warm under the covers with Scotch wicking heat off of me, somewhere nearby. The rain will be getting worse tonight. I am sure the nasturtiums and poppies are quite ready to go off once the sun returns. Hopefully, some of my bulbs will be similarly inspired.

The garden is coming along, albeit slowly. I am trying to train myself, yes, even at this late date, to be a bit more methodical and reign in my gardening (and other) aspirations. That said, I did order some special poppy and lavender seeds. The lavender is allegedly better for cutting than the French and English varieties I now have. I splurged (after all it is my birthday month!) and bought myself some elbow-length rose pruning gloves so that I might contain the many brambly plants in my custody: 4 bougainvillea, boysenberry vines, and roses, including a Happy Chappy that is taking over the front bed.

I am tempted to better dress myself to go out and prep some seeds to enjoy this rain and get a proper Spring start.

GALAPAGO

As one reiterates
oneself day after day,
it's not uncommon
to see non dominant
traits diminish
and self stray
toward the cartoonish.
As though the self were
a straightening Galapago
where not everything was
going to stay affordable.
Say a stylized struggle
were currently under way
among the finches
whereby the few brighten
while the species vanishes.

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

DUST DEVELOPS

Greetings from Joshua Tree. My pals K&M have three nights in a B&B, so I moseyed over here from Palm Springs for a night or two.

Mom seems to be doing quite well without me. Her Senior Center friends are calling her, picking her up, and keeping her involved. I made her a quiche and left her with food to last her a bit. I was a bit reluctant to leave in some ways, never really knowing what her state will be, but I think once she gets used to it, it is good for her.

I haven't been sleeping very well, so I am glad to be sitting back on a bed, being by myself for awhile, chillaxin' as they say. I can look at my thrift store purchases for the day. I bought more books than I need, as I need no more, but I kept the tchotchke and furniture purchases at null. I hope my plants are doing okay without water.

Back in the Springs, of Santa Fe style. Thought of this song this morning, When I Get It Right, only because the coffee came together.

Cousin Dan is on his way for a cousin fest, so I suppose I should do some house cleaning or something.

Cousin fest is over and there is little on the "event horizon" for a bit.  (Just FYI, this is a misuse of the phrase, but I liked it.) Perhaps I can make some progress with those many things I need to do.

Feeling sad again today, although I know that I mentioned that to a friend earlier this week. Today it is more pervasive ... or it is pernicious? Pernicious sadness? Now I want to figure out a scale or spectrum that grades from before pervasive to after pernicious. Which I think is dying of grief. I will bet in some languages there is a word for dying of grief, but I can't quite figure out how to search for it.

Anyway, sadness is unlikely to be the cause of my demise at this moment, anyway. There was some good news on the Mom lung front. Although the report was not easy to decipher nor was much if any help offered when I called the nurse, she is apparently okay. Relief and applause. I had rather assumed this when the inhaler helped her cough go away, but I neither wanted to jump the gun nor jinx it. So, we count this as a blessing.

Even though Janet has sorely tested my patience these last days. We took a drive with Cousin Dan, up to Angeles Crest Highway and down Big Tujunga Canyon into that area. Being in the car with her for  that many hours did not bring out the best in our relating. Rather not belabor it for the nonce, but move along.

Dast I go for a third double espresso? I think so. After a week of being off of my health and non-drinking regime, it is time to settle back into the better regime. But coffee is okay.

POLISH AND BALM

Dust develops
from inside
as well as
on top when
objects stop
being used.
No unguent
can soothe
the chap of
abandonment.
Who knew
the polish
and balm in
a person's
simple passage
among her things.
We knew she
loved them
but not what
love means.

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

SO HARD TO HIDE LATER

Still have a bit of The Bird Song floating around my head. All I know she sang a little while and then flew on. 

The week has a left me with residual sadness and ... some kind of weltzschmerz. Another terrorist attack on innocent young people by a crazed white male. 

My nieces are moving along with their lives. We are sad about Carole, but she was so unhappy. I do feel her loss, out there on the edges of my familial consciousness. 

I took a break from this to plant the damned lilac vine! I also started clean-up on the front flower bed. My azalea struggles along, so perhaps I might afford it more attention this year. Next up, the wisteria, but that means pulling out a bunch of tomatoes and more digging.

(Will post more as it grows.)

Before I jumped into Joni at the end of the last post, I found this Kay Ryan poem, but Joni won out with that line ... out of touch with the breakdown of this century. She wrote that in the last third of the last century. It certainly feels like this one is not going any place any good.

WE'RE BUILDING THE SHIP AS WE SAIL IT

The first fear
being drowning, the
ship's first shape
was a raft, which
was hard to unflatten
after that didn't 
happen. It's awkward
to have to do one's
planning in extremis
in the early years—
so hard to hide later:
sleekening the hull,
making things
more gracious.

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

Oona feels it is necessary to supervise my reading.

The next morning. 

Sitting here in bed with my coffee and ... lethargy, sadness, sorrow, overwhelmedness ... in French that is submerge and in Catalan it is aclaparat. Now that is damned good word. In Dutch, it's overweldigd which is also pretty great. 

Now, even that small discursion ... evidently discursion is rare — I suppose digression is the more common — cheered me some.

I know what some of this is. I don't like getting ready to go anywhere. I don't even like the going, only the being there. This is just like I am with books: I don't like to start nor finish them, I only like to be reading them. And wow, that just gobsmacked me with all my unbegun (should that be unstarted?) projects. I am a prisoner of inactivity, intentions, and possibilities.

Be that as it may, two friends of mine had big news they wanted to share with me. They are moving from Marin County to Kentucky, just outside of Cincinnati. This encouraged me. I see so few possibilities for life after mom, for hope, for breaking the bonds of this heavy heavy heart. That these friends are uprooting and starting over at this point in their lives just gave me joy and hope. Their courage, their optimism, their fortitude gave me something, even for a time, that I don't get too much: happiness.

They are
sleekening the hull,
making things

more gracious.

And, with I will bid you good-day and see if I can't get those chores done and get to Palm Springs. The limes are coming!

The limes are coming!