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

WHENEVER WE LIFT THE VEIL

14 of 100

March 24th

Idrisse is outside my window taking a cement squirm and trying to catch bugs. There is no doubt that this is the kitties favorite time of year. They particularly like the evening when the bugs come out, as well as the coyotes. Very difficult to get them in. 

I am feeling a bit better today. Taking it easy and getting to sleep on the early side has helped. 

Saying that the Senate Judiciary Committee hearings on Ketanji Brown Jackson are a shitshow is a shallow observation, but that is what comes to mind. What should not amaze me yet continually does is the shocking lack of integrity and thought (ooo, the breeze came up and brought that beautiful scent of citrus blossoms) on the part of the Republicans. The clarity of knowledge that the majority of Congressional Republicans are only interested in power and retaining it should not be ever surprising. Continually soul-sucking good will into dismay.

(Gosh, I am on an unknown quest to write complicated sentences today?)

April 6th

Yes, time does go by.

Amazing how I can have a thought in the kitchen and have forgotten it by the time I sit to write.

Many hours later.

There were storms here while I was in Palm Springs last week. My pomegranate tree had fallen over. My yardman came over yesterday and righted it, securing it so that it is unlikely to fall over again. I had some other work done, so I walked around the backyard checking it out at my leisure (yesterday I was frantically writing my yoga class while they were working and distracting me). There are many blooms on the tree already. Last year, I got three or four pomegranates, this year it seems to be producing much more.

I can see McCoy out in back, trying to chase down a bird or a butterfly without success. The backyard is a crazy jungle.

Despite my mother's constant assertion that there are no birds anymore, they are quite noisy in my backyard. I do hope they are enjoying the greenery as much as the bees, who are in abundance in my yard. Lot of food for butterflies, bees, and hummingbirds. 

It is getting up to 95 this week. That will be good for drying clothes as we still don't have a dryer. I took Janet for a walk around 11:00 and the heat was uncomfortable for her at that hour. I guess I will have to wake up earlier to get her out. She's pretty tired when she gets home from dominoes, so it could be hard to motivate her then. However, we knew the heat was coming.

The flies are back. Damn.

When you get back from sitting in a public place for a long time only to find your clean t-shirt has an oil stain right about where your nipple is. Great feeling.

7 April

I should be writing my class for tonight. It is another hot one here, 93 now and expected to get up to 97 in the next two hours. It is raining in New York. I have to keep my trees from drying out. I am pleased to report that my Japanese maple, which I thought I had killed, is coming back. I believe I already told you that the forsythia, the black tulip magnolia, and the fig were all doing well.

Quite often on a day during which I am writing my yoga class, Fox will try to sleep on my small desk, which I need for my reference book. Since my friend Debee, in an act of amazing kindness, took it upon herself to take most of the odds and ends and half-empty boxes all over my studio floor and pile them in a corner, I can actually lay out my mat and try things on as I work through them. That sentence did not go as planned. Fox can lay on the floor was my point. Not as good as sleeping on my desk and creeping limbs onto my keyboard, but something.

I remarked on FB that had I a gun, I would like fire it into the air in celebration of Justice Jackson!! Best news any one has had for an age. Now, if we could only get Thomas replaced we would be getting somewhere. He can, at least, be close enough so that when I get up to go into the kitchen, he can quickly try to trip me. It's a good thing Janet doesn't move around quickly nor terribly often nor without her cane as he can be hazardous. His nefarious behavior is mostly centered on me.

I ran across an Emmylou (it hurt to write that name as I so miss my Emmylou) Harris compilation. Her version of the Loretta Lynn hit, Blue Kentucky Girl, has been my earworm. Could be worse.

IT IS ALMOST UNBEARABLE

that people are so different from us

whenever we lift the veil

on which lilacs are shifting

and their eyes are still there

among the gyrations and flattened

slantings of their spirits, as if

spiraling upwards through time

until they hit us and our cups

runneth over, though clear

is the liquid and bitter its taste

to our narrow tongues. And

we rejoice only for a moment

and joke for the eternity in which

we know we will never dart about

happily, for the view we lift is

our own skin, a tarp in the wind.

— Ron Padgett, How to Be Perfect, Coffee House Press, Minneapolis, 2007

SMELL SOME COFFEE

 13 of 100

March 23

We were hoping it was just allergies, but I have a cold. 

Janet has a blood test appointment in a few minutes. She can't drink or eat anything right now. She generally doesn't like to get out of bed if she can't smell some coffee. I can relate. When I lived in Brewster, it was the smell of Martha's first cup wafting up the stairs that got me moving. 

My songs this morning toggled between Sweet Soul Music (Arthur Conley), Caravan (Van Morrison) and What A Little Moonlight Can Do (can't tell what the version is in my head but Nancy Wilson will do fine).

Vera is crouched next to me on the small footstool, probably waiting for me to feed her some more. 

I heard myself "ummming" quite a bit in class last night. Then again, sometimes I think I am fortunate that I can put any thoughts together. Writing is much easier than thinking on your feet.

Later

Today would have been a fine day to make some inroads into the many paths of activity that are my constant. However, once I got back from taking Janet to her appointment and then to today's dominoes location, I couldn't really do much save for eat lunch and try to rest. It's only 9:00 now, but I am feeling a bit feverish, just slightly hot, and if I want to beat this cold, I should just brush my teeth and get into bed.

I have been listening to Madam: The Biography of Polly Adler, Icon of the Jazz Age. Children, I am here to tell you that it is a very long book. Debby Applegate, the author, does such a stellar job of being thorough and interesting, that one finds oneself not thinking about the actual lives lived here, the working girls, the corruption all around, the disgustingness of degradation and men paying for and getting what they want without much to answer for. I am only halfway through at 8 hours. 

At any rate, to bed with my slightly feverish self. Hopefully, I will feel better in the morning and not have to cancel my class.

TELEPHONE CALL AND MAKING BREAKFAST

12 of 100

22 March 2020

As you will see, I started this post back in January and couldn't really get it finished. Nonetheless, it stays relevant (as if any of this is relevant) so a real time me will join you again subsequently.

January 20, 11:50pm

Recently, the question "What do I think I am doing?" has been on mental rotation. I am not sure I asked myself that at more appropriate moments or phases in my life when I could have maybe turned the tide towards a more successful and secure life path. Still, it does obtain as I move through the days of caregiving and unburdening myself of a life's worth of gathering burdens. I will return to this question as we all proceed.

"Did his soul change every time it achieved a new insight? The very definition of a soul was immutability. Perhaps the root of his confusion was the conflation of soul and knowledge. Perhaps the soul was one of those tools built to do exactly one specific task, to know that I am I, and was mutable with respect to all other forms of knowledge?"

— Jonathan Franzen, Crossroads, Farrar, Strauss, and Giraud, New York, 2021

"Today, urbanites must feverishly maximize their economic potential just to maintain a small flat in Hoboken, Somerville, Hackney, Korea Town or Belleville. The economy of the sixties cut us a lot of slack, leaving time to travel, take drugs, write songs and rethink the universe. There was a feeling that nothing was nailed down, that an assumption held was one worth challenging. The meek regularly took on the mighty and often won — or at least drew. Debt-free students with time on their hands forced the Pentagon to stop using drafted American kids as cannon fodder and altered the political landscape of France.

The tightening of fiscal screws that began with the 1973 oil crisis may not have been a conspiracy to rein in this dangerous laxness, but it has certainly worked out to the advantage of the powerful. Ever since, prices have ratcheted upward in relation to hours worked and the results of this squeeze can be seen everywhere. Protesters today seem like peasants outside the castle gates compared to the fiercely determined and unified crowds I joined in the sixties. Our confidence grew out of a feeling that large sections of the population — and the media — were with us and from what we saw as the inexorable power of our music and our convictions. In our glorious optimism, we believed that 'when the mode of music changes, the walls of the city shakes.'. And we achieved a great deal before the authorities figured out how to capitalized on our self-destructiveness. Right-wing commentators still spit with anger when they contemplate how fundamentally the sixties altered society. The environmental and human rights movements and the theoretical equality of the races and sexes are only the tip of a huge iceberg. Ideals that remain our source of hope for the future took root in the sixties."

— Joe Boyd, White Bicycles: Making Music in the Sixties, Serpent's Tail Press, London, 2006

14 February

Finding the mental and physical space for writing has been a bit of a challenge these last weeks. The mood has been up and down, but not terrible for any length of time. The longer days and beautiful, warm weather help quite a bit. My insomnia has abated so I am waking up at an earlier time, even if I do just stay in bed to listen to an audiobook and Nina's purring by my head.

And now we return to our regularly scheduled musings and meanderings. DId. you know that there is a Meander River? One in Alberta, Canada, too.

Lordy. I have the Carpenter's version of Superstar floating around in my head. 

This was the first comment: 

Karen was the best of all time. Pure vocal talent. No auto tune, no stage show or dancers needed to make a show. She reaches inside you and grabs your heart ❤. We need the 70s again !

As if. Vietnam! Nixon! Bad haircuts! Cocaine culture which still haunts us to this day! And worst of all, the groundwork for Reagan. (That said, the early to mid-70s had great music. Best era for the Grateful Dead.)

The butterflies are feeding on the Meyer lemon blossoms. McCoy is bug hunting.

This is a far superior version of Superstar. Leon Russell, Eric Clapton, Bonnie Bramlett. And for those of you who want to waste more time, here's an article about the song.

Wherever my train of thought was going, it has been utterly derailed by a telephone call and making breakfast. I will to my writing of my yoga class and leave you to ponder.

And just for the record, I thought Crossroads was a piece of garbage. I found it so infuriating and will never pick up another Franzen book unless I am stuck on a desert isle or an emergency room.

THIS FOR THAT

What will I have for breakfast?

I wish I had some plums

like the ones in Williams's poem.

He apologized to his wife

for eating them

but what he did not

do was apologize to those

who would read his poem

and also not be able to eat them.

This is why I like his poem

when I am not hungry.

Right now I do not like him

or his poem. This is just

to say that.

— Ron Padgett, How to Be Perfect, Coffee House Press, Minneapolis, 2007

ALARM FOR CHANGE

11 of 100

I set my alarm for a change, giving myself some sleeping in and cuddling Nina time. As I might have remarked on before, it is rather amazing what you can get done if you start a bit earlier. I managed to get Janet showered (she does that on her own really), fed, dressed, and our usual walk taken and still get her to play dominoes somewhere near the appointed time. I was in a hurry to get over to Christina's so that I could finish my shift dress to wear to Palm Springs this weekend. I also managed to pull weeds and do some watering.

Tomorrow is my second-to-last yoga class for this session. I like to have an idea of where I might be going before I sit down to work on my class, but so far, I haven't come up with much. This is where I miss my studio terrifically. Were I still taking several classes a week, I am sure I would be bursting with ideas and new tips from other teachers. 

A couple of weeks ago I mentioned to Cindy, my training instructor, that I sometimes doubt myself when there are pupils are are not following my instructions. Cindy replied that I should just do me and if students didn't like it, they could leave. This was great advice and has also pulled me down the rabbit-hole of what is "doing me" ... This is not a bad thing, but not something that can be answered quickly. And given that I am historically loathe to even be "seen," brings up a number of worthwhile issues. For instance, how much bliss-ninnyism or poetry do I want to share? How much and what do I believe or experience? If I were being all me, I'd probably ask them to pray for Ukraine every practice. I know I don't need to rush this, yet it does creep across the mental activity laundry list.

Writing about Ukraine is still beyond me. My dear friends Eric and Kate have been visiting Ukraine for years, documenting the stem cell research and therapy at EmCell. They have many close relationships there. Here's a podcast about the last American to get treated at EmCell and get out of the country.

I need to sleep so I can get up and do it again. (Also forgot to take out the trash.)