A ROLE AT THIS FEAST

22 of 100

"It was neither the beginning nor the end of anything, but it was a hinge. A turning point for many of us. People, I think, came to realize they would die, and they began to take steps, to move toward the work they most wanted to do."

— Diane diPrima, Recollections of My Life as A Woman: The New York Years

Up early for me as I have an appointment to get the Honda Fit detailed. The floor has so much spilled dirt from hauling potting soil and such, I think I could farm there. I know I won't have time, energy, or focus to deep clean the car, so I am splurging. That said, I need to go get the yoga props, books, things not brought into the house from thrift store excursions and all out. Nina and Fox are sitting next to me in the window, hoping that I will shortly head for the kitchen and morning feedings.

This Charlie Haden song is wafting through my head. En La Orilla del Mundo. Charlie Haden-bass/Gonzalo Rubacalva-piano/Ignacio Berroa-drums/Joe Lovano-tenor sax/Federico Britos Ruiz-violin.

A bit later.

The detail guy was late. Now that I am a crabby old person, I want to take him to task in a review. Where is the kind person who thinks "Ah traffic and such..."? I probably won't be negative. We Crabby Old People think we can cure the world with our observations and criticisms. If only.

So to continue with the Janet story.

The whole vacation had a life and death aura around it. I was very sick before I left, wherein I wondered if I would be able to go at all. The week before I left, my nextdoor neighbor, Sally, lost her father after a long illness. I arrived on a Saturday. On Sunday morning, my friend Tad's mother died. On Thursday, Janet had to be taken to the emergency room. On Saturday, Betts told me that her father in Houston had taken a serious turn for the worse. My friend Michael's sister-in-law passed. Lili's mother went into the hospital. CIndy's dog died. Betts' father died. Another friend's only brother was fading fast while refusing to get dialysis.

Here's the life part. My nephew and niece-in-law had a new baby while I was there. Here she is being indoctrinated into the family cat worshipping cult.

On the same day/night that the baby was born, David was called into Janet's room wherein she could not stand. David called the EMTs. They refused to take her to the good hospital of which we are a part of their extended health care and took her to hell's waiting room. As I mentioned previously, I called Christina to help spring Janet from that horrible place. David and Christina took Janet out against medical advice to get her to the good hospital where she got adequate care. Hell's waiting room did not ask for ID from neither David nor Christina. 

So ... the last full week of my trip was a bit stressful while I tried to negotiate my time with getting to see the new baby, her older sister, and worrying about my mom as it took several days to diagnose her with c.diff, a possibly serious bacterial infection of the intestines. Janet was in the hospital for eight days.

My conversations with David led me to believe that Janet had taken a large turn for the worse overall, perhaps a much reduced ability to walk, a constant need for incontinence duty, wanting to sleep all the time (rather than being bored and nap ready at any time). David and I had some tough conversations that will need to be continued. It was all quite sobering.

When she was released from the hospital, I sent my dear family friend Patrick over to see Janet. He took this picture of her. Looking pretty good for 95 and after 8 days in the hospital. She was pretty listless and depressed when I first got home, but she is perking up and going back to Senior Lunch and dominoes.

Leave your tricks and schemes behind.

Go mad with Love.

Like a moth hungry for light,

dive into the blazing heart of the flame.

Be a stranger to yourself.

Wreck the house you call self.

Wake up in Love’s house.

Live with lovers. Be a lover.

Why lie in a grave,

fearing judgment, hands idle?

You have a role at this feast.

Rise up. Open your arms, a haven.

Grudges and spite weigh on the heart.

Let seven streams of water wash them away.

Make room for Love’s wine.

Be its cup.

Thoughts stray and drag you with them.

Heart, leap over your head.

Arrive before you know it.

You’re not a rook bound to two directions.

You’re not a pawn, a crooked queen,

a shortsighted king.

Be a mirror for your beled.

Reflect what you adore.

Once mineral, then animal.

Now blessed with a soul,

be Love.

Preacher, how long will you rant

door to door, roof to roof.

Give your jaw a rest. Be silence.

— Rumi, Gold, translated by Liza Gafori, New York Review of Books, New York, 2022

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

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

EVEN MY SELF-WILLED DARK

19 of 100

April 26

I should be feeling my oats today as I scored the right answer on Wordle in two guesses before my second cup of coffee. I have only done that once before on my first wordle try. The birds are quite loud. The clouds are, so far, cooling off the day. I only have two yoga classes left. 

But I am so upset with a close relationship that I gave myself a stress cold. Looking back over the past couple of weeks, I can see that something was deeply troubling to me. Forgetting my pin for the debit card should have been a serious clue but all the repressed feelings started surfacing in a long slow wave that crested with me in tears and the miasma of sorrow and depression.

It has been so long that since I have been seriously depressed, I had almost forgotten about the big "D." How fast and subtly it can creep up on you. The dementors have yet to make a showing, so that's a plus at least. And perhaps I will feel a bit better after a nap. Looks as if I will be depending on an older class I have written and I will use the afternoon to rest and try to hurry this cold along.

I don't know how many of you have had to care for any elders, particularly female elders. You should be forewarned, if this in your future, that they have black hole pockets in their clothing. No matter how much care you try to take in emptying their pockets before laundry, there are ALWAYS several pieces in that black hole that will be flushed out in the wash, thus making a huge mess. Particularly for those of us who don't use dryers (mine is still broken) and have no recourse to a dryer cleaning it off.

(Aunt Bird Said She Had to Heave Herself from Sleep)

Aunt Bird said she had to heave herself from sleep

to study how the wind’s blade whisked the air,

that she wanted to grasp the reckless motion of being —

its spit and grime and ruin —

because nothing expired completely

except time eating its own body.

She taught me I was made out of crumbling

and to bring into the open the damaged

heart of even my self-willed dark,

although fear sprouted from my skin

and my voice was a wing flapping wildly.

— Yerra Sugarman, Aunt Bird, Four Way Books, New York, 2022

(I briefly studied poetry back in the 1990s. Yerra was one of my classmates with whom I staid in touch.)

THINGS TIME-EATEN, SEA-BITTEN

"We become conservative if we’re still trying to preserve the mythologies of our youth.”

— Philip Rodriguez 

18 of 100

April 23rd

After finishing Adam Schiff's book, I am in an uncomfortable place - emotionally, energetically.Alighting anywhere, emotionally, energetically, physically, is not easily accomplished. I dug out another rose bush, besieged by grasses, uncovered some sage and rosemary, and cut the dead stalks off of some other flowers that seem determined to come back this year.

April 25

Today is being spent (wasted?) in an orgy of music on YouTube. Currently grooving to Taj Mahal and Ry Cooder. Sometimes Ry's playing keeps me alive. And today is rather one of those days. 

The jasmine is in bloom. That sweet smell perks me up from time to time. The LA heat is upon us so things are pretty still out there. The breeze comes up every once in awhile, blowing the sounds of the freeway this way, as well as the jasmine scent. 

As I mentioned in my previous post, I have been a bit sad for the last day or so. And that was before Elon Musk bought Twitter. My technology forward friends think he is the greatest thing since the last greatest thing. My "spidey. senses" (and do remember I was bitten by a black widow spider back in 1994) tell me that he is a giant schmuck and means the world no good. All we need is another lumbering, egomaniacal narcissist getting more exposure and power in the world. There have been plenty enough of them.

My New York trip is less than two weeks away. Perhaps some of my mood is the usual stress of going away anxiety. I have to remind myself that it is unlikely that it will be as exuberant and exultant as my last east coast tour. I already have my trepidations about some of my plans. If it doesn't get above freezing in the Adirondacks, my Schroon Lake adventure is in jeopardy. 

On the other hand, once I get over my current state of mind, perhaps I will find new adventures and time to spend with folks I haven't had much time with.

I need to focus on getting three things done today before I head back over to Christina's to complete my dress which she largely made for me yesterday (I did help) plus the two shirts that are almost done.

dysania

 - The state of having a hard time waking up and getting out of bed in the morning.

Who knew that this was an actual thing that can need treatment by medical professionals? I just thought it was me.

I guess this round of depression has been creeping up on me. I haven't been abusive to myself in any way, no bingeing on bad food or alcohol or tv or even too much spending (been a bit close there, getting things for my trip). One day last week, I forgot the pin number to Janet's debit card as I was trying to buy her lunch. Just. Could. Not. Remember. This, of course, set off alarms and I couldn't use it until we called the bank today. Fortunately, thanks to cousin Dan, I. had funds in my personal account that took care of Trader Joe's visits and such in the meantime. 

With Steven and Joe (husband of Steven) in the Galapagos, and Andrew on limited mobility due to his arm injury and surgery, it left Sonia, Cindy, Ashtynn, et moi to our own devices for Saturday yoga. We practiced on Cindy's roof, which was pretty cool. But it was very hot up there, even at 9:00 am. I took off my t-shirt and just practiced in my bra. Sonia had written up some notes for class, but we decided to take turns calling out asanas or short vinyasas which was very mellow. None of us was willing to do a full inversion on a roof with safety railing. We decided to go to breakfast instead of practicing next Saturday, which will be my last group meeting.

Calling our Saturday yoga meeting a class is misleading. Yes, someone has usually written an entire 90 minute practice for us, but it does not have a "class" feeling at all. I have yet to come up with the best way to describe it. It's more like a yoga klatsch, although we generally don't have refreshments save for water (I have brought citrus on several occasions) and we do more yoga than chatting (which shows our dedication and fortitude) but often enough someone will make a comment that might not strictly be related to an asana we are doing. 

Cindy and I are the worst of the lot, and probably me the most. I do stop and ask questions about postures or how to deal with particular teaching issues. But then again, I might just think of something random and burst out with a "can you believe?" or a "did you see?" This never stops the practice, we just carry on with our downward facing dogs, planks, and crow poses.

Arugula-walnut pesto, shaved fennel and raw artichoke, parmesan/romano on olive-oil toasted brushetta.

I said earlier this month that I made a pesto and bruschetta from my garden to take to the #3113 yoga party. We all had such a splendid time. Out on this coast, I rarely, but NOT NEVER, feel the intense simpatico one feels when one is with one's own. So much fun. The dinner was enormous and just so delicious. So much wine, laughter, and wise-cracking. What a joy to find actual friends at this and in this advanced age. Andrew is, among other things, a woodworking artist, and he made a mandala for each of us. 

Sonia had commemorative t-shirts made.

Lucky me.

FOUR HAND IMPROVISATION #3

Love is in two places and I will tell you

of the one behind the other,

beyond the apple trees of unripe fruit

and green leaves. Fullness is made of pulp,

of memory compacted powerfully.

The male shifts his weight and slides,

move his weight until he is where green

apples enter his heart. A wrong place.

Music is created the way dense seas

cast up all things time-eaten,

sea-bitten, creased with our salt.

The scent of coming and going.

We leave the way the ocean leaves.

The kind of going in which all goes,

the dense shade getting darker.

What is behind love is another love.

The rending is a reason. Not a thing alive

in nature, but nature itself.

We go down the hill into the trees

where we are stunned by a silence made

of our earthly parts. We prepare ourselves

and go toward, dragging the here.

All the evidence gone.

— Linda Gregg, The Sacraments of Desire, Graywolf Press, Minneapolis, MN, 1991