“I would never be part of anything. I would never really belong anywhere, and I knew it, and all my life would be the same, trying to belong, and failing. Always something would go wrong. I am a stranger and I always will be, and after all I didn’t really care.” ~ Jean Rhys, Smile Please: An Unfinished Autobiography
Friday evening. Blue skies, low 60’s.
Random thoughts for Friday’s leftovers:
- I met poet Christopher Buckley once. He was charming, and he loved his bourbon.
- Tillie the lab thinks she is a lap dog, which is funny until she tries to climb into my lap over my shoulder.
- An old lover once referred to my cherubic countenance. What an odd thing to say.
- This spring I am going to fill my flowerpots with multicolored annuals—begonias, vinca, lantana, lobelia. I never have luck with impatiens.
- I wish that we still had a hammock.
- I miss my Carolina Jasmine vine. The smell on summer evenings was unbelievable.
- I miss Mari.
- Friendship on a daily basis, true friendship, is a rare thing.
- Tom Waits sounds as if he’s been gargling with gravel; it’s a voice filled with loss and sadness. No wonder I love it.
- I dreamed about seeing two bodies wrapped in white sheets, and somewhere a clock was ticking.
“And each year now
we know more, but we know no better —
what we see in the sky is simply
the softened gloss of the past sifting
back to us, and likewise, every atom
down the body’s shining length
was inside a star, and will be again.” ~ Christopher Buckley, from “Apologues of Winter Light”
More . . .
- I have a three-inch wide ridge on the back of my head, near the base of my skull. I wonder if everyone has one of those. It’s tender if I mess with it.
- One night I dreamed that I took a severe blow to my head, at least I think that it was a dream.
- Recently I watched a Masterpiece Classic production of Great Expectations with Gillian Anderson. She was quite good as Miss Haversham.
- If I had a cat, I would name her Miss Haversham as cats are all about being egocentric and expecting everything to go their way.
- I did not read Great Expectations and David Copperfield until I was pregnant with Alexis.
- My mother owns a very old copy of The Pickwick Papers, which she purchased in an antique shop in London.
- My father bought me these character head statues when he was doing his Rotterdam run; they are all Dickens’ characters. They used to hang along the staircase in our townhouse in Alexandria.
- Not sure what got me started on Charles Dickens.
- I have a strong urge to correct grammatical and spelling errors on comments in YouTube threads; if I started doing so, I would never finish as it seems that most people who comment on YouTube videos never learned basic grammar or spelling.
- I had my Technical Editing students keep an Anguished English journal, filled with instances of bad sentence structure and grammatical faux pas. This was before the prevalence of the Internet. Now, such a journal would be far too easy to fill.
“Don’t tell them too much about your soul. They’re waiting for just that.” ~ Jack Kerouac, Windblown World: The Journals of Jack Kerouac 1947-1954
And just a little more . . .
- As I’m trying to write this post, Shakes is hovering near my ankles, hiding from a fly, and Tillie is sitting on Eamonn’s bed really giving me a good talking to. Apparently, she thinks that we should be playing, even though we have already gone out front for today’s stick game.
- I have been quite teary lately. Not weeping, but getting teary-eyed at seemingly nothing: the cedar bird feeders in Wal Mart reminded me of Mari; who cries in Wal Mart?
- I have not had a Pepsi in almost two weeks. I have given up soda, and my attempts to give up sugar are going fairly well. I’m also trying to avoid chocolate, except for the Russell Stover caramel and marshmallow egg that I ate last night. My jeans are getting too big.
- To help me in this attempt to eschew sweets, my mother has delivered bags of Riesen, banana nut bread, peanut butter eggs, and jellybeans.
- My mother, queen of the grudges, actually said to me the other day, “Aw, you shouldn’t hold a grudge.” I did not reply as I thought that I could not contain myself if I did. My mother once did not speak to me for almost three months because of something that Eamonn said. No. No grudges in this family.
- In another part of my dream last night, I was unlocking these old steel doors that had bolt locks. I went through three of them, and then I got on an elevator and pushed 3. The elevator bypassed all of the floors, and I ended up on an interstate.
- I think I’ve run out of things to say, but I hate to end on an uneven number.
- I’m craving Chinese food.
- I think that I’ll treat myself tonight to a movie from pay-per-view, or maybe I’ll just go to sleep, or read . . .
- I should have stopped four entries ago . . .
More later. Peace.
Music by The Fray, “Be Still”
Three Ways of Transcribing Poems
I wish to write
in clear letters
on a dry riverbed
a white ribbon of pebbles
seen from afar
or a scree slope
sliding under my lines
so that the however
of the thorny life of my words
be the however of each letter.
so that the words come quietly
so that the words sneak in
so that you have to go there
towards the words
to look for them in the white
you don’t notice them entering
through the pores
sweat that runs inwards
and the however of each letter
I want a strip of paper
as big as me
one metre sixty
on it a poem
when someone passes by
screams in black letters
demands the impossible
moral courage for example
that bravery which no animal has
fellow suffering for example
solidarity rather than being herded
made at home in deed
animal with moral courage
animal that knows fellow suffering
human foreignword-animal word-animal
that writes poems
that demands the impossible
of everyone who passes by
as if it’s yelling