“I want to work in revelations, not just spin silly tales for money. I want to fish as deep down as possible into my own subconscious in the belief that once that far down, everyone will understand because they are the same that far down.” ~ Jack Kerouac

Joseph Henry Sharp Dahlias
“Dahlias” (nd, oil on canvas)
by Joseph Henry Sharp

                   

“My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.” ~ Virginia Woolf, Selected Letters

Friday afternoon. Partly cloudy and warmer, 55 degrees.

Franz Bischoff oil on canvas, Cannas, nd
“Cannas” (nd, oil on canvas)
Franz Bischoff

Honestly, I don’t know how far I’ll get today. I want to write, but I don’t know what to say. I’m sad, but I’m okay. In other words, it’s one of those days in which my mind and my heart are battling, and I have no idea if I’ll reach some kind of accord or if I will just have to give one over to the other and be done with it. In the meantime, I’m eating Junior Mints very slowly, making each one last for minutes as opposed to seconds, as if savoring such a sugary treat might help me to find my way, or perhaps, I’m just enjoying the chocolate.

At the moment, “When the Morning Comes” is playing, and its slow melody is working on my heart, leading me to believe more and more that this is not a good idea, this attempt to post, to write something coherent, to put something out here, this, here, now.

Perhaps I should put my playlist on pause and go take a shower . . .

“There is a silence into which the world can not intrude. There is an ancient peace you carry in your heart and have not lost. There is a sense of holiness in you the thought of sin has never touched. All this today you will remember.” ~ Helen Schumann, from A Course in Miracles

Sunday afternoon. Rainy and mild, 60 degrees.

Georgia O'Keeffe White Lotus 1939 oil on canvas
“White Lotus” (1939, oil on canvas)
by Georgia O’Keeffe

So, no. I never did get back to this post on Friday, nor did I get back to it yesterday. I probably wouldn’t have gotten back to it today had I not been bored with playing spider solitaire. Don’t ask.

The roast is in the oven. My mother is making me cook Easter dinner. Truly. She bought a hen and a roast and then asked me which one I wanted to cook for Easter . . . both? Bear in mind that I did not ask her to buy either. I don’t really do Easter. Don’t ask me why. But today, I’m doing Easter. Whatever.

Perhaps my ornery outlook today can be traced back to my mother’s assumptions: she buys something, and I shall cook it. I do not remember entering into this agreement at any time . . . ever. What gives?

Don’t get me wrong. I can cook. Quite well, actually. And sometimes, I feel like cooking, but not often. Once I go through the preparation and cooking stages, I almost always have nothing left for the eating stage. I’m over it all by that point. Of course, with Corey gone, I do have to cook more than usual, but we are a very casual household, and more often than not, dinner is a catch-as-catch-can affair.

But not today.

“I said that the world is absurd, but I was too hasty. This world in itself is not reasonable, that is all that can be said. But what is absurd is the confrontation of this irrational and the wild longing for clarity whose call echoes in the human heart.” ~ Albert Camus

I got several comments on the Camus passage that I posted the other day. I don’t know a lot about Camus, and I don’t often use his words, but his “Falsely Yours” epistle touched something in me. Perhaps it was the absurdity of it, and his acknowledgement of the absurdity of it with his closing. I don’t know. “Should I kill myself or have a cup of coffee?” strike me as patently absurd, kind of like a poem I taught in one of my literature classes—of course the title and poet escape me now—in which the speaker, a woman is writing a massively long suicide letter. The poem ends with her watching her sleeping child.

Framz Bischoff Roses oil on canvas nd
“Roses” (nd, oil on canvas)
by Franz Bischoff

I used to present the poem to the class with the following question: Is it really a suicide note?

My answer was no, that the woman was writing to exorcise her demons, and the writing itself helped her to get past her feelings of despair. Watching her child sleeping peacefully reassured her that life was worth living.

I kind of saw Camus’s question in the same way. Who, in a serious contemplation of suicide, would reduce it to a choice between coffee or death?

“. . . the heart’s immortal thirst to be completely known and all forgiven.” ~ H. van Dyke

I’ve been watching “Game of Thrones” recently. Corey downloaded seasons 1 and 2 for me. I’m really enjoying the dramatization of Martin’s saga. My favorite character in the show is also my favorite character in the books: Tyrion, the dwarf son of Tywin Lannister. The actor playing the part, Peter Dinklage, has captured the essence of Tyrion so well.

Joseph Henry Sharp Delhpiniums oil on canvas
“Delphiniums” (nd, oil on canvas)
by Joseph Henry Sharp

I’m on season 2. Season 3 premiers on HBO tonight. I don’t have HBO. Oh well. I’ll just have to wait until it’s available for download or there is a DVD set. But watching it does make me want to go back and reread, which is a sort of predicament for me. Martin is currently writing book 6. I finished book 5 a few months ago, and I felt then that I probably should have reread books 1-4 before embarking on book 5. So do I postpone rereading the books until right before book 6 hits the stands, or do I reread now and possibly reread then?

Decisions . . . decisions.

I did finish a really good book by Stephen Dobyns Friday night called The Church of Dead Girls. Dobyns is one of those rare writers who is equally proficient in prose and poetry. This particular book was one of my thrift store finds, and it was worth all of the pennies that I spent on it and many more. If you like murder mysteries like I do, it’s a definite must-read.

“How must sweeter life would be if it all happened in reverse, if, after decades of disappointments, you finally arrived at an age when you had conceded nothing, when everything was possible.” ~ Karen Thompson Walker, from The Age of Miracles 

Last night was quite a restless night. My little boy dog Alfie is having problems again. I’m giving him the pain medicine that the vet prescribed, but I really wish that he would let me put medicine on the sores on his face. Trying to do so is like asking to be bitten.

Franz Bischoff Spider Mums, nd
“Spider Mums” (nd, oil on canvas)
by Franz Bischoff

You know how some people can be around any dog without any problems whatsoever? My friend Mari is like that. I mean, I love dogs and dogs love me, but dogs who have any kind of finicky disposition can sense right away that I am conflicted about them. They know that they can take advantage of me, and they do. Alfie knows that if he growls and bares his teeth that I won’t come at him with medicine for his face, and I really don’t know how to go about it in any other way. After all, this is the dog that the vet diagnosed as having canine rage syndrome.

I need the dog whispering guy, you know, Cesar Milan? He is too cool. He would know what to do. And then after he whispered Alfie, he could whisper me and tell me how to calm myself, but I don’t think he people whispers.

Speaking of dogs, Tillie is beside herself because we haven’t gone outside to play yet, and no matter how many times I tell her that it’s muddy and rainy out, she will not desist. Seriously, this dog tries to climb into my lap when I’m sitting her at the computer.

Cheap thrills.

More later. Peace.

Music by The Civil Wars, “Kingdom Come”

                   

Days in Late March

Days move along in one direction
faces in the opposite.
Uninterruptedly they borrow each other’s light.

Many years later it is difficult
to determine which were the days
and which were the faces …

And the distance between the two things
feels more unreachable
day by day and face by face.

It is this I see in your face
these bright days in late March.

~ Henrik Norbrandt, trans. Thom Saterlee

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“I feel scribbled-in. Something inattentive has barely written me in.” ~ Jorie Graham, from “High Tide”

Was going to post, and then, well . . . didn’t. Feeling kind of closed off. Here’s an offering instead:

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Sassy Waterstones worker, I love you,

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And well this is true:

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Sometimes I do worry about their psyche though:

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They make up cool new words;

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They’re a sassy little shit.

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And best of all, the Holden debacle;

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And one more for good luck:

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Friday leftovers: “He jirbles a dram . . .”

Cover of "The Word Museum: The Most Remar...

                   

Reblogged from Death and Taxes:

Here are 18 uncommon or obsolete words that we think may have died early. We found them in two places: a book called The Word Museum: The Most Remarkable English Words Ever Forgotten by Jeffrey Kacirk, and on a blog called Obsolete Word of The Day that’s been out of service since 2010. Both are fantastic— you should check them out.

Snoutfair: A person with a handsome countenance — The Word Museum: The Most Remarkable English Words Ever Forgotten by Jeffrey Kacirk

Pussyvan: A flurry, temper — The Word Museum: The Most Remarkable English Words Ever Forgotten by Jeffrey Kacirk

Wonder-wench: A sweetheart — The Word Museum: The Most Remarkable English Words Ever Forgotten by Jeffrey Kacirk

Lunting: Walking while smoking a pipe — John Mactaggart’s “Scottish Gallovidian Encyclopedia, 1824

California widow: A married woman whose husband is away from her for any extended period — John Farmer’s “Americanisms Old and New, 1889

Groak: To silently watch someone while they are eating, hoping to be invited to join them – www.ObsoleteWord.Blogspot.com

Jirble: To pour out (a liquid) with an unsteady hand: as, he jirbles out a dram — www.Wordnik.com

Curglaff: The shock felt in bathing when one first plunges into the cold water — John Jamieson’s Etymological Scottish Dictionary, 1808

Spermologer: A picker-up of trivia, of current news, a gossip monger, what we would today call a columnist — The Word Museum: The Most Remarkable English Words Ever Forgotten by Jeffrey Kacirk

Tyromancy: Divining by the coagulation of cheese — The Word Museum: The Most Remarkable English Words Ever Forgotten by Jeffrey Kacirk

Beef-witted: Having an inactive brain, thought to be from eating too much beef. — John Phin’s “Shakespeare Cyclopaedia and Glossary, 1902

Queerplungers: Cheats who throw themselves into the water in order that they may be taken up by their accomplices, who carry them to one of the houses appointed by the Humane Society for the recovery of drowned persons, where they are rewarded by the society with a guinea each, and the supposed drowned person, pretending he was driven to that extremity by great necessity, is also frequently sent away with a contribution in his pocket. — The Word Museum: The Most Remarkable English Words Ever Forgotten by Jeffrey Kacirk

Englishable: That which may be rendered into English — John Ogilvie’s “Comprehensive English Dictionary, 1865

Resistentialism: The seemingly spiteful behavior shown by inanimate objects — www.ObsoleteWord.Blogspot.com

Bookwright: A writer of books; an author; a term of slight contempt — Daniel Lyons’s “Dictionary of the English Language, 1897

Soda-squirt: One who works at a soda fountain in New Mexico — Elsie Warnock’s “Dialect Speech in California and New Mexico,1919

With squirrel: Pregnant — Vance Randolph’s “Down in the Holler: A Gallery of Ozark Folk Speech,” 1953

Zafty: A person very easily imposed upon — Maj. B. Lowsley’s “A Glossary of Berkshire Words and Phrases,” 1888

                   

Okay. Let me just pause here. Tyromancy, the divining by the coagulation of cheese? Does this mean that I can take a tub of cottage cheese, pour it onto a table, and see into the future? This seems just as foggy as Professor Trelawney’s crystal balls. And queerplunger? People used to make money by pretending to drown?

Admittedly, I have groaked before, or is that been a groak? But the most perfect one of all? Hands down, it’s Resistentialism! You all know of my penchant for anthropomorphism, so it’s nice to know that another words describes the persnickety nature of inanimate objects.

More later. Peace.

*Note on text: I don’t know if some of the references are articles or books. If in fact the titles are referring to books, there should be no quotation marks, only italics; if the titles are referring to articles, then quotations marks are used with the comma falling inside the quotation marks. In US punctuation, the comma and period always fall inside the quotation marks. I have made corrections accordingly.

Music by Martha Wainwright, “Question of Etiquette”

“How fragile we are, between the few good moments.” ~ Jane Hirshfield

Dernier reflet de montagne... nuage sous quai....
Dernier reflet de montagne… nuage sous quai….

                    

Corey left this afternoon. Tillie and I are too sad to write, so we’re listening to beautiful music:

Intermezzo from The Jewels of the Madonna, composed by Ermanno Wolf-Ferrari. NHK Symphony Orchestra Conducted by Wolfgang Sawallisch in 1988 at Suntory Hall, Tokyo

“Anyone who does anything to help a child in his life is a hero to me. ” ~ Fred Rogers

Why isn’t this woman’s name front and center when talking about heroes? Why didn’t I know about her before this post? How is that possible?

Remember this lady?

“How do we explain synchronistic moments that occur when we happen upon them?” ~ Tony Ten Fingers

Times Square in the Rain, 1949 by Fred Stein
Times Square in the Rain (1949)
by Fred Stein

                   

Two for Tuesday (plus one): Rain

My dear,

I don’t know what to do today, help me decide.

Should I cut myself open and pour my heart on these pages? Or should I sit here and do nothing, nobody’s asking anything of me after all.

Should I jump off the cliff that has my heart beating so and develop my wings on the way down? Or should I step back from the edge, and let the others deal with this thing called courage.

Should I stare back at the existential abyss that haunts me so and try desperately to grab from it a sense of self? Or should I keep walking half-asleep, only half-looking at it every now and then in times in which I can’t help doing anything but?

Should I kill myself or have a cup of coffee?

Falsely yours,

Albert Camus

                   

Rain

Woke up this morning with
a terrific urge to lie in bed all day
and read. Fought against it for a minute.

Then looked out the window at the rain.
And gave over. Put myself entirely
in the keep of this rainy morning.

Would I live my life over again?
Make the same unforgiveable mistakes?
Yes, given half a chance. Yes.

~ Raymond Carver

                  

Rainy Day by Rafael Dos

Water Damage

Let me destroy everything that I’ve written
that doesn’t have to do with the way you walk like you’re trying to hold
the sky up with your palms.

I’ve been listening to the rain for the past couple of days, have
been listening to songs that sound like what the rain would say if she
spoke English instead of Morse code, and if my
translations are correct, all she wants is for us to stand beneath her
with our mouths open, mouthing — kiss me.

I love like a leaky faucet or I love like a dam breaking.
There is nothing in between.

When I met you, the little Dutch boy pulled his finger
out of my chest and suddenly, everything inside of me spilled out at once.

I puddled an ocean, rounded the corner on Third Ave all the way uptown
to Grand Central like a flash storm, and
suddenly —

I couldn’t touch a thing without inflicting
water damage, without you breaking apart every molecule
that I had ever known.

~ Shinji Moon

                   

Music by Stefano Battaglia Trio, “Ismaro”

#safetytipsforladies: A hashtag about how tired women are of being told to do stupid, ineffective, unrealistic things to avoid being raped.

Just had to share this bit of genius. Not my real post.