Welcome to this Friday’s edition of leftovers. I’ve gone to great lengths to assimilate tidbits from the interwebs for your viewing and reading pleasure. I highly recommend a dry white wine to accompany this week’s dose of snark and sass. Please sit back, turn off your cell phones, and enjoy . . .
This week’s headline:
“Did you just ‘He who smelt it, dealt it’ racism? Did you really?” ~ Jon Stewart, “The Daily Show” (8-26-14)
One more headline on world issues because it really helps to put things in perspective:
“I hate when women wear the wrong foundation color, it might be the worst thing on the planet when they wear their makeup too light.” ~ Kim Kardashian, world-renowned spokesperson for everything from the asinine to the insipid
Since I missed it on Tuesday:
I told you, Corey.
Oxford comma all the way!
So this is where those crop circles originated:
This is actually a thing, and it costs about five bucks:
How cool is this?
Being passive aggressive at work:
So I found this site called Cake Wrecks . . . almost as good as the bad tweets:
That’s right . . . imagine being able to spell achieve . . .
Um . . . too literal?
Obviously I cannot draw any puzzle pieces, but I can draw your request for some instead . . .
Apparently, someone got a promotion, and the request was for a ladder with a stick person climbing up . . . oh my . . .
Silly, silly man. Never tell a woman what to do . . .
Do yourself a favor, go here and read all of the comments and questions on this baby. Just don’t do it with a mouthful of coffee . . . very hard to get off screen . . .
And finally, reaffirmation that love, honor, and respect still hold sway in some corners of the world:
“I wish you what I wish myself: hard questions and the nights to answer them, the grace of disappointment and the right to seem the fool for justice. That’s enough. Cowards might ask for more. Heroes have died for less.” ~ Samuel Hazo, from “To a Commencement of Scoundrels”
Wednesday afternoon. Partly cloudy, 80 degrees.
This morning after I went back to bed to try to get some lost sleep I had a very strange dream in which I was on vacation on an island with a bunch of rich people who I didn’t know all that well. I decided I really needed to fly home, so I went to the airport and made arrangements. Apparently, I was flying in a private cabin that was stocked with liquor. I didn’t even ask how much it would cost. Obviously, a dream.
So I’ve realized something: I like doing these posts that contain content from other sites. I like them, so there’s no reason why I should stop doing them.
I had thought that it meant that I wasn’t being true to myself because I wasn’t writing the content, but you know what? I can write a nice introduction and still share with you some of the amazing things I find on these interwebs, things that make all of the other banal crap just fade away.
So there’s that . . .
Also, I have to do a lot of cleaning today because Corey comes home tomorrow. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to make his flight today, which means one less day for us to have together. I realized last night that I’m spending half of my time alone now, and to be truthful, I really haven’t figured out how I feel about that.
Last night around midnight I opened the back door to let the dogs go out, and I stared up into the sky. It was one of those awesome night skies, not because of the stars, but because of the clouds. Huge dollops of cumulous clouds dotted the sky, obscuring the stars, but appearing luminous all the same. Even though it was a new moon, the sky seemed alit with hidden light. I thought of Richard Jackson.
Ten Things I Need to Know
The brightest stars are the first to explode. Also hearts. It is important to pay attention to love’s high voltage signs. The mockingbird is really ashamed of its own feeble song lost beneath all those he has to imitate. It’s true, the Carolina Wren caught in the bedroom yesterday died because he stepped on a glue trap and tore his wings off. Maybe we have both fallen through the soul’s thin ice already. Even Ethiopia is splitting off from Africa to become its own continent. Last year it moved 10 feet. This will take a million years. There’s always this nostalgia for the days when Time was so unreal it touched us only like the pale shadow of a hawk. Parmenedes transported himself above the beaten path of the stars to find the real that was beyond time. The words you left are still smoldering like the cigarette left in my ashtray as if it were a dying star. The thin thread of its smoke is caught on the ceiling. When love is threatened, the heart crackles with anger like kindling. It’s lucky we are not like hippos who fling dung at each other with their ridiculously tiny tails. Okay, that’s more than ten things I know. Let’s try twenty five, no, let’s not push it, twenty. How many times have we hurt each other not knowing? Destiny wears her clothes inside out. Each desire is a memory of the future. The past is a fake cloud we’ve pasted to a paper sky. That is why our dreams are the most real thing we possess. My logic here is made of your smells, your thighs, your kiss, your words. I collect stars but have no place to put them. You take my breath away only to give back a purer one. The way you dance creates a new constellation. Off the Thai coast they have discovered a new undersea world with sharks that walk on their fins. In Indonesia, a kangaroo that lives in a tree. Why is the shadow I cast always yours? Okay, let’s say I list 33 things, a solid symbolic number. It’s good to have a plan so we don’t lose ourselves, but then who has taken the ladder out of the hole I’ve dug for myself? How can I revive the things I’ve killed inside you? The real is a sunset over a shanty by the river. The keys that lock the door also open it. When we shut out each other, nothing seems real except the empty caves of our hearts, yet how arrogant to think our problems finally matter when thousands of children are bayoneted in the Congo this year. How incredible to think of those soldiers never having loved. Nothing ever ends. Will this? Byron never knew where his epic, Don Juan, would end and died in the middle of it. The good thing about being dead is that you don’t have to go through all that dying again. You just toast it. See, the real is what the imagination decants. You can be anywhere with the turn of a few words. Some say the feeling of out-of-the-body travel is due to certain short circuits in parts of the brain. That doesn’t matter because I’m still drifting towards you. Inside you are cumulous clouds I could float on all night. The difference is always between what we say we love and what we love. Tonight, for instance, I could drink from the bowl of your belly. It doesn’t matter if our feelings shift like sands beneath the river, there’s still the river. Maybe the real is the way your palms fit against my face, or the way you hold my life inside you until it is nothing at all, the way this plant droops, this flower called Heart’s Bursting Flower, with its beads of red hanging from their delicate threads any breeze might break, any word might shatter, any hurt might crush.
Objects in this Mirror are Closer Than They Appear
Because the dawn empties its pockets of our nightmares.
Because the wings of birds are dusty with fear.
Because another war has eaten its way
into the granary of stars. What can console us?
Is there so little left to love? Is belief just the poacher’s
searchlight that always blinds us, and memory just
the tracer rounds of desire? Last night,
under the broken rudder of the moon, soldiers
cut a girl’s finger off for the ring, then shot her and the boy
who tried to hide under a cloak of woods beyond their Kosovo
town. Listen to me, —we have become words
without meanings, rituals learned from dried
river beds and the cellars of fire-bombed houses.
Excuses flutter their wings. Another mortar round is
arriving from the hills. How long would you say
it takes despair to file down a heart?
When, this morning, you woke beside me, you were mumbling
how yesterday our words seemed to brush over the marsh
grass the way those herons planed over
a morning of ground birds panicking in their nests.
When my father left me his GI compass, telling me
it was to keep me from losing myself, I never thought
where it had led him, or would lead me. Today,
beside you, I remembered simply the way you eat
a persimmon, and thought it would be impossible for each
drop of rain not to want to touch you. Maybe the names
of these simple objects, returning this morning
like falcons, will console us. Maybe we can love
not just within the darkness, but because of it. Ours is
the dream of the snail hoping to leave its track on the moon.
we are sending signals to worlds more distant
than what the radio astronomers can listen for, and yet—
And yet, what? Maybe your seeds of daylight will take root.
Maybe it is for you the sea lifts its shoulders to the moon,
for you the smoke of some battle takes the shape of a tree.
On your balconies of desire, in your alleyways of touch,
each object is a door opening like the luminous face of
a pocket watch. Maybe because of you the stars, too,
desire one another across their infinite,
impossible distances forever, so that it is not
unthinkable that some bird skims the narrow sky where
the sentry fires have dampened, where the soldier, stacking
guns in Death’s courtyard, might look up, and remember
touching some story he carries in his pockets, a morning
like this blazing through the keyholes of history, seeing not
his enemy but those lovers, reaching for each other, reaching
towards any of us, their words splintering on the sky,
the gloves of their hearts looking for anyone’s hands.
“My pen was idle for a long time, perhaps only because the words found it difficult to cross the hostile space of the minute where man is without memory, where life hangs on a thread, a breath.” ~ Edmond Jabès, from The Book of Questions Volumes 2 and 3: The Book of Yukel Return to the Book, trans. Rosmarie Waldrop
Sunday evening. Partly cloudy and very mild, 76 degrees.
First, I want to welcome those of you who have recently subscribed to my blog. Thanks ever so much.
However, I feel I might have done you a disservice. In normal years (whatever those are), my posts are mostly written by me about, well, me, my life, my family, my foibles. This year has been quite different. After my mother’s death in January, I never seemed to be able to get back into my writing groove, and as a result, my posts are frequently reblogs of articles I find interesting, silly/funny Friday leftovers, and lots of poems and art, with very little of what is actually me in between.
So if you’ve hitched a ride onto my fading star because my blog seems to be more about being entertaining than being about musings, I sincerely apologize for how I plan to change things: I’m going to try to write more and reblog less. You see, even I have grown tired of my rabbit trails here and there, almost everywhere but where I need to be, by which I mean inside my head, sifting and culling thoughts and ideas and generally opining to my heart’s content. I do plan to keep my Friday leftovers and my Two for Tuesday poems, but aside from that, I’m going to begin the last quarter of this year trying to do more of what I need to do: create, write, actually think about things, ponder the relationships between words and phrases, and with any luck, I might be able to recapture some of what I think I have lost recently.
“I shall never know why Our lives took a turn for the worse, nor will you” ~ Mark Strand, from “The Man in the Tree”
Anyway . . .
This past week has been quite an endurance test for me: I ended up watching Olivia every day from last Saturday through Thursday, with only one night off. Circumstances in my daughter’s household kind of imploded, and out of respect for their privacy, I shall not delve into details except to say that I was left reeling, and I felt that volunteering to watch le bébé was the best way in which I could help everyone muddle through.
You all know that I love Olivia beyond words, but boy is my tired body not up to the challenge of keeping up with a very curious, very active two-year-old. Add to that the challenge of buckets of stress causing my insomnia to rear its ugly head, and the sleep deprivation coupled with the very full days and nights resulted in a physical and mental meltdown for me, one that I couldn’t really share with anyone.
And in between I had to deal with trying to get Brett to the DMV to get his license before ODU starts, finding out that it’s going to cost an arm and a leg to switch around plates on vehicles, and trying to finalize the whole Social Security thing. Not to mention surviving the day on which Brett’s tail lights decided to all die at the same time, ending up with us looking for shade under which I could try to splice wires and change out bulb harnesses (which I did, but it didn’t work).
Hence, no real posts for the past few days, and more than the usual level of stress and anxiety. My only respite was my evening bath with a backdrop of my blues playlist and a chilled wine spritzer.
“Sometimes we love with nothing more than hope. Sometimes we cry with everything except tears. In the end that’s all there is: love and its duty, sorrow and its truth. In the end that’s all we have—to hold on tight until the dawn.” ~ Gregory David Roberts, from Shantaram
Thankfully, the week ended much better than it began, with the exception of my pain management appointment on Friday, better known as the pain management appointment that didn’t happen. Yep that medical group that has been playing havoc with my body since March of this year finally ended our relationship on a bruising note: I showed up for a Friday appointment at an office that had shifted to Portsmouth in the middle of the month, and apparently, I was told this . . . not.
They asked me at 2:20 if I wanted to try to drive to Portsmouth for the 2:40 appointment, to which I replied a resounding no as I do not do Portsmouth. My driving relationship with Portsmouth is not the best as I have yet to enter that city and find any location without first getting lost, so I knew that to try to make an appointment that was 20 minutes from the time I stepped into the defunct beach office was impossible.
Two things happened as a result: First, I was finally given the contact information for the pain management doctor who left the practice in March, you know, the one who I adore, the one who actually makes my back and head feel better, the first one in quite a while who actually listens to me (this information for which I have been begging everyone and anyone with whom I had any contact). Yep, he has opened his own practice, and I finally have the phone number (can I get a hallelujah?)
Second, when asked if I wanted to reschedule, I replied, “No. I’ll be seeing Dr. X from now on.” And I carried my weary, achy body out the door and to the nearest Target, where I spent at least an hour looking at makeup and nail polish that I didn’t need, but I felt better afterwards, nevertheless.
“. . . I recognize the lazy murmur of August, the carmine of the sea.” ~ Eugénio de Andrade, from “You Are Where My Gaze Begins”
So tomorrow is Corey’s birthday, and he’s spending it on the ship. However, he will be home on Wednesday, and we plan to have a family dinner in honor of his and Brett’s birthdays, neither of which we were able to celebrate. I’m so looking forward to his homecoming, even though he’ll only be home for two weeks this time so that his schedule can finally be synced with his other crew mates who are going to be on the new ship.
I can tell by his voice that he’s tired, but at least it hasn’t been six weeks this time, which was unbearable for both of us. Now that his sister Alana has had her baby, and we know that everyone is fine and healthy, I think that takes care of one of his major worries. And now that the situation with Alexis seems to have been resolved for the time-being, that is another thing he can stop fretting over.
It’s so hard for him when things are troublesome at home and he is away, and I try not to dump anything on him if I can help it as his focus needs to be on his job when he’s out there. Unfortunately, I am horrible at hiding pain in my voice, no matter how I try. It goes both ways, though. I can read him just as easily from a thousand miles as if he were across the room. It’s that double-edged sword of loving someone completely, which is good, but loving them so completely that hiding anything is impossible, which can be bad.
Oh well . . .
“What would become of us if everything that happens out there were quite clear to us?” ~ Erich Maria Remarque, from All Quiet on the Western Front
Look, I never said this was going to be a deep post, or a moving post, just a real post. I’m working on it. Okay? It’s a process . . .
So I’m trying to begin this week by getting my groove back, as it were (but not as Stella did). I also plan to try to write something to Mari, and to get caught up on paperwork. Okay. Maybe too much for one week, but we’ll just have to see how I do, won’t we?
I do have to say that in recent weeks/months I’ve accumulated a plethora of quotes, art, and songs, so much so that I have about 20 drafts ready to go; I just need to fill them in with my words (just that one minor detail). Additionally, I have that post about Robin Williams that I began about ten days ago, and I do want to finish that, for a number of personal reasons. So let’s just say that I have a loose game plan, and I in coming days I need to remind myself that I’m the only one hanging deadlines over my head, proverbial swords of Damocles, as it were.
At the moment, I really need shots from my neck to my butt, and everything in between. I need botox for my migraines, and I need a vacation, but for now I’ll settle for the first two (sometime in the next few weeks, oh please, oh please) with plans for the third some time next year.
I will tell you this: Corey and I might have a short road trip planned to look at some property somewhere in the western part of the state. That’s all that I’ll say about that for now. Can’t reveal all of my cards in one round, now can I?
I certainly asked a lot of rhetorical questions in this section, didn’t I?
I wanted to see where beauty comes from
without you in the world, hauling my heart
across sixty acres of northeast meadow,
my pockets filling with flowers.
Then I remembered,
it’s you I miss in the brightness
and body of every living name:
rattlebox, yarrow, wild vetch.
You are the green wonder of June,
root and quasar, the thirst for salt.
When I finally understand that people fail
at love, what is left but cinquefoil, thistle,
the paper wings of the dragonfly
aeroplaning the soul with a sudden blue hilarity?
If I get the story right, desire is continuous,
equatorial. There is still so much
I want to know: what you believe
can never be removed from us,
what you dreamed on Walnut Street
in the unanswerable dark of your childhood,
learning pleasure on your own.
Tell me our story: are we impetuous,
are we kind to each other, do we surrender
to what the mind cannot think past?
Where is the evidence I will learn
to be good at loving?
The black dog orbits the horseshoe pond
for treefrogs in their plangent emergencies.
There are violet hills,
there is the covenant of duskbirds.
The moon comes over the mountain
like a big peach, and I want to tell you
what I couldn’t say the night we rushed
North, how I love the seriousness of your fingers
and the way you go into yourself,
calling my half-name like a secret.
I stand between taproot and treespire.
Here is the compass rose
to help me live through this.
Here are twelve ways of knowing
what blooms even in the blindness
of such longing. Yellow oxeye,
viper’s bugloss with its set of pink arms
pleading do not forget me.
We hunger for eloquence.
We measure the isopleths.
I am visiting my life with reckless plenitude.
The air is fragrant with tiny strawberries.
Fireflies turn on their electric wills:
an effulgence. Let me come back
whole, let me remember how to touch you
before it is too late.
Twelve is coming! Twelve is coming! Twelve is coming!
I don’t know how I feel about Peter Capaldi yet, but I’m giving him a chance and hoping that the big change works. Anyway, if it weren’t so darned muggy, I’d put on my TARDIS knee socks for the big event. Oh well . . .
Header is in official TARDIS blue (HEX 102372)
Did I mention Doctor Who?
Here’s a little something I threw together for the doctor who tumblr poetry contest back in July. It’s not exactly an acrostic poem in which the first letter of each line spells out something; rather, the first letter of each word spells out something Doctor Who related (bad wolf, tardis, doctor who):
Letters of a Time Traveler
delicious worlds often lost/found
daredevil, whirlwind of laissez-faire flights
often, likely frenzied …
Betimes acerbic, determined—
Wayfarer, olden lad,
ancient, doubtless wizened.
Once lone, forever
brilliant and driven,
writing on lines
chasing time once & repeatedly.
Wait here, oh,
Okay. So the week ended a bit better than it began, but I had absolutely no time to schedule or post, hence all of the backposts.
Hoping next week treats me and everyone around me better.
More later. Peace.
This week’s headline:
It’s illegal to pee in an elevator in Singapore, and some elevators have a Urine Detection Device which detects urine odors, sets off an alarm, and closes the elevator doors until the police arrive
If I wrote directions for things, they would be very similar to this:
So Norway’s government is actually thinking about the needs of its population? How logical.
And in this week’s stupid tweets, I give a few examples of why I will never again teach English in a public school as it is blatantly apparent that far too much of the general population is suffering from a terminal case of stoopid . . .
Stupid tweets—the Name Game version:
Seriously? Barraco Barner? And what’s our president doing with other countries? Sheesh. The nerve.
Oh my. Heaven forbid you should learn about that stupid hollow cost thingy whachamajigger . . .
That Rosetta Stone sure was a great woman, and she really had a way with words and languages, too.
Stupid tweets—Where in the world version, or Is geography a country or a planet?
The nerve of that other country New England.
I have no words . . .
Why yes, that it a bit hard to believe . . .
Stupid tweets—from the Why yes, we do belong to Mensa version:
Stupid tweets: Hey! Look what we can do with 140 characters (139 too many for these people):
RT @AnaCarolina_NYC: Isn’t the magna carta the ship Christopher Columbus came to America on?
RT @tsloww: death is invegetable!!!
RT @DCJport: That as rude but I rose above miyah anjalou
and here are a few pseudo homophones that I culled just because of the blatant abuse of the English langweej:
Philly Menyong (filet mignon)
Triple Aunt Andre (triple entendre)
mature demeter (mature demeanor)
enter lectual conversation (intellectual, anyone?)
synonym rolls (did you mean cinnamon?)
down sendrum (no, please, no, I mean, really?)
Someone has entirely too much time on his hands:
Look! This here. This proves that dogs have incredible intellect and compassion: