Sorry. Doctors’ appointments today and tomorrow. Back Thursday,
Sunday afternoon, very windy with dropping temperatures, 46 degrees.
We woke up to vicious wind this morning: The tire swing was soaring around the big oak tree, and the bamboo wind chimes were almost parallel to the porch. The temperatures earlier were in the mid 50s, but they have since dropped considerably.
So I was reminded of another poem, this one by Amy Lowell, another poet whose work I used to include in my literature classes. “Purple Grackles” is actually quite a long poem, so I decided to just include a few relative lines here:
I know that wind,
It blows the Equinox over the seeds and scatters them,
It rips petals from petals, and tears off half-turned leaves.
There is rain on the back of that wind.
There is magic in this and terror
And I watch an Autumn storm
Stripping the garden
Shouting black rain challenges
to an old, limp Summer
Laid down to die in the flower-beds. ~ Amy Lowell, from “Purple Grackles”
Anyway, the good news is that my ring finger actually looks like it’s beginning to heal, and the cut on my right pinky looks much better after I applied a Manuka ointment and dressed it yesterday; I also applied a bunch to my right calf, which I hadn’t realized was wounded until the day after that dog fight.If you don’t know about Manuka honey, it’s a really wonderful natural antibacterial; it is sources from New Zealand. This site has a really good description of its benefits.
That’s about all for today. Typing is still very awkward and a bit painful if I forget and use my ring finger. Here’s hoping that situation remedies soon.
More later Peace.
Music by Boy Epic, “Scars”
As I was going through tumblr, I saw a section from a poem by Jane Hirshfield, “For What Binds Us.” I posted this poem years ago, but in rereading the entire poem, I recognized its pertinence to my current state of affairs, i.e., trying to grow my fingertip back. So I thought that I’d share; here is the relevant section:
And see how the flesh grows backacross a wound, with a great vehemence,more strongthan the simple, untested surface before.There’s a name for it on horses,when it comes back darker and raised: proud flesh,as all flesh,is proud of its wounds, wears themas honors given out after battle,small triumphs pinned to the chest—
Music by the Pixies, “Where is My Mind?” (I had to get past the creepy clown)
Friday afternoon, more rain, 47 degrees.
I really think that it doesn’t rain nearly enough around here . . . not. The only good thing about all of the rain here is listening to it at night as it falls on the tin roof.
Anyway, sorry no post yesterday. I could think of nothing to say. Corey spent the day in bed as it’s his turn to be sick. Honestly, I wonder how long we’ll swap this bug, whatever it is. He’s better today, but he was also better earlier in the week, so who knows . . .
I’m fairly certain that the header quote is a take on Marshall McLuhan’s quote, “All through his life, he swung between the ridiculous and the sublime,” which comes from his famous 1964 book, The Medium is the Message.
(Just an aside here: I cannot believe how many people online think that the word is massage, not message . . . We really need to go back to spelling tests in grade school.)
Pretty good collection today, so enjoy.
More later. Peace.
Michigan ghost apples caused by extremely cold temperatures (found here):
This reminded me of how my old dogs used to try to get on the hammock with me . . .
From This Isn’t Happiness:
I used to love this show:
Tuesday afternoon, partly cloudy and cold, 39 degrees.
Well, great adventure yesterday . . . perhaps, not so much. Right after I posted, Dallas showed up with all of his puppies in his car. He said that he wasn’t getting out, so I let the dogs outside. They always go crazy whenever he shows up, especially Maddy as she seems to recognize all of her sisters and her brother.
Anyway, the dogs were all clustered around the car, and there was a lot of barking and howling and yelling (from Dallas) and the next thing I knew, Tillie and Bailey got into a fight, not a play fight, but one of those vicious, jealousy instigated fights, and Bailey was going for Tillie’s neck. I tried to intervene, and usually, they will break up, but this time, no.
Dallas was yelling even more, and all of the dogs were making noises, and I was grabbing collars and pulling as hard as I could, only the collars slipped off their necks. We ended up on the edge of the decline at the side of the driveway, and next thing I knew, I was rolling down with one of the dogs in my hand.
When it was all over, at first I noticed that several of my nails were torn, and then I noticed blood dripping down from my hand, and realized that the entire tip of my ring finger on my left hand was gone. It was a mess, truly.
Long story short (somewhat), Corey took me to urgent care, where they couldn’t give me any stitches, which I already knew because there was nothing to stitch. They washed it with Betadine and saline, and gave me a tetanus shot, a Toradol shot for the pain, and a very awkward dressing. The doctor recommended that I call the wound care place at the hospital, which I haven’t done yet as I just don’t have the energy, and truthfully, I just don’t want to go to another doctor. But as it’s quite a raw wound, I may just have to suck it up.
So I’m typing kind of funny, and I feel like dung, but at least I already had an idea of what I wanted to post today: a few poems by Louise Glück, another one of my favorite poets.
More later. Peace.
Do you know what I was, how I lived? You know
what despair is; then
winter should have meaning for you.
I did not expect to survive,
earth suppressing me. I didn’t expect
to waken again, to feel
in damp earth my body
able to respond again, remembering
after so long how to open again
in the cold light
of earliest spring—
afraid, yes, but among you again
crying yes risk joy
in the raw wind of the new world.
~ Louise Glück
The Silver Lily
The nights have grown cool again, like the nights
of early spring, and quiet again. Will
speech disturb you? We’re
alone now; we have no reason for silence.
Can you see, over the garden—the full moon rises.
I won’t see the next full moon.
In spring, when the moon rose, it meant
time was endless. Snowdrops
opened and closed, the clustered
seeds of the maples fell in pale drifts.
White over white, the moon rose over the birch tree.
And in the crook, where the tree divides,
leaves of the first daffodils, in moonlight
We have come too far together toward the end now
to fear the end. These nights, I am no longer even certain
I know what the end means. And you, who’ve been with a man—
after the first cries,
doesn’t joy, like fear, make no sound?
~ Louise Glück
Music by M83, “Wait” (I can’t believe I haven’t posted this one before)