“Can we really conquer chaos so easily? If that were so, I should be able to prune the pandemonium of my own soul into something neat and tidy rather than this maze of wants and needs and misgivings that has me forever feeling as if I cannot fit into the landscape of things.” ~ Libba Bray, from The Far Sweet Thing
Friday afternoon, overcast but mild, 66 degrees.
I’m in one of those moods. Yep. Could it be day five of this unending migraine? Awaking each morning at 4 a.m. for no particular reason and being unable to go back to sleep? Eating stale tortilla chips and salsa because I’m craving salt and now I have incredible heartburn? The fact that I’ve been trying to write Tuesday’s post for 4 days and can’t get past the poem? Continuing/unending issues with just trying to live our lives?
All of it? None of it?
Whatever . . .
Oh, the good old days . . . kind of . . . you know, Spanish flu deaths, diseases, sexism, racism, rampant poverty, fascism . . . no, wait . . . yep, that whole making us great again thing . . .
Found on irisharchaelogy’s tumblr:
From Ultrafacts.com (love this one):
Many of these old trees were dying or had died and, despite their age, were destined for a meeting with a chainsaw. Tingle, however, saw potential in the old trees and over time transformed many of them into remarkable works of art. They are located in Orr Park, Montevallo, AL (Fact Source)
This one reminds me of how Paramount’s mountain logo faded to the mountain in Raiders of the Lost Ark:
I love drinks with paper umbrellas; it’s like Hawaiian Punch:
Sorry no post yesterday. One of the horses, Petra, was very sick. According to Dallas, sometimes horses get sick from eating too much green grass too quickly. Anyway, he picked her up in the horse trailer and worked with her, giving her electrolytes, and some concoction for constipation. Corey went back over last night to double check on her and make sure that Dallas hadn’t just shut her up in the barn. Fortunately, he was pleasantly surprised as Dallas was genuinely taking care of her.
I won’t even get into details on the last thing he did when one of his horses died, but suffice it to say that had I been present, I might have beat him with his cane . . .
Anyway, while he was here, Dallas also loaded up Amy, Boots, and Franklin. He had said that he wanted to separate Franklin from any of the mares that might be going into heat, which is fine, but I still don’t know why he took Amy or Boots. He assured Corey that he’d return Boots and Petra. At least he knows not to touch Napoleon.
More later Peace.
We should all strive to be the people our dogs imagine us to be. Just saying . . .
I can actually see something like this happening . . .
I don’t know if this one is true, but it’s what I imagine I’d do if ever I was forced to be a greeter . . .
What the hell are people learning in school lately? Anything? Anything? Bueller? Bueller?
Is it sad that I can relate to this kid?
Me, at the end of “Orphan Black,” or “Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” or the upcoming final season of “Game of Thrones.”
And finally, I will always, always, post Nurse Rat-chit:
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 . . .
Friday afternoon, overcast and drizzle once again, 54 degrees.
Don’t even get me started on the presidential faux state of emergency.
During the night when I opened the door to let the dogs out, I was hit in the face with the smell of impending spring, which is miraculous considering we have horses and the accompanying smell of equine eau du poo. It almost made the sleeplessness worth it. Almost.
I began a post on Monday, picked it up again yesterday, and still haven’t finished it. So . . . should I finish or scrap it and start over? Thoughts, opinions, ideas?
Anyway, enjoy today’s collection.
I want a red hat that says this:
I want a baby elephant . . .
Why all of the reminders about my age?
The entire automotive industry was against seat belts at one time. Now, they spend all of their time trying to out do one another with more and more safety features. Go figure . . .
I cannot even begin to list the number of times this happened to me when I had to get up for work . . .
“my dry spell the thing I don’t talk about with anyone.
My desperation: first of many. Hollow, or hollowed, depending on where you stand;” ~ Jesse Rice-Evans, from “The Self as Liminal, Endless”
Sunday afternoon, overcast and cold, 43 degrees.
I’ve spent the past few days trying to figure out why I cannot put words down here. It’s disconcerting and weird. But I have landed on one possible reason: I set myself up.
Yes. Exactly that. Let me explain: I find these beautiful passages in my meanderings around the ether, mostly on tumblr. I group them by themes, creating drafts for possible future posts, and then I sit down to write, and nothing that I think I can say seems to be worthy of the words of others. Actually, I think that probably the reason for many instances of writer’s block for me, and possibly others—the writer doesn’t feel worthy, doesn’t feel as if she has anything new to say, so what’s the point.
It’s a twisted kind of self-fulfilling prophecy: my words aren’t good enough so I cannot produce the words. The irony is that half of today’s quotes are not from a previously created draft, but from my most recent tumblr visit. I only have about 120 drafts to work through.
“I don’t think any of us can speak frankly about pain until we are no longer enduring it.” ~ Arthur Golden, from Memoirs of a Geisha
Speaking of beautiful words, Golden’s novel about a geisha is one of the best written novels that I’ve ever read. Unfortunately, I fear that my copy ended up in one of those tubs in storage that we lost. The loss of most of my library still pains me. Some of you may view a collection of books as needless, nothing but something to take up space, but books have always, always been my salvation.
I began reading at a very young age, and as an only child, books became my boon companion. Once I started working as a teen, I began to collect hardback books with the money that I earned. That’s how long I’ve been at it. And I had some truly incredible editions, things that have gone out of print. I remember that I had a two-book, oversized collection of all the works by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; I love Sherlock Holmes. But now that set, as well as most of the rest of my collection are gone.
I didn’t just put my books in storage bins and forget them. I can say fairly certainly that I’ve read at least 80 percent of my books more than one time. My dream in the old house was always to have built-in bookcases in the living room. That never happened, and now this small house does not have the space for a wall of bookcases, which I suppose it just as well as I no longer own almost a thousand volumes of fiction, poetry, history, and biographies.
“Here is the river, and here is the box, and here are the monsters we put in the box to test our strength against.” ~ Richard Siken, from “Snow and Dirty Rain”
My big plans to clean the house have not materialized. You see, Corey left on Friday for Ohio for a visit with his family, which means that I am alone here with the animals. The being alone part is not problematic, as I’ve stated numerous times. The sticking point is that I’m still sick. The cough awakens me in the middle of the night, and my body is just depleted.
So here I sit in the midst off muddy paw prints on the wood floors; add to that the shredded tissues that the pups have dragged out of the waste baskets, and you are left with quite a mess, one that I find quite oppressive. I suppose it’s all just coalescing and pressing down on me, making me feel as if everything is just too much.
And then, mere minutes after Corey made his way down the driveway, the toilet clogged, and for some reason, the good plunger that I had at the old house is missing, and the only thing I have to work with is some bizarre design of a plunger that requires me to use my non-existent upper body strength in order to create the adequate suction. Aren’t you glad I shared that with you?
And then . . . I got in the car with Bailey to take her for a short drive to the mailbox only to find that my vehicle is dead and probably needs a new battery. Corey took Tilly with him to give her a special treat (she loves to travel with him), so I’m trying to give Bailey extra attention as she was quite pissed when they left, but the new bag of dog chew is probably in the mailbox, which I cannot get to without hiking a few miles.
Under better circumstances, the mileage would not matter, but as I begin to cough and wheeze moving from the kitchen to the bedroom, it doesn’t bode well for a hike down the mud in the cold.
“She was . . . flame-like and fierily sad. I think she did not know she was sad. But her heart was eaten by some impotence in her life.” ~ D. H. Lawrence, from Twilight in Italy: The Lemon Gardens
Among the positives (because, yes, there are definitely still positives), we’ve finally had some clear nights again, and the night sky is breathtaking. One night as I stood on the porch just admiring the view, the stars seemed to be hanging just above the ridge. One day I’m going to get a good telescope. Brett had one when he was younger, but it wasn’t very good, and you couldn’t really see much from the yard of the old house because of all of the light pollution.
That’s definitely not an issue here. Once we turn off the outside lights when we go to bed, the darkness is so complete that you literally cannot see the top of the driveway. It bothered me when we first got here, but now, it’s fine . . . most of the time.
When I woke up coughing around dawn, I looked out the window that faces the front of the house, and I thought I saw a truck parked in front of the house, not Corey’s pickup, but more like a box truck. Then I put on my glasses and realized that it was actually just a square of pitch black between the porch posts. It was weird.
Of course, if there were anyone or anything out there, the dogs would be spastic, especially Maddy, who still barks at the horses as if they only just appeared in the pasture. I really wish that I had taken her from Dallas sooner because she is a bugger to train; even a simple command like “sit” seems to just fly over her head. I won’t even get into Dallas’s beliefs about training dogs except to say that it’s pretty much non-existent except for making them bark like crazy . . .
“One winter I lived north, alone and effortless, dreaming myself into the past. Perhaps, I thought, words could replenish privacy.” ~ Jennifer Chang, from “The World”
I am making an effort not to spend hours on tumblr as I used to when it first came around. My logic is that I need to put the effort here, not there. It is a rather addicting site, though. I mean, there’s so much there. Predictably, I follow people who post quotes from poems and other literature, as well as photography, art, and some architecture, but there are sites that are nothing but memes, or comics, or old firearms, or artistic porn (well, maybe not any more since tumbler instituted puritanical restrictions), etc. ad nauseam
I find it to be quite a good source to jump-start my thought processes, and after perusing my dashboard, which is where the posts appear, my brain seems to be more primed to do something, anything; unfortunately, for the past two (four?) days, that something has been nothing more than playing spider solitaire.
This morning, I deliberately did not open tumblr or spider solitaire; it’s just too easy, and I’m tired of doing easy. Well, I’m tired—that part is true. Seriously, though, I’m fed up with doing nothing. I’m so ready for warmer weather so that I can work on the kitchen cabinets and all of the other projects that have been set aside for winter. But I’m also fed up with myself, fed up with being sick (I really hate to be so sick that I’m incapacitated), fed up with doing nothing.
I keep remembering how I used to clean the entire house, top to bottom, every Saturday morning of my life from the time I was about 10. I enjoyed it—truly. It was the whole thing of being able to get immediate tangible results that I could see as soon as I had finished.
Tangible results aren’t as apparent when you write for yourself, at least not when it feels forced, but you see, I have to take my own advice, the advice that I used to give my students: If you can think of nothing to say, write “I can think of nothing to say, repeatedly, until you do think of nothing to say.” It was an exercise that I started every writing class that I taught, and it almost always produced results.
Okay, so I haven’t written that phrase over and over, but I’m trying to apply the principle: just writing whatever pops into my head in the hopes that I might actually create something more than fodder.
So maybe not so much today, as in more than fodder, but hey, I tried, which is more than I can say about the last few weeks. Anyway, that’s the latest.
More later, in the hopes that the words will flow better. Peace.
Music by Shells, “Jagwar” (discovered this on The Magicians, my current favorite show)
a selection from “Snow and Dirty Rain”
If this isn’t a kingdom then I don’t know what is.
So how would you catalog it? Dawn in the fields?
Snow and dirty rain? Light brought in in buckets?
I was trying to describe the kingdom, but the letters
kept smudging as I wrote them: the hunter’s heart,
the hunter’s mouth, the trees and the trees and the
space between the trees, swimming in gold. The words
frozen. The creatures frozen. The plum sauce
leaking out of the bag. Explaining will get us nowhere.
I was away, I don’t know where, lying on the floor,
pretending I was dead. I wanted to hurt you
but the victory is that I could not stomach it. We have
swallowed him up, they said. It’s beautiful. It really is.
I had a dream about you. We were in the gold room
where everyone finally gets what they want.
You said Tell me about your books, your visions made
of flesh and light and I said This is the Moon. This is
the Sun. Let me name the stars for you. Let me take you
there. The splash of my tongue melting you like a sugar
cube… We were in the gold room where everyone
finally gets what they want, so I said What do you
want, sweetheart? and you said Kiss me. Here I am
leaving you clues. I am singing now while Rome
burns. We are all just trying to be holy. My applejack,
my silent night, just mash your lips against me.
We are all going forward. None of us are going back.