“I wobble on a drunken sea, crawling between pebbles and slow fish, never knowing if anyone will like any poem.” ~ Anne Sexton, Letter to unnamed Benedictine monk (1961)

Image result for The Hours movie

“I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.” ~ Anne Sexton, from a letter to unnamed Benedictine monk

Monday afternoon, partly cloudy, 59 degrees.

Corey is on his way home from Ohio after taking his mother back after her visit. I’m still having major problems in trying to write, technical issues coupled with brain focusing issues.  Sorry . . .

Birthdays of Note . . .

With all of the computer problems and other stuff, I’ve fallen woefully behind in my authors’ birthday notices, so I thought that I’d post a few here for now:

November 6 (this was a bad day for me):
Michael Cunningham (1952), author of The Hours, for which he won the Pulitzer Prize in 1999. Also, a great movie (2002) with Meryl Streep, Julianna More, and Nicole Kidman, who won a best actress Academy Award for her portrayal of Virginia Woolf.

November 9:
Anne Sexton (November 9, 1928-October 4, 1974), one of my favorite poets. More information here on The Poetry Foundation, and an interesting article entitled “The Poet and the Monk: An Anne Sexton Love Story,” found here on Lit Hub.

November 10:
Nail Gaiman (1960), English author of short fiction, novels, comic books, graphic novels, nonfiction, audio theater, and films. He has a very cool website here.


Music by Mazzy Star, “Into Dust” (featured previously in a 2012 post)


The Ambition Bird

So it has come to this —
insomnia at 3:15 A.M.,
the clock tolling its engine

like a frog following
a sundial yet having an electric
seizure at the quarter hour.

The business of words keeps me awake.
I am drinking cocoa,
the warm brown mama.

I would like a simple life
yet all night I am laying
poems away in a long box.

It is my immortality box,
my lay-away plan,
my coffin.

All night dark wings
flopping in my heart.
Each an ambition bird.

The bird wants to be dropped
from a high place like Tallahatchie Bridge.

He wants to light a kitchen match
and immolate himself.

He wants to fly into the hand of Michelangelo
and come out painted on a ceiling.

He wants to pierce the hornet’s nest
and come out with a long godhead.

He wants to take bread and wine
and bring forth a man happily floating in the Caribbean.

He wants to be pressed out like a key
so he can unlock the Magi.

He wants to take leave among strangers
passing out bits of his heart like hors d’oeuvres.

He wants to die changing his clothes
and bolt for the sun like a diamond.

He wants, I want.
Dear God, wouldn’t it be
good enough just to drink cocoa?

I must get a new bird
and a new immortality box.
There is folly enough inside this one.

~ Anne Sexton

Wordless Wednesdays . . .

Wednesday afternoon, sunny, 56 degrees.

I just cannot imagine living in such crowded circumstances. I get claustrophobic just watching this, even though the video itself is very cool.

By the way, I’m supposed to say here how amazing Corey is for remembering which video I had planned to post today…………………..


Birthdays of Note:

October 21
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (October 21, 1772July 25, 1834)
Ursula K. Le Guin (October 21, 1929January 22, 2018)

October 22
Doris Lessing (October 22, 1919November 17, 2013), Nobel laureate

October 23
Michael Crichton (October 23, 1942-November 4, 2008)


Music by G.E.M., “倒數 (Reciprocal)”—She’s called the Chinese Taylor Swift

If it’s Friday, it must mean leftovers . . .

Clarion-Ledger, Jackson, Mississippi, July 10, 1935

Friday afternoon, cloudy and mild, 77 degrees.

So I sat at this computer for hours yesterday and produced absolutely nothing, not a single word. It’s not that I have writer’s block as I can think of at least four different things that I want to write about; it’s more that I can’t get my mind to focus enough to get started. I decided today that I’d just start and let it takes me wherever it takes me.

On Wednesday I had an appointment with my pain management group to find out the results of Monday’s MRI. So it turns out that I have a couple of bulging discs at the top of my spine, and they’re bulging towards my spine. Now I get to see a neurosurgeon for follow up. I told the NP that I’m not going to have another back surgery, not ever again. At least it kind of explains how doing these least little physical activity causes me to hurt like crazy by nightfall.

Too bad, though, as I had to dismiss the entire house staff for failing to keep my shoes polished and buffed satisfactorily. No wait. Sorry. That’s my Downton Abbey life rearing its head again. Damn. I guess that means that the laundry and housecleaning situation isn’t going to miraculously resolve itself. Corey and I had hoped to work on the whole bedroom situation once the weather cools more.

Hmm . . . things that make you go hmm . . .

Have some leftovers. More later. Peace.


Beautimous:

I miss having an intelligent, patriotic president who isn’t driven by pettiness and believes in the Constitution . . .

The more things change, the more they stay exactly the same . . .

Dr. Daniel Z. Gibson, President of Washington College, in the The Star-Democrat, Easton, Maryland, March 19, 1954

Sometimes there’s just too much to choose from:

Lisa was always my favorite:

Quick update . . .


Monday evening, drizzle and cooler, 69 degrees.

We were gone all afternoon, so of course, the dogs had a field day. Their latest trick is unfurling rolls of toilet paper and TP’ing the house. It’s adorable . . . not at all.

Had an MRI on my neck today. Wasn’t as bad as some that I’ve had in the past in that it didn’t take as long, and the machine had a wider opening so I didn’t feel as if I couldn’t breathe. The biggest surprise was that they wanted a $40 payment before they would do the test. Supposedly someone told me this, but neither Corey nor I remembered that, which is a sure sign that it didn’t happen as I always try to tell him in advance so that at least he’ll remember. This has happened before here, but never used to happen in Norfolk.

Weird. Even weirder? They gave me a 10 percent discount for paying on the day of the test, but I couldn’t get the test done unless I paid on the day on which it was scheduled. Now figure that one out

Still having major sleep issues. Maybe now that cooler weather seems to be here finally I’ll be able to sleep better at night. Who knows. Dreams have been wicked intense and detailed. Continuing issues with my prescription coverage, being told different things by different people working for the same place. That’s always fun, fun, fun.

Anyway, just wanted to do a quick note to try to get back into more regular posting once again.

Today is the birthday of an incredible poet, Amiri Baraka (October 7, 1934-January 9, 2014). You can read about him at the Poetry Foundation site. I’m including a beautiful poem that I used to feature in my American Literature classes. I liked to begin the discussion by asking the class about the implications of the poem’s title . . .

More later. Peace.


Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note

for Kellie Jones, born 16 May 1959

Lately, I’ve become accustomed to the way
The ground opens up and envelopes me
Each time I go out to walk the dog.
Or the broad edged silly music the wind
Makes when I run for a bus…

Things have come to that.

And now, each night I count the stars,
And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted,
I count the holes they leave.

Nobody sings anymore.

And then last night, I tiptoed up
To my daughter’s room and heard her
Talking to someone, and when I opened
The door, there was no one there…
Only she on her knees, peeking into

Her own clasped hands.

~ Amiri Baraka


Music by Booker T & the MG’s, “Green Onions”

“Western medicine looks at the body from a mechanistic perspective, whereas healers highlight everyone has a spirit that intimately links to the body and emotions.” ~ Dr. Francesca Panzironi, CEO of ANTAC, an organization of Aboriginal healers

Indigenous Australians see the land as a “mother” and very much alive (Credit: Bonita Grima)

“And even if there’s no magic fix for mental illness, it seems indigenous Australians have much to teach us about developing greater awareness and reciprocity with our planet for our physical and emotional survival – if we only take the time to listen.” ~ Bonita Grima, from “A 60,000=year=old cure for depression”

Thursday afternoon, sunny and too warm, 90 degrees.

The other day I read an article about Australia’s traditional Aboriginal healers and their approach to treating illnesses of the mind and body. The article, entitled “A 60,000-year-old cure for depression” was published on the BBC Travel Site.

Because of my long journey with mental and physical ailments, I’ve long had an interest in alternative medicines—and would love to know more about the various uses of herbs and plants. As I’ve mentioned, I take various vitamins and supplements like eggshell membrane and cinnamon for things like my IBS, blood sugar, and arthritis, and while Western medicine tends to scoff at the effectiveness of supplements, I have seen improvements in some things. For example, my blood sugar levels are back to normal, and my thyroid levels are closer to normal as well.

Is it a placebo effect? Who knows, but I’ll take what I can get if it means that I can take fewer prescription medicines. I think that part of what I like is that I feel as if I have more control over my health. Anyway, much of what I know, and that is limited at best—comes from reading about Native American healers, but the title of this article caught my attention.

As the article points out, the indigenous Aboriginal people of Australia have the oldest living culture on earth. However, their numbers have substantially dwindled, in large part because of the influx of Europeans, who brought all of the negative effects of colonizatioin, such diseases, violence, and forced separation of Aboriginal families and removal from traditional lands. But as the article states, one of the traditions that has remained in spite of outside factors is the role of traditional healing:

For around 60,000 years, their intricate understanding of ecology ensured survival, and their physical, spiritual, mental and emotional well-being was achieved by maintaining healthy, balanced relationships with all living and non-living things.

At the heart of their communities were traditional healers. They have been respected and entrusted with the well-being of Aboriginal communities for as long as the culture has been alive.

For the mubarrn, or elders, the most important step in healing is a connection to the land, which is directly tied to listening. The term dadirri, which means an “inner deep listening and quiet still awareness:

For indigenous Australians, this spiritual listening practice provides a way to observe and act according to the natural seasons and cycles in a way the modern world seems to have forgotten.

The article quotes Dr Francesca Panzironi, a human rights academic from Rome. Panzironi is the  CEO of Australia’s first organization of Aboriginal traditional healers,  Anangu Ngangkari Tjutaku Aboriginal Corporation (ANTAC). “For indigenous people, it’s about reconnecting to culture and accessing healing techniques that are different from Western medicine,” Panzironi said. Ngangkari are the healers of Australia’s central desert areas.

Now that I live here on the ridge, I find myself observing and learning each time I venture onto the land. Corey and I joke with one another about preparing for the zombie apocalypse, but truthfully, I want a greenhouse so that I can raise herbs so that eventually, I can learn how to make things like soap and my own tinctures, especially for treating the animals when they have small wounds or inflammations. For now, I settle for ordering things like an ointment made from Manuka honey, which is native to New Zealand and has been shown to have several healing benefits.

I’m featuring this article for those of you who may share my interest in learning what the land can provide for us. I’m including a link to a similar article about the Ngangkari healers, which can be found here, as well as an article here about some of the medicinal plants used.

Just a quick aside: I’ve been trying for almost a week to write this post, but my brain is overloaded with a bunch of stuff, so I cannot focus on one thing well enough to write about it. I hope that the above is linear enough to follow.

More later. Peace.


Aboriginal Healing Music (uncertain as to performers) composed by Giordano Trivellato and Giuliano Sacchetto

Sunday Saudade

Just a quick update . . .

Sorry for the dearth of posts. It’s been a rough week mentally. Here. Have some Bukowski:

Happy Birthday to one of my favorite authors and the writer whose work inspired my life-long love of British mysteries, Agatha Christie (September 15, 1890- January 12, 1976).

“If I had not immersed myself in books, in stories and legends, in newspapers, in reports, if everything communicable had not grown up in me, I should have been a nonentity, a collection of uncomprehended events.” ~ Ingeborg Bachmann, from The Thirtieth Year: Stories

Multi-hyphenate Austrian writer Ingeborg Bachmann

Saturday afternoon, sunny and warm, 88 degrees.

Today is supposed to be the last day for a while in which temperatures approach 90. That’s a good thing. I need to get back into the habit of walking the property, and because of my weird, new reaction to bug bites, I’m looking forward to the cooling temperatures and the reduction of no-see-ums buzzing and biting me.

As today is the last day of August, I thought that I’d share this passage from Austrian poet, essayist, lecturer, and author Ingeborg Bachmann. Bachmann was a member of the literary circle Gruppe 47 or Group 47. To read her biography, go here.

August! There they were, the days of iron made red-hot in the forge. The times resounded.

The beaches were besieged and the sea no longer rolled forward its armies of waves, but feigned exhaustion. deep and blue.

On the grill, in the sand,  roasted, moiré: the easily corruptible flesh of man. Before the sea, among the dunes: the flesh.

He was afraid because the summer squandered itself so. Because this meant that autumn would soon come. August was full of panic, full of the compulsion to snatch at life and hurry to start living.”

~ Ingeborg Bachmann, from The Thirtieth Year: Stories


Music by John Prine, “Summer’s End”


A Kind Of Loss

Used together: seasons, books, a piece of music.
The keys, teacups, bread basket, sheet and a bed.
A hope chest of words, of gestures, brought back, used, used up.
A household order maintained. Said. Done. And always a head was there.
I’ve fallen in love with winter, with a Viennese septet, wiht summer.
With Village maps, a mountain nest, a beach and a bed.
Kept a calender cult, declared promises irrevocable,
bowed before something, was pious to a nothing

(-to a folded newspaper, cold ashes, the scribbled piece of paper) ,
fearless in religion, for our bed was the church.

From my lake view arose my inexhaustible painting.
From my balcony I greeted entire peoples, my neighbors.
By the chimney fire, in safety, my hair took on its deepest hue.
The ringing at the door was the alarm for my joy.

It’s not you I’ve lost,
but the world.