Well, here is what’s been happening in the ongoing saga of non-functioning laptop. On Sunday last, I decided to bite the bullet and completely reset my laptop in an attempt to fix the script errors and all of the other stuff that’s been making posting well nigh impossible without pulling out my hair. I’ve spent the days since reloading the stuff that was deleted in the reset, finishing updates, etc. At first, it looked promising that things had been fixed, and then not so much.
I’m still trying to work out the bugs, and that New Year’s post that I began over two weeks ago (really? that long?) is still unfinished. I decided to post the following quote by Tom Robbins just to let you know that yes, I’m still here, but no, I haven’t fixed my laptop or my internal dysfunctions to allow for regular posting.
I’m trying. Truly I am.
How can one person be more real than any other? Well, some people do hide and others seek. Maybe those who are in hiding—escaping encounters, avoiding surprises, protecting their property, ignoring their fantasies, restricting their feelings, sitting out the pan pipe hootchy-kootch of experience—maybe those people, people who won’t talk to rednecks, or if they’re rednecks won’t talk to intellectuals, people who’re afraid to get their shoes muddy or their noses wet, afraid to eat what they crave, afraid to drink Mexican water, afraid to bet a long shot to win, afraid to hitchhike, jaywalk, honky-tonk, cogitate, osculate, levitate, rock it, bop it, sock it, or bark at the moon, maybe such people are simply inauthentic, and maybe the jacklet humanist who says differently is due to have his tongue fried on the hot slabs of Liar’s Hell. Some folks hide, and some folk’s seek, and seeking, when it’s mindless, neurotic, desperate, or pusillanimous can be a form of hiding. But there are folks who want to know and aren’t afraid to look and won’t turn tail should they find it—and if they never do, they’ll have a good time anyway because nothing, neither the terrible truth nor the absence of it, is going to cheat them out of one honest breath of Earth’s sweet gas.
“For we all of us, grave or light, get our thoughts entangled in metaphors, and act fatally on the strength of them.” ~ George Eliot, from Middlemarch
Friday afternoon, drizzle, 48 degrees.
Another week without much production on my part. I’ve spent over a week trying to coordinate the delivery of my next Aimovig shot, and the entire process has been unnecessarily tedious and difficult, talking with different reps each day, being told different things each day, being told delivery was scheduled only to find that it has not been scheduled.
As I’m getting this medication free, I probably should not complain, but what bothers me the most is that I have been unable to introduce this medicine into my system uninterrupted; it’s one of those things that needs consistency to work best, so because of the hiccup in delivery, I’m starting over.
Things like this tend to consume my attention, which means that everything else falls by the wayside, which, most especially, means posting (or not posting, as it were) with any regularity. Add to this the stress resulting from the omnipresent impeachment hearings, and my daily allotment of brain cells burns up far too quickly.
I know. I could not pay attention to the politics, and I could ignore the incompetence of the people giving me incorrect information, but you and I both know that I won’t.
Oh well . . . . . . Have some leftovers . . . . . . . . .
Today is the birthday of British writer George Eliot, pen name for Mary Ann Evans (November 22, 1819–December 22, 1880). You can read about her here.
This explains Japan’s love affair with all things Kit Kat related:
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
Tuesday morning, cloudy with approaching storms, 82 degrees.
I have an appointment in Abingdon today with the Neurologist. It couldn’t have come at a better time considering I had one of the worse episodes I’ve had in a very long time and am still feeling the effects. Here’s hoping that it goes better than the last one in which she spent most of the time telling me what she could not do for me.
Here. Have some Tennessee Whiskey. I wouldn’t mind having some myself.
“cleansed as baptism leaves the soul, pure enough to sleep— as you instruct him—with the angels, cleaner than he’ll ever be again.” ~ Stuart Dybek, from “Bath”
Tuesday afternoon, storms, 73 degrees.
Today’s Two for Tuesday theme is the bath. I was perusing the Poetry Foundation site yesterday, and I came across the Amy Lowell poem below, which I had never read. Then last night, after being caught in the rain, I decided to take a hot bath, but I made the water too hot, so when I emerged, I was completely spent, and my legs felt like rubber—you know, like how you feel after getting out of a hot tub.
Anyway, my mind focused on baths, I decided to post Lowell and one by D. H. Lawrence, who I don’t use nearly enough.
(Side note: I always had a really hard time with the works by Lawrence in grad school, so one of these days I need to go back to Sons and Lovers, which I only pretended to read once upon a time, one of the few times that I actually did that.)
The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air.
The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It cleaves the water into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light.
Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot and the planes of light in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is almost too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright day. I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots. The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is a whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air.
~ Amy Lowell
Gloire de Dijon
When she rises in the morning
I linger to watch her;
She spreads the bath-cloth underneath the window
And the sunbeams catch her
Glistening white on the shoulders,
While down her sides the mellow
Golden shadow glows as
She stoops to the sponge, and her swung breasts
Sway like full-blown yellow
Gloire de Dijon roses.
She drips herself with water, and her shoulders
Glisten as silver, they crumple up
Like wet and falling roses, and I listen
For the sluicing of their rain-dishevelled petals.
In the window full of sunlight
Concentrates her golden shadow
Fold on fold, until it glows as
Mellow as the glory roses.
“More and more I have the sense of being present at a point of absence where crossing centuries may prove to be like crossing languages. Soundwaves. It’s the difference between one stillness and another stillness.” ~ Susan Howe, from “The Disappearance Approach”
Not really sure that I have a lot to say today. I sit and stare at the quotes I have gathered for today’s post, hoping that some word or phrase will inspire me, but nothing happens. It’s as if words themselves have decided to take a hiatus in my brain; they do not wish to appear in cogent ways for me.
I had another’s doctor’s appointment yesterday, for my annual female exam, and I actually managed to get there on time. I asked the doctor doing the exam if she could take a look at my hand, which I injured the other day while trying to shoot a gun. Her response was actually quite witty: “Well, that’s not your vagina, and I’m here to look at your vagina.”
The office that I was in is set up with residents and two attending physicians, so I suppose as this particular resident was on vagina duty, she couldn’t really help with the big oozing gash on my hand unless the attending physician agreed. Ultimately, though, she looked at it as did the attending. As I had suspected, I should have gotten stitches when it happened, but it was the day after Max’s death, and I was in no shape to go anywhere or talk to anyone, so I didn’t go. As a result, the gash, which is about an inch long, isn’t really healing well. Yesterday I couldn’t touch my little finger to my thumb because of the swelling.
I was prescribed some doxycycline, but as we are more than flat broke, I cannot pick it up. Yet another case of being too poor to be healthy.
“Alone with wind. I came here to tell you I have loved everything once.” ~ Gregory Sherl, from “How to Brave Night”
Anyway, today the wound looks better, or at least I’m telling myself that. It isn’t too uncomfortable to type, so at least there’s that.
Corey is working on a structure for the goats. Bobby looks like she’s going to give birth soon, and we are fairly certain that Ruby is pregnant as well. I really hope that she is so that we can have at least a piece of Max to hold onto.
The two female goats that we bought in Roanoke are quite a pair, mother and daughter. If they become separated by more than a few feet, the daughter, Bobby, begins to bray loudly. It’s sweet, but it also functions as an alarm. If I hear Bobby making noise, it usually means that Sylvia has come inside the kitchen door. I don’t know what it is about these goats that makes them think that they should live in the house, unless it’s that Roland is still inside with us; he is quite spoiled and has his own alarm system: if Corey leaves the room in which Roland happens to still be situated, Roland begins to bleat very loudly and then runs through the house looking for him. I’m not the only one who spoils animals . . .
The dogs have been quite good in the last few days, and I’m hoping that I’ve broken them of chasing the goats. We’re both keeping a keen eye on them while everyone is outside, and if I yell out the door at them, they all immediately stop what they’re doing. Nevertheless, we must be ever vigilant. I really cannot handle a repeat of what happened to Max, and neither can Corey.
“I find I get more and more disagreeably solitary; In fact I foresee the day when I shall have gone too far into myself that there will no longer be anything to be seen of me at all.” ~ Vita Sackville-West, from letter to Virginia Woolf
It’s supposed to rain here for the next four days, and I’m trying to talk Corey into doing some painting inside. It’s at times like these that I really wish that his brothers were closer so that they could help him with some of what needs to be done. The reality is that I could probably paint a bit, but it’s more than that: we need to move furniture and other stuff, lifting that I simply cannot do. I feel so useless.
Lately I’ve been experiencing spasms in my lower back once again. I told Corey that even if my back gets bad again that there’s no way that I will ever have another back operation, not unless it’s the kind that can be done with a small incision and no long hospital stay.
Speaking of backs and mobility and such, I’ve been pondering yet again whether or not I should try to go back to work. I miss working, but more, I miss the income. However, if I did try to go back to work, my disability would cease, and then if something happened again, I would have to start the whole process once more, and it took so long with social security in the first place—two hearings, a stupid judge, two appeals, years of waiting. Honestly, I don’t know what to do.
I think of Eliot’s “Prufrock” poem: “Do I dare? Do I dare?” I really loved that poem so much, one of my all-time favorites.
“One can sometimes touch, in the distance between two people, a moment of another person’s endless dream.” ~ Yves Bonnefoy, from “Les Arbres” (The Trees), trans. John Naughton
And speaking of dogs and goats, Roland and Bailey continue their friendship. Roland has taken to butting Bailey’s head gently as she lays sleeping, and oddly enough, Bailey does nothing. She allows him to do whatever he wants to her, and I am quite amazed. He also licks her ears. I swear that this goat thinks that he’s a dog, and I’m uncertain as to how he’ll adjust to living outside once he’s weaned, which will be soon.
The other day Corey and I went over to Dallas’s house to look at the horses. Dallas says that he’s going to let me pick out some horses to have over here, but he’s still claiming that Napoleon cannot come yet. I want Napoleon and Petra to be returned, but I’m trying not to pin my hopes on anything that Dallas says as we all know that what he says should be taken with a very small grain of salt.
A while back (cannot remember if I mentioned this), one of Dallas’s RVs and part of his storage burned down. He claims that someone did it during the night, which is definitely possible as his feud with his nephew continues, but there is also the possibility that Dallas was so drunk that he started the first himself accidentally, or maybe even on purpose; however, he has no insurance, so I cannot think why he’d deliberately commit arson.
I hate that I even think these things of him.
While we were there, though, we picked a bunch of cherries from his cherry tree in the front yard. I’ve never seen such a big cherry tree. He says that he planted it when he first moved onto the property, which means that it is several decades old. I had no idea that fruit trees could survive for so long. The cherries are quite small, but tasty, and apparently, his dogs like to eat them, which is good as they all continue to look very malnourished.
“But even so, every now and then I would feel a violent stab of loneliness. The very water I drink, the very air I breathe, would feel like long, sharp needles. The pages of a book in my hands would take on the threatening metallic gleam of razor blades. I could hear the roots of loneliness creeping through me when the world was hushed at four o’clock in the morning.” ~ Haruki Murakami, from The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle
I suppose I did have a few things to say, surprisingly enough, although I’m not sure how much more I have in me.
Look. The dry spell continues. My ability to string together words creatively continues to elude me. The joy that I normally find in writing these posts simply isn’t there, and I cannot seem to find that wellspring that houses my spark or my muse or whatever it is that is missing.
I would dearly love to know how to overcome this block so that once again this blog provides me with a sense of accomplishment as opposed to feeling that it is a burden that I approach reluctantly each time I try to compose. This blog has served me well for many years. I began it as an experiment, and it morphed into a way of life for me. I have very fond memories of sitting at my desk on Benjamin and rapidly writing 1,000 words without a second’s hesitation. I want that again. I need that again. And I think that I deserve to have that again in my life again.
Am I kidding myself? I truly do not know.
More later, I hope. Peace.
Feeling nostalgic for the British countryside today.*
Music by Winona Oak, “Don’t Save Me”
You Ask Me to Talk About the Interior
it was all roadside flowers & grasses
growing over the cities
was made of wilderness & sky
with God washed out of it
was the foreign prayer-word
it was a list of missing persons
was the solid bronze charging
bull on the famous street
was like the Roman method for making bees
was its taken-down carcass
& its bed of apple branches & thyme
was a new anatomy, a beaten hide,
a skeleton sweetening to glowing fluids,
& the bee born out, & the grist of them born
glistening as coins
it was anthem
was the listening,
the way a searchlight listens over a lake
it was the prayer-word out of your mouth
your thousand-noun request
it goes up up to the florescent weather
was an ivory box,
was hurdle & burn, burning through
the infinite, your overbright comet
was made of stones, made of berries & box tops & eggshells
it was like the word having reached the ear
& the words pollinated the dark, there was darkness there,
like the after-hours inside a library