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:
Seen in the window at Gulf of Maine Books in Brunswick, Maine. Photo: Bill Roorbach
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 . . .
It’s dark because you are trying too hard. Lightly child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly. Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them. I was so preposterously serious in those days, such a humorless little prig. Lightly, lightly—it’s the best advice ever given me. When it comes to dying even. Nothing ponderous, or portentous, or emphatic. No rhetoric, no tremolos, no self conscious persona putting on its celebrated imitation of Christ or Little Nell. And of course, no theology, no metaphysics. Just the fact of dying and the fact of the clear light. So throw away your baggage and go forward. There are quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet, trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair. That’s why you must walk so lightly. Lightly my darling, on tiptoes and no luggage, not even a sponge bag, completely unencumbered.
~ Aldous Huxley, from Island (my favorite Huxley quote)
Literary Birthday: Aldous Huxley, born 26 July 1894, died 22 November 1963
15 Aldous Huxley Quotes
The propagandist’s purpose is to make one set of people forget that certain other sets of people are human.
Every man’s memory is his private literature.
There are things known and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception.
The proper study of mankind is books.
That men do not learn very much from the lessons of history is the most important of all the lessons that history has to teach.
A bad book is as much of a labor to write as a good one, it comes as sincerely from the author’s soul.
Happiness is not achieved by the conscious pursuit of happiness; it is generally the by-product of other activities.
Experience is not what happens to you; it’s what you do with what happens to you.
I wanted to change the world. But I have found that the only thing one can be sure of changing is oneself
The more powerful and original a mind, the more it will incline towards the religion of solitude.
Maybe this world is another planet’s hell.
Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored.
Technological progress has merely provided us with more efficient means for going backwards.
Hell isn’t merely paved with good intentions; it’s walled and roofed with them. Yes, and furnished too.
That all men are equal is a proposition which at ordinary times no sane individual has ever given his assent.
Huxley was an English writer, best known for his dystopian novel, Brave New World. He also edited the magazine Oxford Poetry. Huxley was a humanist, pacifist, and satirist, who was also well known for his advocacy and consumption of psychedelic drugs.
“Untitled: Moonlight Marsh Scene” (detail, nd, oil on canvas) by Granville Redmond
“I have been and still am a seeker, but I have ceased to question stars and books. I have begun to listen to the teaching my blood whispers to me.” ~ Hermann Hess, from Demian
I had that dream again, the one in which I am moving/living in the old apartment. This time, it’s much bigger, and my mother has sold her home and we are all going to live together. A friend of ours is helping us to unpack, and there are so many Christmas decorations tucked away in strange places. And then I’m looking at the special pieces that I have gotten from the woman at the museum, the one who gave me my pick of her collection for taking care of everything for her. And some of my favorite pieces are missing, like a gilded punch bowl.
“Monterey Moonlight” (nd, oil on canvas) by Granville Redmond
My mother is putting things in the wrong place, and I’m trying not to snap. Then I look in one of the bathrooms and find that it is filthy, that someone has used it like a public restroom, and I am looking for gloves and old towels so that I can clean it. In my mind, I am confused as to whether or not I am with Corey or my ex or my Catholic boyfriend. I’m mostly confused because my ex is acting like he lives there, and I am so confused.
And then I remember the dogs, the ones that I always forget to feed in the dream. When they appear in the dream they are in various stages of illness, and it distresses me, mostly because it’s my fault that I have forgotten that they are in the back yard. But, and this always happens when they appear, I stop to ask myself if anyone has told me about the dogs . . .
“This shaking keeps me steady. I should know. What falls away is always. And is near. I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. I learn by going where I have to go.” ~ Theodore Roethke, from “The Waking”
I dreamed I was Marilyn Monroe, not about her, but I was her. Very, very strange. It was a full-blown story with other people interacting, and my mother, who was MM’s mother, and she was just as weird to MM as she is to me. In fact, most of the people in the dream treated me as MM with a great deal of disdain, and I spent a lot of time trying to convince people that I wasn’t stupid.
“Night Sea” (nd, oil on canvas) by Granville Redmond
I think the dream probably had that slant because of all of the images of Marilyn reading books that show up on my tumblr dash. Apparently she was an avid reader, but I have to wonder if perhaps this belief wasn’t something perpetuated by her publicist so that people would take her more seriously, only in the 50’s and 60’s, blond bombshells weren’t supposed to be taken seriously, so maybe she actually did like to read? Hmm . . .
My world today has been enriched by three incredible poems that I found on my tumblr dash: Michael Lee‘s “Pass On,” Sierra DeMulder‘s “Ninety-Five Grievances to God: Abridged,” and Mark Strand‘s “Eating Poetry.” I plan to use each of them in upcoming posts.
Apparently, there is a blue theme running in the background of my day, hence, most of the accompanying images by my latest discovery—Granville Redmond. Such lovely hues of blue running through his work.
“You hold an absence at your center, as if it were a life.” ~ Richard Brostoff, from “Grief”
I began this post two days ago, maybe three. I honestly don’t remember. The end of the week seemed to be compressed into a few hours. On Thursday, Corey went to do his shift on the ship, only to be told that they were leaving port that afternoon at 4 p.m., which meant that the two days we still thought that we had did not in fact exist. Lots of rushing around, doing last-minute things.
“Morning on the Pacific” (1911, oil on canvas) by Granville Redmond
I had planned to watch Olivia on Thursday so that Corey could spend some time with her, so I also had to fit that in, along with getting Brett to campus. Lots of rushing created lots of stress.
On Friday, Brett, Em, and I did more running around, trips to two different Wal Marts, Sally’s Beauty supply for some new nail polish, and a trip to the international market for more of the mochi ice cream that is not my favorite addiction, and by Friday night I was exhausted, but apparently not exhausted enough not to spend all of Saturday afternoon cleaning. I had planned to make French toast and bacon for dinner last night, but that didn’t happen. I ended up eating cheese puffs and trail mix. So healthy.
I guess I’ll do the French toast tonight, that is if I don’t crawl back into the bed and just read.
“I walk slowly into myself through a forest of empty suits of armor.” ~ Tomas Tranströmer, from “Postludium,” trans. Robin Fulton
Anyway, outside of the home front, major things afoot. I watched the live news feed on Friday night of what looked like every cop and FBI agent in Boston as they surrounded this one house in Watertown, waiting to take down the other bombing suspect. It was one of those can’t-look-away scenarios, and then suddenly it was over, and people were pouring into the streets to celebrate.
“Moonlit Pond” (nd, oil on canvas) by Granville Redmond
I kept hearing commentators saying that this kind of takedown wasn’t possible with the Oklahoma City bombings or after the first WTC bombing, but now all first responders are using the same communications network so that everyone can hook into everyone else. Seems odd when you realize just how much technology has advanced the hunting of criminals, making it possible to go from a major catastrophic event on one day to a resolution (as far as capture) just five days later.
I mean seriously—camera footage, cell phone images, the ability to isolate the two perpetrators through a process of elimination, identifying the perpetrators, plastering every possible media source with their pictures, locking down one of the country’s biggest cities and surrounding suburbs, and then, voila. Well, not really voila, but you get my drift.
I guess I’m just amazed when I look at everything that happened so quickly, amazed and relieved, like so many other people.
“I begin now to write down all the places I have not been— starting with the most distant.
I build houses that I will not inhabit.” ~ Keith Waldrop, from “Poet”
Even though I began this post days ago, the blue theme is still fitting, so I’m not going to change the images I had planned.
One thing I’ve been trying to decide whether or not, or how much to write about is my mother’s health. On Wednesday, her doctor’s office called and told her that they wanted to do another CT scan to repeat what was done when she was in the ER. On Thursday morning she went in to have that done. As of yet, we still have not heard anything. She is downplaying it. I had asked her if she wanted me to go with her on Thursday for the scan, and she said no, that it was no big deal.
“Opalescent Sea” (1918, oil on canvas) by Granville Redmond
On Friday, I called to see if she had heard from her doctor and she said that she hadn’t, but that he had lots of patients. I bit my tongue and didn’t say what I was thinking, which is that I don’t care how many patients he has, this is serious, and we need to know what is going on, but I said nothing because to let on how worried I am would only worsen things.
I don’t know what’s going to happen; I don’t know what is wrong with her, perhaps nothing, perhaps something. I only know that when my dad’s doctor called and said that he needed to go in for follow-up tests, he was told he had six months to live, and he lived for less than two. I try not to think of these things, but I do. Of course I do.
I’ll keep my thoughts to myself when I’m talking to my mom, but perhaps I can share them with you?
Books with loose bindings
and misplaced pages.
Coffee cups with chipped
lips and snapped handles.
The rusted old tractor
in my grandfather’s yard
that hasn’t rumbled in years,
and the sparrow nest
in its belly full of eggshells
a tabby cat tore open.
A burnt patch of grass,
a pile of glass taken in
by a family of gravel.
An old red oak,
opened and weeviled,
that becomes a home
for new and varied life,
even if it cannot stand up
any longer.
Lola's Curmudgeonly Musings 