Sunday afternoon . . .

This particular Gustave Caillebotte painting, “Paris Street; Rainy Day” (1877, oil on canvas) has always been one of my favorites, and I came across this video of the restoration. The finished restoration is just lovely:

 

“The only noise now was the rain, pattering softly with the magnificent indifference of nature for the tangled passions of humans.” ~ Sherwood Smith

Untitled (1991, oil on photograph) by Gerhard Richter
Untitled (1991, oil on photograph)
by Gerhard Richter

                    

Two for Tuesday: Rain

Rain on Tin

If I ever get over the bodies of women, I am going to think of the rain,
of waiting under the eaves of an old house
at that moment
when it takes a form like fog.
It makes the mountain vanish.
Then the smell of rain, which is the smell of the earth a plow turns up,
only condensed and refined.
Almost fifty years since thunder rolled
and the nerves woke like secret agents under the skin.
Brazil is where I wanted to live.
The border is not far from here.
Lonely and grateful would be my way to end,
and something for the pain please,
a little purity to sand the rough edges,
a slow downpour from the Dark Ages,
a drizzle from the Pleistocene.
As I dream of the rain’s long body,
I will eliminate from mind all the qualities that rain deletes
and then I will be primed to study rain’s power,
the first drops lightly hallowing,
but now and again a great gallop of the horse of rain
or an explosion of orange-green light.
A simple radiance, it requires no discipline.
Before I knew women, I knew the lonely pleasures of rain.
The mist and then the clearing.
I will listen where the lightning thrills the rooster up a willow,
and my whole life flowing
until I have no choice, only the rain,
and I step into it.

~ Rodney Jones

                   

Gustave Caillebotte THe Yerres, Rain, oil on canvas 1875
“The Yerres, Rain” (1875, oil on canvas)
by Gustave Caillebotte

The Rain

All night the sound had
come back again,
and again falls
this quite, persistent rain.

What am I to myself
that must be remembered,
insisted upon
so often?  Is it

that never the ease,
even the hardness,
of rain falling
will have for me

something other than this,
something not so insistent—
am I to be locked in this
final uneasiness.

Love, if you love me,
lie next to me.
Be for me, like rain,
the getting out

of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi-
lust of intentional indifference.
Be wet
with a decent happiness.

~ Robert Creeley

                   

Music by Hunter Hayes, “Rainy Season”

“All we do is pass through here, the best way we can.” ~ Barbara Crooker, from “Sometimes, I Am Startled Out of Myself”

Edvard Munch Winter, Kragero 1912 oil on canvas
“Winter, Kragero” (1912, oil on canvas)
by Edvard Munch

                   

“I have a deeply hidden and inarticulate desire for something beyond the daily life.” ~ Virgina Woolf

Saturday evening. Drizzle and cold, 45 degrees.

Not feeling that much better, but feel the need to write. I’ve turned down the brightness on my monitor to 50 percent, and at first I thought that might be bad for my eyes, but then I realized what a ridiculous concern that was as my eyes are terrible anyway, and at least the glare from the screen wasn’t so painful.

Ivan Shishkin City Roofs in Winter nd
“City Roofs in Winter” (nd, medium unknown)
by Ivan Shishkin

Today I awoke with a headache again, but very, very dizzy as well. Yesterday I had Corey give me one of those wonderful new self-injections of Sumavel (sumatriptan). Let me pause here: that wonderful air forced delivery method? Jay-zus it hurts, much, much worse than a needle. Give me a needle any day. The first time we did my thigh. Yesterday we used my belly for the injection site, which didn’t hurt quite as much, probably because there is more fat on my belly than on my thigh. Anyway, the headache went away, but the nausea and dizziness . . . egads.

I don’t know if I can do this new regimen, but I’m willing to give everything a bit longer for my personal test period. I have an appointment in about a month for Botox injections for my migraines. I guess I’ll know by then if this new combination of meds is or isn’t working.

“I didn’t know what to do, there was a feeling of time running out and a loss of momentum, of opportunities wasted.” ~ Jon McGregor, from If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things

Last night I had very strange dreams. In one of them, I was at a department store buying Christmas presents. First I was in the music section, and I was looking for classical cds, only there were still albums on the shelf, you know, vinyl, and I was very confused. Then I wanted to go to the shoe department, but I ended up in the jewelry, and I found all of these great buys on watches. I was picking out watches with different face shapes and different colored bands, but when the associate wrung up my purchase, it came to over $6,000, and I knew that I didn’t have that much in the bank. So I asked what had cost so much, and she said that she charged me $34.95 for each watch, but I told her they were only $9.95 and $13.95, and there was no way I had bought enough to hit six thousand.

Gustave Caillebotte View of Roofs paren snow effect paren or Roofs under Snow 1878 oil on canvas
“View of Roofs (Snow Effect) or Roofs under Snow” (1878, oil on canvas)
by Gustave Caillebotte

Very strange. And then it turned into a Walking Dead dream, and there was a cave, and some kind of sea creature like the Creature from the Black Lagoon and two turtles, and a character from the Harry Potter stories.

Is it any wonder that I awaken with headaches each morning? My brain does not rest during sleep; rather, it appears to go into some kind of overdrive, warp speed of thoughts and ideas, if you will. So greeting the day with pain seems to be the price I pay for a very active, but strange, dream state, and even though I would rather not wake up with pain, I also know that I really don’t want to have boring dreams.

“Y. That perfect letter. The wishbone, fork in the road, empty wineglass. The question we ask over and over.” ~ Marjorie Celona, from “Y”

So thanks for hanging in during this latest bout of maladies. I’m still trying to keep the content lively and relevant. You would be amazed what pops up when you enter such a generic search term as headaches in Google images.

Arkhip Kuindzhi, Roofs Winter 1876
“Roofs. Winter” (1876, medium unknown)
by Arkhip Kuindzhi

I heard from Titirangi Storyteller that she cannot watch the Hulu videos that I post, which are usually my selections from “The Daily Show.” Does anyone know if Hulu has country restrictions? It never occurred to me that the ability to stream a video might be geographically limited, which just reflects my ignorance about these things. In my mind, everything, I mean absolutely everything is connected and interconnected now so that we can all call up the same information, have the same access to things, can link and unlink to our hearts’ collective desires, but I guess not so much.

That being said, I still don’t understand why, with the being that is the world wide web, some parts work everywhere and still others only work somewhere. Obviously, I do not have a technical mind and cannot begin to understand concepts such as coding, applications, and such, and why, when I give it any thought at all, I am so impressed by those individuals for whom such oblique ideas in my way of thinking are as easy as the two column in the times table in their way of thinking.

And perhaps the previous paragraph would best be left alone to suffer its convolution quietly.

“I have days of illuminations and fevers. I have days when the music in my head stops. Then I mend socks, prune trees, can fruits, polish furniture. But while I am doing this I feel I am not living.” ~ Anaïs Nin, from The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 1: 1931-1934

I had so many ideas on what I should write about today, but none of them are here at the moment. Could be they are repressed behind my squinty eyes, my half-hearted attempts to block out the whiteness of the page on which I am composing. I will not use the word creating as I don’t believe that I am being very creative here at the moment, merely composing, moving from one word to the next in an attempt to get to the full stop.

Mstislav Dobuzhinsky Kaunas Houses at Daukanto Street 1931
“Kaunas Houses at Kaukanto Street” (1931, medium unknown)
by Mstislav Dobuzhinsky

All of which is to say that I fear that I do not have much to say, or perhaps I have something to say but do not currently have the wherewithal with which to say it, and all of this reminds me of this terrible phase I went through in the 8th grade in which I composed these tortured missives that began with the following: “If today were tomorrow yesterday, then tomorrow today will be yesterday, and . . .” and I would follow it with any manner of nonsense and then, very pleased with myself, I would force Bobby (one of my male friends) to read these bizarre creations, and because he was nice and he tolerated me, he would read them or at least pretend to read them, perhaps raise his eyebrows, and only occasionally tell me how weird I was.

And I suppose what I’m getting at here is saying thank you for not mentioning very often how very weird I can be.

“Her mind was like a wound exposed to dry in the air.” ~ Virginia Woolf, from The Voyage Out

And the sad thing is, really, that I would just like to sit in bed and eat some Ben and Jerry’s as my eyes aren’t working well enough to start a new book, and I’m craving chocolate, specifically in ice cream form, preferably something with caramel, chocolate, pecans, and maybe peanut butter, but I’m not going to give in to that craving, and before you think I’m being admirable, I will admit that I am not going to give in to that craving only because last night I gave in to my chocolate craving and ate a big box of Raisinets that Corey had put in my Christmas stocking and which I had hid for just such an eventuality. I ate the entire box, and I didn’t give in to my desire to turn over the box and look at the calorie content because that might have prevented me from eating the entire box, and I had already decided that an entire box was called for, especially in light of the week that I have had, and by god I was going to eat it all.

Francis Picabia Roofs of Paris oil on canvas 1900
“Roofs of Paris” (1900, oil on canvas)
by Francis Picabia

And why, oh why, does my list of suggested related posts contain three about being pregnant and having headaches? Un-pregnant women have cravings, too, you know.

Perhaps I should go back to posting videos and reposts from tumblr, eh?

(Don’t know why, but all images are of rooftops in winter.)

More later. Peace.

Music by Muse, “Madness”

                   

More and More

More and more frequently the edges
of me dissolve and I become
a wish to assimilate the world, including
you, if possible through the skin
like a cool plant’s tricks with oxygen
and live by a harmless green burning.

I would not consume
you or ever
finish, you would still be there
surrounding me, complete
as the air.

Unfortunately I don’t have leaves.
Instead I have eyes
and teeth and other non-green
things which rule out osmosis.
So be careful, I mean it,
I give you fair warning:

This kind of hunger draws
everything into its own
space; nor can we
talk it all over, have a calm
rational discussion.

There is no reason for this, only
a starved dog’s logic about bones.

~ Margaret Atwood