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”

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

The Dadeville Record, Alabama, July 13, 1939
“The air—moist, sultry, secretive, and far from fresh—felt as if it were being exhaled into one’s face. Sometimes it even sounded like heavy breathing.” ~ Tom Robbins, from  Jitterbug Perfume

Friday afternoon, partly sunny, expected thunderstorms, 82 degrees.

Apologies in advance to those who are about to be embroiled in a major heat wave. I feel for you. I really do.

I woke up very early scratching bites on my arms and legs. It’s too bad there’s no spot treatment for humans that lasts for 30 days like the ones we use on the dogs. So I took a Benadryl, rubbed some tea tree lotion on my limbs, and tried to go back to sleep, but the dogs woke up rambunctious, which meant fitful sleep with weird dreams.

In the one I had just before I got out of bed, Alexis had gotten in trouble on the bus, and a teacher wrote a four-page report on the event. The only problem was that the writing was so bad that it made no sense. I was appalled, especially because this teacher was so proud of it. I know. I’m critical even in my dreams. By the way, did you know that Filipinos believe that if you dream about poop, (which I did), it means that you’re going to get money? Oh, if only . . .

Enjoy today’s collection. More later. Peace.


Bittersweet . . .

This made me laugh way too much:

The fluffy comedian:

Never thought of this:

I’m in that kind of mood today:

But no one asked me if I wanted the new version . . .


Ivy Levan, “Hot Damn”

“What would an ocean be without a monster lurking in the dark? It would be like sleep without dreams.” ~ Werner Herzog

Dreamscapes: Pop-up art installation in Salt Lake City, Utah (sponsored by the Utah Arts Alliance)

“It was that sort of sleep in which you wake every hour and think to yourself that you have not been sleeping at all; you can remember dreams that are like reflections, daytime thinking slightly warped.” ~ Kim Stanley Robinson, from Icehenge

Monday afternoon, partly cloudy and slightly cooler, 83 degrees.

Last night’s dream:

Lots of numbers and colors. Five people on a team, myself, the leader, and three other men. The three men married, one for 36 years. A woman with a scar down the back of her head. Five jewels: emerald, diamond, ruby, garnet and topaz. Three witches. One feather. Wind blowing in two different directions, one side red, one side green. Three SUVs, one police car. Three bicycles. A mall, meeting four other women at 7:30. Makeup from three stores. A purple file folder on sale for $4.07.  Half a xanax and $100 someone owed me. Fried green beans, a deli pickle served on a bed of sprouts. Five pans of food on a circular stove. One glass of bourbon. A spiral staircase. Eamonn as a toddler reaching for the five pans of food.

Woke up to the sound of barking. Exhausted.

Corey dreams I was married to a man named Andrew . . .


Music by Dustin Kensrue, “This Good Night is Still Everywhere”