My ambition for a day often exceeds it but yesterday was a rush of compound successes, and then, slow and steady, shall we put it?
The roots of my appreciation for surreal is now clear: continuous exposure to non sequitur.
-Any questions? asks nurse,
-Can you have cola? asks mom
-You like soft drinks, do you?
-No never have it, answers mom.
-Then why did you ask?, asks nurse, laughing.
Conversation always veering to random play. Non-narrative accumulation. Other patients found the randomness (or knowledge for knowledge sake?) charming and funny. An interpretation I hadn’t considered.
I’m used to her in the context of her being micromanaged, dismissed, lead, and bullied by family. Her hospital roommate said “you’re mom’s my hero. She’s one smart cookie” and they’re getting on great.
Her friend’s husband chatted with me on the phone which never happened before. They’ve been friends 25 years, about as long as I’ve been away from home. A good portion of a lifetime.
Barry McKinnon interview broken over several segments. In part 6 he related an audience question, “do you write traumatic monologues?”
Creeley said “I write short poems because my wife keeps walking into the room. These are not profound metaphysical arguments but they are real.”
McKinnon observes “A lot of theoretical writing doesn’t lead me anywhere”.
What did I get out of reading that?
That question is tacked to my mental bulletin board. Sometimes all I gain is bitterness and rancour because I want the salient but in that sweet spot not what I already have confirmed.
With some reading it’s with hopes of getting hooks to get something that comes later, some way to anchor to something said by someone I have yet to meet. Sometimes I don’t have any way to grasp. It’s to prepare to leapfrog. It isn’t comforting to hear what I already believe. A diet of irony and poking isn’t complete. Colbert Report is long gone but Last Week Tonight with John Oliver could get taxing eventually. It’s still the same thing of news, seeking eyeballs, consumption.
Reading science and history helps. Doing physical work helps but still my bullshit meter is buzzing more than the cat meows.
I suppose I can see my shakes for web-contact since I’m busy, and out of wifi range, and my iphone kacked so I’m back to twitch-reach gesture. I finally have systems to compose shopping list and poem parts on it. On the other hand I found my notebook, but I can’t keyword search paper. Except with eyes.
Lastly, I don’t understand ‘male footwear’ Are there no cobblers? Do shoes come covered with functional penises? And that’s where soles come from…
So much desire to do the yardarm-length wish list, but brain and body are all heavy impediments instead of implements.
I won’t even show what riot the sow weed is up to out there. The kale is doing decently tho.
Yesterday I was up, zoom-zoom. Then I crashed into a nearly 4 hour afternoon nap. Which didn’t prevent my 8 hours last night. More military nightmares of POW camps and escapes. All the joints are stiff. Stretching. I have over a dozen library books out and can’t see it being absorbed.
Ah, kvetch broadcast over in 10-9-8…
Time to cook mom lunch. She’s with us for
2 days a day before her heart surgery. Admission is 2 days ahead.
Bright white summer, from pear and potato blossom to teeny ones,
One despairs of the world when talking to people, reading, being online but hands in the dirt gives energy back, even when tearing life out by the roots. A halt is called where there’s a patron saint snail or ladybug of course, the protector saints of weeds. Land on me and bless me too.
To balance each day, something from the past, some of the present, something done for the future. Some familiar, some stretch, some serious, some play. Some use of mind, some daily life maintenance grind, some body in motion.
It was wonderful to canoe again to heart’s content. It’s been 2 years and I wasn’t sure I could do it again. Since frozen shoulder it improved to a point then is good enough. I can lift heavy pots again, shovel, cycle, drive. It gets fatigued easily and the nerves are all screwy so if being pressed they overreact. It randomly pops. It’s not exactly normal but I can start pushups again.
Each day needs balance. Some solitude, some connection, some action, some reflection. Some reading, some writing. Some vegetable, some grain, some vitamins of range of dietary spectrum. Some fresh water over, in, and out.
She lived well, did what she loved on her own terms. Everything was borrowed time. She wasn’t expected to live to be a teenager. She was painfully shy but if someone crossed a line in mistreating a friend she’d put them in line with “that’s enough now” and when she said it, it clearly was. That ended it. She’d lobster for a while. And all would settle. She wore what she loved, a lot of purple and orange because you do what you love and other people can’t tell you otherwise, or reason you out of it if you have any sense.
When she laughed there was just a small quake to begin, then she’d redden and redden and snort and her whole body shook with the almost-containment.
While others were in the habit of “critical thinking”, heavy on the critical, and more to the lagging, she’d declare, “well, I like *like* it.” And that standing of ground was a definitive closing statement on the subject. Her speech was full of old phrases “peachy keen”, “cool cat” and “gee whillikers” without any irony because she got a kick out of them. They’d make her giggle.
In high school she was mostly Advanced level courses, taking every history class she could, just like I did. She wrote copious notes for in her hand that was round, looped, even as a typewriter and pressed hard into the page to emboss it.
She had ambition since childhood to go to Wales, which her family held out like a carrot/whip for years. If she’d lose weight they’d pay her way.
She aimed to be a librarian technician and pay her own way. She had some of the lockstepped courses from Algonquin College. She lived in the far east end of the city while I liked in the far west. She lived in what my mom would call a group home. Supported community living.
Instead of plans, one day after serving tea to the old ladies she loved being among after church, while walking down the steps of the house of god, the stitches of her heart “unstitched” in an embolism.
Love those you love while they live. Later may do you some good, but rather limits it. Spend the time now.
Over and out,