It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall*

I had to confess something to Jerry this morning. Something I had done that I was not proud of, a moment of passion or anger. A less than shining second. On my way to school on Friday, as I wondered lonely as a cloud through the backroads of Shiloh – I have four ways to get to school and this is my slow roll alternate – I turned on to Maple Street which must be a decade or so from being just a country road. I knew that there were (are) at least four campaign signs for Sauron and Voldemort, one including a banner of lies. And as I turned I saw that there were people on the front porch, and well, I told them they were number one with my middle finger. Sorry, sorry! Fuck you! Sorry. 

            Here’s just a gorgeous poem that was on Poetry Daily on Friday, “With the Help of the Birds” by Bill Brown, that ends with:

* Crossing Brooklyn Ferry, Walt Whitman

The sun rises in spite of everything

Today was a good rainy day here. It had been a very dry October, but we’ve had rain three of the four days so for in November. It’s also been warm, so tornado warnings are happening southwest of here.

Sunday was a bean day, ham and beans to be more precise, with lots of onion and a host of spices, and some gorgeous beans my cousin gave me last week. These came from a business in Dove Creek Colorado (a town that used to list itself as the Pinto Bean Capital of the World) which I drove through as a shortcut on the way to Oregon from Blanca Colorado. Years ago. Decades. Anyway, an easy meal to prep and let cook all day.

Saturday I spent a good part of the morning in Saint Louis workshopping poems at the Central Library a gorgeous library built after the World’s Fair in 1904. Following the meeting of the poets we were given a tour of the library and got some of the history and what happened during a renovation that was completed in 2012. My favorite bit was when it opened in 1912 and Andrew Carnegie came to visit (it is a Carnegie Library) he was offended by the opulence, the money spent to create such a grand design.

Friday I had my third test in my math class and got another perfect score. It is work, but it is no longer intimidating. And Jerry came home Friday from his week away in New York. He missed Halloween and the night before when I believe I was visited by the spirit of the orange tabby, Comet; she came on an odor of tuna breath.

And here we are the night before the election, having voted two weeks ago, I’m ready to spend tomorrow listening to Bad Bunny and working on polynomials, and poetry and an Eavan Boland essay collection Citizen Poet which has just been released.

And because it is needed here's this lovely poem by Derek Mahon:


Everything Is Going to Be All Right 

How should I not be glad to contemplate
the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window
and a high tide reflected on the ceiling?
There will be dying, there will be dying,
but there is no need to go into that.
The poems flow from the hand unbidden
and the hidden source is the watchful heart.
The sun rises in spite of everything
and the far cities are beautiful and bright.
I lie here in a riot of sunlight
watching the day break and the clouds flying.
Everything is going to be all right.

Before and after, reno edition

    The house renovations are as complete as they can be at this point. We're still waiting on two windows for the kitchen, the windows that came were not right -- they didn't open -- so we have one in (Funny story they'd begun installing, and when I got home from class I said that looked nice but how does it open? Sean, one of the crew said "I wondered why you wanted a window that didn't open.") Needless to say, that's the only hold-up. Jerry and I spent the last two weeks cleaning and putting the house back together, the crew was here last Friday for touchups and adjustments and anything left will be finished when they come back with the windows. We're really pleased with how it turned out, we've gone from dark weirdness to logic and light, like the current presidential race.

    So here are the before and after of the kitchen, the patio, and my bathroom. The before is mostly taken from Realtor.com when the home was listed in 2018. The top one shows how the light was sucked out of the room and the bump-out counter we could never quite figure out. Note the two types of flooring, the two types of backsplash, the black concrete counters (yes, originally I did find them unique), and the different types of lighting. 

    The star tile starts at the front door and runs through the kitchen and reading room. We feel almost grown up. And the old deck is gone, replaced with a smaller footprint patio, no more groundhog raccoon hotel.

This and that

    I’ve been packing Jerry for trips since 1985. It started innocently enough the day he was set to PCS (Permanent change of station) he came to my barracks room to wait for a ride to the airport at Capodichino. He arrived with two seabags loosely packed, I repacked them into one, folding the second seabag into the first. That’s all it took. That he could not easily carry that one seabag is for another discussion.

    I like packing, it is the nearest I come to figuring out something like geometry. The culmination may have been when I packed my red Yugo, Yolanda, for a trip from Norfolk to San Diego after I finally got orders to be with Jerry nine months after we got married. Or it was when we moved from a one-bedroom apartment to a two bedroom a few miles away in El Cajon California before Issac was born. I packed everything into boxes, took any furniture apart and then moved smaller things during the week while Jerry’s ship was out. The weekend they pulled in he had three friends and two pickups ready to move the rest. They figured half a day to go back and forth: it took one trip. The boxes were really, really heavy; that’s my M.O.

    If I hadn’t been seven months pregnant I probably would have moved them myself.

    I started this post a couple of weeks ago and was writing about our anniversary but that has come and gone. What else have I been doing? Well, school is back in session and I’m finally getting to my math class, or a math class. I need to take Math 95, beginning Algebra, before I can go on to Math 111 Liberal Arts Mathematics. I’ve avoided Math for as long as I can. So far so good as long as I work problems until my head hurts.

    We’re also in week four of the renovations in the house. The kitchen is looking great, next week I’d expect it to be completed. In the interim, we’ve set up a kitchen in Jerry’s office, the Goat Locker. I’m making Nescafé each morning and we make do with what we can. When he’s on the road it’s very easy. And we’ve gone out to breakfast a couple times. This morning, we went to a cut little neighborhood place in Saint Louis, followed by a fun half-hour at the MauHaus Cat Café playing with cats, and then off to an art show. Fed, catified and happy from looking at art and talking to the artists we came home and napped. Tomorrow a subcontractor is coming to patch and smooth the kitchen walls, and the rest of the crew returns Tuesday.

    Oh, and I’ve started an MFA in Creative Writing, and turned in my first package last night; sort of an antidote to algebra.

    Here are a few random pictures from Jerry’s birthday trip to Maine, we stayed in a fantastic apartment above an ice cream shop and fell in like with Maine. No bear or moose were seen.

Time that hunts you, time that is calamity

 

Between rain drops and horrible heat last week I finally got around to reading Cormac McCarthy’s Border Trilogy, All The Pretty Horses, The Crossing, and Cities of the Plain. I’d read The Road and No Country for Old Men, so was ready for action and memorable characters and philosophizing, and some hard and violent acts. At the end of Cities, I was just wishing for Billy Parham to get one break, good god. I have been on the waitlist to get Blood Meridian, (why not continue on with Cormac) but, I made the mistake of looking for the few interviews he did over the years and ran across this at The Paris Review (https://www.theparisreview.org/the-art-of-fiction-no-223-cormac-mccarthy) and it has broken me. I laughed aloud; it does delight me. The day after I was at the gym (too hot to walk outdoors, mean temp 111) and tried to listen to the opening of Blood Meridian. Oh, no! Damn you Paris Review! It reminds me of the early 90s when The Bridges of Madison County was so popular, but I didn’t read it when it was burning the bestseller lists down, had no desire to, but enjoyed the many parodies. Right before the movie was released I read it, and found eye-rolling, over-the-top, giggle-inducing writing: “He was an animal. A graceful, hard, male animal who did nothing overtly to dominate her yet dominated her completely, in the exact way she wanted that to happen at this moment.” (Snort!)

            I didn’t like the characters in the book, but the movie found a way to make them sympathetic.

            After all McCarthy’s testosterone and myth, I reread North Woods by Daniel Mason, because it is just so lovely. Now on to a pile of poetry books!

            Side note: we’ve had about 10 inches of rain locally in the past week. We’re higher here than some places so we’ve been okay. Yesterday I noticed that a brace of ducks over at the middle school enjoying a low area that is made to catch any runoff water. It was as full as I’ve ever seen, and they were having a great time.

            The sunflower is from a couple of years ago. Nothing fancy.

Mid-year, solstice, heat dome

This morning on our ramble we encountered a few of the night creatures wrapping up their work. We had set out earlier than usual due to the heat and some of the raccoons weren’t done raiding trash cans. I was afraid the first group may have recognized me from the great flat cat roundup (June ends with this) as I got a good hard stare as we walked on the other side of the street. A mile away another raccoon was clearing the road as we came around a corner. There has not been a flat cat sighting in my yard for a long time now though we do occasionally see a shuffle hustle happening around some of the lawns we pass. I haven’t had my yard cam out in quite a while, so it may be time to take a night view soon.

I am happy to report that the fledglings I see belong to the correct species. I didn’t have my birdfeeders out too much this spring and that has led to only one sighting of cowbirds. Over the past few weeks as the blueberries were ripening the sparrows gathered to pick at them, but the youngsters were also waiting for their parents to bring them something better.

And I have been waiting for cicadas. There have been sightings (one or two) and some noises occasionally but nothing as wonderous as most years when the annual brood comes about. Last night I heard a quick song and then silence. I really wanted to hear the millions.

Tuesday night I rewatched The Big Chill. It came out in 1983 and concerns a group of college friends gathering for the funeral of their friend, Alex, who has taken his own life. I can’t say how many times we watched this film when I was stationed in Naples. Sometimes just a couple of us, playing Trivial Pursuit or Monopoly while it was on, sometimes our whole clique. We’d all been there a couple of years, working together, living in the barracks, exploring the world. I suppose the movie spoke to us in a way that people who spend so much time together as friends would. I don’t remember the last time I saw it, most of it fell back into place in my memory except for how very young the actors seem now: Glenn Close, Kevin Kline, William Hurt, Mary Kay Place, Tom Berenger, Jeff Goldblum, JoBeth Williams, and a very, very (one more very) young Meg Tilley. Originally Kevin Costner was in the film as Alex, in flashbacks, but he did not make the final cut. The film held up, in a tight Hollywood bow of a story. It could use a little more cynicism and mess, but at the time seemed earnest and real. Apparently, a lot was written about the movie a year ago as it celebrated its 40th anniversary. I missed all that.

And because Jerry was up in North Dakota, and I could watch a movie without characters running and screaming away from giant creatures, I followed it up with The Birdcage as a palate cleanser. Nothing makes me laugh harder than Nathan Lane as Albert (dressed as Mrs. Coleman/Goldman) telling the ultra-conservative future in-laws during a discussion about abortion that the solution is to “kill the mothers”. Plus, is there anything better than Gene Hackman in drag? Another movie that was of its time perhaps. Adapted from the French La Cage aux Folles, fun to watch but… But.

Well, here we are mid-year, solstice, under the heat dome, we had solar installed in December and we are making power like crazy. Enough for us and the rest goes back to the grid. Illinois is one of those states that pushes solar whereas across the river in Missouri, I’m not sure they acknowledge the sun as hot. Cheap shot. But I won’t be surprised if they are the next state to call for the Ten Commandments in schools. And I know Louisiana’s law says the font has to be “in a large, easily readable font”, but does it have to be in English? Hmm?

Here's a poem and a couple of random pictures from the movies:

small gifts: the sun
after grief bringing new light
flowers where none
were planted, song when voiceless
earth again alive when you felt
nothing could exist
& then, another
twin butterflies light & tangle
on your arm, their shift
as easy as a quickening child

The Return of the Swamp Thing

    Part of the problem with having to move things out of kitchen cupboards is that the items have to go somewhere else. The destination was the spare room, the smallest bedroom in the house that we use as a pantry and catchall. As I was shifting things in the spare room I was also making plans for shifting things in the bedroom as we will be moving from there while the bathrooms are being done. So, I needed to have room to move some of the clothes from the bedroom into the guest room, and of course, where would I put the things from the guest room. Suffice it to say I’ve been moving and shifting items for a week now. More than once, I’ve wondered when the Hoarder’s Starter Kit took over our house!?

    Jerry keeps telling me, “We’re weeks out.” But I know how these things work, you’re relaxed thinking you’ve got time, and then an opening in the schedule happens or, and tell me if this sounds plausible, Jerry sends me a message that says, “Hey they’re starting tomorrow morning.” – of course he sends this while he’s on the road followed by “Did I forget to tell you?” At least all the moving is done, the shifting and the imaginings of where things will live. Yesterday in the final move we got the elliptical out of my office. When we moved in three larger men wrestled it down the hall and into the room, and when we replaced the floor in there we simply moved this behemoth from one side to the other. We ended up taking it apart and then reassembling it in the front room (furniture moving before it arrived!) where we can get it out through our double front door. I’ve found a thrift store that will take it and though it was helpful during the pandemic it has mostly been gathering dust and used as an open-air closet. Then an office layout needed to be reimagined and everything moved or rearranged.

    So that is the easy stuff. The heat has come, today wasn’t too bad but as Anthony, our morning weatherman, says, “By Friday it will be swampy!” Swampy. Sigh.

    And here's a random picture from my yard: