Today I put the artifact that I made for r@d@r in the mail. After he gets it, I will post its photo.
Is it really magical? It is according to my definition of magic.
Those two concepts shouldn't really go together, but they sure do in Amerika.
On Countdown tonight, Keith Olbermann made that statement that research shows that, over the past ten years, twice as many Republicans have been involved in sex scandals as Democrats.
Yet, it's the Republicans who supposedly are the advocates of "family values." Right.
And during the EWTN mass today that my mother was watching, I catch the priest praising the Republicans for championing anti-abortion, anti-sex education and anti-homosexuality. So much for the separation of church and state.
I think about the people who have been brainwashed into believing that the priest speaks for god. If the priest says that Republicans are the good guys, well, then that's who should get their votes.
And then there's this website for the organization "Teen Mania," which was founded by a man who "ran away from home at the age of 15 and became involved in drug and alcohol abuse before finding Jesus at the age of 16 " and subsequently began a quest "to raise up an army of young people who would change the world."
"Teen Mania seeks to rescue teens, ones who are caught in lives of despair and hopelessness, " and, of course it does this by attracting them to embrace the doctrines of fundamentalist Christianity.
The statements and statistics on its homepage are very troubling; as I look at the world around me, I suspect that they are pretty accurate. There obviously are too many young people whose lives don't give them anything substantial to hold onto. No wonder they gravitate toward such "cults."
My question is, where are there other options being offered them, options that are as attractive to them but are not based in any kind of religious fundamentalism?
Aren't schools supposed to be the places where kids can go to get excited about what life has to offer them? Aren't schools supposed to be the places where kids can learn to feel good about who they are and what they are capable of accomplishing? Aren't schools supposed to be the places where the leaders (teachers and administrators) harness all of that young and vibrant energy toward creating a humane, nurturing, and supportive environment?
Ya think??
I wrote the previous post after 1 a.m., forgetting that at that time, not only was there a full moon, but the moon was in the process of total eclipse. Can't help wondering if my mother's manic mood yesterday had something to do with the pull of the tides. Or something shifting?
Dave Rogers let me know he forgot to leave the link in his comment on my post about "shifting." It's a link to an article about "A Huge Hole in Outer Space."
What they can't explain is a discovery announced a few days ago by Lawrence Rudnick, an astronomer at the University of Minnesota. He and a couple of colleagues have found what they think is another void in space — but at about a billion light-years across (that's 6 billion trillion miles, give or take), it's many times bigger than any void ever seen. It's so big, in fact, that if it's really there, it could cause real problems for all current models of the universe; the 14 or so billion years since the Big Bang isn't long enough for gravity to have cleared out a space this huge.
Things shift whether we make them do so or not.
My mother is sitting in her recliner watching the mass on EWTN. I'm behind her at the kitchen table cutting up a watermelon and taking the seeds out (she thinks the seeds are bugs). I listen to the priest give his memorized chant and everyone else respond automatically.
I'm thinking that, unlike the story about the hole in the universe, which is literally awesome, the routine going on in that church, which SHOULD be awesome, is pretty boring. I remember it all lulling me to sleep when I was a kid restlessly stuck in a pew. I would read the gospels (like reading short stories) to keep me awake.
It seems to me, if you're going to try to shift the universe (or convince your god to do it for you), you would need to feel passionate about it. You would need to generate the energy to propel your will and intention well beyond your earthbound mind.
I remember when a theory of Transcendental Meditation was that if a critical mass of individuals all meditated at the same time, the combined energy could change the world. Maybe shift the universe?
If all of those people in churches on Sunday morning would pray with real passion, intention, and will, would something begin shifting? Of course, that wouldn't necessarily mean that it would shift for the better of humanity.
On the television, the priest is praying for the unborn children, preaching against abortion and birth control. Lunacy. Absolute lunacy.
My mother falls asleep in her recliner, and I being watching one Woody Allen's lunatic movies. I had never seen this one -- Everyone Says I Love You.
It's a silly musical, far from awesome, but I'm getting a kick out of hearing Ed Norton, Julia Roberts, and Drew Barrymore try to sing. And Woody Allen try to dance. A little bit of lunacy is sometimes good for the ailing spirit.
I think about my plans to get out of here for five days in a couple of weeks. I'm planning to stay at my daughter's for a few days and then drive to my women friends in Albany and hang out for a few more days.
Getting grounded with them will help me survive the ongoing lunacy here.
Before I go, I will put r@d@r's actual talisman in the mail to him. Created with passion, will, and intention, it will shift his universe if he wants it to. If he wants it with passion, will, and intention.
And, maybe with a little awesome lunacy as well.
P.S. Speaking of Transcendental Meditation and lunacy, check out this awesome article by David Lynch of Twin Peaks and Blue Velvet fame.
There aren't too many days like this, when she's so wound up that she doesn't take a nap during the day. And it's a good thing, too, because that means I don't have a minute to myself when it's a day like this.
At least she was in a good mood this afternoon, giggling and laughing over not remembering who I am.
"Who are you?" She genuinely wants to know.
"I'm Elaine, your daughter," I tell her.
Her eyes open wide and she starts laughing. "You're Elaine?"
"Yes, I say. I'm your daughter."
"I have a daughter?" Now she's laughing even harder.
Her laughter is contagious, and soon we're both running to the bathroom.
I sit with her on the edge of her bed while we both try to calm down. My stomach hurts from laughing so much.
She starts to cry. She leans her head on my shoulder and says "Please make me better." And then we cry together.
The following post is by MYRLN, a non-blogger who is Kalilily's guest writer every Monday.
FROM THE WHITE HOUSE
Dear Sir or Mr. Myrln S. Orcerer (whichever you prefer):
Your letter of Aug. 13 was received. Even tho I was on vacation (which means not at work, ha-ha), it was read to me by one of my aides. I was very upset by it cuz he doesn't usually laugh when reading to me. But with your letter, he got the real hee-haws until it felt like he was laughing at me which is not proper for someone of my high office. By which I don't mean elevation but importance. For I am important , as many people who want something from me keep telling me. Anyway, I referred that former aide over to Dick Cheney for what we call some remedial reading. If that don't work, we'll just have to write him off (the aide, I mean) as a lemon. Haw-haw. That'd make him a lemon-aide. Get it?
So now I'm doing this letter myself which will be a surprise to my other aides who think I don't know how to typh...I mean, type. Maybe I won't need so many aides in the future. Right now, I got a band of them. Haw-haw. That's band-aides. Get it?
Anyway, your letter said I got us in a war and don't know how to get out of it. Yeah, I do. I got a plan. Only it's secret cuz if it wasn't then them terrorists would know and then attack us on all sortsa fronts. And probly a couple of rears, too. Haw-haw. Get it? Rears? And there's some folks like you that say cuz I fibbed a bit to get us into the war, how can anybody believe what I say now. Well shoot (no, Dick, I didn't mean you. Haw-haw. Get it?), didn't you guys ever hear of the 12-step program for liars? I'm working on it. I only got 11 lies to go. Jeez, give me a break. Anyway, someday the 'Raqis will come and thank me on their knees and I'll join them and we'll all say a prayer together or maybe sing some nice big hymn like one of them I learnt in church. You wait and see.
So, that's all I got to say, Mr. Orcerer. (Cheney says you're really some kinda magician cuz S. Orcerer in your name says so. I say, yeah sure, like if my name was Tush Bush I'd be some kinda...oh...uh...never mind. Forget that one.)
Sincerely,
Gorge W. Bush
Precedent of the United Stakes (damned typewriter)
(the 'Merican ones) (Stakes, not the typewr...oh never mind)
Shifting the universe is never easy. I mean, just ask Dr. Who.
So, I am struggling to come up with the right combination of metaphor and magic to help r@d@r shift himself and his family from where they are to where they want to be. I thought I was done, but what I created didn't feel right. So I'm re-working it. I will post a photo of the artifact after I finish and get it to him.
It's inevitable that, as I stoke my own energy fires for purposes outside myself, that my own purposes get fired up as well.
I've begun sheltering myself from the bad vibes around here by planning my escape.
When he feeds her a salami sandwich just before I begin to make her a well-balanced meal, I walk away and plan my escape.
When he blames me because he stubbed his unshod toe on the leg of the chair I'm sitting in, or because he can't find his wire cutter, I walk away and plan my escape.
When he yells at me because I put the still-warm container of soup that I just made (from scratch) into the refrigerator (before it cooled down), I walk away and plan my escape.
I already have my Escape. And now I'm making plans.
That's not to say that my plans might not gang agley The universe can often be pretty nasty while we make plans.
Then, again, you never know what might come out of nasty.
In this post on her blog, singer/songwriter Kristin Hersh tells eloquently and touchingly about being on a concert tour with family and band and dealing with situations that make you think that the universe has it in for them. This is just a taste of Kristin's remarkable tale of what dedicated artists do to follow their "bliss.":
I have to care, because soon, there may be no place for the next song to go. I think I’ll always play music. I think I have to. I’ll play in my bedroom, in my car, in my garage…but without an audience, without money, I won’t be on the road and I won’t be in the studio. And like it or not, music is a social endeavor. I wish it wasn’t, but it is and as such, it’s impact is stunted when it’s invisible. Music isn’t supposed to stay in the bedroom, the car, or the garage. It’s supposed to be given away, to become other people’s soundtrack.
So what happens is, we’re driving through the mountains and I’m stumbling around the bus, listening to music, making sandwiches for the kids and laughing with Bernie as we barrel down the highway like we have so many times before. I had just stepped over a dog to hand Wyatt a cup of milk when Ryder yelled, “Fire!” from the back bedroom.
Read the whole post and more on Kristin's blog.
Sometimes it seems that we have no choices over where our lives take us. But we do. We do. Only there's always a trade-off. It seems we can't have everything we want at once. And so we have to decide what's most important at this moment in time.
I write this to remind myself. My life is what it is, for now.
But I am urging the universe to shift, as I plan my escape.
Anyone who reads this blog will know why I like this poem, one of Culleny's
dailies.
Cat Dance Music
Jim Culleny
Dance!
Delphiniums winddance
with phlox in Pat's garden.
They sway in quiet concord,
rooted in motion.
Dancing's a vital sign of endless youth;
even my grandmothers danced.
One danced to accordianed polkas,
corseted cantileverd bosom bouncing.
The other jigged across her chicken yard
with handfuls of eggs --having just left her hens
without yield-- acting goofy for a camera.
I once danced with abandon
to big-holed 45s
spun by a DJ named Jocko
who sent four-part doowop through my radio:
the Prisonaires, the Cadillacs, the Moonglows...
When was the last time I danced with abandon?
How did I do that beautiful thing?
It's best to dance with others, real gurus say.
It's lonely dancing with a mirror,
leading and following in one motion,
thinking breaking it would be bad luck.
Our cats dance to deep cat vibrations always,
alert as...... cats to music far beyond our ears:
cat dance music.
Zorba knew. Have you seen
Quinn, the Greek, dance?
Felt life spring in rhythms?
Watched it prance on toes to a bouzouki
even in the embrace of despair?
Never. Never forget how to dance.
All innocents dance.
Only the troubled are still.
Most hummingbird feeders are made so that the little bird drinks while still airborne, wings continuing to beat away at an average of 30 beats per second. That's how they're used to hovering next to a flower and drinking its nectar.
This year I bought a hummingbird feeder that has little stands below each fake flower on which the bird can alight. And so I was able to sit a couple of feet away from the feeder and take some photos through the screen and the window.
It's not often one has a chance to see a hummingbird when it's not humming. Today one of our usual humming visitors sat quietly at the feeder for more than ten minutes while I watched it drink, look around, drink, pee, poop, look around, drink.... Over and over.
We have three or four different hummingbirds that stop by, including a ruby-throated. We can tell them apart by their sizes and markings.
Whenever it was really hot outside, we noticed that, while they would stop to take a drink, they would barely take a sip and then fly away. Over the last couple of days the weather has been considerably cooler, and they keep coming back to drink throughout the day. It finally occurred to us that, because the feeder is on the sunny side of the house, the liquid must frequently get really hot during the summer. Obviously, they like their meals on the cool side.
Whenever I see one perched on our feeder, I think about how much I would love to hold one in my hand, make it a pet. But that's not the nature of the feisty little hummer. They've gotta keep moving.
Except when they take a rest at my feeder and let me watch them be birds rather than just those loudly buzzing large-insect-looking-things that are gone before you can focus on them.
That's where we took my mom on Sunday: to the "black dirt" region outside of Goshen, New York for a Summer Fest at the Polish Legion of American Veterans' picnic area. It was a 35 mile drive over back and bumpy roads, and (we now know) too long and jarring for her to sit comfortably. She fell asleep each way, and I tried to prop her up with pillows so that she wouldn't fall over.
Packing her up to take her on even that short a trip was like packing up to take a child: snacks, water, an extra pair of underpants, a jacket, hat, pillows, blanket....
Add to that, of course, her wheelchair and her cane.
There was a polka band playing all afternoon, so after she ate some pierogi that I bought at the stand operated by Hudson Valley Polonaise Society, she and I got up to polka. We managed to do two dances (with a long break between), and my brother took a video clip to help her remember the event afterwards.
Here's a still photo of us, baby-stepping along as everyone else hopped energetically around the dance floor. (I clipped the image from the video, so it's kind of blurry).
To be honest, it was killing me not to get up and really dance. I kept looking around to see if there might be any men there without partners who looked as though they wanted to dance as much as I did. No such luck. Five years ago, I would have even gone up to a guy who was with a partner and asked his partner if I could borrow him for one dance -- explaining that I was from out of town and was dying to get at least one dance in before I left.
Obviously, I've lost many of my edges. No more guts. No more glory.
Mom barely remembers the experience. And she slept almost all day on Monday. I'm not sure it was worth the bother of the trip, except I did buy some tomatoes (the best I've had yet), a perfect watermelon, and, of course, onions at what was once the Onion Capital of the World.
The following post is by MYRLN, a non-blogger who is Kalilily's guest writer every Monday.
First there was Rosa Parks refusing to give up her bus seat, right?
Well, no. Courageous as Rosa Parks's act of civil disobedience was, and as important as it was to the Civil Rights Movement, it was not the first such act of its kind.
Last week, August 14, a woman named Irene Morgan Kirkaldy died at age 90 of Alzheimer's. It's not a name we're familiar with, and that's too bad. You see, back in 1944, at age 27, this woman got on a Greyhound bus headed from Gloucester, Virginia, to Baltimore, Maryland. Then she was arrested. Why? Because she, a black woman, refused to give up her seat to white passengers and subsequently resisted arrest. As she described her encounter with a sheriff, "I kicked him in a very bad place." According to her daughter, Mrs. Kirkaldy later always told her children, "If you know you're right, it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks."
Further importance is added to her action by the subsequent legal outcome. She was convicted of violating Virginia's segregation law, and eventually, her case went all the way to the Supreme Court. There it was successfully appealed by a future Court Justice, Thurgood Marshall. The case paved the way for what was to come.
All this more than a decade before Rosa Parks's landmark resistance in Montgomery, Alabama, in 1955.
So how come we didn't/don't hear anything about Irene Morgan Kirkaldy? "She didn't see herself as a hero," her daughter says. So she likely never sought recognition. And back when she committed her act of civil disobedience, World War II was raging, nearing its end, yes, but still the overwhelmingly dominant activity of the time. There wasn't much national interest in or attention to some "quarrel" about a bus seat.
But that unnoticed seed flowered fully eleven years later, and we might wonder if Rosa Parks knew of Irene Morgan Kirkaldy, if she drew inspiration from her predecessor, that little-known woman to whom we owe a great deal. (As a side note, Mrs. Kirkaldy earned a degree from St. John's at age 68, and then a Master's from Queens College at age 73.)
And it would be a greater honor to her if some 63 years later, we'd totally erased the notion that black or white had any relevance in our culture. "I have a dream my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character...." Thus Martin Luther King spoke to us 19 years after that brave woman's defiance. And now, another 44 years after King's words, we actually have being raised this astonishing question about a candidate for a presidential nomination: Is he black enough?
Maybe we need again to say, loud and clear, "ENOUGH!" And add..."PERIOD!"
If only to say the sacrifice of Irene Morgan Kirkaldy really meant something.
You need some healing hands, Sistah, big time. This is my visual virtual prayer for the Sessums, for whatever it's worth.
Cybermagic and the beginning of shifting the universe for r@d@r and his family:
The conjuring goes on here on the mountain, with the digging of roots, the finding of wings, the weaving of shield, the sewing (yes, SEWING) of seeds, the winding of vines.
Intention and will. It all begins in chaos and it ends in connection and creativity.
More to come.
Chaos is the theme here. And magic.
I live in a state of chaos, a slave to my mother's elusive mind. My own living space is a shambles of clothes and crafts, books and dishes and paper.
And so I'm fascinated to have been introduced to "chaos magic" or, as it is known, "Kaos Magick." From a link that r@D@r sent me to, I found out
Results are what count. Try something. If it works, try it again to verify. Continue to practice the technique until you perfect it. If the technique doesn't work for you, drop it and try something else. Explore - and don't accept as truth anything you haven't experimented with yourself; you are your own laboratory. "Everything else is mysticism," according to Pete Carroll. Phil Hine is a little more elaborate: "Rather than trying to recover and maintain a tradition that links back to the past (and former glory), Chaos Magick is an approach that enables the individual to use anything that s/he thinks is suitable as a temporary belief or symbol system. What matters is the results you get, not the 'authenticity' of the system used."
[snip]
Most chaotes recognise three basis models of magick: the spirit, energy and psychological models. Recently, a number of leading-edge chaotes have begun to integrate the magickal models of other eras into a new model: the Cybernetic model...
The whole article is fascinating to me because, until last night, I never heard of Kaos Magick, but apparently that is close to what I do -- except I only subscribe to the bolded half of this assertion:
Since life is meaningless, be the artist of your own destiny. Create your own meaning, rather than be enslaved or conditioned by anyone else's. If nothing is true, then everything is permitted.
Interesting notion, this Kaos Magick. I don't like putting labels on myself, so I'm not putting this one on either.
But it sure is "interesting."
I'm feeling fired up, thanks to Ex-Liontamer, r@d@r
I don't know who "r@d@r" really is. That is I don't know his real-world name. But his blog has been on my radar since I started blogging, and he sometimes leaves comments here, the last one being on my previous post.
So, he's got me fired up about creating something to urge the universe to give him and his family some well-deserved changes in fortune. And we're both going to blog the process. He's already begun.
(As a relevant aside, I heard Keith Olbermann today report on an Oxford professor's assertion that planet earth and those of us on it could be a simulation that some greater intelligence is playing on his/her computer. A sort of truly complex version of "Sim City." Heh. God as some ultimate computer geek; or else the ultimate alien invasion. The point of my aside being, if that's the case, all the more possibility for the effectiveness of ritual, prayer, and ordinary magic.)
It also helped to fire up my spirit that a friend from Albany called this morning and invited me to join her and her aunt for lunch at the Culinary Institute of America (which, it turns out, is only about 15 miles from where I live). My brother agreed to take over my day shift, and off I went for a gourmet lunch that ended in some Tiramisu the way it should be made.
My taste buds are in ecstasy and my right brain is in overdrive. That pretty much makes a perfect day for me.
Stay tuned as r@d@r and I connect to instigate a shift in the universe.
There was a time, when time was mine, when I would gather sticks and feathers and beads and stones and whatever other relevant and symbolic objects I could find and do my own little bit of magic making. Over my years of blogging, I even have created and snail mailed some to other bloggers from Colorado to South Africa to Australia.
But, time and access being what it is, I am resorting to the virtual this time, as I send my good energies across the country to my son in Portland, Oregon, who is making every effort to land the job he wants.
Instead of poking around for substantial objects that I can wind and weave, I search around for images that have no substance except what I give to them with my hopes and wishes. And so this virtual talisman for success. To my son.
The following post is by MYRLN, a non-blogger who is Kalilily's guest writer every Monday.
Dear President Mr. Gee Dumbya Bush:
This is a letter to you but also many others may read it 'cuz it's an open letter. One of your aides can explain to you what that is. And I know you're on vacation right now, but maybe one of your aides will read this to you anyway.
Well, President Mr. Etc., I am a lifelong citizen and fan of the United States of America, but lately it's more like the Un-United States, and that troubles me. You said you'd be the uniter. But instead of a Union, we seem to be more like an onion -- with layers being peeled away 'til all that's left are you, your dog, and Laura (she's your wife). And 2 people and a pooch are hardly enough to be a country as I think even you could see. (If not, one of your aides could explain it.)
The reason for our problems, in part, is that you're, as you like to say, the 911 prez. To you, that refers to the terrorist attack on the U.S., but what it's really more like is the other 911, the emergency number we need to call almost every day 'cuz of the trouble we're in since you got elected and somehow re-elected. (I won't bring up the election cheating business right now.) Like the dumb war you started and can't figure how to finish (and your aides are obviously no help there).
Then, too, there's your trimming away at the Constitution (no, not the ship, ask your aides) and hiding behind your Executive Privilege (which someone told me you think is a car) or the line about Need to Know. That last I understand some 'cuz where your presidency's concerned, I have a similar need, too: NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!
And you oughta stop trying to scare people with those "maybe" terrorist threats you announce so as to keep some kind of hold over folks (like all terrorists do) by yelling "BOO!" at them every once in awhile when you feel the heat creeping up the backside of your presidency. Try remembering this is the land of the FREE and the home of the BRAVE (which one of your aides etc). It's only you and your VEEP who duck into hidey-holes when some kind of trouble threatens.
Anyway, that's what I wanted to say.
Sincerely,
Myrln S. Orcerer
p.s. My daddy read this over and says it shouldn't be "Dumbya" in the salutation 'cuz that's plain wrong. I told him if he thinks it's not Dumbya, he hasn't been paying attention the last couple of years! (If you don't get it, one of your aides...oh you probably know the drill by now. If not, one of your.......)
This poem is one of Jim Culleny's daily poetry emails:
Killing the Plants
Jane Kenyon
That year I discovered the virtues
of plants as companions: they don't
argue, they don't ask for much,
they don't stay out until 3:00 A.M., then
lie to you about where they've been....
I can't summon the ambition
to repot this grape ivy, of this sad
old cactus, or even to move them out
onto the porch for the summer,
where their lives would certainly
improve. I give them
a grudging dash of water – that's all
they get. I wonder if they suspect
that like Hamlet I rehearse murder
all hours of the day and night,
considering the town dump
and compost pile as possible graves....
The truth is that if I permit them
to live, they will go on giving
alms to the poor: sweet air, miraculous
flowers, the example of persistence.
After I read it, for a moment I thought: "I could have written that."
Maybe. But I didn't.
I could have written about how my plants have always been "survival of the fittest." Anything that withstands my haphazard care has a home for life, even the phallic piece I saved from the dead 5 foot cactus that I threw in into the woods last fall. I stuck the piece in the corner of some other pot, and the damned thing took root. Lopsided and blighted, it's still growing.
I could have written about the avocado pit I rooted last year and actually made an effort to nurture. It's dying now, and sometimes I see it as a mirror of my own spirit these days. The leaves dry up, one by one. Fall lightly from the grace of the sun.
I could have written about the seeds I never planted, jambed, envelope by envelope, into an old shoe box, waiting for a better planting season.
I could have written about my shoes -- not only the never ending quest for the most comfortable pair of black dressy shoes, but also the compulsive buying of shoes that I probably only will wear in my fantasies.
I could have...
As I stood in front of my full-length mirror after my shower, commending myself on losing almost 15 lbs over the past four months, I noticed them. I ran over to my computer and googled "tiny skin flaps cause."
It's not bad enough that my gums are receding. It's not bad enough that, despite losing some extra pounds, I can't get rid of the (neck) waddle. And don't get me going on the state of my upper arms. Now I have skin tags.
Yes, yes, I know. I'm not only getting older, I'm getting wiser. (At least that's what we like to tell ourselves.)
But I'm GETTING OLD! I'm developing all of those obvious signs of old age. Why does that bother me -- after all, I consider myself smart enough to keep it all in perspective and be proud to be an "elder."
Actually, I think there are two reasons I am bothered by those obvious signs of aging (of course, I'm not bothered enough to have what body I have left carved up).
The first reason is my own sense of what I want to look like, my own personal sense of vanity and aesthetics.
The second reason is more valid. These physical signs are reminders of the time that is passing in my life, time I can never get back. What if my mother lives ten more years. I'm taking such good care of her that it just might happen.
In ten years, I will be 77. My dad died when he was 72.
What will I look like at 77? What personal joys will I have missed having during those 16 years that I will have been my mother's primary caregiver? What will I still be able to do? Drive? Dance? Blog? Knit? Read?
Maybe. Maybe not.
And that made me think about how I would rewrite this poem of Jane Kenyon's (another of Culleny's daily poetry emails). I would have to turn it inside out and upside down.
Otherwise
by Jane Kenyon
I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.
At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.
It's otherwise for me now. And then I've got skin tags on top of that.
A shower-clean sun-dappled morning in our small back yard. Goldfinches cover the feeders, haphazardly spilling seeds at the base of the post, around which squirrels, mourning doves, and one male cardinal share the wealth. Then two chipmunks literally gambol across the clover, and our resident woodchuck shuffles his weight from around the edge of the fence. The scene, enhanced with rain-cleared colors and the musical score of the flighty finches, is right out of a Disney movie. I expect to see Thumper and Flower arrive any minute.
It is my fifteen minutes of solitude while my mother naps. I indulge myself with the brightest-hued, ripest, juiciest mango that has ever dripped down my chin and onto my favorite hang-around-the-house t-shirt.
Now, if those moments had extended far into the day, if I had hours in which to daydream, ponder, imagine, I might have come up with something I'd feel passionate enough to write about. But that's not how my days go.
When I check my email just before my mother wakens, I find this poem, sent as one of Jim Culleny's daily offerings. and it strikes me as just right. For me. For today. For the todays still to come.
Trippers and Askers Surround Me
From: Song of Myself
Walt Whitman
4
Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet....the effect upon me of my early
life....of the ward and city I live in....of the
nation,
The latest news....discoveries, inventions,
societies....authors old and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, business,
compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman
I love,
The sickness of one of my folks - or of myself....or
ill-doing....or loss or lack of money....or
depressions or exhaltations,
These come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.
Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle,
unitary,
Looks down, is erect, bends an arm on an impalpable
certain rest,
Looks with it's sidecurved head, curious what will
come next,
Both in and out of the game, and watching and
wondering at it.
Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through
fog with
linguists and contenders,
I have no mockings or arguments...I witness and wait.
5
I believe in you my soul....the other I am must not
abase itself to you,
And you must not be abased to the other.
Loafe with me on the grass....loose the stop from your
throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want,....not custom or
lecture, not even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
MYRLN is a non-blogger friend of mine who is the guest-poster here on Mondays. It's another MYRLN Monday.
RAMBLE TO UTTER CONFUSION
by MYRLN
Diminishing daylight hours recalls the ambivalence of the first day of summer. It's that longest day of the year on which we celebrate reaching the peak of daylight's supremacy. But at the same time, it's also the day when we begin again the slide into winter's cold, dark dreariness. Oh, some will say, what a pessimist. They will ask, is the glass half full or half empty?
Well, actually it's both at the same time...from an holistic viewpoint. And from the same viewpoint, the first day of summer is both a beginning and an ending. No matter how much you might want to ignore the duality, it's there: the summit of light and warmth but also the descent towards dark and cold, a pattern likely the basis for the myth of Sisyphus. Push the stone to the top of the hill only to have it roll back down and require another and endless repetition of the task, while knowing full well its eternal nature.
So the glass is always both half full and half empty. To insist on one or the other is to require factionalism, partisanship -- those things that inevitably lead to disagreement and extremism (e.g. al Qaeda terrorism vs. U.S. terrorism) and often to war between the extremes. So how does the holistic viewpoint deal with such extremes? Not well, actually. Simplify the question: is murder good or bad? The holist must say it's both. The opposite viewpoint insists it's a moral matter; it must be one or the other. So is holism amoral? If it refuses to distinguish between good and bad, then yes, it is, the partisan would say...if not downright immoral. And if no distinction, then humanity's response is paralyzed when it comes to extremes of behavior or event. So the glass must be either half full or half empty. No holism allowed. Partisanship required. Like the Pope recently declaring Roman Catholicism the only true path to salvation, all other aspects of Christianity and other religions, in fact, false and useless. Or like the good prez, George Dumbya's, "I'm right and everyone else is wrong so follow me or die."
It's a tough world for holists. The first day of spring or fall are the best days of the year for them: days and nights are of the same length, the glass half full and half empty at the same time. The Pope and prez must hate days like those. Or maybe not so much the Pope since he recently took a nice holistic view in declaring Evolution and Creationism not to be exclusive of each other. It's sort of like the holist pointing out the obvious truth that the human animal is and always has been good and bad in one and the same body/mind. Hasn't it?
Although...well, remember the Garden of Eden? Remember the admonition its inhabitants were given? "...of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it...." They were not to know of good and evil. See, even God didn't want us to differentiate, wanted to keep that knowledge away from us. Or for us to know about it and not know about it at the same time? A holist? Hmmmm....
And poor Sisyphus, that first day of summer. All he can do as that damned rock begins to roll away from him, is watch, maybe cast a "Why me?" glance heavenward, and take a swig from his half-full/half-empty water bottle before starting after the rock...again. "At least it's all downhill from there," the eternal optimist would say, never realizing the irony of the remark.
Confusing, ain't it? Or is it confusing and clear at the same time?
Facebook. That's one of those "social networking" sites, this one founded by a 23 year old and populated, at least originally, by that younger set. Yes, that's important.
I'm not a big joiner of those online social networks, but some of my "old time" blogger friends joined and invited me to join them. Why not, I figured. Maybe getting back in touch with the old crowd will jump start my own blogging.
Meanwhile, Ronni at Time Goes By takes notice of the anti-elder hate speech that is evident in a number of Facebook discussion groups occupied by those younger members. Ronni deactivated her Facebook account in protest.
My response was to join the "oldest people on Facebook" (70 so far is the oldest) and become one of those who are standing up to be counted.
I guess it's the old in-your-face "warrior crone" in me.
Each day I watch the local and world news from 6 to 7 p.m. I watch Countdown at 8. I know that every day someone gets shot in a drive-by. I know that every day some child dies at the hands of a violent adult. I know how corrupt too many of our government officials are. I know that the military tells lies to cover up the crimes committed by the soldiers it has brainwashed. I know that Rupert Murdoch wants to own the media of the world. I know. I know.
But what's the point writing about it. Others are doing it far better than I ever could. Although Molly Ivins did it the best.
The Big Picture is out of my control. It often seems that it's out of anyone's control but the few who already control it.
Even some of the Little Picture is out of my control. It's at the mercy of my mother's health.
That's why I blog about hair cuts and newly purchased cars. Those are among the very few things over which I have any control at all.
I know that my life isn't nearly as tough as it is for millions of other people. And it's even tougher if they're stupid. (The following from an email I got from a relative.)
-- Recently, when I went to McDonald's I saw on the menu that you could have an order of 6, 9 or 12 Chicken McNuggets. I asked for a half dozen nuggets. "We don't have half dozen nuggets," said the teenager at the counter. "You don't?" I replied. "We only have six, nine, or twelve," was the reply. "So I can't order a half dozen nuggets, but I can order six?" "That's right." So I shook my head and ordered six McNuggets
-- I was checking out at the local Wal-Mart with just a few items and the lady behind me put her things on the belt close to mine. I picked up one of those "dividers" that they keep by the cash register and placed it between our things so they wouldn't get mixed. After the girl had scanned all of my items, she picked up the "divider", looking it all over for the bar code so she could scan it. Not finding the bar code she said to me, "Do you know how much this is?" I said to her "I've changed my mind, I don't think I'll buy that today." She said "OK," and I paid her for the things and left. She had no clue to what had just happened.
-- A lady at work was seen putting a credit card into her floppy drive and pulling it out very quickly. When I inquired as to what she was doing, she said she was shopping on the Internet and they kept asking for a credit card number, so she was using the ATM "thingy."
-- I recently saw a distraught young lady weeping beside her car. "Do you need some help?" I asked. She replied, "I knew I should have replaced the battery to this remote door unlocker. Now I can't get into my car. Do you think they (pointing to a distant convenience store) would have a battery to fit this?" "Hmmm, I dunno. Do you have an alarm, too?" I asked. "No, just this remote thingy," she answered, handing it and the car keys to me. As I took the key and manually unlocked the door, I replied, "Why don't you drive over there and check about the batteries. It's a long walk."
-- Several years ago, we had an Intern who was none too swift. One day she was typing and turned to a secretary and said, "I'm almost out of typing paper. What do I do?" "Just use copier machine paper," the secretary told her. With that, the intern took her last remaining blank piece of paper, put it on the photocopier and proceeded to make five "blank" copies.
-- I was in a car dealership a while ago, when a large motor home was towed into the garage. The front of the vehicle was in dire need of repair and the whole thing generally looked like an extra in "Twister." I asked the manager what had happened. He told me that the driver had set the "cruise control" and then went in the back to make a sandwich.
-- My neighbor works in the operations department in the central office of a large bank. Employees in the field call him when they have problems with their computers. One night he got a call from a woman in one of the branch banks who had this question: "I've got smoke coming from the back of my terminal. Do you guys have a fire downtown?"
-- Police in Radnor, Pa., interrogated a suspect by placing a metal colander on his head and connecting it with wires to a photocopy machine. The message "He's lying" was placed in the copier, and police pressed the copy button each time they thought the suspect wasn't telling the truth. Believing the "lie detector" was working, the suspect confessed.
-- A mother calls 911 very worried asking the dispatcher if she needs to take her kid to the emergency room, the kid was eating ants. The dispatcher tells her to give the kid some Benadryl and should be fine, the mother says, I just gave him some ant killer..... Dispatcher: Rush him in to emergency.
not just a little ol' grandma raising hell at the keyboard
she is that which does not surrender
