seeing circles

The poem below by Billy Collins (one of Jim Culleny’s daily poetry emails) makes me sad and angry and wistful and hungry.
I’m not hungry for sweets. I surely eat enough of those.

Rather it’s a soul-deep hunger for the solitude to watch circles become salt, to reach for and conjure the words that make magic of metaphor.

And so I am angry that with each passing year I have had to move farther and farther from that place where destiny can be designed. And I am sad because those years can never be recovered. And I am wistful, finally, because that is what comes of and with age and the utter exhaustion of being someone else’s keeper.

Design
Billy Collins
I pour a coating of salt on the table
and make a circle in it with my finger.
This is the cycle of life
I say to no one.
This is the wheel of fortune,
the arctic circle.
This is the ring of Kerry
and the white rose of Tralee
I say to the ghosts of my family,
the dead fathers,
the aunt who drowned,
my unborn brothers and sisters,
my unborn children.
This is the sun with its glittering spokes
and the bitter moon.
This is the absolute circle of geometry
I say to the crack in the wall,
to the birds who cross the window.
This is the wheel I just invented
to roll through the rest of my life
I say
touching my finger to my tongue.

how are things in Glocca Morra

That’s been my ear worm for the past several days. The song is from the 1940s stage musical “Finian’s Rainbow.” How Are Things in Glocca Morra?
When I hear that song, I am back in my little cocoon of a room where my asthma has me ensconced for days on end listening to the radio and playing with my endless supply of movie star paper dolls. The sun is shining through the sparkling window panes, opened just a bit to let in the fresh air. The room is filled with my breath and my music and an otherwise silence that negates any stress. My imagination takes me wherever I want to go, and the music on the radio is my magic carpet.
Even today, as the ear worm circles through my brain, somewhere deep inside me, I retreat into a safe, secluded place, where the sun shines through clear window panes and I am left to conjure a life of peace.

the Russert Rainbow

I haven’t seen anything appear through a search yet, but both Brian Williams and Keith Olbermann mentioned that, as the people gathered at the Kennedy Center to honor Tm Russert, a rainbow appeared over the NBC Washington Studios.
That is such a lovely and uplifting piece of synchronicity.
Not surprisingly, there are no rainbows over here in the mountains — just lots of thunder and rain and some kind of blight happening on my little “oasis in the wildnerness” garden. And I can’t take a photo of it to see if anyone knows what it is because I dropped my little camera while away the other weekend, and it broke. I bought a new little one but haven’t had the time to figure it all out yet or download the software.
Meanwhile, despite taking an antidepressant, my mom is having more frequent bouts of uncontrollable crying. She keeps asking for her husband, my dad, who passed away almost 25 years ago.
We are sitting at the table, and she is eating some spaghetti with a roasted sweet red pepper sauce that I make. She decided that she doesn’t like tomato sauce and she doesn’t like straight alfredo sauce, so I mix my pureed sweet roasted red peppers with a little alfredo, and she wolfs it down.
“Where are your children,” she asks.
“They live far away,” I answer. ” Where are yours?”
She looks at me and says, “I don’t know.”
I don’t know which is worse, Alzheimer’s or “old age” dementia. With Alzheimer’s you don’t realize that you’re not remembering. With dementia, you are torn apart by a sense that you can’t remember even though you want to.
I look back at my original blog, which I began in November of 2001. At that point, I was already taking care of my mom, living across the hall from her in a senior citizen apartment building. Even back then, when she wasn’t so bad yet, I was struggling to have some sort of life apart from caregiving. With each month that went by, I lost more and more of my own life.
I never thought that it would all go on for so long.
No wonder I’m burned out.

communitainment

That’s what Bill Moyers, in his speech to the National Conference of Media Reform, indicated that the media is becoming.

Already, newspapers and magazines (and soon TV programming) are encouraged to sell key words to advertisers – so-called “in-text advertising” – in the online versions of stories. Can you imagine advertisers going for stories with key words such as “health care reform,” “environmental degradation,” “Iraqi casualties,” “contracting fraud,” or “K Street lobbyists.” I don’t think so. So what will happen to news in the future as the already tattered boundaries between journalism and advertising is dispensed with entirely, as content, programming, commerce and online communities are rolled into one profitably attractive package? Last year the investment firm of Piper Jaffrey predicted that much of the business model for new media would be just that kind of hybrid. They called it “communitainment.”

Moyers also said great stuff like:

…this Administration – with the complicity of the dominant media – conducted a political propaganda campaign, using erroneous and misleading intelligence to deceive Americans into supporting an unprovoked attack on another country, leading to a war that instead of being “quick and bloodless” as predicted, continues to this day. (At least we now know that a neo-conservative is an arsonist who sets the house on fire and six years later boasts that no one can put it out.)

and

Democracy without honest information creates the illusion of popular consent while enhancing the power of the state and the privileged interests protected by it.

Democracy without accountability creates the illusion of popular control while offering ordinary Americans cheap tickets to the balcony, too far away to see that the public stage is just a reality TV set.

Nothing more characterizes corporate media today – mainstream and partisan – than disdain towards the fragile nature of modern life and indifference toward the complex social debate required of a free and self-governing people.

This leaves you with a heavy burden – it’s up to you to fight for the freedom that makes all other freedoms possible.

Be vigilant; the fate of the cyber commons is at stake here, the future of “the mobile web” and the benefits of the Internet as open architecture. We’ll lose without you: the only antidote to the power of organized money in Washington is the power of organized people at the netroots.

You can go to the FreePress site and read, listen to, or watch the whole amazing speech.
A couple of years ago, I agreed with Molly Ivins that Bill Moyers should be president. Maybe what he should be is Barack Obama’s Carl Rove.
It’s too bad that there isn’t a Corporation for Public Blogging (like the Corporation for Public Broadcasting). Maybe if there were, b!X would have been able to continue his city-based and well respected journalistic (but not economic) success, the Portland Communique.
Surely there must be some foundation or trillionaire somewhere who might want to give out grants to independent citizen blogger/journalists? I nominate b!X to be first on the list.

I had the last word

Who doesn’t like having the last word, and this time it was mine at the end of Ronni Bennett’s great essay on elderboggers, Put It In Writing, published today in the Wall Street Journal. You can’t get to the essay online, so Ronnie had to send it in an email to those of us she mentioned in case we don’t subscribe to the newspaper, which I don’t.
Interestingly enough, the Journal began the printed version of Ronni’s essay with a quote from my quote. So, here I am, the alpha and the omega.
On Ronni’s blog, Time Goes By, she mentions the essay and shows the great graphic that the newspaper included.
Ronni will be having occasional articles on aging and retirement for the Wall Street Journal from now on. Congratulations, Ronni.
And thanks for giving me the last word.

I blog to connect with the world outside myself
that I’m trying to make sense of.
I blog to keep up my spirit;
to stir the spirit of others;
to stir my blood, my brain and my beliefs.

ADDENDUM: I discovered that you can read the whole great article by going here and then clicking on the story title, “Put it in Writing.”

reluctant reentry

mewindow.jpg
I spent last weekend in a place as close to perfect as I’ve been in a long time. Good friends, good food, a good book, a lake, mountains, a spacious home with lots of decks, pitchers of Cosmos, and laughter-filled games of Boggle. I could have stayed there forever.
Now I’m back in the situation I should never gotten into, and I’m finalizing plans for my escape, with support from both the Hospice nurse and social worker. I would like to take my mother (92 years old and demented) with me, where we would be with our extended family in a home with beautiful gardens on a dead end street with lots of neighbors. She would have pleasant distractions from the painful movements of her body and mind. I would bring in the help we both need.
But my brother doesn’t want to let her go. And I just can’t stay.
As my hair grows gray, I need to spend more time in places of peace.
mewater.jpg

Myrln Monday: chipper munky

For a while before his death in April 08, non-blogger Myrln (aka Bill Frankonis), posted here on Kalilily Time some kind of rant or other every Monday. Our daughter, who has salvaged his published, performed, and non-such writings, continues to send me some to post posthumously.


CHIPPER MUNKY
The chipmunk who was unhappy with his life
Friend Crow
“great shiny suit” Chipmunk admires
“neat racing stripe” Crow notes of Chipmunk
Little top hat, tux, cane – Chipmunk becomes a socialite renowned for dancing prowess.
Learns emptiness of superficial life.

carefully care-free

Four days free of caregiving!
I am heading out tomorrow with my gaggle of friends to Lake Luzerne, which is not far from Lake George, which, as fate would have it, is the site of the annual motorcycle Americade at the same time. No doubt, the roads will be crawling with hogs of all kinds and their wannabe relatives
Back in high school, I dated a guy with a motorcycle — unbeknownst to my parents of course. It might be fun to ride on one again. I mean, isn’t there some commercial where a grandmother rides in on the back of a bike that her grandson is driving? Hmm. Maybe I’ll run into a senior citizen biker.
Meanwhile, I’m trying to figure out if the itchy bumps popping up on my arms are flea bites or hives or some sort. I can’t seem to find any fleas on my cat, but I know those critters are pretty tricky.
Also, meanwhile, the hospice nurse continues to check in on my mother. Mom somehow fractured a rib while I was gone a few weekends ago. While the pain seems to be finally subsiding, she is getting less and less stable on her feet and just is not happy about very much. The nurse brought in a young woman who played the guitar and sang, and my mother seemed to like that — although after they left, she was sure that they stole some of her jewelry.
I don’t know how my brother is going to handle four days and three nights taking care of mom on his own. If it were me, I’d hire someone to come in and help. I’m leaving a list of available private hires on the refrigerator and a stockpile of food that mom likes inside.
I am sooo out of here.

Myrln Monday: ex memoriam

For a while before his death in April 08, non-blogger Myrln (aka Bill Frankonis), posted here on Kalilily Time some kind of rant or other every Monday. Our daughter, who has salvaged his published, performed, and non-such writings, continues to send me some to post posthumously.


ex memoriam
somehow it seems appropriate
my art lives in transcience
(theatre)
while friends, students, lovers
reach for permanence in written words
(poetry).
(theatre) leaves behind no marks:
Is there a moment and is gone.
struck, as we say.
(impermanence).
Appropriate because some say
there should be no memorials
(me)
mucking up the lives behind us
with our droppings
(bullshit)
all right, so why a paean to (impermanence)
In this (permanent) form?
well, sometimes letting contemporaries know
where you stand is necessary
(bluntness).
Or so cap’n billy if’n say.

a book thing

I read books, listen to books, pile up books, buy books, lose books, lend books, give books, and love to get books.
But I don’t make books.
(i don’t “make book” either, which is the slang term by grandmother used back in the forties, when she would send me down the street to the bar where I would bet her weekly “10 cents, combination” on the numbers.)
Last month, a dear friend of mine sent me, as a condolence gift, a book that she had literally made. It’s not just a book; its a sculpture of sorts, fanning out, when opened, with flaps containing her favorite quotes. It’s got color and texture and is a book like no other.
bkks.jpg
And this is my favorite quote of her favorite quotes:

Forgiveness is letting go of all hope for a better past.

–Anne Lamott