Traveler 1 — back from the dead
I just got back from my Uncle John’s wake, where I sat in the front row next to my favorite cousin’s husband, who also doesn’t do “Catholic.” While the cute young priest led the rest of the group through the required statements and responses, I stared at my hands folded in my lap — the best I could do under the circumstances of my usually irreverent nonbelief.
That’s when I noticed that my fly was open. I felt the giggle rising up from my toes, right past my open fly. Camouflaging the zipping up of my fly with a sudden shift in my chair, I managed to get myself in order, but the giggle was still rising to the occasion.
The room-wide “Amen” came just in time.
Traveler 2 — a disposal problem
Yesterday, on my drive back to Albany for a dentist appointment, I heard a review of a book called The Traveler by John Twelve Hawks. But I get ahead of myself. What I want to say about the book and that review is coming up as Traveler 3.
My car was loaded up with clothes and housewares for the Salvation Army (I know where the drop-off is in Albany), a cheap tv cart that I had to exchange because the one I bought was defective, a shopping list that took up the whole length of a 10 inch envelope, and a bag full of smelly cat litter.
Why the cat used litter, you ask? Because the garbage truck only picks up on Tuesdays, and the bin could not fit another inch of anything.
Since I was meeting my women’s group friends for dinner, I figured that I would ask one of them to take the bag of litter home and throw it in her trash. (Yes, that’s a bizarre thing to ask a friend to do, but they all know me well enough not to be suprised by anything I might ask of them.)
On my way running around the city taking care of what was on the extensive list of things to buy (including a bigger black mailbox), I considered (1) tossing the bag of used litter out my car window on some side street (2) taking it into a ladies’ room at Burger King and throwing it into their trash (3) driving back to my old apartment building and leaving it in the back where the big dumpsters are.
But then, as I was putting some groceries (this burgh to which I’ve moved has a very shabby Shop Rite that never has challah), into my car — which I had parked next to one of those fenced in places for shopping carts that big marts provide in their big parking lots — I noticed that there was a trash bin right there next to all the carts.
So I never did have to ask one of my friends to take that bag of shit off my hands.
Before I left town, though, I had in my hands instead, a hard cover copy of The Traveler that I got at Barnes and Noble. I very rarely buy hard cover books; I just wait for the paperback copies or else get the books from the library. But I thought that this one might be worth the full price (not including B&N standard 20 percent off).
Traveler 3 — “A cautionary tale guaranteed to raise the paranoia level of anyone who reads it”
The guy on NPR whose review of the book I heard on my way upstate yesterday said the the author, John Twelve Hawks, is not identifiable by anyone, not even his publisher. When he talks to his publisher, he uses a voice distorter. He lives off the “grid.” Well, that piqued by interest right there.
Can satellites track your every movement? Do covert Internet surveillance programs inspect your emails and scrutinize the web sites you visit? Is what we believe to be the true history of the world just a “puppet show for childish minds”? Scary stuff says the B&N review.
Twelve Hawks presents big ideas about free will and determinism, good versus evil, social control, and alternate dimensions, all while impressing with knowledge ranging from the New Testament to string theory. Although reviewers compared the novel to the films Kill Bill, Star Wars, and The Matrix — with echoes of authors Dan Brown, Stephen King, George Orwell, and Michael Crichton thrown in — they called it wholly original, says the Bookmarks Magazine review on Amazon.com
I don’t know when I’m going to have time to read it, since I have to finish Harry Potter first, and then Enchantment.
I never read non-fiction. I have more than enough reality to contend with these days.
And more than enough unpacked boxes that I’m still tripping over.
Meanwhile, “Happy Trails to You…”

“But you study him,” continued Doctorow, “you look into his eyes and know he dissembles an emotion which he does not feel in the depths of his being because he has no capacity for it. He does not feel a personal responsibility for the thousand dead young men and women who wanted to be what they could be. They come to his desk not as youngsters with mothers and fathers or wives and children who will suffer to the end of their days a terribly torn fabric of familial relationships and the inconsolable remembrance of aborted life. They come to his desk as a political liability which is why the press is not permitted to photograph the arrival of their coffins from Iraq. How then can he mourn? To mourn is to express regret and he regrets nothing.”
He eats ’em up, spits ’em out, and burps out another lie. That’s our pres, feasting on death.
Read the entire essay by William Rivers Pitt here.

The boxes are not yet all unpacked, but there are two things I couldn’t wait any longer to make function anew: (1) a space near the windows that face east with a rug and a rocking chair, and a cat perch so my feline roommate can curl up and watch the birds at the feeder and (2) a Kalilily Time that better reflects where I am at this point in my life.
I live at the foot of my Momma Mountain, where there are reports of a bear wandering around getting into the neighbor’s garbage; where a family of hummingbirds visits outside my mom’s kitchen window each day and where the female often hovers right next to the window, watching us watching her; where I want to rise early and bed early to enjoy the sunny promises of each morning, but my biorhythms just won’t cooperate.
I’ve dropped almost ten pounds from all the physical labor and walking up and down the stairs a hundred times each day carrying all the stuff that we should have gotten rid of. Yesterday afternoon I lay down to take a half-hour nap. I woke up four hours later.
he cut down the wild mullein growing next to the driveway — the four-foot tall sisters with spikes almost ready for harvesting and drying. they take over everywhere he says — big ugly weeds. but he’s good to her. brings her ice cream, makes sure she’s taken her meds, sits with her and watches tv. keeps making room in his basement for the stuff that just can’t fit. and he always fills the hummingbird feeder. and he can make you laugh at the things she does that stopped seeming funny to you. so you figure that there will always be more mullein.
Momma Mountain watches as I keep climbing the hard path I’ve chosen.
I wish I cared more about giving.
I wish I knew more about weblog design/codes etc.
I figure I’m not doing too badly despite my ungranted wishes.
And so it goes.

Yes, I know. It’s supposed to be where the heart is. But not for me. It’s where I can engage my head and the spirits who visit there.
Last night, the sky above my new digs was filled with all of the stars that could squeeze in between the towering trees and Momma Mountain. I call her Momma Mountain because she is strong and stable and I can see her welcoming face for miles before I reach the safety of her shadow.
In the center of my starry, starry night, the air reeled with the calls of frogs and cicadas and all of those other rowdy night creatures that are invisible except to the ear.
I was dizzy with delight. At least for that moment. That one quiet moment when I went out to my car to close the sunroof.
My old email address seems to be working, even though I am no longer connected to the net the way I used to be. We’ll see how long that lasts, but meanwhile, at least I can decompress from my day here where my head is.
she follows you around, asking questions about everything you touch, everything you do. she doesn’t read, watch the news, have any interests. there’s nothing to talk about. you yell at her. tell her to shut up and leave you alone. your sibling is usually good with her — often better than you are. your temper has quickened; your patience smothered. you and your sibling live in different realities; the clashing is loud and full of f**ks inserted into every sentence. this upsets her. but we two blow it off and keep on keeping on. sometimes we even laugh, the three of us — although usually it’s not for any reason that she understands.
Most of my plants have died. I thought that leaving them outside for a few days might perk them up after the long car ride. Did you know that plants get sunburned? Only they get paler instead of darker. All except my ugly cactus, which, despite an extremely traumatic and dismemebering ride, seems to be holding its own, still outside in the sun.
I think that I will be unpacking for the next year. I have to get rid of more stuff. Too much stuff. Too much stuff, in all of the meanings of that word.
Today I finally understood why medical practitioners in nursing homes give their patients meds to keep them as calm as possible. Otherwise they would need two caregivers for every patient. And even those two would burn out after a few months of coping with all of those paranoid accusations, insatiable needinesses, constant complainings.
Now I understand why I should have used my head and made the choice not to care.
It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.
I ditto what my ex-spouse tells our offspring. When I get like that, just put me in a trash bag and set me out by the curb.
Or, maybe it would be kinder and just as effective to put me outside in a blizzard and just let me drift off (pun intended).
It’s bedtime. I’m off to join Harry and Hermione and the half-blood prince.

Well, it’s only about 90 miles, but to get my mom and me from here to there continues to be a monumental effort.
She’s there and being cared for as her logical mind keeps slipping away.
I’m here and there. Almost too tired to care anymore.
Sometime after the beginning of August, I will have a new email address, which you will be able to find tucked away if you link to About Me. I will, hopefully, have my new ISP set up sooner than later. Maybe I’ll even do a little Kalilily Time refurbishing.
Meanwhile, please keep me in your good thoughts. I still have to move my plants, cat, computer etc., lamps, mirrors, and fifteen pairs of dollar store reading glasses that I can never find when I need a pair.
The Salvation Army comes on Friday to pick up the usable leftovers. Then I clean up what’s left.
I have had help packing and schlepping from two of my dearest friends. Michaela, I owe you big time.
I will make it through this. I will make it through this. I will make it through this.

your nails are ripped and ragged from the ravages of cardboard and tape. hers are long and tough. she tries to file them down every day. at least she did before she started more forgetting. the language center is dissolving. non-existent words come out of her mouth and she knows it, is frustrated by the inability to make her point. you can be patient about that; you can respond to someone in pain. it’s when she climbs her high “you owe me” horse that your own frustration turns your language into expletives. there is no more patience left to deal with the controlling patterns of the self-involved manipulator you’ve spent your life distancing from.
I sit in the middle of packed and unpacked boxes, empty shelves. There’s only one chair that’s left unlayered, and that’s the one in front of the computer. I’m back from an overnight with my mom in her new place. The moving was hard on her; she’s disoriented, unsure of where she is or why she’s there. I do the best I can for her, and we find some things to laugh about. Mostly, she cries.
I try to make a list of all the things I need to do before I move, all those address changes for both of us…. I have to get my oil changed and brakes re-lined. Heh, you know — the car. Call the Salvation Army for pick-up. There are friends I will not have time to see before I leave. I keep chipping away at my hair. I do that when I’m stressed. I wonder how I’d look bald.
I will get through th1s.

she got lost in the woods today, even though you told him that moving would disorient her even more. she went down to the pond, in 90 degree heat, by herself. he calls the police, but finds her, finally, stumbling up the rise toward your new digs, using a tree limb as a cane, a strange stone tucked into her pocket. she’s calling for help. she can’t remember why she walked away into the woods. she says she had a reason. but she can’t remember. she can’t remember. you are 86 miles away, your stomach in knots.
We will get through this. We will get through this. We will get through this.
I will blog my way through it.

I grow old…I grow old
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
And so I ate a peach for lunch, with brie and 8-grain baguette. And, even through brain-fried by heat and over-exertion, I remember Prufrock.
————
One of my old folks’ home neighbors invited me to dinner last night, along with two other even older neighbors. Good ol’ fashioned brisket and gravy. Challah. Breyer’s ice cream for dessert. They think I’m an angel. They also think my mother is spoiled and takes advantage of me. (Ya’ think?)
I didn’t tell them that now my mom is ensconced (under protest) in her new place, I’m laying the law down for her. She’s got to live by the rules that I and my brother set down for her safety and our sanity. She doesn’t like it. But then, again, there is little that she ever liked anyway.
But still I run around still moving her stuff, moving me — still moving me. Too much stuff but not the stuff I need for an empty loft space.
_____________
The peach was lussccciioouuus.
I cut my hair a little punk. A punk Crone. Who says it can’t be so.
_______________
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
T.S. I love you. Still.

There’s a mullein patch growing along the side of my future driveway — three tall, thick-stemmed, and blossoming plants. As I understand it, this tenacious weed blooms every other year. All around the three bloomers are scattered plants that must be yearlings — all leaves, no blooms, and — I notice as I pull up next to the building — battered into the ground by the hard rain that just finished falling, taking the electrical power with it.
I have brought my mother to her/our new digs. It’s hot, humid, it’s almost sunset. And the power is out.
We make do.
The space in which she will be living is a lot smaller than the two-bedroom suite she had in the upscale old folks home out of which I am still moving us. The garage bay where I should park my car is filled with her boxes and furniture that won’t fit in her new space. She wants all her things, she complains. And complains.
I’m hot. I’m tired. I had to do all the packing, help with the moving. I lose my temper. If you had to go into Assisted Living, I tell her, you wouldn’t be able to take hardly any of this stuff. Here you have two kids are are willing to take care of you and all you think about is your crappy furniture.
I stand by her window and watch the local humingbird flutter around the red and yellow feeder that my brother put up right where she could sit at her table and watch the little miracle. Some mourning doves tussle over bits of bird food that have fallen from the bird feeder as a cardinal pecks away at the stash.
In the morning, the mullein plants that had been beaten down by the rain are happily drying and flexing in the sun.
I think about our former 92 year old neighbor with crippling and painful arthitis who occupied my mother while the major furniture pieces got moved out. I’ve been taking her grocery shopping once a week. Her only son lives in California. Somehow she manages life on her own. She rarely complains, and even then it’s about her arthritis. She was a great help with my mother, even though my mother is younger. I hope that she finds someone to take her grocery shopping.
Tonight, I’m back in my old one-bedroom apartment, faced with cleaning out my mother’s suite tomorrow. It’s still cluttered with stuff I hope she forgets about because I’m going to throw it away.
Coming full circle, it seems, I arrived back here tonight to a 250 unit building in which the power was out.
On top of that, my poor cat hadn’t eaten in more than 24 hours because, although I had filled her food dish, I had left it on the counter. She was either too well trained or too stupid to seek it out herself.
The long days are far from over. Still much to move down to the land of the mullein and hummingbird.