Spring isn't supposed to be dreary. Anyway, I got a good look at the bobtailed squirrel with the binoculars this morning. And it makes me feel a little bit cheerful to look at my collection of pretty plates, like this one.
On this cold, damp day, I attended the literary club's monthly meeting at the Methodist Church's beautiful Family Life center. The weather and various flooding and other problems kept some of the members away, but Dine, Chris, Gwen, Jean, Betty and Barbara were there. Barbara and Dine had prepared a beautiful and scrumptious luncheon feast, and they let me read a bunch of poems from my book.
An old pine with a knot-hole halfway up
may break and hit the house someday; but that's
for me to contemplate. This pair of hawks,
new to the neighborhood, shun the old nest
in the flawed pine, and choose to build a new
apartment in a taller, stouter tree.
They call out to each other as they work,
and warn me to look out for falling timber;
but all that drifts down from their carpentry
is one bright feather, like a calling card.
just a pleasant sunny day. This morning I watched a hawk sitting on a limb grooming its feathers. With the binoculars I watched it out the kitchen window.
Yesterday the whole park was flooded by the little Cahaba-type stream running through it, as well as a good deal more of the landscape. My basement floor was wet and the yard had lots of puddles, but nothing too bad.
Last Wednesday I had a major event--the plumbers and drain cleaners had to be called and were here into the late evening cleaning things up. Of course, that plunged my psyche into the depths, and I still haven't got my head rearranged from it.
Jed came over Thursday and helped me prepare for the book signing, which I couldn't have done without him, and stayed until Sunday afternoon. Time marches so fast, I recognize the need to fill every moment with something meaningful. However, that's easier said than done. But I will try harder.
I woke up at 4:00, lay there another hour but couldn't go back to sleep. I've already straightened and dusted one room. If I don't do some cleaning before the day gets going full blast, it won't get done.
We had a roomful of folks at the meeting last night, and a whole bunch of good poems were read. Joe had two really excellent sonnets, and I got him to sign my copy of his recent book, Learning To Tell Time.
When I walked in the door at the Arts Council, they were right indignant that I hadn't brought some of my books to sell. So I turned around and went and got some. I sold four copies. Joe and Sherry had already got theirs on Amazon. I was glad that Sister Ramey showed up for this meeting, but she didn't bring a poem to read.
Joan, Frank, Sherry, Grady Sue, John and Linda each read one or two poems. I read "Einstein's Brain," and Grady Sue made me recite "Marsupial Strabismus."
The book signing on Saturday is turning into a real party, which will be set up in the meeting room, and Joan has emailed me a list of items to include. I guess that will be my 15 minutes of (local) fame. Now I have to shop for tablecloths, napkins, flowers, food and drink, which will be lots of fun.
And I find that I'm expected to read "lots of poems" aloud. When I talk for a while, I usually start coughing. However, I can sing all day without coughing. Maybe I can read in a singing voice, like W.B. Yeats. That ought to be a blast.
Major, major panic attack, Friday night and all day yesterday. When it began to let up, it was like the sun rising. But it was eleven o'clock last night. So I went to bed and slept off and on for fourteen hours.
Those spells are hard to describe. I remember a bad one that occurred when we lived in Montgomery. My husband was away on a business trip, and I called my friend Marzee. She got her older daughter to stay with my children, and she took me to a movie to see if it would distract me. The movie was "Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines," or something like that. I literally ran out into the street, not screaming. But running up the street for a block or so and back dissipated the panic attack. I'll have to remember that for next time. Running up the street in my pajamas, I'd probably get picked up and taken to the pokey.
I could run the 20-or-so steps up and down the deck, like Jack Aubrey pacing his quarterdeck.
If anyone is trying to send me an email: All day today, when I try to receive or send email, this is what I get:
Unable to send or receive messages for the Charter (jocage) account. An incorrect password was entered. The next time you send or receive messages, you'll be asked to enter your user name and password for this account.
Server Error: 0x800CCC90
Server Response: -ERR invalid user name or password.
Server: 'pop.charter.net'
Windows Live Mail Error ID: 0x800CCC92
Protocol: POP3
Port: 110
Secure(SSL): No
I've tried to find "help," but there ain't none. IT does no good to reenter my user name and password, I just get the same thing. I'm beginning to get annoyed.
The last two books I've read, or tried to read in the case of the Roman one, had scenes or descriptions of people torn apart, one by animals and one by war, with their "nine miles of tubing" scattered over the landscape, preceded and followed by scenes of unutterable misery. Such prose is probably therapeutic in some way for the writers, and that realism is real is indisputable. But a couple of vicarious doses is about all I can take for a while. I need an antidote, maybe a little bit of Lewis Carroll.
Every morning I get dressed, in case UPS or somebody delivers a box of books, and I spend the waiting time getting some chores done. So this week I've paid the bills, renewed my car tag, submitted entries to the writing contests of Alabama Conclave of Writers (first chapter of a novel, and one poem), Ala. State Poetry Soc. and National Federation of Poetry Societies (a bunch of poems to each), done many loads of laundry, and kept the house from molding over, I hope. I tried to read a book about some druids who were inducted into Caesar's army and went to Rome, but halfway through it I couldn't take any more so quit.
Yesterday evening I went over to Sister Susan's for her birthday bash, and that was a pleasant break. We feasted on pizza, chili, ice cream, and the most beautiful birthday cake I've ever seen.
Jed went to Texas last week, and unless he gets lost in that enormous state, he'll be back in Atlanta this weekend.
Song For
Thom, Too Hard To Sing
Today I got dressed and mailed a couple of entries to the 2014 contests of the National Federation of State Poetry Societies. I'm afraid that was my two chores for today. Well, I also went by the store and bought some more cans of green beans, which have become my favorite food lately. I can't cook green beans worth a flip, but I love the canned ones.
The most beautiful work of fiction or drama I have ever read, the play Cyrano de Bergerac by Edmond Rostand. English language, literally translated into French (or any other language, I suppose), would probably strike French readers as more or less comical, or at least boring. I long ago read an almost literal English translation of Rostand's play; in spite of the stilted language, it was a beautiful work.
And then I discovered the Modern Library edition of Brian Hooker's translation of Cyrano. I have read this book almost to pieces. It is stained with spilt wine, coffee and tears.
I used to feel sorry for people who like to read, who have never read this book. But the pity for others has turned into a sort of miser's glee for myself. I own something precious that nobody else I know possesses. I won't urge it on my friends, because I've done so with other works and found myself disappointed by their judgment and comments.
The movie "Cyrano de Bergerac," made in 1950 and starring Jose Ferrer and Mala Powers, is very good. The book, the play, is exponentially better.
Every day my past sins and offenses return to haunt me, and I hope I've been forgiven. Like the time I threw the telephone book at my son Jack. Fortunately, it hit my favorite milk glass bowl, a wedding gift from my cousin Nora, knocked it onto the tile floor and smashed it to smithereens. I think maybe that was punishment enough, but I'm not sure. If the thing had hit Jack, it wouldn't have hurt him much, as it was paper-backed and fanned out in mid-air. And he was already taller than me.
The time I was talking to someone, my sister Susie tapped me on the shoulder and my hand flew back and knocked her across the room. She says she forgives me, but how can you forget a thing like that?
The time I kicked Bobby Byrd on his sore leg.
The time I hollered at my mother. Oh, God!
Maybe, having set them down in black and white and acknowledged my guilt, maybe they'll let me move on to stuff I have to do.
Jed came over Saturday morning and stayed until today. He fixed so many things around the house, I don't know how to act grateful enough. Saturday we had lunch at Logan's, and Sunday dinner at Chili's, and the rest of the time we just "snacked around." Visited Home Depot to look at window blinds and garden stuff for a lot of good ideas, and watched several episodes of Firefly on TV; that was a great science fiction series, which for various reasons got canceled too soon. Made me like Nathan F. as Malcolm, even more than Castle. I loved the Preacher telling River, "You don't fix the Bible," when she had torn out a bunch of pages and was busily editing them.
Jed took a carload of books to deposit in various donation kiosks, and my office looks really decent. He also brought me a laser printer, and fixed the computer so that I can post pictures on my blog.
Now that the office mess is just about conquered, and I've done all I can on the book, I'm beginning to want to make quilts. Trouble is, my right hand is so arthritic, it can hardly hold a book, let alone a needle. I'll just have to go the machine-stitching route, I guess. There are several quilt tops in the cedar chest, including the beautiful basket quilt that I made from Mama's blocks. That's the only one I'd really love to get quilted. But I'll think about that tomorrow, or next year.
This has been a long week. Hard to believe that just a week ago we were "snowed in." Downton Abbey ends this-coming Sunday, and Project Runway doesn't have many more Thursdays to go. I guess for entertainment I'll have to watch old reruns of Property Brothers and Castle. I may start reading books again--but that's how the house got in such a mess. If I got hold of twenty new books as good as Patrick O'Brian's Jack Aubrey series, the house could cave in for all I'd notice.
Today I plan to finish cleaning up the office. Of course, that means the closet will be stuffed, and there'll be beaucoup bags of trash to be dragged to the trash cart and put on the curb for tomorrow. And stacks of discards all over the house, to be taken to the basement; I may have to wait for a strong guy to come over here and help with that. Well, maybe I'll get it all done this week. But I plan to have this room in shape, dusted and vacuumed, TODAY.
The final version of the book is at the printer!
I gave myself two days to clean the office. Monday will start my second week on the job.
About six o'clock, the rain turned to snow, and now we've got probably an inch or two accumulation. The white cat appeared on the deck. I put a bowl of cat food inside the door, and left the door open. He eventually came in and ate, but every time I would try to get over there and shut the door, he would dart toward the deck. He finally finished eating and left, when I was about to freeze.
I posted a picture of the snow, and the cat's face peering in the door, on Facebook. But still can't get pictures on my blog.
I hate to whine, lest it set somebody else off into a bout of the "magentas." But sometimes I need to know when I started back on whatever pill was current. So I guess I'll go ahead and post this. And of course, it takes several days to weeks for the pill to start working, so you have to work your way up as far as you can by yourself. One day you'll wake up with enough spunk to take a shower.
The snow showers we were supposed to get yesterday turned into all-day snow and ice, impassable jams on the highways, and abandoned cars everywhere. Today, cars kept going up and down Rowan Road by my house, as if nothing unusual was happening. The sun was shining with all his might, and the driveway was pretty clear. So about 1:30 p.m., I drove to the convenience store. There were still some icy patches, and everyone was driving slow, including me. Took me back to the old days in Huntsville where the roads were messed up for most of the winter, and you had to get out there and drive anyway. They say it'll all start freezing over again, about ten minutes from now.
In my office, I can often hear a large dog somewhere in the neighborhood, barking a G above middle C--I think that's it, though I have no way to verify the note. It may be a G below middle C, because it's definitely a large dog and some distance away, and the note never changes. At night, or on dim frosty days like this, it imparts a Russian feeling, visions of wolves, of Zhivago struggling through the snow. Or Omar Sharif struggling through the snow.
We only had a small gathering at the Arts Center last night. I guess everyone was afraid of the BIG SNOW which is supposed to materialize somewhere within the 24 hour period. Around here, a few sleety grains is a big snow, especially if they take an hour or so to melt.
When my book is published, I wonder if I'll stop attending writers' group meetings except to sign books, or when they ask me to hold a workshop and tell 'em how to write.
Sometimes my writing seems dangerously close to cynicism, but I'm not like that. It really is snowing.
*
Been watching the grains turn into flakes. Now that's snow!
New jeans arrived from LLBean, enormously too long, and room enough in the seat and legs for Old Lucy and her nephew. I always forget that LLBean garments are very generously cut. At least the jeans are 100% cotton, made in Mexico, real denim instead of this sleazy chambray-looking stuff that most new jeans seem to be made of. I hate returning things, but I guess I will exchange them for a smaller, less "relaxed" pair. Maybe two pairs. My old two pairs are developing holes at the rear pocket corners. Last week I got new boots and house slippers, and some other things, I forget what. Well, a set of Rod MacIver watercolor prints, which I aim to frame and hang when I get some frames the right size. And I guess that completes my personal purchases for this year. I didn't really need the boots, but they're black leather instead of brown suede, and they've got two or three inches of heel to make me feel taller.
The poetry reading group meets tonight at the Arts Center. Need to talk to Doris or somebody about arranging a book-signing.
I've been watching the bobtailed squirrel through the binoculars. He does have white on his undersides, sort of streaked with gray. And the tip of his short tail is white. He chased away another squirrel and had the side yard all to himself, but he still couldn't sit still. He jumped and scooted around the yard for a few minutes, then all of a sudden he sat up on his hindquarters, folded his hands on his chest, and looked (it seemed) straight at me for ten seconds or so. Then he practically flew to and up the oak tree, hitting the ground about twice before he got there. I think he's part rabbit.
". . . though my rhyme be ragged,
Tattered and jagged,
Rudely rain-beaten,
Rusty and moth-eaten,
If ye take well therewith,
It hath in it some pith."
John Skelton, in Collyn Clout (1522)
Last night I watched a TV feature titled "Catholicism Is Right!" This mush-mouthed Canadian-Englishman went through the facts as we all know them. The Roman church was first. The New Testament didn't exist in published form until the Catholic churchmen organized and published it. The Pope isn't perfect off of the throne, only his official pronouncements on the faith are infallible. There have been bad Popes, but none of them ever preached heresy. (And I thought, Is that about to change?) And so forth. Mush-Mouth had me right ready to run over to Saint Theresa's.
For a long time, I have been yearning for the Catholic church, been on the verge several times of calling Father Naughton to have a little talk. Part of me wants the fellowship of a church, not necessarily the fellowship of its more vocal members. I'm a member of the Episcopal church, which is right down the road from me. I've been there. There's a Catholic church almost exactly a mile from here.
Sometimes I wish they were farther away, and I didn't have to feel guilty every time I drive by one of them. Or in my head hear ____________ yapping or see ____________ grinning or __________ putting out the garbage. Or imagining that pretty soon one or the other of them will be conducting an unorthodox wedding.
I trust that I'm a member of God's Church. That'll probably have to be it, unless I break down and accept a few things that I don't believe, and become more tolerant of crowds of people.
It's sort of like the reason I never remarried. I could foresee a breakup in every case.
Mo
Last night I abandoned common sense and watched an episode of "Sherlock Holmes" on PBS. The quotation marks are appropriate, because it seemed more like a parody of Sherlock Holmes. Watching these British films is something like watching a movie in French or Spanish without subtitles, where you recognize a word or phrase here and there, but depend on the picture for some vague idea of what's going on.
A proof copy of my book is supposed to arrive this afternoon. How should I dress?
It's a beautiful day!
By now Debbie has another granddaughter. Wish she'd send me one.
Today the computer won't let me post pictures to the blog. It's all coming apart.
I saw that squirrel again today, going up a tree. He's small and very dark, no white belly like the other squirrels, and his tail is only about one-third normal. He must had suffered an accident and recovered.
Great review of a great movie:
'"Shadowlands" . . . is intelligent, moving and beautifully acted [by Anthony Hopkins and Debra Winger]. It understands that not everyone falls in love through the avenue of physical desire; that for some the lust may be for another's mind, for inner beauty.' - Roger Ebert, January 7, 1994.
Ebert's review: http://www.rogerebert.com/reviews/shadowlands-1994
Julian Fellowes was in that movie.
A Dab of Recognition:
1994 was also the year that, led by my supremely talented sister Ramey, I joined the Alabama State Poetry Society, won my first prizes and thought well, maybe verse is the way to go instead of writing novels and sticking them back in a drawer for shame, as I had done several times before.
Now we are engaged in a great book publishing enterprise, the enterprise greater than the book is likely to be. Rowan Wood Press (namely me), mostly through the dogged collaboration of Mr. James DeWitt Cage, will publish The Lightness of the Dark, Poems by Joanne Ramey Cage, this month if we're lucky, next month if we hit a snag. If anyone wants to rush in and contribute blurbs of high praise beforehand, come on down.
Crazy Computer:
When I hit the return key, it throws in an extra line space. Don't blame me.
Crazy Critters:
I went into the kitchen for another cup of coffee, and out the window I saw a chipmunk (or a little bobtailed squirrel) run up behind a bird and nip at its tail.
Leaving Shambhala
More light beckons,
but can it ever shine like sun
on snow, a meadowlark's gold breast,
or the flowers in my children's eyes?
By JRC 01/08/14
*
The computer is acting up. I can't get the spacing right, but at least the words are there.
Someday I shall regale the world with an account of the symptoms of withdrawal from the codeine in cough medicine. Or maybe not. But in between those, I had the most wonderful week of celebration with family. Even received a card from my lovely and famous niece on the other side of the world in far-off Rhode Island.
Jed got me set up with a new paint set, rainbows of colors in oil, acrylic and water, bunches of brushes, canvas boards and water-color pads, and even a portable easel for the small work. So I take it as a mandate to paint pictures, however limited my expertise and inspiration. Lovely gifts and good wishes from all my kin. Many thanks. I'm going to paint something, as soon as I finish reading The Far Side Of the World by Patrick O'Brian. This is one of the best books ever written by anybody anywhere. Of course you have to know a foretopgallant mainsail from a jib boom.
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I couldn't sleep, so after lying there for two or three hours, I finally got up, hunted up materials, and started making Christmas gifts. When daylight comes, I'm going to try to shop for a few boy presents that I can't make something for. So I plan to spend today making Christmas gifts and curtains, after I go to the P.O. and (sigh) Walmart. I'll probably fall asleep in the middle of it all.
Sometimes I want to curl up, like a cat, in the sunshine on the living room carpet. If I ever give in and do this, I will consider myself either truly free or finally insane. Which of these, remains to be seen.
When I was a child, I wrote a poem about a cat lying in the sunshine. It seemed to me the height of luxury.
A fantasy novella by Roger Zelazny.
It has become plain that some of my Facebook "friends" enjoy and wallow in shocking and revolting images. It's bad enough when they project their hatred and nightmares in written words, but at least you can feel sorry for them. But some pictures are worse than a million words, and early in the morning, when I'm still on my first mug of coffee, when my hair is already standing on end from a restless night, it's almost unbearable to confront some previously unimaginable horror on Facebook.
Of course I could "unfriend" these people, but one of them is a distant cousin and one is a "fellow poet." I don't want to offend them, regardless of how many times they offend me. One wants to tell them to get help, but they would probably take that as the worst of insults. I have tried the "show me no more posts" from them, but this only lasts for a day or two, and then they reappear.
I know that horror exists, and I know that it's important to be able to face a certain amount of it without losing one's cool. But one hopes to have to face it only accidentally and from some enemy or force of nature. Not at random with one's morning coffee.
