Up From the Ashes

Well, I'm slowly climbing out of the trough into which I fell Monday night. Started back on the antidepressant and B12 Tuesday, so I'm beginning to feel human again. Still low on energy, and feel like my mind needs some new spark plugs. I also started taking the multivitamin and calcium+D. I'll probably add all those other supplements as I get used to swallowing pills again.

What I need to do is write another novel. Or make another quilt. When I feel like lifting my hands.

Making a list

Okay. The things I must do today. Can't get out of doing. Laundry. Print out a poem or two for the meeting tonight. Haircut. Shampoo and shower. Manipedi. I guess that's all. I can let the house and car go on festering for twenty-four hours. After all, tomorrow is another you-know-what.

Thinking of a new quilt

Tracy's guys came by this morning and chopped down the perennial cottonwood that grows up by my office window. This time it was at least 8 feet high, and the trunk down at ground level is about 4 inches in diameter. I wish it had grown up somewhere else; it would be a beautiful tree by now. But where it is, smack up against the house, it has to be cut down once or twice a year.

The basement got wet again night-before-last, and Tracy said he was coming by yesterday to look at it, but he never did. I don't know what they're going to do about it, if anything. I'm afraid if they dug that well any deeper for the pump, water would gush up like an oil well. Maybe, as Jed suggested, we should just bring in some heavy equipment, level the house, and build a community swimming pool. Or pour in enough concrete to make the basement floor several inches higher. Or move to Santa Fe, New Mexico, above it all.

I'm wanting to make a pink-and-white quilt, and I think Aunt Carrie's quilt that she made for one of my boys would be a good pattern. I sketched the block(s) this morning.

Each large block is actually made up of 4 each of 2 sections, plus the center square. I think it would be pretty in light and dark pinks, plus white. For a mini quilt, you could just make one block, based on an 8-inch center square, and the quilt would be 40" square plus any borders.

5:45 p.m.: I watched most of the game, and it didn't jinx Alabama. Tide rolled all over Arkansas.

Pizza At Last!

Yesterday Ramey stopped by after work with a load of pizza, cupcakes, and lots of other goodies! We had a feast, and I've got pizza and other necessities for the weekend.

Later, I watched the New York Philharmonic on PBS, playing Richard Strauss's Salome, based on the play by Oscar Wilde. I don't like Richard Strauss, he was "Hitler's composer," very anti-Semitic and pro-Nazi. But musically he was a genius. That's not to say his music appeals to me. It is great, but not appealing. Salome was terrifying, especially the parts sung by Deborah Voigt, a very powerful dramatic soprano. I guess I'm glad I finally sat through something by R. Strauss, but once was enough.

This is probaby the least horrible illustration by Beardsley, for Wilde's play.

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I said Strauss was a genius, but that's just hearsay. It's what "they" say. What do I know?

What's Going On Here?

I don't understand. I used to be able to order a pizza about once a week and not feel too much of an effect on my bank account. Some time ago I switched to picking up the pizza to save $5-$10. Now, on this dark rainy day when a pizza would be so appropriate, I don't even have the wherewithal to go to the market and buy a Red Baron or even a Totino's to cook in the old gas oven.

The mailman just delivered the staircase for the dollhouse. The package is about 3 feet long, so I suspect I'm going to have to return the thing. It was supposed to be 14 inches long. I'm afraid to open the box.

Is Mercury retrograde? Worse, is Pluto back in my sign? I'm about ready to pack it up and move to Oregon, or Oklahoma or Ohio. Or the West Coast. No, not that. A bologna sandwich sounds good.
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Worst Commercial (even worse than the Progressive one): The girl who sings (hollers), "OOhhhhhh, Pie in the sky, you know how I feel..."

I know it's not "pie in the sky." But that's what runs around in my head for a few hours, every time I accidentally hear a few bars of that commercial.

Vincent Van Gogh's "Bedroom in the Yellow House At Arles"

Blue Door, Stage Left

To think the great Paul Gauguin will sleep there,
in that small room adjoining my chamber!
I've made my own room up in many colors,
hoping it will cheer me, while I rest,
improve my health and my exhausted nerves.

I need to get well, to be at my best
when he arrives. I hope he'll be surprised
and pleased with all the plans I've made for us.
Perhaps he will acknowledge me his equal,
in art his brother, and in life his friend.

O let me sleep tonight, if I can sleep,
with no nightmares, no images of crows,
black clouds and somber faces to disturb
the sanctuary of this simple room!

By JRC, 09/17/2011
*
I think it was my friend Joan D. who didn't believe me when I said that a poem can come into my head, pretty much fully formed. This one took less than half an hour to write down and make a few word changes. Maybe because I've been thinking about it and looking at that picture for more than two weeks. But I hadn't thought before of letting it be something Vincent might have been thinking. The germ of the poem was "blue door, stage left." And I'm not even sure about stage directions; anyway, there are two blue doors in the picture.

Psalm 100

Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands.
Serve the Lord with gladness: come before His presence with singing.
Know ye that the Lord, He is God: it is He that hath made us, and not we ourselves; we are His people, and the sheep of His pasture.
Enter into His gates with thanksgiving, and into His courts with praise: be thankful unto Him, and bless His name.
For the Lord is good; His mercy is everlasting; and His truth endureth to all generations.

*

Last night I turned on the deck light, and a great big possum was running its nose around the bottom of the door.

Other houses, other rooms

I've decided to put all my dollhouse furnishings and people back in the old metal bookcase. It originally consisted of nine rooms and a rooftop garden, and I'll either have to use all those things I made or throw them away. Throwing away stuff I've made is not something I like to do.

When I finish working on the big dollhouse, I will sell it for the highest bid. Which will probably be less than the house and staircase cost in the first place.

The Bedroom in the Yellow House at Arles

September is halfway over, and for 15 days I've been trying to write a poem for the fall ASPS contests. A poem about Vincent Van Gogh's painting of his bedroom at Arles. He said he was going to get total rest until he was healthy again. Though how he expected to rest in a purple room with green chairs, yellow sheets and and a blood-red bedspread-- The walls don't look purple in this picture, but he wrote to his brother and said the walls of the room were lavender. He must have liked the room. He painted it three times.
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Strange how many yellow houses there are. Vincent's Yellow House at Arles. Jared's little yellow house next door, which is the pretty view from my kitchen window. One of my sisters lives in a yellow house.

Keeping a Small House

This tiny dollhouse is only eight inches high from the peak of the roof. A long time ago I  bought it at one of Sylvia I.'s yard sales. It was just a curio shelf, in bad shape, but I painted it and added the floors and ceiling effects.

These tiny porcelain pieces are Red Japan, one of my favorite antiques. The bed and piano are less than two inches long. I've probably got more little china things I can display in the newly-painted dollhouse.

The big dollhouse is frustrating in a way. After all the work I've put into it, it doesn't look much different from when I began. It doesn't shout, "Look, I've got new moldings, new floors, clean windows, a new chimney," etc. After days of biting my fingernails and throwing away piles of wood strips and cardboard failures, I finally broke down and ordered a staircase kit, although I couldn't find one the right size. Someone with a little fine saw will have to shave off half an inch from one side of the stairs.

But it must be fun, or I wouldn't keep doing it. Last night I went through my boxes of dollhouse furnishings, all the little animals, toys and people. Camilla, Tracy, Dolly, Peter, Kenya, Heidi, Beauty, Ben Gunn, Sir Hugh Davenport, Mrs. Buff-Orpington, and others. I made most of the furnishings, and some of the people, when I lived in the Southside apartment. The only "house" I had for them was an old 3-foot-wide metal bookcase. I bought the big house at Hannah Antiques after I moved to Leeds.

At first I thought I would try to sell all this stuff when I have a yard sale. But I may just have to keep it and bequeath it to my heirs. I know they'll be thrilled speechless.

A Helping Hand

Tracy came by yesterday to check on the aftermath of the flood. He said he would call the new city director of public works or whatever she's called; said she's a friend, and maybe he can get them to clean out the drainage ditch behind my lot, which would help a great deal during heavy rains. That ditch is blocked, and when it overflows, guess where all the water goes. He's also going to send his crew to clean up the yard.

Tracy backed his big old truck halfway into the garage and loaded up the rest of the trash from in there. He also cleaned out the closet under the stairs; there were two ironing boards in there--one was Flora Cage's, but I have no idea where the other one came from. Lovvorn's has a thrift or junk store, too, where they refurbish stuff and distribute it to the needy, so I gave them a lot of things that might be usable. I kept the brass bedstead and a few other things out of that closet, to sell at the yard sale which I've got to get busy and throw before another flood. Or before Christmas, or New Year's.

I have pared my "collected poems" down to fifty of my favorites, and find that none of the publishing companies I know about are considering poetry. So I guess I have to bite the bullet and go through the misery of self-publishing. I do want to get at least these fifty between covers.

I found on River City Publishing's website that they will notify the winner of the awards contest, in which I entered my novel, "before December of 2012." When you think about it, that's not unreasonable, considering how long it might take them to read all the entries. It's the same way with them and with NewSouth, when they're accepting poetry; reading time is from three to nine months.

Saga of the Ringing Bell

The flood has subsided, and I'm trying to summon the grit to deal with the mess it left. Lot covered with trash, deck covered with pine straw, leaves and twigs. A few wet spots on the basement floors. Bedraggled cat who looks like he was out in the middle of it, but he wasn't.

The dollhouse has a new chimney, new moldings, this-and-that. Ready for a new staircase. I've paced the floor, trying to figure out how to make one. If I had fifty dollars, I'd buy one ready-made. Maybe I can find a "stringer" at Michael's.

Last night the doorbell rang and woke me up. I lay there for a minute, thinking, "It must be Ramey on her way to work." So I turned over and looked at the clock, and it was 2:30 a.m. Deja-vu all over again.

This has happened several times before. The first time, several years ago, I got up in the dark, crouched by the office window, and watched someone running away from the front porch. And it has happened at least once in the past year, because I remember telling Ramey about it.

The reason it bothers me is that I think they may be planning to try to break in, if no one reacts to the bell.

Last night I finally got up, turned on the porch lights, and called 911. Apologized for bothering them, explained that it happens every once-in-a-while, and they sent a police car cruising by. End of story. I finally lay back down and slept till noon.
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There ought to be a programmable device to connect with the doorbell. Between midnight and six a.m., it would shoot a non-lethal load of buckshot at whoever pushes the button.

New poem

Il pleut.
Bonheur.
Je suis tres heureuse.

I'm not sure it rhymes. But it's true. How in the world do French babies ever learn to talk?

OK. I've solved the problem of floors for the doll house. Rather, Susan solved some of it for me by dropping off three Scrabble sets from the thrift store, so I can use the wood tiles. Thing is, I need to complete the repairs before doing any painting necessary, before I install the floors. But then it'll be done. I give myself three days for the job. On America's Next Top Handyman, they'd only get three hours.

Today is Labor Day. So je travaille.

6:45 p.m.: The sump pump was doing well until an hour or so ago, but now the basement is flooded. I guess you can't expect it to handle a real flood, which I think is what we're having.

Looking northwest

I had to stand out in the rain to get these pictures.

Northeast

The green in each of the back yard pictures is a little island strip with water on all sides.

Out the kitchen window

And the lights keep flickering off and on. I hope that's not a bad sign.

It's still morning--

And I've already cooked eggs and toast for breakfast, done 3 loads of laundry, run one errand, and put the start of a beef roast in the crock pot. And fed Mo several times. Now I've got the misery in my back when I stand up, so I think I'll take the rest of the day off.

I want something good to read, but I've become too picky in my advanced age. I get impatient with most of the stuff that's being written these days.

New poem

The Lighthouse

The house was light, with no dark corners.
It rose on a pinnacle of dreams
and faced both east and west
with gardens all around.
There were fountains
numerous as the breasts of Artemis,
and a glittering stream that lit the way
to a river of light.

The house was light itself;
I see it still, from a century away.
There I was born, and there
I dreamed my life, and there
when it flowed away, I planted
an evergreen of children.

jrc Sept. 2, 2011

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4:20 p.m.: Today I mailed eight poems to the Ala. State Poetry Society contests. I wrote the lighthouse poem this morning to enter in one of the categories--i.e., "The Lighthouse."  I feel guilty about winning prizes and seldom sponsoring a contest. From now on, I'll reinvest at least some prize money into sponsoring contests. If I ever win any more prizes.

Bodies at rest tend to remain at rest...

Today I'm slow getting started. The AC man came and inspected the installation job and pronounced it OK. Otherwise, all I've coped with is a shower and shampoo and some clean clothes I found somewhere.
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I had a few errands to take care of, buy gasoline, pay the light bill, go to Wal Mart for some necessities. This evening I plan to work on the doll house some more. If I could get all my tools, materials and plans organized in one place, I could finish this thing in a day. I keep telling myself.

What Else?

It gets harder and harder--or more and more of a nuisance--to live by oneself and deal with everyday disasters. In the past week, the AC has crashed. The living-room light fixture broke--or I broke it trying to turn on the ceiling fan. A stray cat got in through the pet doors that I unwisely unstopped; Mo ran it off but not before it had ruined the foyer floor. I get dozens of telephone calls where the caller I.D. just says "Texas," "Wisconsin," "Georgia," etc., and if you answer, there's just silence. I forgot to put out the discards for the charity trucks.

There. That doesn't look so bad, does it? It was less than one disaster a day, and only a few nuisances. Don't count the computer freezing up in the middle of something, or burning my hand taking something out of the oven.

I just resent the waste of my time. It's the servants' job to take care of such stuff. But where are they when you need them?

An Old Poem

Great-Uncle John

I know what he meant when he said,
“My old cup runneth over!”
Mine doeth that so often,
I’m afraid I’ll go to hell
for loving life too much.

He looked like one of the Indians
in an early photograph
of Geronimo and his band,
all hung about with extra clothes
and miscellaneous items.

I looked for his grave the other day
over at Pleasant Ridge;
I know it’s there, for I’ve seen it,
but it seems to move around,
much like the old man himself.

Never at home anywhere,
he was always on the move, walking
“to Gilead for the balm,”
or “up the old Jericho Road,
to hear Paul, that new little preacher.”

My mother says she thinks
he was buried somewhere else,
but Aunt Bob says he’s there.
She puts flowers on his grave
on Decoration Day.

I asked her if she remembered
the bags of sweet buns he carried
to share with children he met;
he'd give one to a tot, then tease,
“Don't you eat my pie!”

(by JRC, October 2000)

*

The installers finished the AC at noon yesterday, just in time to keep me from lying down on my back and sticking my arms and legs up in the air and hollering "calf rope!" It took ten hours to cool the house down from 85 to 77. I guess that was pretty reasonable; cooling about 3600 square feet, counting the basement. It's not really supposed to cool the basement, but somehow it does.

Rather Warm

Yesterday afternoon, the air conditioner totally quit. I mean, every whatchamacallit in the whole system froze up or burnt out. Our friendly AC guy Brent had been trying to sell me a new system for more than a year, so he was Johnny-on-the-spot with the installers. They almost got it done but about nine p.m. needed something they didn't have, so they left. Said they'd be back about nine or ten o'clock today. Maybe by the time the temp hits 100 today, I can close the windows and turn off the ceiling fans.

At the book club meeting, I borrowed Barbara's copy of Cleopatra: A Life, and I've started reading it. The Pharos lighthouse at Alexandria was taller than the Saturn V rocket. The picture is a modern image based on the ancient descriptions. The mosaic is ancient, referring to the top of the structure with a statue of Poseidon. They don't identify the other guy up there.

To care, and not to care...

"Teach us to sit still."

It's hard to blame people for not reading great poetry. Because when I read it, like Eliot's Ash Wednesday, it breaks my heart and makes me cry and think too much. Not for its own self only, but because I know I will never create anything that beautiful. The harder I try, the worse is my result.

Maybe you could say I'm just not a poet. I agree that I'm not and never will be a great poet. I remember saying once that I would be content to be a minor poet of my time. Looks like I'll never even attain that mediocre post.

Teach me to be a minor admirer. Teach me to care and not to care. Teach me to sit still and keep my mouth shut.
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*

6:30 p.m. Last night Ramey helped me move the dolls' house onto the living room table. Today I finished all the demolition I needed to do--removed the old kitchen cabinets and the warped remains of "boards" from the floor of the hall/dining room.

Next I need to sand that floor--there was wood under the veneer of plastic or whatever it was--and repair/replace the inside moldings and the "bricks" on one of the chimneys. And buy or build a staircase. Then paint, decorate and furnish it.

A New Poem

The Day We Buried Mama

The priest assured us that she went to heaven,
and who were we, to doubt this welcome news?
We knew she wasn't mean, or sinful, even,
but “aggravating” is the term we used.

She never seemed to like us, yet she claimed
to love us, though we treated her “unkind.”
But how could we be sweet, when we were blamed
for faults originating in her mind?

For instance, she insisted “cheese” was plural,
though she was smart and had excelled in school.
Her eccentricities were intramural:
away from home, she was nobody's fool.

She used to want to help us with our homework—
but she declared that two-times-two was eight,
and was offended when we did our own work,
rejecting her and trusting to our fate.

Since any shade of green to her was blue,
to disagree was stubbornness and vanity.
To challenge her at Scrabble was, we knew,
to dabble in confusion and insanity.

When urged to heed the advice of her physician,
her arguments were sharp as razor blades;
she always took the opposite position,
and made her point by living nine decades.

So now she's with the angels. Heaven help them,
if they suggest she change the way she acts.
We're sure that, if she chooses, she can squelch them
with arguments contrary to the facts.

We miss our mom, though; and when memories reach us
concerning her plaid coats and purple socks,
we wonder if she only meant to teach us
to use our wits and think outside the box.

by JRC 8/17/11