Boo!

Remembering Bob Ross

Those were the days, TV-wise.

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Good Resolutions

Tradition says they're the paving-stones to You-Know-Where, but I still make them, usually while I'm falling asleep at night. When I'm lying there, waiting to go to sleep, doing hard things seems so easy. It's all a matter of organization and scheduling.

For instance, seasonal house-cleaning. There are only about 10-12 rooms or areas to conquer, so it shouldn't take more than a couple of weeks, doing one area per day. Right. I'll start that in the morning, and by Christmas, the house will shine.

Say again?

When morning comes, it's the same old same-old: Mo clawing at the covers and howling to tell me the alarm clock is about to go off--it buzzes before it starts ringing. Then dragging around for a couple of hours, trying to wake up. Finding that I'm out of coffee, or cat food, or cigarettes. By afternoon I'm sometimes (reluctantly) ready to face the world, or the house--but not often.

Wow! (Frantically)

Today is NOT the 28th day of October--it can't be! Why, just yesterday it was the 10th or 11th, wasn't it? I've eaten up most of the M&M's I bought for Halloween, so now I'll have to go to the store again.

The crux of the matter is that four days from now, I'll be writing one-to-two-thousand words of a novel, and haven't made up my mind about what. Besides, November was an unwise choice of writing month--I've got a clinic appointment on the sixth, which will also be voting day, I think. Guess I'll just have to vote a straight ticket, if they'll still let you do that.

And then there's Thanksgiving somewhere in there, and three or four Sister Suppers. Lots of sleeping and cooking to get done--I've sworn Mo off of canned cat food, and have to find some people-food that he likes every day.

By Ned, if I write 50,000 words next month in the middle of all that hooraw, I'll be so proud of myself, I'll have to get a bigger hat!
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After I wrote that, I scanned through the Big Baby manuscript and deleted about a hundred "justs." I don't know if it's true with all amateur writers, but "just" seems to turn up in my writing, every few sentences.

Make haste swiftly!

I've really got to get cracking, to get ready for our dinner tonight. Last night I remembered a girl who was called "Magalene" (the country folks' way of saying Magdalene). So after I cooked the pie and washed some clothes this morning, I sat at the computer, pulled up the Big Baby manuscript, and changed the mean aunt's name from Maylene to Magalene. Then of course I started reading the manuscript from some point, correcting typos which I was amazed to find, and just now came to myself and remembered that I've got a lot of cleaning and cooking to do, and I'm still in my pajamas. So the kitchen and bathroom are probably all that'll get cleaned.

The Birmingham Arts Journal meeting last night was a moderate success. More people came than attended the same event last year. My onion dip was a big hit, at least with Frank, and I got to read two poems to the group.
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Jed just phoned. He's coming over and bringing a new set of Dixit cards, so we can play after dinner. Or tomorrow, whichever comes first.

The Good News Is. . .

Lord willing, we will have the sister supper tomorrow evening.While I was shopping for the Arts Council do, I also loaded up on groceries. Including pie and ice cream. Maybe the sisters will bring a vegetable.

There isn't any bad news, except I dropped my orange slush in the basement and have to clean that up. And I have less than two hours now to get ready and get to the LAC and help Joan set up.

Little Joe

Miranda's new baby is a boy, which secretly pleases her. She respects her daughters but doesn't understand them, and she will always feel closer to her sons.

Daddy Doll of course is euphoric over having another son. There is much thoughtful conferring among the senior Dolls, concerning a name for the new baby. After siring two daughters, Alexis insisted on naming Peter for all the fathers and grandfathers--Peter Alexander Hugh Barry Doll, lest that be his only son. So he has to search farther afield to christen the new boy.

Grandma's cousin on her mother's side is connected by marriage to the English painter Edward Burne-Jones, who is connected by marriage to Mr. Rudyard Kipling. When the Kiplings lived in Vermont, Grandma and Step-Grandfather Buff-Orpington visited them at their new house.

Before his return to England, Mr. Kipling had gifted Alexis and Ned with signed copies of all his books that he wrote in New England, and these are collector items in the green bookcase in Daddy's study. All the Doll children have heard the "Just-So Stories," "Kim," and the "Jungle Books," and they entertain the childish notion that they will someday travel to India where Mr. Kipling and his sister Trix were born.

All this explains the names given to the new boy, Joseph Kipling Doll. (They left out Mr. Kipling's middle name, thinking "Rudyard" might prove a bit extreme and showy.) Daddy insists on calling him "Kip," but this doesn't last very long. Peter's brother will always be known as "Little Joe."

The Stargazer

Above the pine trees facing my back door,
a strip of sky eludes the city glow,
and on clear nights I've watched and waited for
Perseids and Orionids to show--
those fragments of celestial debris,
the fireworks of the atmosphere. But more
than shooting stars, that heavenly degree
of high way seems a star-filled corridor;

there, mystic seers made their vision soar,
and I can wander where the ancients trod
and feel the wonder that they felt before.
That bright immensity becomes the sod
where poets walk, where Keats stood on the shore
of the wide world, and touched the mind of God.

JRC 10/23/12

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I think it's still in progress, but maybe it works pretty well as it is.

It's Full Of Stars!

After midnight I wrapped up in a blanket and went out on the deck to watch for the Orionid meteors. I only saw a couple of "shooting stars," but the view was magnificent.

Looking straight up from my deck, there's a narrow dark strip of sky above my trees, with the glow from Birmingham to the west and the glow from Leeds to the east. At first I could only see a couple of stars, Polaris and something right near it. But as my eyes grew adjusted, they came out gloriously--Cassiopeia very bright and upside-down, the bowl of the Big Dipper, and Polaris directly overhead.

The sky was so cold and clear, the longer I watched, the more stars appeared. It's a long time since I've seen so many stars. I thought of Keats's poem about standing on the shore of the universe. But where Keats felt that it made everything down here seem unimportant, it makes me feel very important, a part of it all, part of the Milky Way galaxy, part of a star. Part of the Mind of God?

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When I lived at the Oak Trail apartments, the north-sky view from my balcony was so spectacular, I learned many of the constellations and star formations. Ones I remember are Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, Draco, the Big and Little Dippers, and Cassiopeia.

Scraping the Bottom Of the Barrel

My mid-month impecuniosity obliges me to forgo the Downton Abbey dinner today. I've committed myself to helping with the Birmingham Arts Journal convention at the Leeds Arts Council next Thursday, and my share of the refreshments for that gathering will just about demolish what pittance I have left. As for me, "I could turn and eat grass with the animals," or some such Whitmanism. But I hate to invite people over and only offer them knife stew, potato peel pie and ice water.

Of course, all this is exaggeration, but it's near enough. The rest of the story is that I haven't been awake long enough to feel optimistic and human.

One Step Forward, Two Back

This week I've decided to be Hercules, although I feel more like Sisyphus.

I really am ready to take the bulldozer to this house.

On the other hand, my back feels like a million dollars, after spending two days mostly in bed or prone on the sofa. And even after a few hours of being Hercules.

Sort of like Friday the Thirteenth.

On Saturday, a series of minor catastrophes led up to my being like something dragged through a knothole by dinnertime. Not the least or greatest of which was spilling a platterful of beef drippings in the middle of the kitchen floor after I had mopped it. Then Susan showed up with the backache, and both of us moaned and groaned all evening--I moaned louder, I'm afraid. Reed came with Ramey, and he wasn't a bit happy, wanted to go home, to which Ramey finally gave in, and they left just a few minutes into Episode 4 of Season One of D.A.

However, the food turned out fine. India came in a few minutes after everyone else left, and carried away some choice leftovers. We had roast beef with brown gravy, cheesy mashed potatoes, grilled veggie skewers (squash, red bell pepper, mushrooms and Roma tomatoes), purple-hull peas, and Susan brought steamed cabbage which I chowed down on quite a lot. I managed to run get a tray of delicious rolls in time to heat for dinner, and Susan brought a purely fabulous almond torte which she had whipped together at home. If I ate like that every day, I'd soon be fatter than Old Lucy.

I did eat pretty much like that today: A roast beef and tomato sandwich on whole wheat for lunch, and I'm steaming the veggies that didn't get skewered for my dinner.

Friday come on Saturday today. -- Walt Kelly

We're having the Friday dinner on Saturday this time. And as usual I forgot to get bread or rolls. Everything else is pretty much under control, but after I rest a minute, I've got to run out and hunt bread. We're having roast beef and steamed or grilled vegetables. If I can figure out how to grill them, they'll be grilled. I don't guarantee the results either way. As for me, I can enjoy them raw if it comes to that, and everybody else can pretend they like it, just to be polite.

I haven't done enough to be tired. I just have to sit or lie down after standing up for half an hour or less.

Wow! (Softly)

Trying to get a poetry manuscript ready to submit to the Walt Whitman award, I have amazed myself this morning. I thought I had about sixty of the "best" prize-winning poems arranged in some kind of order. But today I have gone back and read all those Volume One poems, written from the 1950s into the '70s, that hardly ever saw the light of day, and I just absolutely love them. They sound as if they had been written by somebody else, a water sprite or a "perfect little woman" who crawled out from under a rock. But of course, that's just my impression.

So I don't know what to do about it. Maybe just throw them all into the ring? Maybe the book should be in two sections, the old ones and the newer "best" ones.

Also, I'm thinking why bother with competitions any more? Why wait one to two more years to see if it gets published, and then probably be disappointed, and have to start all over? Just get it printed between hard covers, then sit in a corner
like little Jack Horner,
and read it over and over by myself,
and think, "Oh, what a good poet am I!"

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And here it's almost time for Jeopardy, and I haven't done anything about the Friday night sister supper. Nothing in the house to eat except half a leftover pizza, and old cans of rutabagas, spinach and such. So I guess we'll have to put it off this week.

Excelsior!

This is the first day in a long time that I have awoken with my ambition uppermost, my confidence level almost as high, and the determination to have fun for the rest of my life. Matter of fact, it may be the first day ever that all three of those conditions have coincided and congrued in my normally scattered awareness.

I know that I can make slipcovers, because I've made at least half a dozen in the past. The fact that they got shredded by cat claws notwithstanding.

I know that I can throw a yard sale, because I've done it before. I can always be careful not to fall and bruise my whole body again, the way I did last time I threw a yard sale.

I know that I can put together a volume of my poems, because I've done it before. I can pay somebody else to publish the next one under their imprint, instead of stapling together a "chap book" by myself.

I know that I can write a novel, because et cetera. Maybe nobody will ever publish it, or want to read it. Who cares? Their loss. Of course, that's not the way a writer is supposed to feel. You're supposed to want to get rich and famous for writing a book, or you're not really a writer. Well, I've gone for a good many years without being rich or famous, so I know that I can do that some more.

So, the Plan for October is to dummy up a volume of my "Collected Poems" and get it out of my hands and into the process. Also to get all the extraneous stuff out of my house, some sunny day, and see if anyone will stop and buy some of it, or take it for free.

The November Plan is to write another first-drafted novel. That'll give me two worth working on and submitting here and there.

The December Plan is to spruce up the living room for Christmas, by making slipcovers for the old ratty furniture.

And in my spare time, I can redecorate the dollhouse. Any questions?

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Looks like I forgot my nemeses, housework and paying bills. Oh well.

Wonderful Weekend

The Ramey sisters met here at "Rowanwood" for supper Friday evening, and as soon as he could escape the Atlanta and I-20 traffic, Jed arrived. Susan brought brownies and ice cream, and I declare, I would ask her for the brownie recipe, except I would mess it up. Let Susan make the brownies, and I'll stick to cooking the beans and cornbread. Or whatever.

Jed brought his "Dixit" game, which we played after dinner. It was so much fun, we gathered again Saturday evening and played Dixit into the large hours.

I've got a drawer full of Timex and similar wrist-watches with dead batteries. Well, the drawer isn't full, but cluttered with 'em. Several weeks ago, Jed took my newest dead-battery watch, and the works out of my dollhouse grandfather clock, to Atlanta to get the batteries replaced. Apparently there's a mall over there where you can stand on the corner, look around you, and find a shop that does impossible things, like removing the backs of watches without using hammer and chisel. Anyway, he brought my timepieces back this weekend. I thank him. All my dollhouse dolls thank him.

While I'm posting pictures, here's Barbie who got sold into eBay slavery a few weeks ago, with her voluminous handmade wardrobe. All of which I won't show.

Yesterday I read a book that Jed brought, About a Boy, by Nick Hornby. If you laugh and cry easily, and want to read a book that makes you do both all the way through, this is a good one. I read a review of the movie, and apparently it followed the book up until the best part, then simplified and changed the ending to something sort of bland and uncomplicated.

Symbols?

"I long ago lost a hound, a bay horse, and a turtle-dove, and am still on their trail. Many are the travelers I have spoken concerning them, describing their tracks and what calls they answered to. I have met one or two who have heard the hound, and the tramp of the horse, and even seen the dove disappear behind a cloud, and they seemed as anxious to recover them as if they had lost them themselves." - Henry David Thoreau, Walden
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 When his aunt Louisa asked him in his last weeks if he had made his peace with God, Thoreau responded: "I did not know we had ever quarreled."

Another'n?

I'm thinking about doing the November novel thing again. Not by way of NaNoWriMo, with all its little side issues, word scrambling and socializing. Just write 1,700 words a day for 30 days and see what emerges. The biggest problem is that I can't rewrite, so the big chunks of prose that I've got tucked away somewhere will probably never be proper novels.

Don't say "can't." Of course I can. I'm just too lazy. Or have been heretofore. Writing is easy. Rewriting is torture.

Rewriting is not just correcting typos and adding descriptions. Rewriting is making a shapeless thing conform to some kind of architecture.

Ring Lardner said, "Riting is a nag." Dang you, Ring Lardner--get out of my head!

Like It Or Not

Just finished reading Gone With the Wind again. There's so much wrong with that book. It's almost impossible to read some of the mawkish foolishness in it. But there it is. It draws you on. It's simply the best novel ever written, for all its flaws. My favorite line in it: "I'll tell my father, and he'll kill you!"

Grunge

I've got to clean this house, or find out where to rent a bulldozer. What it needs, almost as bad as cleaning, is new carpet and new paint throughout. In a past life, I painted the inside of Mama and Daddy's little house on Mimosa Road, but they looked sort of scared while I was doing it--I'm afraid painting ruined my disposition.

Anyway, I guess that's what I'll be doing this week, if I ever get started. Cleaning, not painting.