Good Days

Jed came over Thursday afternoon, and we played Dixit at Susan's until everyone got tired from eating too much cake. On Friday afternoon, we attended the funeral service for a good school friend, Paul B., and met up with lots of people we hadn't seen in a long time.

When I got back home, I remarked to Jed that I hoped my funeral would be as happy as Paul's was. His sister-in-law "entertained" with a eulogy that was full of Paul's virtues, foibles and funny sayings, as well as a few nostaligic tears for the loss of his good company.

Then Friday evening we gathered at Susan's again for "game night," and Jed went back to Atlanta early this afternoon.

Susan "loaned" me her bin of orange fabrics, some of which I hope to pair up with some old blue cloth to make a quilt.

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Part of the excitement at Susan's house involved Jesse's cats and Susie's dogs. There are only two of each, but it seemed like a houseful. Lots of fun.

Ultrasound--Nothing

They couldn't even find what they thought they saw before.

Resolution

This is my Easter egg arrangement from several years ago. The china cross was a gift from my daughter, who also crocheted the little flower doily. This year, and for some time past, I haven't been able to make much of a creative effort in any direction. The dollhouses have gone to ruin, the leaf quilt remains unfinished, the books are unpublished, the dwelling-house is a wreck. I've bought Easter egg dye, but until Monday evening, I had forgotten that this is Holy Week.

The chief reason for the stalled creativity is my conscientiousness in following doctors' orders.

Every six months, for years, I have had a medical checkup, and the time in between checkups is occupied by running back and forth getting manual, biologic and electronic tests for ailments that so far have been nonexistent. Increasingly, as I get older, all this preys on my mind until I can't get anything done. Always without fail, there is at least one appointment for a test hanging over my head like the sword of Damocles. The name or image of The Kirklin Clinic in my mind's eye has a sign that says "Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here." Because of course someday one of the tests, if I keep on getting them, will be my ticket to Pleasant Ridge.

At present I have two of these expert analyses almost immediately in front of me, one tomorrow and one in April. That's all I can think about. That, and worse.

As I approach my eightieth year, I think I deserve a little peace of mind. If these two tests turn out benign or inconclusive, they're going to be my last, at least for some time to come. And I will refuse to have more than one physical exam per year. Enough of anything is enough. In the future, if I feel seriously ill, I'll call 911 and let nature take its course.

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All that is not to mention being a little bit afraid to drive on the highways.

Mackintosh

If you accept the scorn of many critics for the works of Somerset Maugham, you may never read him, and thus may miss some of the sharpest character studies in literature. I can only think of Dostoevsky as a writer who so completely involves the reader in his characters' senses and emotions.

The short story "Mackintosh" is one of the most powerful character studies I've ever read. You start out sympathizing with the lanky, fastidious Scotsman and resenting the fat, obscene old Irishman. At first you wonder which one is Billy Budd and which is Claggart. Before the story is over, you have switched sympathies once or twice, and wind up with horror and at last a grim satisfaction.

I've read Maugham's novel The Razor's Edge enough times to wear out your average paperback book, and I never tire of it. Some of his other novels may be more perfect and concise in composition, but the story! The story is the thing, and very few writers have matched his story-telling.

I guess I was born to be an appreciator of stories, rather than a story-teller with any sort of competence.

"...Evil is unspectacular and always human,
And shares our bed and eats at our own table,
And we are introduced to Goodness every day. . .
He has a name like Billy and is almost perfect
But wears a stammer like a decoration.
And every time they meet the same thing has to happen;
It is the Evil that is helpless like a lover
And has to pick a quarrel and succeeds,
And both are openly destroyed before our eyes."
--W.H. Auden, from "Herman Melville"

Sun and sand

This little perfume bottle stopper is a pale mauve color. It reminds me of what Mama used to do when we lived on the mountain. She'd take empty fruit jars or jelly glasses, lay them on the sand in the sunshine, and they would turn mauve or pink. The longer they stayed in the sun, the deeper the color would be.

Sun and sand remind me of this, not of the beach. The only good memory I have of a beach is watching the little brown pelicans in St. Petersburg, FL, and it was cloudy that day I went.

Squirrel Tails and Robin Tales

My squirrels' tails are outlined in white, and their underbellies are white also. Some time ago, Pat had an albino squirrel at her house. What I wouldn't give to see one of those!

This morning, waiting for the coffee water to boil, I glanced out the kitchen window and saw movement in the puddles under the trees. As I watched, the "movement" came close enough for me to see that it was a robin having a really good time, splashing in the puddle.
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Our theme for the poetry meeting Monday night is "Re-". Re- anything. Thinking about it, I was reminded of an old (pre-1978) poem of mine, which I re-named "Rekindle."

Fire in the veins I had, a glow
of youth and poetry, and yearning
for adventure; far to go
I had, on dancing feet that knew no roots,
but I had seven-league boots,
I thought, to make the journey.

In glittering caverns, fingertip-
deep in rhyme,
I walked north, south
and upside down
where verses dripped,
honeyed verb and noun,
into my mouth
like water and lime.

Talents glinting like new gold
here, there and anywhere
I flung, largesse
strewn with a careless air
as if the mine were bottomless,
when I was young and bold.

Art in the hands I had,
lacked only time, that fled
and vanished faster
than hands could write of pain or laughter.

Then, gold and fire and water meeting
years back there or hours ago,
I learned what any fool should know--
that art as well as time was fleeting.
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I have submitted/entered this poem all over the United States, and nobody has ever appreciated it. I personally think it's one of my best efforts. Somebody did publish it in a "chapbook." The original title was "Over My Shoulder."
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(Mar. 30) I added this final stanza before the Monday night meeting:

But underneath the ashy coals
of time remains a spark--
O gleam, light up the dark!
Reshine the tarnished gold;
rekindle those young fires of old,
before the journey's close!

Who's There?

Early this morning I was sawing them off, when I heard someone outside call, "Hey, J.D.!" I pulled the blind in and looked out, but couldn't see anybody. I got up, went and looked at the glass door, then to the kitchen window to see if there was a car in the drive or out front. Nobody human, nothing mechanical.

Of course, I'm not J.D., but it's close enough. And of course it could have been someone across the street, but it sounded like right outside my window.

Today--tomorrow, actually--is the deadline for mailing poems to the ASPS contests. I've been trying to revise the "Je reviens" poem, but no luck. Guess I'll send it as it is. Also have to do something else today, but I forget what.

Could I be getting old?

Sing Out

In my maturity, I'm experiencing a return of the slight dyslexia I enjoyed as a child. On my blog, I saw "sign out" and thought it said "sing out," so I've been singing a little tune for some time now.

In grammar school, there was a little girl named Agnes in one of our readers, and I called her "Ay-genes." The first time I encountered the word "expenditures," I called it "expidentures." And of course, for a long time, "remuneration" was "renumeration."
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Sister Susan just brought me a DVD of 'The Magic Of Belle Isle" to watch. It was a great effort on her part, and I 'preciate it no end.

Are ye right there, Michael?

You may talk of Columbus a-sailin'

Across the Atlantical sea. . .

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Sore Ears

It's a good story, but would be much better without the music. If you can call it music. Today, PBS showed Andrew Lloyd Webber's "Phantom Of the Opera," a 2011 performance at the Royal Albert. A minor (or off-) key, shrieking nightmare. A gruelling, harrowing three and a half hours of cacophony. The only reason I watched it was because it was there.

Seriously, over the years I have suffered through several other performances of "Phantom Of the Opera," trying to recapture some of the magic I found in the 1990 miniseries starring Charles Dance, Toni Polo and Burt Lancaster, produced by Tony Richardson. But none of them were quite as distressing as Webber's.

In fact, one production (starring Claude Raines) was pretty good. Quieter.

So now I've seen/heard enough of the thing to convince me that the 1990 one was the only one I liked.

Almost Ready

Mo has stopped scratching. I've had my eye on this sofa for a long time, and it's still available. It's my style. Shipping is free. Time's a-wasting. We're burning daylight.
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It also comes in reconstituted leather, but I think I like the fabric better.

Chicken and dumplings all day

Today I made the best C&D I've ever eaten, almost from scratch, but added a can of cream of celery soup. Man! The only improvement would be if I could make the dumplings thin and sort of tough, like Granny S. used to make them. My dumplings are too fluffy, but they taste good.

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I've got an old set of the complete short stories of W. Somerset Maugham. His introduction to Volume I East and West is as good a lesson in short story-writing as you can get. In my opinion.

A couple of days ago, I realized that I can write anything I want to, any way I want to do it. Life has taught me that none of it will be published, in the old sense, anyway, so I can do anything I like. Not for posterity, but for myself. Lytton Strachey said he didn't write for posterity; "What has posterity ever done for me?" he added. For myself, posterity has done a great deal, but I don't have to write for them. I'll do it my way, by gum. As Uncle John used to say.

Pastie For Breakfast

I made some corned beef pasties and put them in the refrigerator, and they're so good for breakfast. Except when you warm them in the microwave, they get sort of limp and soggy. One day last week, I cooked a Granny Smith apple and made a couple of the little biscuit pies with that. If this keeps up, I may get fat again. My body mass index is 27, which is still a little high, so I guess I need to lose a few more pounds, really.

Amazon.com Sales

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I've sold two books this weekend. Hope my "profit" is enough to mail them to the buyers.

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My sweet sister Susan's birthday is tomorrow. I remember when she was a screaming infant and I was supposed to be "watching" her. She kept kicking and screaming, and I covered my ears (and probably shut my eyes), and she fell off the bed. I'm so sorry, Suze.

Friday: Condensed Version

I walked about three miles yesterday, round and round the Clinic corridors, getting more irritable all the time. It was their fault, not mine.

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I'd like to spend the rest of today in bed, but it hurts my conscience.

Clinic Appointment Tomorrow

When I go for my checkup, I'm always afraid they'll find something terrible. So I always try to fortify and cheer myself beforehand. Get my clothes all pressed and ready. Make a list of things to discuss, such as pain in my toes and tunes stuck in my mind. Invent stoic phrases, such as, "I've crossed the ocean in an airplane, so I think I can handle this." Which is true.

Chicken Marinara

I've got some chicken strips thawing in the kitchen. A few days ago, I breaded and browned some in butter with lots of spices, added half a jar of chunky pasta sauce, and cooked it too long, of course. But it was so good, I've decided to make some today and serve it to myself with pasta.

(Gretchen Dog enjoyed what stuck to the pan.)

This is my dish today. Green pepper strips for dipping in the sauce.