"Once More Unto the Breach. . ."

Yesterday I rearranged my chapbook, This Rough Magic, and made a hard copy to enter in the ASPS chapbook contest. The judging will probably be in June or July. The prize is $100 and 25 copies of the chapbook.

If it doesn't win this time, I want Jed to help me get it printed, using this free image for the cover. It's 20 poems, 24 pages including the title page. I left out the silly poems, and included a few others that are kind of spooky.

Today I plan to pay bills, and make a chicken pot pie.

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I made a chicken pot pie and a peach cobbler, and I'm worn to a frazzle.

Of Friends, Nails and Shoe Leather

Yesterday a dear friend phoned and said she and her mom were going shopping, and was there anything I needed. It was one of those days when I can't get out of the house, and I was amazed and tickled. They did some grocery shopping for me, and I gave them a check for the stuff and a copy of my book.

I feel guilty about it. Both those ladies, although younger, are in less robust physical health than I am. I ought to be running around town for other folks instead of letting them run around for me. There's nothing physical wrong with me except shaky hands. "Little shaky legs." Bald spots.

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CLIP ART IMAGE

Online recently, I read that people pay up to a hundred dollars for a manicure. Sure, I think it must be a sin. I'll just find my nail clipper.

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I once had a pair of Johansen pumps. They were white with brown leather trim. I find that they are still made in the USA, so next time I feel like buying new shoes--(To the tune of "My Sweet Little Alice Blue Gown")

One day, turning the pages of my mind, I remembered one of the best movies ever, that I hadn't thought of in years. Trouble is, now I can't recall what it was. Moral: When you think of something good, write it down.

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Too Good for This World

(A Lament for Blue Bell Ice Cream)

The “Great Divide,” the sherbet,

The Cherry Vanilla, too!

All swept from every grocer's shelf—

And what's a guy to do,

With two cartons in the freezer

Just waiting there for you?

 

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I wish English had a good equivalent for the French word "frisson." Then I wouldn't have to describe what happens to the back of my neck when I hear words like

 

"I know a song of Africa. Does Africa know a song of me?"

 

Semper Paratus, and Patting Oneself on the Back

Couple of days ago, I made this meatloaf in the crock pot. Had no idea how it would turn out, but it's one of the best I've made. It was enormous, and I've got to get the rest of it into the freezer today.

Yesterday I cleaned out the freezer and put parts of it into the dishwasher. I also went to the new hardware store on the Parkway and bought some emergency supplies--lamp oil, matches, and a can opener that doesn't break my hand when I use it. Just have one of my paranoid feelings that something's about to happen.

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A little while ago, I read over some of the poems in my book, The Lightness of the Dark. Overall, they don't lament the state of the universe, so much as celebrate it. I hope some other people read them, and feel the same sense of hope and wonder that they convey to me.

Surprises

My freshman year at the U., the dorm had a dress-the-dolls-for-children Christmas contest, and I won it. My prize was a sterling silver fork, my first piece of silver.

Last night or this morning I had a dream almost identical to that, except the doll was a look-alike Maureen O'Hara Barbie doll. Come to think of it, the doll I dressed was really red-headed. (In the dream, the contest judge was Alex Trebeck.)

I also dreamed I heard scratching at the door, got up and looked, and it wasn't Gretchen, but a big black-and-tan-and white collie.

Poem by E. St.V. Millay

Intention To Escape from Him

I think I will learn some beautiful language, useless for commercial
Purposes, work hard at that.
I think I will learn the Latin name of every songbird, not only in
America but wherever they sing.
(Shun meditation, though; invite the controversial:
Is the world flat? Do bats eat cats?) By digging hard I might
deflect that river, my mind, that uncontrollable thing,
Turgid and yellow, strong to overflow its banks in spring,
carrying away bridges
A bed of pebbles now, through which there trickles one clear
narrow stream, following a course henceforth nefast—

Dig, dig; and if I come to ledges, blast.

Time To Get Fit

When I got up today, I drank juice and coffee, took my meds, and did some exercises until I began to feel tired. I'm going to do that every day until I get my balance back and begin to feel normal.

And by July fourth, I'm going to file my first law suit, if I'm not able to eat all these things:

Crisp bacon
Baked ham
Tossed salads
Raw broccoli, cauliflower, peppers, onions, carrots, etc.
Corn on the cob
Brazil nuts
"Payday" bars
Crackerjacks
Little green apples

Mule Skinner Blues (Jimmie Rogers)

 

 

Good mornin', Captain!

Good mornin', Shine.

Good mornin', Captain!

Good mornin', Shine.

Don't you need another mule skinner,

Out on yo' new road line?

 

Hey, little water boy,

Bring your water bucket around!

Hey, little water boy,

Bring your water bucket around!

If you don't like your job,

Set your water bucket down!

(Recorded by Rogers and Horton, Bill Monroe, and others.)

Erik Larson

Yesterday, in between interludes of lolling on the couch, I did lots of loads of laundry. Alliteration.

Today I've watched a video recording that Jed sent me, a Wall Street Journal book club interview with author Erik Larson talking about Dashiell Hammett and The Maltese Falcon. Through Facebook, Jed had four questions about Hammett that Larson discussed.

Then last night, I happened upon an interview with Larson on CSPN Book TV, recorded March 27, 2015 in St. Paul, MN. One of his remarks that I found interesting was that Hemingway, Scott Fitzgerald and Dashiell Hammett were significant influences on his writing.

The interview was about Dead Wake, the Last Crossing of the Lusitania. It was right fascinating; he said his favorite period in history was the 1890’s to the 1920’s—partly because it was the heyday of the typewriter, which made historical research much easier to read. He also said he’s claustrophobic on an airplane and hates to fly. He said some of the passengers on the Lusitania saw the torpedo coming toward them. Wow.

Larson's books that I've read are The Devil in the White City, and Thunderstruck (at least part of it).
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This is the next tale: http://www.boop.org/jan/justso/camel.htm

Good Books

The book I'm reading now is Youngblood Hawke, by Herman Wouk. For the (number) time, I finished Master and Commander last night. Some of my favorite passages from it are:

JA: ". . . I should like to see him [Maturin] as early as can be; I am uneasy with him ashore. There are times when I feel he should not be allowed out alone; and then again there are times when I feel he could command a fleet, almost." page 232

JA: ". . . as righteous as Pompous Pilate." p. 247

"And so they moved back again across the same miles of sea, the Sophie knotting and splicing, the gunboats following and firing steadily, the old left-handed moon climbing with her usual indifference." p. 322

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Today I received email notification that I did not win the Brickroad poetry book contest.

A Happy Holiday Weekend

Jed came over Saturday, and that evening he and we Three Weird Sisters, plus lovely India, played "Sheriff of Nottingham" until we almost thoroughly understood the rules. Then on the beautiful Easter Sunday, Ramey had fixed a big feast for her family, but Jed, Susan and I went to Carrabbas and over-ate. At least I ate too much, as usual. It was a great weekend.

This afternoon I have a dental appointment, and the poetry group meets at the Leeds Arts Center tonight.

Jed went home today, and I wrote a poem. It could really be about any one of us three sisters, because Daddy always wanted a boy.

             Philomena

Maureen lives down the Valley road,
Celeste lives up the hill;
They call me Baby Sister,
But Daddy called me Phil.

He thought two girls were quite enough,
And when I made it three,
He gave me a hound puppy
To grow up along with me.

The skills I learned were mumblety-peg
And how to build a fire,
To whistle through my fingers,.
And how to change a tire.

He taught me how to hunt and fish
And hit a target square,
And how to skin a rabbit,
And not to take a dare;

And how to fight a bully,
And how to lose a game
Without dissolving into tears
And acting like a “dame.”

I grew up and raised a family,

Just like my sisters did,

And Dad and I were never as close
As when I was a kid.

My mother said my name means “friend,”
And “loving,” and “good will;”
She named me Philomena,
But Daddy called me Phil.


By Joanne Cage
April 6, 2015

Not what it used to be.

This week, being unable to get anything on TV, I've watched ten episodes of Ken Burns's "Baseball" on Netflix. The reason I lost interest in baseball, I think, is that late in the 1990's, or maybe even sooner, baseball stopped being fun to watch. I think it stopped being fun to play, to judge by reactions of the players. A Columbian or Puerto Rican kid could somehow get into U.S. big league baseball, having the time of his life, and get caught up in a race to break a Babe Ruth or Roger Maris record, and get his life essentially ruined by drugs and steroids and owner malice. All of that was much worse than, for instance, Carl Furillo trying to strangle Leo Durocher, which was lots of fun. Anyway, "Baseball" is a good series, at least up until the mid-'nineties.