In the middle of doing laundry, I was thinking that if I ever got thrown into solitary confinement, I could occupy myself by hearing music in my mind. Mozart string quartets, Tchaikovsky's "Pathetique," Beethoven piano sonatas, Chopin preludes and piano concertos. Then for some reason I thought about "Night on Bald Mountain," and I thought Berlioz, but it's not by Berlioz, it's Mussorgsky/Chernov/Rimsky-Korsakov. So I ran to the computer and found this arrangement on YouTube, all piano with the sheet music pictured, and spent ten minutes listening to the ghosties and devils and witches and stuff on the "Bare Mountain." Why didn't I think of it during Halloween? It would be perfect to play and scare the trick-or-treaters. If one had any trick-or-treaters.
For a couple of days, I've been working on the dollhouse, and re-reading Robinson Crusoe for the first time in many years. My near vision is almost out, but I can still look a squirrel in the eye from 20 paces or so.
To answer the questions in late "Comments," about Dave W., he was the best friend of my best friend at the University. Karl was my special buddy, not to say my boyfriend, as he was a great handsome hulk who followed or carried me around, better than a dog or a horse but maybe not quite as intelligent. We all worked in Radio and Television, at the first educational radio-TV station to broadcast live on TV. (Karl once announced, in opening a radio program, "This is Karl Pickens Perking," instead of "Perkins speaking.")
Karl's best friend was Dave, who was about as tall as Michael Crichton, with flaming red hair, not handsome in the face but spectacular to look upon, and of course I had a crush on him, but he was engaged to a hateful little brunette that he could have thrown away with one hand, and I often wondered why he didn't. Years later I learned, through my sister-in-law (whose best friend, and a former roommate of mine at the U., was Dave's cousin), that he was a radio DJ and sometimes did comedy acts at local events, but I don't remember where that was, but not in Alabama.
Also a few years later, a friend of mine in college, Helen L., inherited a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and bought Karl a sports car, and they got married. Helen was almost as tall as Dave W., with flaming red hair and skinny as a rail and quite ugly. But that $150K at that time was probably equal to several millions of today's money. So hooray for Karl.
*
Poor Robin
When Robinson Crusoe left England in 1651, not to return for 35 years, the English Civil War was raging, King Charles I had been beheaded in 1649 and his son fled to France or somewhere, and England was run by the Puritans, to be ruled for 7 years by Oliver Cromwell, a right handsome dude.
So while Crusoe was absent from England, the English civil war years had come and gone, Kings Charles I and II had come and gone, James II was the English monarch, and the Church of England restored. But all this time, Crusoe was still a Puritan, though at times, in Brazil and Portugal, letting himself be thought a "Popish" Catholic. He was marooned on his island for 28 years, and, contrary to modern impressions, for 25 of those years totally without human companionship, having rescued the savage Friday toward the end of his isolation. He did early on hear English spoken, by an island parrot that he tamed and taught to speak, such phrases as "Poor Robin Crusoe!"
What amazed me most about the book was the modernity of Defoe's usage and writing of the English language. Even some of his odd expressions and spellings are not strange to today's usage in England. Although since first reading the book, I had read Defoe's Moll Flanders and Journal of the Plague Year, I was impressed all over again with the clarity and modernity of his English.
Considering that before Robinson Crusoe, published in the year 1719, there was no such thing as a fiction novel in the English language, I think it was the first and perhaps greatest of such, though with no plot and no explicit sexual references.
*
I've lost a day somewhere. I thought this was Wednesday. Jed will be here tomorrow, and I haven't washed any clothes or cleaned the Augean stable in the basement.
Yesterday at the Clinic I saw a Dr. Sami, a dark little clown of a doctor who yelled, "Well, hello! hello! hello!" when he saw me sitting on the exam table, and I grinned and hollered, "Hi-de-doo!" Anyway, after he and his resident doctor lady rubbed and conjured and consulted over my nose, he decided what I had was a whole bunch of little some-kind-of-pillomas, and prescribed me some cream to rub on them. He said if they changed, or bled, or bothered me, to call him. Yeah. Sounded familiar. But I decided to believe him, and went home and dozed in front of the television until about midnight, and then I went to bed and slept through Mo's hollering, the telephone ringing, and lots of stranger noises, until eight o'clock this morning.
I got up and fed Mo and staggered back to bed, where I dreamed practically my whole life running before me but changed a whole lot. At the end of it, I was 25 years old and an old maid, and I was trying to get Dave W. to marry me, because he looked like my cousin Jim. Jim had got out of the Army and married some little southern belle, and I might as well marry someone else. But, said Dave, "I don't like you." Damn! Why was he always hanging around, if he didn't like me?
But during the dream we were always moving from one place to another. Finally we were moving from the house in Leeds to somewhere else close around. Daddy had two suits, and Mama was about to fling them on top of the truck, but I took them on hangers across my back and walked all the way to the new house with the little girls. In another scene, I was in the empty house with Mama and some lady to whom she was showing all the little multi-colored child-sized pants she had made, and I was thinking I could use some of those colors in the doll house.
I woke up again around 2:00 p.m. and fed Mo again to get him to shut up. Whether I'll go back to bed, after I take my pills and rub my nose-cream, I haven't yet decided.
They say when you're dying, your whole life runs before you. Well, I ain't dead yet, unless I'm still dreaming. I feel very glad and relieved, because I don't have a growth on my nose that's going to spread its roots all through my body--or my head! And because I didn't marry my cousin Jim or Dave W., the other red-headed man. Back of my hand to all of them.
*
Beloved, let us make our Christmas white.
Let us invent a conjure more complex,
a chant, or many-patterned morris-dance,
to coax the icy hexagons to fall:
on every fence-post, see in our mind's eye
a pyramid of snowflakes; on each roof
a blanket blue-white in the morning light;
and every blade of grass in crystal bloom.
And if we, in our air-cooled southern room,
perfect our fervent prayer or pagan hex,
perhaps our childhood dreams of snow, by chance,
may come to pass to bless us after all,
and Santa, sleigh-borne from the winter sky,
spring earthward to the dance of tiny hoofs.
by JRC, 10/08/11
*
"I've got to admit, it's getting better, a little better all the time." I mean, I'm feeling better.
It's the computer, not me, that's acting funny. I seem to be shifting or grinding my gears out of neutral. I've got things to do and places to go today, and I don't mind so much. The Birmingham Arts Review people are meeting at the Leeds Arts Council tonight, and at some point I volunteered to bring some snacks. So I have to go to the store, and then make chips and dip, and then go down there. And now I only have about four hours to get myself and the makings ready to go.
Somebody said, "You don't have to like it. You just have to do it." A beer would help get me started. I haven't had a beer in years and years, but I think about it often.
This morning I wrote one page of a story. And people, that's progress. Four paragraphs.
My doorbell rang at 4:30 this morning. I ignored it for a few minutes, and it rang again, so I got up and cooked oatmeal and ate a few bites. The outside lights were on, so the little people must not be scared of lights.
Anyway, I'm going to do something today, if it's just housework. I've sat around and dozed most of this week, but now I'm going to--to--move, at least.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
*
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.
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.
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.
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 |
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.
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.
*
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.
