Between the Covers

I'm reading a book I own for, I believe, the fourth time: Savage Beauty, The Life of Edna St. Vincent Millay, by Nancy Milford. It is an extremely well-researched and beautifully written record of the very complex and difficult alcoholic, bisexual, repeatedly aborted, first female to win the Pulitzer Prize for poetry. (Side note: Milford's biography of Zelda [Mrs. F. Scott] Fitzgerald is an equally wonderful read. One feels that Milford brings these women to life before our eyes.) So what, right? Well the quirks are these: when one recommends a writer to me, what I really want to know is about the writer, not necessarily what s/he wrote. And I am a sheepish poetry ignoramus due to failure of teachers to prod me and lack of sufficient interest to dig out poetry on my own until about the past year and I'm doing nicely, thank you. Oh, and I do not, do not, appreciate most of Millay's poetry. But I love reading her life story. Though much celebrated, she suffered many harsh cruelties and few of life's truly beautiful things. I wonder if, after earliest childhood, she ever had a moment free of worry except when she drank.

My friend loves poetry perhaps above anything else because she considers the beauty of the desert and of light through glass and of flowers purchased at the farmers' market poetry, not to mention what she finds in print. She sought out lyric in school and has a minor scandal in her past relating to her tremendous desire to own a particular volume of rhyme. We'd only known each other a short time and she'd been sending me favorite poems frequently. "What are your favorite poems?" she asked.  I had to confess I was ignorant and a little bit prickly about being ignorant and not, after all, starving for the relief that only verse can bring. I was doing OK without poetry. She persisted in sending me sonnets and quatrains and then began to assign me the task of interpreting certain of them. WTF? I'm not a schoolgirl. But my friend is an oldest child and I think her sister and brother probably jumped when she said "jump".

I reluctantly began to scratch the surface and learned that I did know Charles Bukowski's writings quite well and who wouldn't consider Bob Dylan a poet? I can recite volumes of his words. I have been fortunate to read and enjoy the offerings of unpublished everyman kinds of poets, so perhaps I wasn't quite as benighted as I feared. I actually like Emily Dickinson and Robert Service and I've happily read some Sara Teasdale after being exposed to her in the book about Vincent Millay. My friend and I got into a  discussion - perhaps a spirited debate - about Millay after I began the book this time and after she confessed she'd never finished reading her copy even once. I commented that I skipped right over her poems when they were printed in full in the body of my book. "What?" exclaimed Friend. I admitted I just didn't like Millay's poems for the most part. Friend immediately began to shoot me some of her favorite Millay pieces. "No," said I. "Don't care for it at all."  Friend couldn't understand me at all.

Our discussion rolled on and Friend e-mailed me Recuerdo (don't Google it, Reader, you're about to have it from the source). I wrote back that though I am the woman who likes Victoriana, I find Millay's language stiff and dated. I did, however, describe to my friend the spirit of the poem as I believed it to be, and the sun broke through the clouds. "Yes!" she cheered, "You've got it exactly." Well, yes, Friend - I'm not soulless or stupid. And I do understand that Renascence rocked the world 100 years ago and rocks the world now, expounding on beautiful, lofty concepts, but I don't care for the words presented to relate the concepts. My friend commented that she likes old-fashioned language and does not care for today's overused hip, slick and cool talk. I agreed that I like good, descriptive language that people from many generations would understand ("rock the world", notwithstanding), but I'm unlikely to say that I am "merry" about anything. We congratulated one another for making a good case for our respective beliefs and I imagine she grinned as widely as I did.

The next morning I dawdled at the computer nursing coffee more slowly than usual. My friend is a night owl and often drops e-mails late at night to greet me on my virtual breakfast tray. I wanted to send her something, and on a hunch I Googled. Oh, yeah!  There it was! YouTube, of course. Millay reciting her own Recuerdo. I played it for myself and nearly toppled over. I'd been reading about Vincent's beautiful voice and speech patterns. I'm not sure who highjacked her and gave this reading, but it was a mean, mean trick. Had I paid a quarter or half-dollar in 1940s money to attend a reading, I'd have demanded my money back, I'm afraid. I just sent it to my friend without comment and said "Let me know what you think."  Even my poetry loving cohort had to admit the rendering has lost something across the decades. We shared a laugh and she quickly sent me another poem. Edna St. Vincent Millay was from Maine. I know Maine. My father lives in Maine. I have never heard another human being speak in Millay's manner. Not from Maine or anywhere else. I still absolutely love her story.

Something that charmed me:  I have found one of Millay's works I like, read beautifully by a man who sounds like perhaps he is from Maine. Have I mentioned I love learning new things?

Learn From Yesterday

I'm dreamy-like. Kind of moony. In my head a lot. I am focused more on the past, both good and bad, than present. Perhaps this is because I've been actively working on "what's next" in my life. Having the past to retreat to is soft and gentle, or at least familiar, when I need that. I don't feel completely capable of moving myself along.

Apropos of absolutely nothing:

"You aren't very demanding. You don't ask for much."

She didn't reveal she'd given that up in vain long ago.

Last night we went out for Chinese food, a treat because I've had no one with which to share that particular cuisine in awhile. It was good food and I loaded up my plate like a greedy pig. I can only plead, "Yeah, but this will feed me four meals for the cost of one moderately priced dinner." We sat as far as possible across the restaurant from the family with the, ummm . . . , energetic young children, none of whom will have to worry about being heard if they ever have to holler for help in an emergency. As we sat dining, I got rather dreamy, viewing snippets from a past life, and I'm not sure what triggered that. The tastes?  The smells? What, doesn't everyone go into a reverie with the fragrance of Beijing Beef?

Amber was 2 1/2 that summer. We'd learned in the previous February that Ex had ruined himself with drink. He wasn't expected to live until Christmas. He lived, dying, for 18 more years.  There weren't very many pleasant moments during that time for him. I had the job that defied every description - time commitment, stress, pay, health benefits, travel, fulfillment of every sort. Now I was afraid to go to that job. What if Ex fell ill while driving Amber to daycare or passed out while taking care of her at home?  I sometimes left at 5:00 a.m. and didn't get home until midnight. Who would know if they were in trouble?

The finest case of employee representation I ever delivered was spent in getting Ex removed from his job as a union organizer. Oh, I wasn't fighting cruel monsters, even though labor unions can be notoriously evil employers. No, I was still going to work there, and we were valued. They weren't out to cut him off at the knees. When he became so ill he couldn't walk to the car any more, I basically had to quit for him. He couldn't throw in the towel himself, verbally. He was 90 days from being vested in his pension.  The union kept him on the books for 91 days, paying him all salary and benefits, giving us time to apply for state and social security disability. And get him to doctors for tests and medication and heart monitors. He was 38 years old.

I'd always been convinced Ex would ruin us by killing someone in a drunk driving incident or in a round of fisticuffs over the pool table at the bar or that he'd cripple himself and I'd be required to push him around in a wheelchair. Because I'd given up hoping for a child in our lives, I'd never contemplated him getting ill and leaving me alone with that child. In all of my life, through everything, I have never before or since been as sad and frightened as I was that summer. Amber deserved to have 2 parents. I was not capable of taking proper care of her, giving her a good life, taking care of Ex and being the breadwinner. I had other burdens, as well, not yet written about for publication, but soon to come. I began therapy, Ex took his medications, both of us deeply depressed.

Surprise! This post is not going to go down the path of what a great savior I was. I "god-damned" Ex so many times each day, he may have thought that was his name. I was terrified and hugely angry at him. "I told you Budweiser was going to take us down."  "And now we have this beautiful baby who needs every good thing we can give her and I don't have everything it takes to give her by myself." It didn't take me long to lose a little of my edge on the job. I had an enormous early mobile phone that rarely had signal and I listened with one ear constantly for it to ring with the bad news. I was as harsh and unkind as a person can be toward another person. He mostly was not harsh or unkind. It took him 7 years to learn to do something with his time and little stores of energy.  For that first 7, he sat a lot. Watched TV. Visited doctors. Once he got up from the recliner, he was fairly admirable for awhile, taking our little dogs to visit shut-ins, volunteering for sedentary activities.

That summer I allowed something to happen many times over that shames me still. I allowed Amber to get a little bit lost in the shuffle. I hope to god I never said, "Leave Mommy alone." I don't believe I did. But when she fell in love with The Jungle Book video, I just let her go with it. Though she'd never been one to sit for hours in front of the TV, now she did, Mowgli and Baloo and Bagheera and Kaa playing over and over again. She'd nap and snack and call me over to see the best parts, which I tried to do with great cheer. No, she didn't miss bathing or meals. I just couldn't push hard enough to get myself and her up from the damned Jungle Book. It is painful and one of my lowest sins, to have diverted my attention from her or to have allowed Disney to care for her for great blocks of time.

I turned 40 that August. After Labor Day, I bought winter clothes for all of us and my work schedule picked back up because school had started and all my union members were back at work. Ex had fallen into a slow, quiet, predictable daily schedule and wasn't exhibiting any signs of imminent death. It wasn't too soon to start shopping for Christmas gifts. One day, I snapped off The Jungle Book and Little Black Eyes looked at me. "No more, Mommy?"  "Uh-uh. Let's go find something to do.  Maybe Daddy would like to take a ride with us."

So why is this gray little slice of life popping up now? Because I am undertaking change again. I do not care for change, even good change. I do not feel strong or capable in many ways. I think I am reviewing times when I had to take difficult steps, about which I did not feel secure. Oh, in a life as long as mine, there are plenty of face-plant episodes, but there are some glowing successes, too. The little child was not ruined by her summer of The Jungle Book. It gave me time to regroup and devise a new "normal". And then I went on.

We went to a different library branch, larger and farther away. I've pretty much read my local branch dry, at least the books that interest me. I don't love the Library of Congress Cataloging System, mostly because each branch puts up a poster describing it, but one can't find the books in the right places from one location to the next. Finally, I hit a treasure trove, spinning me from a Virginia Woolf study on the effect of her sexual abuse on her writing, to a Tennessee Williams bio, a Violet Trefusis study and Nigel Nicolson's autobiography "Long Life". Not sleeping more than an hour or two, I am holed up with books, dreaming and doing little else. My version of The Jungle Book for just a little while so I can think things through.

At the Equinox - Is it Just Me or Have a Lot of Bloggers Drifted Off With Spring Fever?

I was reminded this week of something I forget from year to year. In certain seasons in Las Vegas, some of the houseplants must be watered almost every day due to heat and sun. The current cat population is less intrigued by plants than some I've shared life with, so my store of plants has become pretty impressive, with only the very occasional sound of surreptitious chomping in the night. I wonder why I've never had a chomping cat become ill. They are supposed to be creatures very delicate when exposed to all sorts of flora. Mine gack up premium cat food on the floor while retaining the green leafies with which to fill the cat box. Things that make you go "hmmmmmmm" . .

There are some things I don't want to do. Like run the vacuum cleaner and shop for groceries and the list goes on. I don't mind wet chores like do the laundry, clean the bathroom, wash the dishes. But I don't want to make the acquaintance of dusting cloths and Dustbusters, anything involving Pledge or moving little doodads around on all the furniture. And don't show me a push broom. I detest a push broom. I don't have the arm strength for it. I could do it if it could be done with the legs. I don't like to contemplate sweeping the great outdoors. It's too big. All of this can cause terrible conflict for a woman whose father calls her "snotty clean". So, if you get the picture, I finally break down and do what I must. And crab about it a lot.

The arrival of spring has made me want to roast mushrooms and onions and peppers and corn on the grill outdoors and slide into the pool naked in the dark when the neighbors might not be looking from upstairs next door. I want to sit at the cafe table with coffee and a book in the sun, my cat sitting in my lap. When I wake in the morning, I want to look through the French doors with their glass like crystal. A quick inspection of the yard confirmed that I wouldn't seat my rear on the outdoor chairs in their current condition, feeling reluctant to even put my shod feet on the cool deck. The panes in the French doors may be terminal, but I can take them on one at a time and do my best - it was hell for windy across the dark months. The surface of the grill is shiny clean - I was careful last November, the last time I used it. The hired service keeps the pool and spa sparkling. OK, a mixed bag. Get started. Play music. Ply the ever-loving push broom.

The back yard reminds me of Cell Block 419A at the women's prison. Long and narrow, it holds the pool and a modest frame of walking space surrounding it. When I told a friend the unimaginative light block walls were about 15 feet high, he looked so startled I thought, "Well, maybe I'm exaggerating. I'm not so good at that kind of estimation." I've just gone outdoors in the dawn and measured myself like parents who track a child's growth with a mark and the date on a convenient door jamb. That wall is easily twice as tall as I and, on one angle, reaches to the top of the second story. I feel pretty solid about it again - 10-15 feet high. As there are no structures contiguous to any of the walls, the cats cannot escape the yard (just as the women prisoners could not, I suppose). I had to be "worked" about the escape-proof yard for a long time, as I believe that cats can get out of any confinement. However, I finally became a believer. The cats would have to spring 10-15 feet into the air to head for high ground, and I doubt they will. Food, water and an auxiliary litter box are provided. Virginia Woolf and Bogey enjoy the yard during fine weather.

I determined I'd approach my tasks in a linear way, starting in one corner and working my way around the rectangle. "Come on, cats," I called. They joined me, first tiptoeing on the narrow tiled strip separating pool from spa, drinking a little chlorinated water. Soon enough they found places to perch where my frenetic activity wouldn't disturb them. My BFF had sent me some new music and - hey! - it was good. She was right: the one song was very much like our conversational e-mail thread about our individual journeys. I peeled off some layers of clothing, grinning at Virginia Woolf languishing in the sun, eyes scrunched up at half-mast (does she need sunglasses?), shiny black nose sniffing at the air. This wasn't so terrible! I alternated using the hated broom with very conservative squirts from the water hose and even a few blasts of air from the compressor. I'm thorough in most everything I approach, and finally that yard was spotlessly clean, not a cobweb to be found, no leaves blown into crevices. I'd applied SprayWay cleaner to every glass surface (forget Windex, reader!) and finally sat for an iced coffee and a read. When I got up to go inside, there was no telltale powdering of fine desert dust on the rear of my black shorts, a pretty good testament to my efforts.

When I came inside, I was pretty energized, so I started attacking other tasks. I was joined in the bedroom by Virginia Woolf as I put clean, deep green sheets on the bed. I didn't actually look directly at her, but more saw her out of the corner of my eye as she came pussyfooting through the French doors. It's when she jumped up onto the dark green sheets to play the bed-making game that I noticed it. That cat looked as if she'd been dredged in flour, preparatory to immersion in a deep fat fryer for an order of cat crispies. I saw golden eyes, black nose and powdery white cat. And she'd found whatever it was in the yard! WTF? Oh, yeah, I was going to have to wash and dry the sheets again, but I wanted to know what dirty substance lurked in the yard. I paced and inspected, I crawled on the cool deck until my knees were chopped meat. I looked in the precise location where that cat had basked in the sun. Nothing. Have I mentioned there are some things I don't want to do, like dry household tasks or sweeping the great outdoors?

A blushing factoid to tell on myself: I consume true crime stories, mostly about serial murderers. I have a handful of favored authors I follow avidly, my tastes refined through the years I have read such things. My mother perverted me in the 1970s (or maybe early 1980s) with the Ann Rule book about Ted Bundy and I've read countless volumes since then. In bookstores, I slink off to the remote aisles where such books are displayed and then place my selections face down in my arms as I continue to shop. I intersperse these reads with biographies, poetry more recently, and other "good" books. But I continue to feed my need.

Now, I'm a well-known wiener about things violent or bloody. Usually I cannot read the pages describing what the killer did to the girl or the disrespect shown to the body. No, I don't have a secret penchant for the stereotypical 1940s gumshoe - tweed jacket, balloony trousers with the waistband under the armpits, a fedora and his face veiled in cigarette smoke. Sometimes the descriptions of the ballistics or DNA evidence make me yawn. So what's the attraction? I am utterly fascinated by the fact that completely bat-shit people walk around among us disguised as the next door neighbor. I want to know what makes them bat-shit. What happened in their childhoods and what makes them bat-shit part of the time but able to blend in part of the time, and - please - what makes them think particular atrocious acts are sexually gratifying? The other thing that pulls me in just a little (I don't want 85 pages of details, but I do want to know generally) is how detectives solve cases. Because they almost always do - more and more cases, some of them cold for 50 years. Hey, crazy people, don't do the crime! You can't get by with anything.

So I'm reading the latest one, quite a find, twisting and turning with a huge cast of characters, a favorite author outdoing herself. It draws me, in particular, because it features a Pacific Coast lifestyle including sportfishing boats, something I know about. I just spoke of this in my last post. The murderers, in this case, were incredibly stupid, but they were young and pretty and expert at that blending in thing. They killed a married couple by beating them up a little (not fatally), tying and binding them up a little (not fatally), then tying them to the anchor of their boat and tossing them into the deep. A witness said the couple had to have heard the anchor chain running out across the deck, knowing it would finally pull them in. It did. Yes, it was the lighter of the boat's anchors, but that's hardly humane. This scenario has freaked me out. I'm not sleeping well at night for thinking of it. I've been on the ocean in the dark. I've heard the chain run out into the sea, though I wasn't tied to it. I cannot imagine the horror those people must have endured.

Now, since 1-1-11, we have Investigation Discovery. 24 hours a day, it shows televised versions of some stories I know well. Whereas I rarely sit down to watch TV, I do often have it playing for white noise. Sometimes a case I've read about will be featured and I can hear the voice of that interesting detective or of that poor mother or of the brave ordinary citizen who was smart enough to recognize bat-shit when he saw it. This morning I was half-reading from my daily reflections and affirmations books. It was still dark outside and I would read my books with more focus several times during the day. This was my first run-through with the first cup of coffee. I heard the names spoken quietly on TV. My fishing boat story that I'm currently reading! I sprinted and leapt into the recliner, nearly tipping it over. Frightening. Bat-shit. Walking around among us.

Farewell Funky February

My February stank like steaming cauliflower, no cheese sauce. My heart lightened a little in anticipation of the turn of the calendar page to March. It had to be better! My friend came to visit and we talked for hours. We went through a huge volume of coffee, good creamer, and wore sweatshirts against the chill. "Nobody named me a doctor," she said as she hugged goodbye at the door, "but I think you're deeply depressed. How about if you go get some attention for that right away?" Yes. Well.

I often occupy a reclining chair to read. It is placed in a large bank of windows, and at certain times of day, the sun comes through the wooden shutters and warms me. At night, I can see the cars pass by on the street, or close the shutters and reduce my environment to a small comfortable room. At arm's length stands a small curio table with shelves that hold coffee cup, books and bookmarks, cell phone and sometimes a snack. When I climb into the chair for a read, I follow a ritual. Check the contents of the curio table, check the angle of the shutters, get onto the chair, cover most of myself with a San Francisco 49ers lap throw, place my glasses on the curio table, and open my book. Oh. I also howl out "Kitty, kitty, kitty" and I am quickly blessed with the presence of the lovely Virginia Woolf and her new step-cat, Bogie. I'd be certainly embarrassed, if not fully ashamed, to admit to the number of hours spent in that chair with those cats. On the plus side, I have renewed the lifelong habit of voracious reading, which I had lost when I was lost. I know all of the sounds of the house, and sometimes I sleep in the chair awhile, in the sun, with the cats.

The ornamental plum tree in the neighbor's yard is blooming so profusely, one can almost hear the blossoms snap open. No other plants or trees in the immediate vicinity seem to be in flower, even the other ornamental plum trees. I like to watch the tree from the recliner, through the shutters. It seems to grow fluffier during each reading session, looking for all the world like a gigantic pink Q-tip.

I got a book at the library - a most wonderful, comprehensive biography of Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother. I am an Anglophile, plus I really like the late Queen Mum, so this book was quite a find for me. I love that smiling face and the pastel suits and hats and the fact that she never hid her fondness for a cocktail. A few days into the book, I began to gripe in a good-natured way. This gem runs 1,000 pages and weighs approximately one ton (actually, using methods many women will recognize, it weighs about as much as a 5 pound bag of flour). I devoured the narrative of her Edwardian childhood and read with interest the explanations for some British pageantry I'd never fully understood before. After another day, I kvetched about my neck, arms and shoulders suffering a bit, and why wasn't this book published either in soft cover or in multiple volumes? I continued to read. On the night I had progressed to World War II, I was in pain. I'd read in chair, bath and bed for a few days. I read without my glasses, which requires planting a book right on my chest or nose. Biceps and triceps screamed. I gave up. I'll have to read the rest of the story some other time. Yes, I sneak-peeked to read about certain events after WWII.

Ex had a theory. He was in no way an Anglophile, but he tolerated my interest which caused him to witness royal weddings, funeral services and other glimpses at people who don't seem to occupy the same world as we mortals. He was taken by Queen Elizabeth's always having the just-so-correct handbag across her arm. After he mentioned it, I paid closer attention, and he was right. She sported a purse even when to do so would seem burdensome and unnecessary. Ex wondered what the Queen might keep in her pocketbook. Face powder, extra pantyhose, lipstick? Nah. She had people to handle that for her. So why the purse? Ex was a wickedly funny man. Whimsical and imaginative. His theory emerged thus: Queen Elizabeth is a capable, hardy woman. She shoots a gun and drives cars, she served briefly in WWII. Ex believed she carried a gun in her handbag. Maybe a .357 magnum. If anyone got past her people and posed an imminent threat to the Queen, she would tear open her purse, drop into a commando pose and show them with whom they were messing. Ex would demonstrate his theory, too, a very large, dark male imitating a small, fair woman.

About the time my brain (if not my eyes, yet) was abandoning WWII to King George VI, Queen Elizabeth and Winston Churchill, my ears wandered, too. I could hear Piers Morgan interviewing Charlie Sheen on TV, and I could almost feel myself being pulled in. They discussed addiction (Charlie says he's not an addict and those women should not have called 911), his firing from his $1.8 million per episode TV show (Charlie doesn't think he deserved to be fired from the highest paid acting job in television), his treatment of other human beings - women in particular (Charlie says he has never hit a woman) and I could feel myself beginning to seize up like a pickled schoolmarm. Look, I don't know any more about Charlie Sheen than what the headlines scream. I don't know his TV show. I can't quickly name any of his movies I've seen. Without looking at him, I focused on the things he was saying - his responses to Piers Morgan's too-gentle questions, the answers to which were not followed up with any hard-hitting further questions. I did the slow burn for awhile, offended at many levels of my belief system. When the show ended, others in the room milled around while I continued to fume. I finally said it just the way it felt, but quietly, I thought. "That's the most f***ed up 45-year-old I've ever heard speak." I rocked the room. They laughed at me! "We could see when you were getting a belly full of him!" Yes, well, I know about that which I know about. He's f***ed up.

True story: When I was ill in 2010, I had a problem remembering things. Any things. This frightened me, because I have always - but always - been able to rely upon my head. I took to writing notes to remind myself of things. That may not sound unusual, but I've never had to rely on copious notes for any purpose. "Les, why are you making notes about that particular subject?" "I may need to know it and not recall it." And I had a near-collapse when I began to forget certain words. I broke down in tears the day I explained to a friend about the pedometer in my hand, how it worked, why it was used . . . . but I could not remember its name. My memory is much improved now. I'm almost cocky. Oh, yes, I had to struggle for a word the other day, but it is a pretty arcane word and I didn't panic over it. I Googled around and found the word. I don't take so many notes any more. And I'm back to multitasking. Mostly I can juggle a lot of balls at one time.

So, I have a jacuzzi tub that I love. Into that tub, I could take a baby, a lover and the entire neighborhood at one time and we'd still all have room to swim around. I sincerely apologize from the green/conserving part of myself, but that tub holds a lot of water and I get into it frequently. The reader doesn't need to know exact numbers. Let's just say I have to use an industrial strength moisturizer on my skin against all that bathing. I take coffee, a book, music or anything else to amuse myself during my bath. The sides of the tub are tall and I am not, so getting in requires a swinging leg, a plunge over the side and almost complete, immediate submersion. On a recent day when snow threatened and the house was chilly despite the furnace, I decided it was time for hydrotherapy. I set the tub to fill, the jets to roar, and noodled around doing tasks. When it came time to undress, I did it quickly, never yelping. I swung the leg, I took the plunge, I was submerged up to the neck. In a bath for which I had forgotten to add any hot water. Do you know, it is amazing how much a little old lady can shrink when exposed to ice water!

In my ears right now: I was young. I thought I was bulletproof. I was mistaken.

OFFICIAL: Woman Impercolated by iPhone

SUSPECT CLAIMS,"SHE ASKED FOR IT!"

Las Vegas police report taking a 911 call from a barely coherent local woman in fear for her virtue. She asserts a male acquaintance half way across the U.S. plied her with champagne administered through his iPhone. Police contacted Tree to obtain his version of events. "She's not inebriated, she's percolated and she asked me to do it!" When officers approached the woman in her home, she squealed, "Ooooh, I'm feeling so bubbly!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Of course, I'm playing! Come on, that last post about old-time religion was hard going. I needed a little light relief and Tree was good enough to oblige me this morning. If you haven't visited Tree at Decadent Tranquility, then you've missed out. His prose and poetry, his computer generated artwork are remarkable in every way. The visual candy is exquisite. And guess what? I don't know how he does fractals and percolations and I don't want to know how. I'm not going to do it. I just want to look at it. And have a little fun with it through his good graces this once. Be warned: you need to spend some time on his website. Don't miss the archives filled with three different ongoing fictional sagas. Women readers, he flirts, too!

But I'm not only going to be playful. I'd like to share something I've found. It's poetry. I'm quite poetry challenged, which has made me feel a little backward in the blogosphere, but I can learn. I'm a really good learner. I'm reading (for the 3rd time or so) a book called Desert Queen by Janet Wallach. It's a biography of Gertrude Bell, a British very Victorian woman, whose life was remarkable for all the things she did that Victorian women didn't do. Deadly serious Swiss Alp mountain-climbing for 15 hours in snow and avalanche comes to mind, attending Oxford when female students numbered 2 or 3, and speaking 7 languages. She was fascinated by all things Middle East and made many expeditions on horse and camel, attended by various Middle Eastern guides and no one else. Through mountains and deserts in brutal conditions packing canvas bathtub and full sets of china and crystal for dining, 1000s of miles. She is acknowledged to be a major figure in the creation of modern-day Iraq. (Not sure she'd brag that up today, but that's what she was.) So, it's a real Leslie kind of book: British, bio, female, desert. But what I discovered in the book this time was something else.

Gertrude's translations of the medieval Persian poet Hafiz (Hafez)'s works are still regarded as the best translations that exist. Apparently archaic Persian is a brutal language to master, some words and phrases having multiple meanings. Well, I like this poetry! Now, had you recommended to me the works of a medieval Persian poet, I'd have thought "Uh-uh" and run screaming. But this speaks to me in volumes!

Maybe you already know about Hafiz (Hafez) if you're not new to poetry. And if you do, shame on you for never sharing! But it was a very new and pleasant experience for me. I recommended it to a poetry-loving woman friend who immediately went web-crawling and declared my find an excellent one. Hey! Smell me! I highly recommend the Gertrude Bell book, as well. TRW, your copy has been ordered and is coming by slow boat.

And so, reader, a little Turkish coffee and dessert?

From The Subject Tonight is Love

A Potted Plant

. . . And at night I let my pet, the moon,

Run freely into the sky meadow.

If I whistled,

She would turn her head and look at me.

If I then waved my arms,

She would come back wagging a marvelous tail of stars . . .

Something that charmed me: My woman friend needed to work. She had a deadline to meet, a busy morning, a dental appointment."I can't e-mail you at length until later this evening." OK, understood. I've been there. I support healthy detachment. I sent off an e-mail with the information about the Gertrude Bell book and the poetry of Hafiz/Hafez. It would be waiting in her inbox whenever she decided she was ready to glance at e-mails. About 14 nanoseconds later, I was surprised to hear e-mail incoming announced. It was her. What the heezy? She'd opened my e-mail and she was off on a poetry-filled couple of hours. Have I mentioned she's a poetry-loving woman?

Ten Things I Love (I've Been Tagged)

Latebreaking: There seems to be some question whether the assignment was "Ten Things I Love" or "Ten Things That Make Me Happy". I need to state I processed it as "Ten Things I Love". If I'd done it the other way, I'd have had a list of things that impact me far less than these. If I muffed the assignment, please give me credit for earnestness, sincerity and hard work both on myself and with myself.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

My original post before I wondered if I'd muffed the assignment:

I am usually up for a challenge and I'm almost always up for fun and games. I like connecting with others and learning new things ~ these are major themes in my life and my writing. So when blogging friend Kass threw down the gauntlet, I was ready to rumble. I put two blog posts that were almost ready on the back burner. I grabbed a pencil, some scratch paper and I began to scratch.

I knew immediately that I would not list my family, my lover or my job. Of course, I love all of those. It goes without saying. They occupy a level above Ten Things I Love. Within two minutes I'd made a list of seventeen things I love (I may have to do this exercise twice!). I struggled to pare it down to the requisite ten. I quickly made an association: my ten subjects include some of the labels I use most frequently on my blog. Hmmmm . . . . so I write about what I love. And then something washed over me that made me feel sad. When I look at the list of ten, I realize I am not actively engaged in some of them. I am avoiding some of them. I'm doing some of them only half-way. A revelation: find happiness by jumping deeply into the things one loves.

In no particular order (in fact I thought to list them alphabetically to eliminate any perceived order) here are ten things I love.

I love my physical well-being. I make a pilgrimage every Sunday of life to Fresh & Easy to buy good food for myself. This is more than "grocery shopping". It is a celebration of self. I fuel myself with foods that support my well-being. I walk many miles every day, regardless of conditions. Sometimes it isn't very pleasant. But I never fail to feel grateful I can do this. I hike and climb in the desert for the pure joy of it. At my desk every day, I set a timer to remind me to get up and move my body. I use weights, a wobble board, a light-flashing hula hoop and resistance bands. I indulge myself with frequent massages that help ease my body from what life has done to it. It wasn't always this way. I have 215 specific, well-identified reasons to be grateful for how well my body serves me.

I love to write. I am a person compelled to tell things. I need to tell my stories, my history and my observations of the day. I have a strong urge to share the funny things that happened, to rant about the injustices and unkindnesses I observed. I love rich, colorful, plummy words and I like to make language art with them. I want to retell conversations, and sometimes the written version is better than the actual dialogue. Writing letters and journals, essays and post-hearing briefs have all been part of my tapestry. But writing a blog has been an epiphany to me. Imagine writing and having other human beings comment about it! For me, comments don't need to be false-positives. I've let nasty comments in, too. It's more important - to me - to simply have another human being react and interact. Blogging is the best new thing I took on in 2009.

I love music. I surround myself with it nearly constantly. I'm like millions of other people who would say music is important to them. I might say I take that up a notch. When I hear a song I know, I am quickly transported to the time and place I occupied when I first learned it. Say something (anything) to me and I can often pop out some snippet of lyrics to highlight what you've said. I'm not stupid, but I regard some song lyrics as a rallying cry for life ~ it's an appreciation of the songwriter's ability to weave words into images. I am tattooed with a short version of the most profound lyrics I know. So, from Pachelbel to Pure Prairie League, the Bangles to my Beatles, Billie Holiday to Bob Dylan, R.E.M. to the Rolling Stones and the Backstreet Boys to Beethoven, I have loved it all [except rap]. I can't imagine what it would be like to lose one's hearing. Do you suppose the songs would play on in one's head?

I love my animals. I share life with two cats (Virginia Woolf and Dylan) and two birds (Bloomsbury and Benson). My father says I "over love" my animals, attributing to them qualities they do not possess. My father also says it would be a good life to live as one of Leslie's pets. It fulfills me to be the sole caretaker of another creature. I feed them and clean them and take them to the veterinarian when necessary. I brush the cats and clip their claws. I clean the spittle from the birds' mirror so they can continue to chirp while admiring themselves in its reflection. I buy good feed and palatial bird homes and the preferred type of cat litter. I provide toys and catnip that are mostly ignored and bird toys that are eagerly employed. It sounds like I have to do a lot and spend a little money, doesn't it? I talk to these beautiful fellow animals of the universe and each of the four looks at me as if I am brilliant when I speak. As if what I have to say matters. None of them has ever been cruel or done a thing to hurt me in any way. It's a dynamic that works beautifully. I provide the basic needs for their lives. They grace my presence with all their beauty and their trust in me.

I love venerable things. I call items with history "venerable things". These need not be priceless antiques. Ordinary household articles of long ago pull me more than a Renaissance painting. I like to handle venerable things and think about other human beings who may have handled them. I wonder if the venerable thing had special meaning to its owner, or was it simply "the potato masher"? I buy venerable things at estate sales and curiosity shops. I decorate my home and office with them. Sometimes I am fortunate to find some lovely vintage item I can wear as clothing or jewelry. Some of my favorite venerable things: my grandmother's 1917 high school graduation gift - a lavaliere that now belongs to me and will belong to Amber someday; my circa 1800 cut glass inkwell with tortoiseshell lid; a pair of eyeglass frames from about 1920. These frames are perfectly round and beautifully crafted. I want to wear them so badly it nearly makes me weep. I cannot find an eyeglass dispenser willing to try to put lenses in the frames. They fear what material the frames may be made from and whether it will hold up to today's methods of making glasses. I shall keep looking. I want those frames on my face. I want to think about the other human who wore them.

I love to be creative. This is one of the loves that makes me sad. For I am not doing it. OK, I'm writing. And I aimed my camera at some beautiful things. On one camp-out. But I am not using fabric in any way, even though I may own the lion's share of the world's stores of fabric. The sewing machine gathers dust and there are no pins sticking in the carpet. I haven't needle-pricked a fingertip for longer than I'd like to admit. The seashells used to fashion angel ornaments languish in closed bins among the shining ribbons and "jewels" meant to render them beautiful. The rubber stamps and archival ink containers lie idle and my embosser hasn't been plugged in for far too long. My cardstock and envelopes and embellishments are lined up neatly in their dustproof containers. Maybe forever, never to be touched again? Those I love enjoy receiving cards I've made. Why am I giving shitty store-bought cards to people I want to present with beauty and the creative part of my love?

I love to read. My mother, my daughter and I each began to read on our own, only nominally guided, at the age of 4. We are strong right-brainers who enjoy words and process information by reading. "Don't show me how to do it. Let me read the instructions!" I am surrounded by men who learn things by looking at a television. That doesn't work for me. When I look at a screen to learn something new, I take it in just like everyone else. Eyeball deep. When I read to learn something new, I absorb it into every part of me. I rabidly attack Prevention when it arrives every few weeks, completely reading it in one sitting. I have more self-help books than I can name, and I read and re-read them. I have many books that are old friends to me, some dating back to the 1960s. I try to give each of them a spin every year. I have virtually visited many places in the world I'll likely never actually see ~ by reading about them. Probably my favorite books are biographies. I'll read one about pretty much any person. This feeds the need not only to read, but it also puts me in the "connecting with others" mode that I love. the ability to read anything ever committed to writing, uncensored, is about as good as life gets. Whatever is intriguing, one can go find out about it.

I love learning new things. When I started my current job, I had a first-ever experience. It took me longer to catch on than I would have hoped or expected. I've always been a pretty quick study. I was about to turn 55 and I attributed the slight lag to my age. I am a bit kinder to myself now. I was entering a field I knew nothing about, managed by software I'd never used. I'd never held a sales position and had to learn that, too. Maybe I wasn't so slow! I was given a good, curious mind and I have many of the qualities of a terrier dog - some things may stump this chump, but I just keep digging until I find what I was going for. I'm afraid my learning process may not be pretty in its execution, rather like the making of sausages and law. It pleases me to learn new things. I wanted to know how to create a website and how html code works - I learned. I wanted to learn to blog. I've done so. I hope I never lose curiosity, even as I slow in my capacity to quickly grasp new things.

I love the desert. I will not be able to tell the reader why I love the desert. I've struggled for hours for those words that will not come. So I shall tell what I love about the desert. I love the loose sandy trails that make a hike feel torturous. I like the rocky hikes that scare me when the boulders shift beneath my feet. I like the drops so long I have to sit down and scoot myself down the rockface on my backside. I like to roast in my own juices in the sharp sun, eking out that one last camping trip in May before temperatures force the summer camping break. I like the snowflakes that fell and melted on my warm, bare skin as I struggled to help put the rainfly on the tent at 2:00 a.m. without my glasses. I love that I lay in 75 mph winds for hours, trying to sleep, weeping in fear, and surviving it. I love the way the coffee tastes differently out there. I love that I know how to pitch a tent, fuel and operate lanterns and a stove, make a safe campfire, follow a map. I like to poke around old mineshafts and find interesting treasures. I love that little creatures allow me to hold them and seem to enjoy my company. I love knowing how to identify animal tracks and desert flora. When I breathe in the presence of the petroglyphs, I feel like I'm in church. When I hike through a broad vista of cactus flowers, I know I have gone to a better place. It's an extreme environment. Harsh. One has to develop skills. I was a city girl. The desert opens its arms to anyone tough enough to survive in it. I thrive in it.

I love connecting with others. Human beings fascinate me. Almost all of them. I have felt like an alien visitor all of my life, however, because I don't feel as if I really understand other people. Therefore, I study them carefully. My friend and I laugh about something. If someone said, "Hey there's a great author from the 20th century named Hemingway", my friend would want to read Hemingway. I would want to read the biography so I'd know about the person Hemingway was. If my pink bus were an actual bus, I'd be the small woman at the back, surrounded by her bags of stuff, craning her neck to check out all the other passengers, taking notes. I study people and I try to find some place where I might make a connection with them. It excites me to find the fragile strand of commonality between me and another person. The electrical connection makes me feel alive and normal and . . . not so different from anyone else. Not alien.

CHALLENGE: I didn't think this exercise up. I was tagged. I'm officially tagging anyone who reads this to go do it for yourself. It's a good, introspective time spent with oneself. Tree, I'm specifically tagging you. Maybe you can't do it right now. But do it sometime. Do the short version. It might help you find your way. It helped me find mine.

In my ears right now: It runs long. It is worth listening to. It is like church music played on a pipe organ. She's got the pipes.

Some photo credits: J. D. Morehouse

Walls

I'd entitled the piece "Walls" and had been noodling at it - I was having fun. But before I could post it, I began to feel like I was running into brick walls, my head leading. I've had a little rough spot in which things got terribly out of balance. A little sad, a little angry, a little fearful . . .

I was right about something. I do not like to be on the back of an empty building in the dark where I can't be heard if I scream and I can't see out of my windows to see who might approach me. And that is what happened with the arrival of Pacific Standard Time. Yesterday by 3:00 p.m., the shadows on the deck were so long and dark, I had to give up my mood lighting in favor of the harsh fluorescents and I felt like I was in a police interrogation. The phones won't ring which means I'm not booking jobs. We're all over Google, coming up first, second and third in every search . . . where are the people?

But even I can't wallow in a hole indefinitely, so please - won't you join me in something lighthearted?

"You put funny shit on the walls, Limes. Here and at your place." "Define funny shit, Home Dude!" I wasn't all that amused. Carpet technician interior design critics? "Well, those tools in your dining room and fairies and old-timey looking stuff and some stuff I don't know what it is, and weird pictures and blankets." Oh! Home dude doesn't get sampler sized quilts on the wall and vintage, red-painted wood-handled kitchen implements and whimsical flying creatures posed to look as if they're actually fluttering around my rooms. Home dude probably doesn't get venerable things, either, but that's for a later post.

It might correctly be stated that I am a bit quirky and that I have strong attachments to certain items of decor. I have a deep need to be surrounded by things that are beautiful to me for some reason, and sometimes no one else can see the reason or the beauty. I also put up pictures and postcards that are hilarious to me, but maybe nobody else. I stick pretty much anything on the wall that won't tear the wall down. And then I admire my wonderful things, every time I pass them. My blog headline says I'd really like to invite EVERYONE over, so come on ~ take the mini-tour of my walls.

I am crazy for See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Say No Evil and have quite a collection of such images. Yes, it is true. I can go to the trashy, sleazy 80-year-old souvenir shop on Las Vegas Blvd. and find home decorator items. They also sell postcards of some of the Nevada Test Site detonations that I've picked up and fondled, but I've never brought one home.

I've not yet mentioned that each and every one of my much loved doodads has a story behind it. I can remember where I bought it or which friend gave me what as a gift.



Before you, observe the cherub shelf purchased for $1 at an estate sale - Mother Badger taught me well. Upon the shelf resides a glass perfume bottle I bought in Egypt, 7 nesting wooden dolls brought to me from Budapest, a beautiful old glass wasp trap and my beloved miniature mannequin whom I pose differently every Sunday. Beneath the shelf you will see cowboy offerings presented by the Badger. Yes, you do detect I have an affinity for all things cowboy. And the Badger has been known to indulge me in that area. Note to self: photograph some of the boots.

The angel wall is located right next to the front door. Although I am possibly the least religious person you could name, with virtually no faith, I am drawn to angels as I am to fairies, dragonflies and other beautiful creatures with wings. The angel and dove on the top are on the lid to a cookie tin I have dragged with me to many different homes. I think it is one of the most beautiful images I have ever seen. The little beauty below is a sea shell angel with a porcelain face, highly embellished. She hopped on my bus on one of many wonderful trips to Sanibel Island.

Above the computer fly the funky Florida fairies and the flapping pink quilt sampler has a story to it. Every day I secure the corners of that textile treasure to the wall. Every day Virginia Woolf engages in the catly activity of removing the fasteners, so the corner of the quilt flaps. She does this several times a day. I reattach the corner of the quilt several times a day. It is a good arrangement and keeps us active.

However, the wall that seemed to perplex home dude the most was the dining room wall with its burlap bag from Blue Mountain coffee beans brought to me from Jamaica and the 60-year-old kitchen implements. Although I took pains to explain the purpose of the clunky old potato ricer and why it charmed me, he couldn't catch onto why someone would first cook the potatoes, then change their consistency. What the heezy, they were already cooked - wouldn't you just eat them?

True story: He'd just finished a big meal with two pieces of birthday pumpkin pie and cocktails. I was clearing the dishes and not looking directly at him when he said, "This place looks just exactly like you, Limes." I snapped my head around pretty quickly, still stinging from the "Limes, you put funny shit on the walls" comment. I thought, "What, the place looks like me? Old? Small? Tattered? Dusty?" But the Badger was grinning widely - his statement was a tip of the hat to me and my decorating prowess.

And now I intend to end my personal pity party and rejoin the living. I've got some favored blogs to read and some comments to make on them. I've got blogs I peek at surreptitiously and don't comment at all. I've got to write another post. I've got a trip to pack for. I've got plans for this weekend. I've got to get on with it. ; ~}

In my ears right now: Benson and Bloomsbury chirping their empty heads off and I'm glad of it, for the phones are so quiet I'd begin pacing except for their birdly company.

Something that charmed me: The Blogger who jumped through quite a few hoops to land on a real e-mail address and then sent me a message saying "We miss reading you. You're too quiet. What's wrong?" Like Eeyore, I'd say, "Thanks for noticing me."

Silliness ~ and TMI

I like Erin O'Brien's For and Against so much that I'd like to just blatantly plagiarize it (customized to reflect me, of course) within only a couple of days of her last one. However, that battles with just a shred of "Limes, come on!" So instead, a meme picked up from another blog I follow. Close, even if no cigar! And passing on a meme is not plagiarizing.

A - Age: Yes, I have one.

B - Book you love: The Camerons by Robert Crichton, a saga.

C - Cause(s) you embrace: Breast cancer research, cat protection societies, get-out-the-vote, any wilderness protection, supporting womens shelters, serving meals to the needy, mentoring programs.

D - Dogs' names: Nonexistent and I-Don't-Have-One.

E - Essential start your day item: Coffee bean grinder.
(See left.)

F - Favorite color: I can't pick one. I'm strongly pulled by almost every color.

G - Gold or Silver or Platinum: I bet a woman made up this meme and this stems from an interest in jewelry, which doesn't particularly interest me. But I like warm tones, so I guess gold.

H - Height: Never got any. "Stand up, Limes!" "I am."

I - Instruments you play: Piano, poorly. Tambourine, drunkenly. Upon request: "California Dreamin' ".

J - Job title: Manager.

K - Kid(s): Just the one. I waited the longest, I got the best one!

L - Living arrangements: Owned and managed by Dylan and Virginia Woolf. I keep the roof over our heads, food in our bellies, and litter in their catbox. I've got the better end of the deal. It's been noted, often, that I am difficult.

M - Mom's name: Mom.

N - Nicknames: "The skirt with a badge", Sparky, Limes.

O - Overnight hospital stay other than birth: Too many. I hope no more!

P - Place you love: Just about anywhere deep in the desert, preferably staying for a few days. Conversely, the green, green UK is my favorite place.

Q - Quote from a movie: "Nice marmot!" ~ The Big Lebowski.

R - Right handed or left handed: Right. On me, the left one has no reason to exist. It can't do anything.

S - Siblings: Sort of.

T - Time you wake up: 3:00 a.m.-ish. Every day of life.

U- Underwear: Unremarkable.

V - Vegetable you dislike: Peas. I wouldn't eat them as Gerber's baby food and I won't eat them now.

W - Ways you run late: Refuse to do late. Can't do it.

X - X-rays you've had: Just like that "overnight in the hospital" deal, too many. No more, please!

Y - Yummy food you make: I don't make it, per se, but I prepare it. Sliced cucumbers, dashed with balsamic vinegar and freshly ground sea salt. Every morning of life at 10:00 a.m. "It must be 10:00. I smell her cucumbers."

Z - Zoo favorite: Not anything simian. And yes, you see me below, seated on the rump of a silverback gorilla.

In my ears right now: The abecedarian song, "A, B, C, D, E, F, G . . . . "

Something that charmed me: Friend Willy is a man who likes to learn new things. PhotoShop intrigued him, so he took a short class. He took the one picture of me and delivered it up in so many hilarious ways, I'll never be able to share them all.

Something Else That Charmed Me

At a particularly difficult time in my life, I decided I needed a dog friend. This was unusual for me because I am a cat person. I would not offer to kick anyone's dog, but they aren't my favorites and I'd only ever loved 3 or 4 of them. But I needed some(thing)(one). My marriage was in its last desperate gasp. I was staggering from the blow of my daughter becoming an adolescent and not needing me in the same ways she had as a small child.

So Cousin and I set out on the search. I picked up Pomeranians and scoped out Scotties. I researched breeds, studying their suitability to me and my lifestyle. Jack Russells were struck from the list of possibilities with regret, and rescued greyhounds likely needed more than I had to give. Ultimately, I knew it would have to be one of the terrier breeds for me. We looked high and low, becoming regulars at some of the pooch emporia. One evening after Starbucks, we walked into a place where everybody really did know my name, and there - before my eyes - was a new arrival. My head spun toward Cousin. "Wire haired fox terrier on the left, Cuz!" That good woman had seen the price sticker, however, and said, "It's not a very nice one, Limes." She was wrong.

I visited that puppy four days in a row, for hours at a time. I placed a deposit so she would be held for me to make a decision in case someone else walked in and fell in love with her. She liked me and I liked her. On the fifth day, she came home with me. I extracted a promise from Ex that he would not feed her or flirt with her - dogs and children liked him more than they liked me. Amber was allowed access to the puppy I named JB (Jelly Belly - yes, like the candies). I felt the little dog was a good mom-daughter project.

This was about the time when I began to be a very serious walker, and that little curly/wiry-haired dog was my companion as I hoofed around Lake Murray every day of life. Afterward, we'd go to Barnes & Noble where she'd scoot under my chair and snooze while I read and had coffee. Some of the patrons looked oddly at me and my dog, but there was not a notice posted to prohibit her presence and she did not behave objectionably.


You see the lovely JB above in her Halloween costume that autumn that was so difficult for me. Yes, I was a pretty indulgent dog owner. I was about 2 stoplights from crazy, and those weren't the only clothes she owned. She was as good a friend as I could have hoped for. When I left the marriage, the little dog stayed back in the family home, of necessity. I couldn't take her with me. Sometimes Ex tried to rattle my cage by saying, "If you don't come and get this dog, I'll [multiple choice] 1) sell her; 2) give her away; 3) put her out at the curb on recycling day. . . . " But I never got too shaken. You see, there's a reason dogs and children liked Ex more than they liked me.

In my ears right now: Music I do not understand. Matt writes songs and is a pretty remarkable angry poet. He has put together some studio mixes that he clearly worked very hard to produce. He's very proud of them. Now I can do Pachelbel and Mozart, Hank Williams and I don't mean Jr., the British invasion, 80s stuff, REM, and even some musician's musicians. But, for the first time in my life, I'm struggling to find meaning and beauty in "young folks' music". I'm not delicate. I like the poetry of Charles Bukowski in its brutality. But I struggle trying to enjoy this.

Something that charmed me yet again: I moved to Las Vegas and began to walk in the park where I've walked almost daily for nearly 7 years. It is a lovely area, a circular park almost precisely 1 mile in diameter - it makes for easy counting. It is populated by families, older adults, teens, and pets. There is an older man who walks a wire haired fox terrier several times every day. I don't see them on the days that I walk in the pre-dawn, but most weekends . . . . his little dog likes me, too!

Disappointed Madonna

The portrait is the 14-year-old Virginia Woolf, so the year would be 1896. I believe that is the most beautiful face I have ever seen. She is possibly the most English looking woman who ever lived. I've read all the books twice, of course. I've read all of the biographies. I'm an Anglophile, so lots of things about her would pull me. But we also share some human experiences that are uncommon and terrible. I came through as simply a twisted sister. She suffered for 59 years, put rocks in her coat pockets and jumped into the river. I think she was disappointed every moment of her life. I have this portrait on a little pendant I love, and I wear it around my neck. Frequently.

I like things to work as intended. When a car does something to me, say get a flat tire, I don't want to have that car any more. When my computer loses its mind, I want the Badger to build me a new one. When I snip a thread on a piece of clothing and a seam running the length of the garment unravels, I want to send it to SafeNest. Disappointment unsettles me. It makes me feel uncertain and insecure. Unable to trust the car, the computer or the garment again. For many years, I was so rigid, I behaved almost as extremely as those feelings suggest.

Yesterday it was Blogger. I noticed early on that some of the blogs I follow had new posts, but they were not propagating to the blog lists of the followers. It lasted until the afternoon when slowly, one by one, the new posts began to show up in the blog lists. First Tree, followed soon by Erin O'Brien. Sometime during the middle of the night, the Badger's Digital Existence updated. Everybody's updated except mine. And my post was an invitation to an imaginary party with 'tend friends! In addition to appearing in no blog lists, the post has repeatedly reformatted itself. I glance at it and there's the text I wrote . . . matched up to the wrong photo! Repeatedly. This gives me angst. Doesn't Blogger like me? Why wouldn't Blogger like me, as I really like Blogger . . . . .

So as I walked this morning, I thought about disappointment and how we handle adversity, big or small. I thought about Tree's post of yesterday, speaking of broken things. I thought about the comments made from fatalists and optimists. I decided stressing about an aberrant blog posting is probably not worth any more energy. I decided to land on my own little Pollyanna take on things: keep at it, don't give up, try some more. I approach many things that way. For, you see, I can feel disappointed, but behave rock steady. It's called balance. I'm glad I've found some. I lacked it for most of my life.

But I sure as shootin' wanted some of the bloggers to come to my party!

In my ears right now: the seminal disappointment / reemergence pop tune, "I'm a Believer".

Something that has never failed to charm me: A phrase someone special says to me quite frequently. It means more than the small simple words that comprise the sentence. There are layers and less obvious meanings present. "I'm glad I know you."