Saturday, July 30, 2011



http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15377
One Foot In Front of the Other

I know I am moving forward though it feels most
days like I am going backwards.

What a trying week. Started out with one of those
3:30 in the morning on calls. Had to drive 35 miles
to the state psychiatric hospital to see a patient
(this was Tuesday at 3:30 AM).
Did not pull in my driveway until 6:45 that morning
(with the expectation that I would be at work ASAP
to report to tx team what happened, but I confess
to coming in at 10 and then calling another case
manager to tell her about her new client).

That same day, my father-in-law was moved back
to long-term care. Assisted living did not work out.
He requires too much care. By Wednesday afternoon,
his son told my mother-in-law to be prepared for
the worst. He told her Gene would not be with us
much longer.

On Thursday night, I received a call from Gene's son
that the long-term care facility had called an ambulance
to take him to the ER. His BP was so low that he was
nearly gone. But, he's a strong man and is still with us.

Getting ready to go to the hospital. In the midst
of all of this, I did my best to make my mother-in-law's
92nd birthday (yesterday) as lovely as I could for her.
She was most appreciative.

My oldest son came in yesterday for her birthday
and to provide moral support and to give me a little
break. I crashed at 10 last night and did not get up
until 8:3o this morning.

Things are too hectic and overwhleming and heart-wrenching
to adequately delve into them. I am just living them now. And
just barely that.

Monday, July 18, 2011

Hardy Hibiscus

Just posted several pictures of my hardy hibiscus.
They do make me happy. I do not know their purpose
beyond that (nectar for the bees, of course), but beyond that
I think they are just here to make me happy.
I can think that if I want! Of course I can. I can think
anything! They are hardy, so they will keep coming
back year after year. But you do have to tend to them
a bit if you want them to keep doing so.

My mother gave me several of them years ago. I don't
know where she got them for sure, but I think she
got them from a woman (whom I worked with for
a short time) who loved hardy hibiscus. In Florida,
and warmer climates, these don't die out in the winter.
Here, I have to cut them back after the first killing
frost. And then, I just wait for mid-summer to see
this beauty again. They don't last long, but they
are worth the wait. More pictures of them to come.
My computer is not wanting to cooperate and I am
tired.



















Neil Young & Crazy Horse - Hey Hey, My My (Into the Black)

Sunday, July 17, 2011



Urahne, Duhnen | PhotoSeed

Urahne, Duhnen PhotoSeed

Waldlichtung | PhotoSeed

Waldlichtung PhotoSeed
PhotoSeed

If you are interested in photography, do take a look at this site my
ex brother-in-law designed. He has done an amazing job!

It's called PhotoSeed: Bringing to Light the Growth and Artistic
Vision of 19th and 20th Century Photography.

He starts with the late 1880s and continues through WW I. I may
be able to share a picture here. He not only posts the photo, he lists
the photgrapher, country, medium, journal, atelier, and year.

Very interesting, informative, and visually pleasing site.
227 Waverly Place

by W. S. Merwin

When I have left I imagine they will
repair the window onto the fire escape
that looks north up the avenue clear
to Columbus Circle long I have known
the lights of that valley at every hour
through that unwashed pane and have watched with no
conclusion its river flowing toward me
straight from the featureless distance coming
closer darkening swelling growing distinct
speeding up as it passed below me toward
the tunnel all that time through all that time
taking itself through its sound which became
part of my own before long the unrolling
rumble the iron solos and the sirens
all subsiding in the small hours to voices
echoing from the sidewalks a rustling
in the rushes along banks and the loose
glass vibrated like a remembering bee
as the north wind slipped under the winter sill
at the small table by the widow until
my right arm ached and stiffened and I pushed
the chair back against the bed and got up
and went out into the other room that was
filled with the east sky and the day replayed
from the windows and roofs of the Village
the room where friends came and we sat talking
and where we ate and lived together while
the blue paint flurried down from the ceiling
and we listened late with lights out to music
hearing the intercom from the hospital
across the avenue through the Mozart
Dr Kaplan wanted on the tenth floor
while reflected lights flowed backward on the walls.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

Sunday, July 10, 2011

It's bwoken (insert sad face)

Dropped my camera yesterday morning as I was preparing
to leave for the weekend. The good news: I can still take pics.
Bad news: can't view them or do anything with the touch screen.
That's ok. It will all work out. I am going to get a new one.
I have consulted Ian, who is one of the best photographers
I know. He just got a new, affordable amazing camera, so I am
going to see what he says (what say thee, Ian?).

Spent Friday night in the ER with Marie. She fell at the nursing
home. Her foot just gave out on her (bones are shot in one of her
feet and it just crumples with no notice). So grateful she did not
break a bone. Bruised face, stitches in the corner of her mouth,
bruised palm. She is an amazing 92 yr old. Still drives. Still lives
in her own home. Cognitively losing ground but still aware of most
things going on. I don't know if Gene will ever get to leave long-term
care, and I fear both of them are giving up. This is hard to watch
and hard to live and hard to not feel sorry for me as the watcher,
the one who can do nothing but wait for phone calls re: falls, meds,
wills. The one who needs to just do what needs to be done (as I do)
and try not to think too much about how difficult it is to watch the
end near. Both could live several more years, but both are getting
tired. I just gotta get some rest and do what I can do to be as
positive as I can be and as helpful and as present. Mostly, as present.

Glorious 4th birthday celebration yesterday with my precocious and
amazing and oh so dear to me grandson. He was really busy so GiGi
took the back seat, but that's ok. He knows I was there. He won't forget.
Or maybe he will, and that will be ok, too. He enjoyed me yesterday.
That's what matters today.

I don't remember being 4. I am not sure why I think of this question
so often: what is your earliest memory, but I do.
And I don't know what it is or why it even matters
but it seems it does for some reason and I can't
let go the wondering.

You know you live in rural western KY when fireworks are still going
off on the 10th (started going off in late June). Redneck haven or heaven,
I suppose. I would go off on a tangent about how someone can afford
these large, expensive fireworks displays but can't afford to pay child support
nor pay the bills but I'll try to refrain.

Thursday, July 07, 2011

On Call

My least favorite night of any week. I pray for it to be a quiet night.
Already been on the road all day. Was my day to check on everyone
in the crisis unit in Hopkinsville. So, I was thinking as I was driving
home of all of the things I needed to do but didn't feel compelled
to do, but I have managed to accomplish the following things since
arriving home at 6: took Molly to the cemetery for a walk, washed a
load of clothes, started the spaghetti sauce, loaded the dishwasher
and started it, washed what would not fit in the dishwasher, moved
around the living room furniture, put clothes in dryer and started
another load, went through the mail, read an article in a magazine,
read a few poems, gave Molly her meds, food and water, pulled
some weeds, took out some recycling. Now to go cook the spaghetti
and start reading something. Reading The Dubliners but not in the mood
tonight for another story in there, so I think I shall start reading
another Denis Johnson novel--Angels. Here's a Johnson poem I like:

The White Fires of Venus
by Denis Johnson


We mourn this senseless planet of regret,
droughts, rust, rain, cadavers
that can't tell us, but I promise
you one day the white fires
of Venus shall rage: the dead,
feeling that power, shall be lifted, and each
of us will have his resurrected one to tell him,
"Greetings. You will recover
or die. The simple cure
for everything is to destroy
all the stethoscopes that will transmit
silence occasionally. The remedy for loneliness
is in learning to admit
solitude as one admits
the bayonet: gracefully,
now that already
it pierces the heart.
Living one: you move among many
dancers and don't know which
you are the shadow of;
you want to kiss your own face in the mirror
but do not approach,
knowing you must not touch one
like that. Living
one, while Venus flares
O set the cereal afire,
O the refrigerator harboring things
that live on into death unchanged."

They know all about us on Andromeda,
they peek at us, they see us
in this world illumined and pasteled
phonily like a bus station,
they are with us when the streets fall down fraught
with laundromats and each of us
closes himself in his small
San Francisco without recourse.
They see you with your face of fingerprints
carrying your instructions in gloved hands
trying to touch things, and know you
for one despairing, trying to touch the curtains,
trying to get your reflection mired in alarm tape
past the window of this then that dark
closed business establishment.
The Andromedans hear your voice like distant amusement park music
converged on by ambulance sirens
and they understand everything.
They're on your side. They forgive you.

I want to turn for a moment to those my heart loves,
who are as diamonds to the Andromedans,
who shimmer for them, lovely and useless, like diamonds:
namely, those who take their meals at soda fountains,
their expressions lodged among the drugs
and sunglasses, each gazing down too long
into the coffee as though from a ruined balcony.
O Andromedans they don't know what to do
with themselves and so they sit there
until they go home where they lie down
until they get up, and you beyond the light years know
that if sleeping is dying, then waking
is birth, and a life
is many lives. I love them because they know how
to manipulate change
in the pockets musically, these whose faces the seasons
never give a kiss, these
who are always courteous to the faces
of presumptions, the presuming streets,
the hotels, the presumption of rain in the streets.
I'm telling you it's cold inside the body that is not the body,
lonesome behind the face
that is certainly not the face
of the person one meant to become.


Wednesday, July 06, 2011







Music, movies, books

Finished reading Lynch on Lynch when Wes was home this past week. He borrowed it from a friend, so I had to finish it while he was home. Interesting look at David Lynch. I would not say I have become a Lynch groupie or anything like that, but his work intrigues me and frightens me and resonates and takes my mind in directions it hasn't been in some time.

Feel so dull most of the time. My work takes a lot out of me. I believe in what I do so will continue. But not much left for anything artistic.

The Song to the Siren was in a Lynch film. Tim Buckley. I listen to Jeff and have for a number of years but do not remember work by his father, Tim. I like The Mortal Coil's version for its surrealistic quality which fits a Lynch film but also fits my mood. Life seems that way so often.

I have been blessed or cursed with the ability to remember most of my dreams. Sometimes I feel that matters. I feel the need to discuss them. Other times I am not sure.

Tonight, Tim Buckley's song has taken me to The Lovely Bones. I read the novel by Alice Sebold and felt its power, its horror, its message. The movie is not disappointing to me, though it is not as good as the novel. It is on now. I have been watching it. I have watched it many times. Relived that pain many times.

Every parent's worst nightmare. That is The Lovely Bones. So why read it? Why feel this way? There is no love like a parent's love. But there is young love. Love which is never allowed to be. The quiet stirrings which are rising to the intensity of a hot summer night filled with the sound of thousands of cicadas. A love which will never be. A person who will never know what it is to be kissed for the first time.

Stanly Tucci is the ultimate creepy 301.7 diagnosis on Axis II killer. Very creepy. Lynch may be weird but his stuff doesn't weird me out like this guy does. Well, yeah, it does. Just in different ways.

Tim Buckley - Song to the Siren

This Mortal Coil - Song To The Siren (loud vers.)