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Monday Miscellany

I'm still here, not doing much, with barely anything to report.

Today it is two weeks before the official construction start date. Next week is moving week, and for now I am still just kind of hanging out between phases of my life, still sorting out what goes where, still packing some things before the movers come, still changing plans, almost daily it seems. I am moving some small things, there are always things that it seems to make sense to move myself, that I don't want to pay someone else to pack, although at the moment I can't say that I honestly don't think it would be easier just to pay someone. I live in and use all three floors of my house, and think nothing of running up and down stairs all day long. But I had forgotten how exhausting it is to carry stuff, 25 to 40 pound loads of stuff, up and down stairs out to my car, up stairs to my apartment, in the heat. No wonder I have little to say.

But here are a few things that have entranced me lately.

1. My small wine rack.

I put this together this morning after hauling the coats, some wine, and a few other kitchen supplies over from the house. It was actually rather gratifying to sit on the cool floor in the empty apartment and bang things together. And I am thrilled to have a coat closet since there has been no place to hang a coat or jacket in this house since I moved in. I still won't have a coat closet when I move back, but I will have a rear entry and space for a coat rack. I jettisoned the coat closet with the extended addition, but that is ok. I am thrilled with what is ahead.

2. Coreopsis.

I picked up the yellow li'l bang coreopsis as a kind of next-best choice. I really wanted a different color, but didn't find it. Now I am happy. I love the way the cheerful yellow flowers play so nicely with the little lime hydrangeas. The south side of the front yard is doing really well considering I just planted it all this year, and we have had some extended dry spells. I've decided I will need a lot more coreopsis next spring.

3. Crape Myrtle.

The crape myrtle on the cool, shady side of the front yard is also doing much better this year after I hacked back a bunch of other trees and shrubs that I really didn't want. I remember talking to my neighbor and he didn't even believe there was a crape myrtle in that thicket. No doubting its presence this year, as the blossoms are quiet evident, although I will have a good bit of weeding out to do again next spring.

4. New Perfume

I treated myself to a decant set of natural perfumes that Duchesse, of the blog passage des perles had recommended and I fell promptly in love with one perfume, Arbolé Arbolé by Hiram Greene. I have been wearing it every day and it just makes me feel grounded and happy. It is sweet without being sugary, at least on me, with hints of patchouli, cedar, and sandalwood, therefore making it somewhat woody and grassy but without the harsh edge of some woodsy fragrances. It also feels a bit spicy, with a little touch of the oriental, but I don't really know if that is an intended part of the perfume, or how I feel wearing it. It reminds me of walking outside at dawn on a summer morning right after a nighttime rainstorm, when one smells the wet, but one also smells the earth, the wood, the perfume of flowers hanging in the air. It is a scent both soft and warm, bruised and also full of hope. I think that is how I feel when I wear Arbolé Arbolé. I feel like I am in a bubble of hopeful equanimity, as if no matter how harsh the storms, how ugly the world, there is still hope that nature and right will win out. For me, for this summer at least, it is the perfect perfume, filled with hope and laughter, calm, and a touch of flirtatiousness, where upsets are melded into new growth, a reminder that as long as there is still beauty and life, there is also still hope.

July 23, 2018
Bookish Meanderings

When you attempt a memoir, I am told, you need to be in an orphan state. So what is missing in you, and the things you have grown cautious and hesitant about, will come almost casually toward you. "A memoir is the last inheritance" you realize, so that during this time you must learn how and where to look. In the resulting self-portrait everything will rhyme, because everything has been reflected. If a gesture was flung away in the past, you now see it in the possession of another. So I believe something in my mother must rhyme in me. She in her small hall of mirrors and I in mine.

Michael Ondaatje, Warlight, page 135.

It is rather odd to be writing a post about a book I read over a month ago, books actually, as more than one book is haunting my memory cache. But there are advantages to distance as well, one being the inability to provide a proper review of the book, as my memory is just not up to the task. Instead what you will get is a mishmash of remembered ideas and themes, almost like fragments of conversations that have haunted my thoughts.

It should not surprise you that I loved Warlight. I love Ondaatje's poetic prose, and the way his books always seem somewhat shrouded and circular, revealing themselves slowly, as though through a mist or a fog. In that sense this novel is typical: the prose is lyrical, the characterizations complex, but like the plot, everything is non-linear and somewhat difficult to suss out. Nothing is easily revealed. But then nothing is easily revealed in life either. We make snap judgements, seek easy answers, but they often lead us down false paths. So too Ondaatje's characters.

Actually Warlight, the title itself, is a foreshadowing and a metaphor for much of what is explored in the novel itself. The term of course refers to the dimmed light from World War II, but it also refers to memory and the way we are shaped by our experiences, but not just our experiences alone, but by the stories we tell ourselves about our experiences. "What I am now was formed by whatever happened to me then, not by what I have achieved, but by how I got here." (p. 274). Nathanial has defined himself as an abandoned child. That it happens to be true, or at least technically partially true, is not the point; the point is how the experience shapes his life, how what he choses to remember, and what he choses to forget, shape the person he becomes.

Warlight is a fascinating novel, and I'm sure I've missed the gist of most of it here, but my in my thoughts certain themes swirl together with other themes and other books. Perhaps these thoughts are complicated because I interrupted Warlight in the middle to read another book, a book that happened to land in my pile from the library at precisely that moment. The second book was The Immortalists by Chloe Benjamin. And here I am, writing about two books that are nothing alike in the same paragraph.

Or are they really all that different after all? Certainly The Immortalists is not as poetic as Warlight. But The Immortalists may appeal to those who want a little more story, a little more action, a little less navel grazing. And yet the stories are related. Both begin in the childhood of their protagonists; in both, a childhood incident becomes a focal point in defining the person each will become. Nathaniel is a man afraid of making connections. In The Immortalists, the bored quest of a summer afternoon seemingly alters the course of lifetimes. Or does it? That is one of the questions asked by this fascinating novel. Four children visit a fortune teller; four children are told the day of their death. Three of them die on their assigned date. But was the date a chain or a key? The children are shaped by their family, by their culture, by so many things, and the fortune-teller is just the pivot point.

Benjamin uses the story as a starting point in an exploration of time, place, culture, families and relationships. And it is a tale simultaneously evocative, endearing, maddening. We move from The Lower East Side of New York in the 70's to San Francisco in the 1980s, to the Hudson Valley and back to California. The youngest, Simon, is the first to die. But was the proffered date a gift or a curse? Even at a tender age he feels different from his family, a child torn between self and environment. Did the fortune-teller see the future, or is she simply intuitive, seeing something of the essential nature of each child and offering them a tool? There are no easy answers here, and the children, as well as their mother, eventually must question their own motives, their strengths and failings, as well as the burdens of love, hope, guilt. Ondaatje and Benjamin are examining similar questions in very different ways, with different, and yet related, revelations to be mined.

All this brings me to yet another novel, Celeste Ng's Little Fires Everywhere. Ng's novel is the easiest read of the novels discussed here, but it is not necessarily lightweight and I think there are depths under its glassy surface. I think it perfectly captured its milieu and its intention. I would even say that the broad characterizations, stereotypes almost, actually served the point rather well here. Ng is weighing the promise of success, the promise of the "ideal" life, of the bubble we have created around aspirational class American life, and finding it somewhat wanting. It is a life of surfaces. This novel is more direct in placing blame, in revealing flaws in the surface.

One of the deepest fault lines in Little Fires Everywhere revolved around Mrs, Richardson (Elena) and her youngest daughter, Izzy. I found the portrayal of this relationship both shocking and also sensitive precisely because of its obliqueness. And it is this relationship exactly that ties this novel to the other two in this post. Nathanial has self-identified as abandoned. The children in the Immortalist both absorb and strike out against the expectations of their parents, parents who are trying to rise above their own stations in the world, with sometimes tragic results. All three novels present the needs of children at odds with their parent's own needs and expectations. And Izzy? Poor Izzy. I felt sorry for Izzy from the very beginning. She is the identified patient of the story, and we initially meet her in absentia, through the eyes of her family and her assigned role in that family. But then, as the novel progresses we see glimpses of the true Izzy, and Ng is clever here, slowly revealing that the stereotypical "bad child" is rarely what she is made out to be. Izzy is the child that never fit her mother's mold, and whom the mother has singled out from the beginning; confrontation becomes her only option.

I have known mothers like Elena Robinson. I know their children. I think Ng successfully tried to portray something that is more common than we would like to believe in a sympathetic way. She did not make Izzy the evil child. She did not even make Elena the evil mom, although it is evident that most of Elena's identity as the warm, loving, caring, generous mom is mostly about her perception of her role than it is about any actual benefit to her children. We see Izzy gaining confidence. We see Elena unraveling. Izzy may have been the match that lit the fires, but the fires were built by Elena. The match did not strike itself. For one brief moment, Mia, the creative mom, and the dangerous interloper, incites the other children to work with Izzy, to act with her rather than against her. We can only hope it is enough. Ng gives subtle hints of the future, but no easy answers here.

Do these books all run together in my mind because they were read in close proximity to each other? Or do they feed some natural bent in my own imagination? It is probably a combination of both, proximity and my own interpretations of experience. But words, like children in a small way, take on lives of their own, form their own relationships with readers. I am interested in how reading changes us, whether or not it affects our own understandings and relationships.

Have you read any of these novels? If so, what thoughts have stuck with you? They do not need to mirror mine. They should not mirror mine. I see only what is reflected in my own mirror, but without other angles, other views from other mirrors, there is no insight, no enlightenment, no growth.

July 11, 2018
The Common Blue-Banded Booby

I believe this was the first time in many years that I did not post on Independence Day. I spent much of the day outside. It was a privilege and a joy, even though I did not spend my time at any Independence Day celebrations. This has not always been the case. In the past few years I have gone to cookouts, spent the day boating with friends, watched the Farragut Independence Day parade, gone downtown for the festivities there, watched fireworks, heard the symphony.

This year I celebrated my independence of choice. I celebrated the privilege to work, to work at projects of my choosing. In fact, the idea of privilege itself was a constant in my thoughts, and will perhaps be overused in this post. I thought about those who came to this country, many fleeing oppression of many kinds, seeking the freedom to choose their own lives, their own paths, their own work, their own religion. This is actually what our Declaration of Independence celebrates, the legacy of choice, the legacy of hard-working souls who insisted on their right to choose their own path.

Actually I wasn't doing anything so lofty. I worked in the yard, despite the fact that it was obnoxiously hot. I did some gardening early, mostly weeding, and then moved on to other projects. Yesterday felt like the first day of summer to me, although it wasn't really, but it felt like a day set aside, a day with no obligations, no interruptions, a day to do as I pleased. And I was pleased to wash and paint outdoor furniture.

This was not the first time I painted the Panton chairs. I refreshed the yellow chairs a few years ago. Apparently the colored chairs wee not meant to hold up outside, although they held up beautifully for years in Hyde Park. In Knoxville, after one year, they were pale faded versions of themselves. I don't know if it is the stronger sun, the longer humid season with its greater mold-producing tendencies, the pollen, or what. I spray painted them my second summer in Knoxville, and kept them in a protected spot afterward. But they went back outside here, at the new house, and were worse for it. They are not good outdoor chairs for Knoxville, and will not remain outdoors for any length of time in the future. But first they needed refurbishing.

I chose a color called lagoon. Four chairs were painted. There are no flat surfaces on a Panton chair, which means that it takes multiple steps to paint them, and it took much of the day, although there were periods of painting, and periods of waiting. I had lofty ambitions of cleaning the garage during the waiting periods, but it soon grew too steamy. I needed to run a couple of errands, and while I was out I decided to paint a table as well, a fairly modern black steel table that was looking worse for wear and was destined for the donation pile. I spent the remainder of the day washing and painting outdoor furniture, working in the garden and garage, and coming inside to work when I would get overheated, which was frequently during the middle of the afternoon.

As the afternoon waned, and I was out until nearly 9 before everything was finished, I would listen to various bursts of fireworks around me. I've not lived anywhere where so many fireworks went off, not at least in my adult life, although I remember going out to the lake or the countryside to set off fireworks with my parents when I was a child. I don't recall setting off fireworks at home, but I don't know if fireworks were allowed in city limits or not. In Hyde Park we could occasionally sit on our deck and watch the display from a nearby town, but often we went down to Poughkeepsie to see the fireworks display first-hand. Although I love professional fireworks displays, I have no interest in setting them off myself. In fact I love parades and fireworks, but somehow this year did not feel like going by myself, despite the fact that I knew I would see people I knew. I always see people I know. Not family however, I am the only one among my remaining local family who enjoy an occasional pyrotechnic display.

This year my intent had been to work and then go downtown, but I quickly realized that to leave would mean the work would be unfinished, and I chose to finish. I was content with my choice, reminded to once again to thank my own privilege, the privilege to choose to work, but also the privilege of keeping a cool house, the privilege to go inside whenever I felt overheated. These are luxuries not to be taken lightly. As I put the last piece of furniture in place, I saw the flash of some neighborhood fireworks through the trees, and I thought about what a happy fourth it had been. But I also thought about fireworks and parades and barbecues, and the many ways we celebrate the fourth of July, and that the very ability to do these things is a privilege, a privilege earned for us by our forebears, who were all immigrants to this place.

I am happy with the results of my labors. Two chairs remain outside, for now, but I will keep them here only a few days. The chairs will move with me to my apartment during construction. I'm not sure about the blue table yet. It is an inexpensive thing, the finish is peeling and flaking off the bottom, but it can go in the garage during construction, delaying the decision until next spring.

The table turned out well and I am newly entranced. It seems I am always drawn to color. I still don't know where it will go once the new deck is finished, as I want a larger table, but I love this light green. The pale blue chairs are not mine, we gave them to my step-daughter's family when we moved here, six years ago. It is hard to believe it has been so long. But they do look pretty with the table.

The other two Panton chairs are inside, in the morning room, with the twin to the now-green table. I did not paint this one as it always has a cloth. This table, and all four chairs will move to my apartment, as the dining space is not large enough for my dining table, even without the leaves. Looking at this photo, I see that the curtain needs to come down now, at least if I am going to leave the table in the corner, even temporarily. The curtains will come down anyway as I will be moving in less than a month.

But what about the "blue-banded booby"? I am the booby. Well, I actually believe we are all boobys at times, and in this instance I am not referring to the bird, but the other meaning of the word, although I am saying it with love and humor. Actually bobby's were so named because the sailors who named thought they were stupid. They weren't of course, perhaps unexperienced with humans, but they learned. I think that is something to remember, that we often make judgements based on incomplete information, that one seems stupid in one context may, in fact, not be stupid at all in another, and that we all, at some point make mistakes. Mistakes are actually what makes us human. Mistakes are probably the secret of our success, and the source of our greatest discoveries. We are all boobies and we should not take ourselves too seriously. It seems that much of the wisdom of age seems to revolve around holding things lightly, even mistakes.

I am the blue-banded booby. It was a very calm day, but at one point in the evening a breeze came up, and a few specks of dust got stuck in my wet paint. I can live with that. But I apparently did not realize that I was, at one point, downwind of the spray paint. It was late; I was tired; mistakes happen. Unfortunately, by the time I realized what had happened, the paint was sufficiently dry that it did not come off easily. I shall consider it a badge of honor, honoring my humanity, and a birthday gift to myself, although only a temporary one. Within a few days all remnants of blue shall be gone and only the memory will remain — memory and perhaps a gentle smile.

July 5, 2018
Let the rain wash me clean

Last night I ate an early dinner at my desk, pardon the less than glamorous photo.

I had a few leftover bits that were combined to make enough soup for two. I had two cups of vegetarian vegetable stock left over from a soup I took to a family from my church, a couple of cups of shredded cabbage, a bit of onion, the last of a batch of carnitas. Combined they yielded something greater than the sum of its parts, and I was amazed at how the rich sweetness of the vegetable stock enhanced the cabbage and pork, adding a dimension that I would not have achieved with my normal default of either chicken stock, or what I call Stage 3 (chicken, beef, pork). I had enough soup for dinner, and again for lunch today.

As I sit at my desk this afternoon, watching the rain through the window, thinking about the upcoming renovation project, thinking about sorting and storage and decisions about temporary housing and what will go where, my thoughts skitter about. Last night, as I sat at this same desk, I was thinking I did not want to go out in the rain, even though I had been looking forward to the Pride Mass that was being held at Messiah Lutheran Church. The rain slowed. I did go out. The issue was never really about the rain.

Once upon a time I would have scoffed at people who did not go out in the rain, and yet there I was. Admittedly my reluctance was more about walking from my house to my garage than it was to driving in the rain, or even about walking from the car into church building. What was with that? I wasn't worried about being in the rain. Perhaps I just wanted to stay safe in my little cocoon. Perhaps that is what this is all about. I've lived here a year, the detached garage has not really been a problem. Perhaps I am just pulling inward a little, holding back, tentatively slipping a new period of liminality, but I'm not sure even of that.

You know what? It is ok to be uncertain. Certainty is highly overrated. I suspect it only leads to trouble.

So, when I bought this house I knew it would need some renovations. In my head, I had a three-stage plan. Stage 1 included the laundry room in the basement and was completed before I moved it. Then, not at all surprisingly, things proved to be not as simple as hoped and my plans got turned upside down. At one point I grew frustrated with architects and decided I would do nothing. I'd buy a new stove and a refrigerator, I'd buy a small rancher somewhere nearby, and I would separate my living space and my working space, my house and my studio. It would cost less, be less of a headache, and I could just move on with life.

Somehow, it didn't turn out that way. Once I freed myself from expectation, I was free to insist on vision. I was ready to dream again, knowing full well I could back out at any moment, and I was ready to move ahead on my own terms. But two stages got merged into one. We were going to bump out the kitchen, redo the bathrooms, get a master closet, and rebuild the garage with a studio above it and a lovely connector from the main house to the new garage/studio. I loved the plan, loved the vision, it was everything I wanted. Until it came time to make it a reality.

What actually happened is that I realized it was too ambitious a project for me, for me alone. Oh I know I'm not the architect or the builder, but I still have to imagine the space, to live in the space and I am a person who can only focus on so much at a time. Houses, spaces, these are like relationships to me, they need to grow slowly, to evolve, as I and the relationships of my life evolve. I am not a person who can "do" a house or even a room. Heck, I can't even buy, or make, or plan on more than about 3 items of clothing at a time. I don't know if it is that my imagination is not broad enough, or that I focus too closely on each bit, that I need to absorb it into my life before I can open up to something else. I know, and it has taken me a lifetime to learn this, that if I do too much, I make mistakes. I realized that although I loved the plan in the abstract, my mind had hit a wall. I could only image the new house up to one point, and the garage studio and the connector were beyond my ken. I felt like I was putting the cart before the horse.

It is still a big job. But I will have the kitchen I want. The house will be as beautiful as I imagined it, although perhaps not exactly as I originally imagined it. That is good. Life evolves. The garage remains a separate entity. Now that I have accepted that. I am perfectly happy going out in the rain or the snow. And I can still have a stage 3 someday; I probably will have a stage 3 someday, when I am ready. Now I am actually looking forward to that potential of another stage, another project, another upset. But at least I won't have to move out for that stage.

No I don't really like change. No I don't really want to move yet again. But if I don't go, if I don't take the chance, those dreams will die, and what is the point of that? If I am afraid to follow my dreams, then I am afraid to honor myself. How can I live that way? And if I can't love my own dreams and fight for them, how can I love others and fight for them. Perhaps I'm ready to slip into that doorway after all.

Don't ask me how this all fits together, that is way beyond my ken.

Yes, I went to the Pride Mass. It was beautiful and filled with warmth and love. If we can't love where are we? And that made me think that love and change go hand in hand. It made me think about how love fights to banish fear. I heard it last night — God did not give us fear. God gave us love. – And I know that certainty, that holding on to something because it is familiar, is simply fear in disguise. As Frank Herbert wrote in Dune "Fear is the mind-killer". I wish that the rain could wash away all our fears.

So let the thunder roll. Let the rain fall and the bare ground go to mud. And lthen let the new seeds sprout and the world become new.

June 27, 2018
Scattershot

I accidentally took a blog break without intending to do so. I thought I had something to write about, but then I didn't write. I thought I had a cold, but it ends up it was just the over-blown residual of a massive sinus infection. That is on the mend now.

The truth is that I've struggled, bouncing back and forth between having things I want to say and then finding myself unable to say anything. When I am overwhelmed and busy I feel like I have a lot to say, and then when things grow quiet again, my thoughts also start to creak along and I bore even myself. At such times I can't bear to even put up another version of the same old garden photos that you've probably already seen a dozen times before.

This summer is going to be hectic, at least for the next six to eight weeks, and I may be frazzled at times. I thought of taking a hiatus from the blog for that period, but am not convinced that doing so sounds like a good idea. Instead I am simply releasing myself from the self-imposed obligation to blog, or maybe I'm releasing myself from the obligation to be anything. I'lll just throw what ever I feel like out here and I'll see what happens. I feel like my life is coming together in some new way, and yet I also at times feel directionless, as if I am sloughing off a bunch of old skin and I'm not yet sure what the new skin will look like. In that sense, I guess I am giving myself permission to be absent when I need to be absent, present when I need to be present, and to embrace mess.

I can reevaluate in late August or early September and see where I am, although I can't really imagine giving up this blog altogether. I've been blogging for thirteen years, and the format and this public/semi-public/journal format adds something to my life that I am not sure I want to relinquish, but I also think I'm probably overdue for a rethink.

In the meantime, numerous projects gather steam. I picked the tiles for the guest bathroom, although I don't yet know when we are starting or what exactly happens next. I know something will happen. That is probably enough. Thank you for your patience.

June 16, 2018
King Of All He Surveys

Moises is two for two this week.

First he chased the big mean deer out of the yard:

I saw the two young deer in my yard early Sunday morning. Apologies to those of you who saw the photo on Instagram. I watched them a few moments and, as the front deer wandered a little too far forward for me to capture with my camera, I saw him freeze in a position of guarded wariness. It took me a moment to find the cause of his distress, but then I saw Moises, crouched in stalking position probably about 15 feet ahead of the deer.

I watched a moment and returned to my desk and my journaling only to notice a few minutes later, about 6 minutes, when I consulted my watch that although one young deer had happily retreated to the back of the lawn to munch on some tender leaves, the first deer was still standing, frozen, in more of less the same position. I rose to watch. The deer would throw his ears back, stamp his feet, and then freeze again, alert and nervous. Moises had crept a bit forward but was still out of range of stamping feet. At the stamping he would freeze, then arch his back, then slink down into hunt position, occasionally slinking forward, on the alert, on the prowl. This continued for several more minutes, I reckon about 10 overall. I was surprised it went on so long, but Moises has always been the most focused cat I have ever owned, at least when it comes to the hunt.

Eventually the other deer, the one happily enjoying a bit of breakfast, became startled and went crashing through the woods, distracting Moises' opponent, who leapt in the air and followed his companion down the hill. Moises relaxed, rose, and sauntered, cockily, back to the front of the house.

Second:

On Monday Moises had another small adventure. He was sunning himself on the front step in the mid afternoon heat, when he saw a couple of young political campaign volunteers canvasing the neighborhood. Seeing the enemy advancing on the front line, Moises assumed a stealth position beneath a hydrangea outside the font door. The young man came up the steps and knocked on the door. Moises, probably seeing me come down the stairs, came up behind the planter on the porch and leapt up into the fern, in what is usually his entrance position, thereby startling the young man. As I opened the door, the young man was fleeing down the steps. Seeing that the gray blur that rustled the plants was merely a cat, we had a good laugh and he continued on his way. The enemy having been vanquished, Moises calmly reclaimed his position in the sun — the master surveying his kingdom.

June 5, 2018
Saturday afternoon

Everything is dry and I am putting the house back to rights today. The shelf on the basement may still get wet or damp, at least until the gutter people get back here to fix the issue, but I am not worried. I am extremely fortunate. There was little actual damage, mostly just annoyance, and I can accept that other jobs have higher priority.

Of course, being me, I cannot simply put everything back where it belongs without also taking the opportunity to sort through things, eliminating the unnecessary, and perhaps noting any lacks that need to be filled. Winnowing, curating, refining, organizing — these seem to be lifelong habits. I suspect the job will take me the bulk of the weekend.

The yard also needs some curating and eliminating of weeds, but my patience with internal chaos has reached the tipping point, and the flowers are enough to distract me in the yard. For now.

Have a lovely weekend, and whatever you are doing, please take time to enjoy any small outcroppings of beauty as you find them.

June 2, 2018
Fiction Month

I mostly read fiction in May and doing so made me very happy.

I did read two nonfiction books. One was wonderful, and will be saved to be read again and again, the other, for me at least, is best forgotten. The good book? That would be The Dream of God by Verna Dozier. The subject is theological, basically working from Dozier's premise that institutional Christianity has emphasized worshiping Jesus rather than following Jesus. It is a short book, and it is not difficult reading in the sense that is not particularly academic, but it is difficult because it is thought-provoking, because the author addresses difficult questions, questions that are worth exploring, not just in terms of institutional life but in terms of individual life and action. She explores the problems we have as humans, as creatures who live communally and need structure, but also as creatures with souls, as people of faith, and I personally don't care what your faith is. She asks us what it means to be a person of faith, what it means to be a person of belief and to live that belief, to live the truth of one's soul, as opposed to building a structure and letting the structure define the life rather than aide it.

But I am still feeling a little tired and overwhelmed and I can't really begin to discuss Verna Dozier with any confidence. I can say, however, that I did not like David Yaffe's Reckless Daughter. Actually the book was fine. Yaffe is a good writer, and I think he sees himself as a Mitchell fan-boy, but the book comes across inconsistently, as if the author is struggling with his own lilac-hued view of his subject. I can admit that I read the book because I like Joni Mitchell's music, and that I believe she probably is brilliant. I can admit that I have no problem with the idea that people who are brilliant or geniuses are often very imperfect in other ways, and may in fact even be unlikeable. None of us is perfect after all. And, although it may not be true, I am willing to grant leeway to people of great brilliance, as if the excessive light takes its toll in other ways, leaving great failings. That does not, to me at least, make the genius of the work less amazing, merely human. Having said all that, I still struggled with this book. It wasn't the tell-all information about Joni Mitchell, the fact that she comes across as incredibly self-absorbed, arrogant, fragile, self-righteous and incredibly twee, that bothered me. I would expect that all that informed her genius, her ability to put emotion into songs. What bothered me was that somehow I didn't feel drawn into understanding the subject any better as a human, I merely grew increasingly annoyed with the author and the book itself. Just me, but it was not my book.

Fiction:

Ali Smith, Winter. A favorite. In case you missed it, I wrote about it here.

Ali Smith, Autumn. Reread after reading Winter. Mentioned in the link above, and here as well, although I didn't write much about this book the first time around.

Alice Munro, Too Much Happiness and Dear Life. I am not, by nature, really a short-story reader. I tend to prefer to lose myself in long novels. Short-stories always seem exactly that, too short. These stories were brilliant however, and the author captures some essential aspect of each character in each story. Together they reveal a lot about human nature, and I am glad I read them. I remain unconverted to the form.

Salman Rushdie, Grimus. Rushdie's first novel is rather fantastical, a jumble of science fiction, folk-tales, and fantasy, and I can see that it would not appeal to everyone. It is ambitious. Based on a Sufi poem, the novel explores what it means to be human and how we seek to find or reconcile our desires with our search for identity and meaning in life. I think at times the story gets overwhelmed. Rushdie manages his stories more smoothly in later novels, but I loved Grimus anyway, not perhaps despite its flaws, but because of its flaws. Perhaps because it is so abstract in a way, metaphorical and difficult, I am drawn into the story as if into its own space, another world, but one that reflects, although only partially, our own struggles in this one.

Xhenet Aliu, Brass. Really this was an incredibly good novel. It is not the kind of thing I am normally drawn to, and yet I am very happy I read it. Aiiu tells the story of two women, mother and daughter, in alternating voices, and she pulls this off beautifully. Elsie's story is told in first person. Her daughter's story is told in second person, a voice I often find incredibly difficult to be drawn into, but it fits here. Luljeta, is still young, is struggling with her own life, with the tremendous chip she carries on her shoulder, and the second person voice fits with her personality and personal struggles. Elsie and Luljeta are very different people as young girls and the voices fit them and reveal them each in their own way. This is one of the strengths of the book, and the way that Aliu can tell a story that draws the reader into those small, sometimes dark places, that haunt people, even good people, or perhaps especially good people, and threaten to pull them down. But the voices are also interesting, as each story takes place at a certain turning point in the teenage life of each character. In that sense, one might think that Luljeta's voice, being the more recent, would be the first-person voice, and Elsie, looking back on her life, would be telling the story in second person. But that is not what Aliu is doing here, and by telling Elsie's story in the present-tense voice of her youth, she effectively sets a stage, and renders the story with a depth and poignancy that echoes through both lives. Highly recommended.

May 31, 2018
Self Sufficiency

There are days when being an independent self-sufficient adult is really annoying, days when you just want to roll over and say "Go away world."

(dried fruit for mostarda)

Monday was one of those days although the weekend had started off really well.

I had decided to do some cooking, and although I often make simple meals for myself during the week, I find cooking for one to be far more tedious than I found cooking for two. I love it when I have an excuse to spend a day or two in the kitchen, and this weekend was one such occasion. I needed to make vegetarian chili (yay! feeding people!) , and since I was in the kitchen anyway, I decided to work on several things: a few pantry staples and a few more time-consuming things for myself.

Friday and Saturday were shopping days. Saturday morning is farmer's market time anyway, and what I see in the stands tends to inspire and inform a lot of what happens in the kitchen. Saturday night, inspired to clean out the freezer, I started a batch of chicken stock in the slow cooker and shredded up some leftover cooked chicken to make a Burmese dish, Kyethar Ngayakethee Kyaw, or shredded crispy chicken.

chili paste, frozen in 2 tablespoon portions

I had several projects in mind for Sunday: I toasted whole chiles, simmered them briefly, and left them to soak while I went to church. When I returned home I made chili paste, reserving some for the vegetarian chili and freezing the remainder in 2 tablespoon portions. Then I started on a Mostarda. I had a pile of dried fruit left over from earlier in the month, so I cut that up and simmered it in sweet vermouth, which may not be traditional but was already in the pantry, while I cut up the fresh fruit. After that was out of the way, I started the vegetarian chili, and once everything was in the pot, I boned out a lovely pork shoulder I had found at the farmer's market, salting the meat and putting it in the refrigerator overnight, with the intention of making carnitas on Monday.

Monday's plan was to deliver the chili (I had my share for breakfast with an egg), make the carnitas, make a simple ground beef chili, for those days I was too rushed or tired to cook, and to make a chilled cucumber soup. Hopefully I would also take a bicycle ride.

But then everything fell apart.

It poured Sunday night. I didn't think much about it except that Tikka refused to go outside. I continued working in the kitchen, finding the sound of the rain outside the windows soothing somehow. It proved to be a false sense of peace. I strained the chicken stock and put it in the refrigerator so I could let it sit overnight before removing the fat and packaging it for the freezer, then I went upstairs, thinking I had time to read before bed. I saw a puddle in the doorway to the bedroom, and initially I was annoyed with Tikka, who had refused to go out in the rain. I quickly realized that the puddle extended around half of my bedroom and was far too big for Tikka to have made it. I ran downstairs to the laundry room for extra towels. While I was downstairs I looked in the unfinished half of the basement, where a flooding problem arose over the winter, and which the contractor has not yet come back to fix. Admittedly this is at least partially because we were unsure of the cause, and since there has been little rain, I have had no reason to push. That scenario has now changed.

I had more water in the basement than I have had before, although the there was very little water in the laundry room itself. At least one leak had been fixed. Back upstairs. After soaking 10 towels and hauling them back down to the laundry, I noticed that there was water at the bedroom windowsill, but it didn't look soaked. My bedroom floor was soaked however, including the carpet and the pad. I hauled a drying rack upstairs to get the curtains off the floor so they could dry, and went back downstairs, where I saw that I also had a flood in the dining room. Luckily there is no carpet there yet, and the floor is polyurethaned. I took towels from the dryer, mopping up that water, put the second load of towels in the dryer, and the third load in the wash. Then I looked around at the basement walls.

The basement is below grade and I noticed that in both rooms, the finished laundry rooms and the unfinished area, the water was not coming in at the windows. They were perfectly dry. It seemed like it was seeping through the cinder block. I had an awful lot of water, but it was contained on a painted cinder block shelf that circumnavigates the perimeter. There was nothing more that could be done right then and I was about to collapse with exhaustion, so I went to bed. It was 2 AM.

Monday morning I awoke at my normal time, still exhausted, and would have much rather stayed in bed, but I couldn't. I realized that although I had mopped up as much water as I could the night before, the floors still felt wet, and the carpet was sodden around the fringes of nearly half the room. It is my house, my choice, and there is no one to fix things except me.

The upstairs floors have not yet been refinished, and the old wood felt like it had just absorbed some of the water. I packed up my sewing project so I could use the cutting table for clothes storage, emptied my dresser, stacking everything on the cuttiing table, and tried to move the dresser out of the corner. It is an incredibly heavy piece, but it was holding the carpet down and the area all around it was heavy with water. I was struggling to get enough purchase to get sliding disks under the legs so I could move it, but it was too close to the corner, the carpet was thick and swollen, and I didn't seem to have the strength. Just as I was about to give up, just as I called a friend to come help me move the dresser, I figured out how to do it, and I got the dresser across the room. I was inordinately proud of myself. It didn't look like there was any water on the bottom of the dresser itself, or underneath it, the water had just spread through the rug with capillary action. I hadn't thought of it previously, but of course a wool rug will hold a tremendous amount of water.

After turning back all the carpets, I went to Target to buy oscillating fans. And then the next stage of my adventure occurred. I was on the road, heading home, when I heard "thwack, thwack, crash, bang, rumble bumble, thud thud and my windshield wiper went flying across the road and hit a car going the opposite direction. Bye-bye windshield wiper. It was raining again, and of course, the flying wiper was from the driver's side of the car.

I assembled three fans and set them up in the bedroom to help dry out the carpet and floor. I also turned the A/C down to 65 upstairs, mostly because I thought the extra air flow could help, and because I wanted to discourage any mold or mildew growth. Tikka seems to think I've made this special place just for her. You can't tell in the picture above, but she is in the sweet spot between two oscillating fans. She looks like she is in pomsky heaven, in a cold room with cold air blowing on her.

Then I went downstairs to start moving stuff and mopping up water from the basement. Or at least that was my intention. When I got to the dryer I saw a snake in the corner. Not a big snake, just a rat snake, but not a tiny snake either, about 1 1/2 times the length of my foot. My foot is 10 inches long, in shoes. Back upstairs, out to the garage for a hoe and perhaps a pitchfork. I didn't want to hurt the snake, but I did want to get him out of the corner and out of the house, and I didn't want to be all that friendly. I'm really not frightened of snakes, but still, sometimes I do have to battle my own princess instincts. Perhaps I was just really tired. None of this is tragic stuff, just annoying. Seeing no prince on the horizon, I coaxed the snake onto my fork and happily settled him outside.

A daylily that decided to bloom on Monday. I don't remember its name.

By that time the rain appeared to have stopped and I needed to deliver the chili. While I drove it started to drizzle again, but luckily my drive was short, only 3 miles or so. I had to stop every couple of blocks to get out and wipe my windshield so I could see, but the rain finally did stop on my way back home, at least temporarily. I am now carless, at least as long as it rains, at least until I can safely get to a shop and get a new windshield wiper.

I tried to take a nap, but couldn't settle down. It made more sense to do something, so I packaged chicken stock and took it to the freezer, then drained the liquid from the fruit, boiled it down to a syrup and returned it to the bowl to macerate for another 24 hours. I went upstairs, but couldn't read. I puttered at my desk, and as I looked up and out, through the condensation filled panes (remember the upstairs is cold) I was somehow captured by the magic of that contrast. The silvery panes of condensation looked like little doorways, some promised reward hidden behind each one. I noticed in the perimeters that the rain had stopped and the sky was beginning to clear. I realized that this is just a hiccup.

I think I know what the problem was. It was just a conflagration of events. We had over 2 inches of rain in a couple of hours, at least according to my trusty 5-inch rain gauge. I think the gutter on that side of the house was overwhelmed. There is obviously a drainage issue, and it may well be underground. I do have the gutters cleaned regularly, but there is a problem in that area of the yard, probably with the buried portion of the drainpipe. The basement walls in that area were wet. Everything that touched them was wet. The rooms are all stacked in a line above that area of wet walls and sodden soil, of a drain pipe that perhaps doesn't drain properly and may well back up. I don't know if something went wrong the last time the gutters were cleaned and cleared, or if there was something happening that just finally gave way recently. I suspect the latter, I suspect there was an issue there before I bought the house, but it was more minor. It is no longer minor. And yet understanding a problem, even just the beginnings of understanding, as I may be wrong, offers hope. With hope comes determination, and with determination a renewal of resolve and energy.

Refreshed and energized, I started cooking the carnitas. I hauled stuff around the basement yet again. I sopped up water and washed towels and sopped up more water. I assembled the last fan and started it running in the basement. I didn't put away my clean clothes. I have no place to put them. I am tired of stuff piled up everywhere. I want to put stuff away and have it stay there. I want everything to work the way I want it to work. But don't we all?

This too will pass. Such a cliché, such yet such truth. Would life be happier and more rewarding if nothing ever went wrong? Well, I'd certainly like to imagine it, but I suspect not. I'd grow bored, complacent even; unhappiness would creep in anyway. Happiness grows out of meaningful work, out of connection to others and to the physicalness of life itself. What if life is really like those little fogged-over panes of glass? What if what we think is reality is really just obscured, a story we tell ourselves in order to survive, and the truth is around the edges, mostly unnoticed. What if we only see when we are outside of ourselves, outside of our routines, outside of our perfect little rituals and habits?

I would, however, like to sleep tomorrow.

May 29, 2018
Traversing the Slough

I spent a bit of time in the slough of despond this week. In many ways there was no reason for it, I was coming off a fabulous weekend, although perhaps an excess of happiness and the remnant trails of exhaustion exacerbated my state. Who really knows, I am not here to explore the roads to the slough, or even the process of extraction, although I am on the other side. I am simply admitting that sometimes life grows difficult, our hearts and feet heavy and we trudge onward, hoping not to be pulled down into our own darker thoughts.

As stated above, it had been a fabulous weekend. Friday night I went to the symphony, the last concert of the season, and a lovely concert it was. I went despite the fact that I was exhausted. I went despite the fact that the program's theme was Rhapsody in Blue, a piece of music I have never really liked although I have admittedly never really spent time sussing out what it is about the piece that I don't like. I didn't like it when my piano teacher insisted I play it, even though I tend to like the piano composition far more than the orchestration. It all seems jangly and jumpy and although I know that is the jazz influence, I'd often rather just hear jazz.

But I went to the concert to hear the second half, Aaron Copeland's Symphony #3, "Quiet City", a beloved work, despite its inconsistencies. This is, in a way, and odd statement to make because I didn't even stay for the second half. I was so tired that I feared my ability to drive safely home, and although I could have ubered home and come back in the morning for my car, I probably would have slept through the Copeland anyway, no matter how beautifully performed. Surprisingly, I Ioved the Gershwin. Pianist Michelle Cann's performance was brilliantly exuberant, with a controlled rhythm and an elegance that I don't often hear in that piece. Still the rhythm was there and it made me want to dance. In fact the entire piece, piano and orchestra was alive, except instead of all jangly and jumpy it felt more to me like silk and chiffon moving and swirling in the winds of the music. Perhaps this interpretation of the Gershwin was shaped by the Florence Price work played earlier in the concert Concerto in One Movement for Piano and Orchestra, which I admittedly knew nothing about but which seemed to be a rather gracious melding of old-world European traditions with the roots of ragtime.

Saturday was puttering day, and catch-up on sleep day, which is why there was no blog post. I had been sleeping badly for a week, for no discernible reason. Mentally and emotionally I did not feel stressed, but my body did; perhaps this too was a precursor to this weeks trudge through the tar-like slough, some previously hidden imp of a thought working its way out of my psyche. Perhaps my body occasionally tells tries to clue me in to things my mind is refusing to acknowledge. But Saturday was mostly a grocery shopping and cooking day. I was cooking both for myself and for another family, which offered a double joy in a way, as I got to play in the kitchen and feed people, two activities that are always dear to my heart. At the end of the day I was tired, happy-tired, but tired nonetheless.

Sunday I went on a bike ride with a friend. It was my first excursion outside my immediate neighborhood, my first ride of over 2 miles, and I was a bit nervous to start, still wobbly, still occasionally getting my gear-shifts confused, but excited as well. We met at the EarthFare parking lot and rode to the UT Gardens and back, a ride that was, to my best guess, nearly 7 miles round trip. It is a good beginner trail and not nearly as hilly as my neighborhood, which was helpful. It was perhaps a mile too far, as I was struggling to get myself up that last slight hill returning to my car, but I made it, and it was my own fault anyway as I was the one who insisted I could make it to the gardens. and back. I've always had a tendency to overdo.

Sunday afternoon I made chocolate bark, and toasted and soaked Mexican Chiles to make a couple of kinds of Chile paste just to restock my pantry and for some upcoming menus. Then had a lovely dinner with friends. My Vitamix crashed on Sunday, well the canister did, and a replacement canister is on the way. Monday I crashed. No replacement self alas, but although perhaps more volatile, I am less brittle than plastic, and can be restored.

Wisely I didn't stop doing things during the week. Although my accomplishments slowed considerably. I am working on yet another round of sorting and putting away. I walked but I did not ride the bike, which may have been a mistake, as the feel of the air against my skin might have perked me up considerably. There were days when Tikka, reading my reluctant mood, did manage to convince me not to walk, whereas usually I drag her along, or she drags me along, and we support each other. Perhaps we were both simply experiencing an early summer miasma.

And here we are again, another weekend. It is an active weekend, but perhaps with a better balance between my social and solitary selves. This may be a good thing. It is human to want to find reasons, preferably problems we can fix, but I am not sure that is the answer. There are always hills. There is always mud. Perhaps, because I was tired, certain barriers were down and I was more open to vulnerability. But relationships also require a willingness to enter into vulnerability on occasion, even if that means occasionally traipsing through the mud. The trick seems to be in both allowing oneself to wallow when needed, but also being willing and able to both enter, and to see oneself to the other side.

Have a wonderful weekend.

May 26, 2018