e.e.

 

(clicking imbiggens)

I apologize for not knowing the source for this.  It's from a xerox I found tucked inside a book of poetry, and the original source has been lost.

But it's very useful, and helped me understand Cummings' poetry.

Wish You Were Here

 

My little brother died last November.

I always assumed someone would tell me, that there would be some effort to contact the next of kin. But there wasn't.

Mona searched the web for his address, and instead found his obituary.

In truth, I had lost him years earlier to mental illness and drug addiction.

When he was younger he was an extremely talented artist, with showings in many local galleries in San Francisco. When he grew older he became delusional and prone to violent outbursts.

He knew our soft spots and would use them to manipulate us for money. He would call my parents and say that a loan shark was after him and would hurt him if he didn't come up with $300. Then he would call me and say he had an abscessed tooth and was in horrible pain, and he needed $300 to see the dentist.

Eventually we noticed the scripts never varied.

He could be peaceful and loving, but when his demons hit him he could also be dangerously violent. He was kicked out of several apartments and half-way houses for assaulting the staff.

One time he showed up at my parent's house and didn't want to leave. I bought him a plane ticket and drove him to the airport, but until the plane actually took off I had no idea if he was going to get on or insist on staying. I don't know what we would have done.

The last time I spoke with him he told me everything I wanted to hear: he was about to start a new job, he was trying to reconnect with his family, he might sign up for a class at the community college.

Then he told me in detail about the talking snake that lived under his sink, how it had bitten him and now he glowed and could see things other people couldn't.

It wasn't a huge shock when I learned of his death. Somehow I knew that he would not live to be an old man.

But it hurt more than I thought it would.

I think what I'm really mourning is the hope that things would someday get better.

When an indigent person dies in San Francisco they are cremated, and their ashes are scattered in the Pacific Ocean. This is supposed to be a process that lasts several months, to give the family time to claim the remains. In practice, it happens almost immediately.  By the time we knew, it was too late.

I'm okay with that.

A human body is mostly water, and when cremated the water is released into the clouds. John rained down over the land and seas, and now he's part of the grass, the trees, the flowers; the butterflies and birds and fishes. He's everywhere, in everything.

But I wish he were here.

This'll heal ya

Bookshelf

 

(clicking imbiggens)

My bookshelf.

The top shelf is all my identification books. I use to throw them into a rucksack and head off into the woods with some empty jars, a magnifying glass, and a pair of binoculars, just to see what I could find.

I should start doing that again.

The second shelf is my favorite authors, Kurt Vonnegut and Richard Brautigan, and some cherished religious books. Wavy Gravy's autobiography is in there, too; it's autographed.

If you've never read The Bhagavad Gita, start with Ranchor Prime's translation. He breaks the book down story by story rather than line by line, and it's much more understandable that way.

There are little things on the shelves. A fortune-cookie fortune that says, "Look around: happiness is trying to catch you." Some love notes from Mona. A little picture of Solanus Casey. A wooden cat my aunt gave me.

The photograph was taken in New York in front of a toy store at Christmas. Mona was ill and very anemic at the time, but insisted she wanted to go, so I got her there. I stepped in front of the store so she could take a picture, unaware of the costumed people, and they jumped in at the last minute. It caught me completely by surprise and took me out of fears and into the moment. It was the happiest moment of the trip for me.

Mona is fine now, by the way, but I didn't expect that at the time.

Anyway, I like looking at other people's bookshelves, and wanted to share a part of mine.

Belafonte

My Mom was a huge Harry Belafonte fan, and his passing has me thinking of her.

She was very nearly expelled from college when she sneaked out of her dorm room to attend one of his concerts.  (It was a different world in 1954.)  But she learned her lesson- and the next time, she didn't get caught.  😉

When I was little I used to make her laugh by unbuttoning my shirt all the way down to my belly button and saying "Look Mom!  I'm Harry Belafonte!"

She had (and now I have) all of his albums.  They're not valuable.  They've been played so often they're riddled with scratches and pops.  But that's the fate of all great albums.

I liked having him here on earth with us.  It was a small connection to my Mom, and I'm going to miss that.

He had a great run.  I don't think he left anything undone, and left behing a legacy of music, love, and kindness.

I'm going to miss him.

"If we don’t stand in the way, we may as well be joining the attack.”  ~Machaela Cavanaugh (source)

 

A defect in our system of government has given a minority of voters a majority of power, and they're using it to strip women of their civil rights, shove gays back into the closet, and push Blacks to the back of the bus.

It makes them feel powerful, which for some reason is absurdly important to them, but it's a horrifyingly bad idea-- and not just for the obvious moral reason.

America is a multicultural, multiracial, multilingual conglomerate, and that's not going to change.

We either find a way to get along, or we disintegrate into smaller and smaller factions, each armed to the teeth with rifles and righteous indignation.

Blasting beer cans (an effigy for gay people) with assault rifles is a first step towards a bad end.

We should turn around.

Song on the Radio

 

The song opens with a very 70s saxophone wail, and Al Stewart has a somewhat stilted vocal style-- it almost feels like he's reading you a song rather than singing it.

But the words are pure poetry:

    I remember the first time I saw you
    Alone in the dark with a drink
    With a candle flame burning before you
    And your thoughts closed in
    You were staring out into the distance
    Not seeming to hear what I said
    Why did you put up such resistance
    Like all the lights are red…

Full lyrics HERE. 

And there is a nice interview with him online HERE.

Whirls and Whorls

 

They are trimming trees where my father lives, and I found this chunk of wood I thought was pretty.

The Sound of Travel

 

Here's a scene:

You're in the backseat laying down, the windows wrap around
To the sound of the travel and the engine
All you hear is time stand still in travel
And feel such peace and absolute
The stillness still that doesn't end…

Full lyrics HERE.

Playing the Part

 

And that reminded me of this:

From Shakespeare's As You Like It:

    All the world's a stage,
    And all the men and women merely Players;
    They have their exits and their entrances,
    And one man in his time plays many parts,
    His Acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
    Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
    Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
    And shining morning face, creeping like snail
    Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
    Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
    Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
    Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
    Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
    Seeking the bubble reputation
    Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
    In fair round belly with good capon lined,
    With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
    Full of wise saws and modern instances;
    And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
    Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
    With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
    His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
    For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
    Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
    And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
    That ends this strange eventful history,
    Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
    Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Chaos!

“When you have grown still on purpose while everything around you is asking for chaos, you will find the doors between every room of the interior castle thrown open, the path home to your true love unobstructed after all.”  ~St. Teresa of Avila 

She lived in the second half of the 1500s and thought the world was too chaotic.  😐

Plants and Birds and Cats and Things

 

We have an arrangement with the local cardinals: we feed them dinner, and they plant our garden.

This sunflower came up next to the birdfeeder, and it's a little different than most: instead of one big flower at the top, it has a cluster of little ones.

(That's our cat Lucy watching you through the front window.)

The Moon

(clicking imbiggens)

And that reminded me of this:

Full lyrics HERE.
 

Now and Venn

 

 

Interesting side note: Venn diagrams are named after John Venn, who didn't invent them but did popularize their use. (source)

I love Venn diagrams. Thank you, John.