Welcome to Marlinspike Hall, ancestral home of the Haddock Clan, the creation of Belgian cartoonist Hergé.
Some Manor-keeping notes:
Navigation is on the right, with an explanation of the blog's fictional basis. HINT: Please read the column labelled "ABOUT THIS BLOG." Enjoy the most recent posts or browse posts by posting date in the Archives. Search the blog for scintillating, obscure topics.
Enjoy your stay! There are some fuzzy slippers over there somewhere, too.
this doesn't really count as a blog post, i am maintaining hiatus status... but oh, the excitement!
i made my second and third videos with the new camera.
both feature the same actors, two men unknown to me who happened to gather in our tiny vineyard (a new ecotype that will pucker your puss!) about half a pink submarine's length from Marlinspike Hall's drawbridge and koi-cluttered moat. one vid has an extended view of my thigh and the other seems to have been subject to a poltergeist's antics, but they're clear enough.
a drug deal!
fred is pissed at me, not speaking.
after reviewing the first attempt, i decided to go outside, wheelchair-lady prominently framed by our factitious florentine baptistry doors, hoot at the two doods, wave, and push record. being professional actors, they both obligingly turned in my direction and stared at the handycam. i only wish i knew their names so that i could give proper attribution in the credits.
i think fred believes it might be more circumspect not to advertise one's videography of the local criminal element. i'm not afraid. i know fred will defend me.
hmmm....
anyway, once i have enough for a short documentary, i am turning it all over to constable tante louise. i'm not afraid. oh, i said that already.
we return you to the already-in-progress blog hiatus. (i'm on day 3 of a 5-day medication.)
Out of the rolling ocean, the crowd, came a drop gently to me,
Whispering, I love you, before long I die, I have travel'd a long way, merely to look on you, to touch you, For I could not die till I once look'd on you, For I fear'd I might afterward lose you.
2
(Now we have met, we have look'd, we are safe;
Return in peace to the ocean, my love;
I too am part of that ocean, my love—we are not so much separated;
Behold the great rondure—the cohesion of all, how perfect!
But as for me, for you, the irresistible sea is to separate us,
As for an hour carrying us diverse—yet cannot carry us diverse forever;
Be not impatient—a little space—know you, I salute the air, the ocean and the land,
Every day, at sundown, for your dear sake, my love.)
The literate sector of Marlinspike Hall is taking a brief hiatus due to... oh, use your imaginations! But don't worry, we're accumulating wild story upon wild story to share. Perhaps even a few that don't involve cats.
The scene: I'm in bed, the Food Network serves as white noise, when Dobby and Buddy both wake from a long August nap. In typical fashion, there is lots of love and mutual grooming going on as they slowly regain consciousness. Buddy cannot, however, maintain the love and soon wants to be the beastie Maine Coon that he is, and tries to grab the Dobster by the neck. This time, Dobby stands up for himself, and also, for good measure, wisely runs away, so as to live another day. Repeat scene 10-20 times a day, and that about sums up their relationship.
This is, honest, the first attempt at using the video feature on the new Sony HandyCam, after destroying my previous camera in a sink of nice, soapy water. I'm not sure I like all the results but -- since I am using it with the understanding and mastery of a complete idiot -- for a first effort, I am satisfied.
Yes, one day you will see something besides cats, my hands and feet, and Fred's beautiful belly. I don't know when, but it's bound to happen.
i discovered, at four in the morning, that baking wildly while screaming beat the heck out of staying in bed with screaming as the sole activity. and in the event of baking-inflicted suicide, at least there's something ready to serve at the consultation with the funeral director.
but what to do while screaming during the actual in-the-oven-and-cooking period of time? ah, that's where friendly felines and various miniature animals and sports teams (badmintoners, in particular... and i think we all learned a thing or two about badmintoners during the london olympics, eh wot?) come in to play.
marmy and buddy had a fur-flying, grand-yowling fight over i-don't-know-what, which necessitated both a good wet mopping of the mosaic floor dug up in old pompeii and unjumbled by me and the Fredster. followed by a quick vacuum job. i wish to heaven that our cats would allow themselves to be vacuumed. what a timesaver that'd be.
and before i knew it, midscream, there rang the oven timer, and i could go back to screaming in the aromatic kitchen.
true story. the other day, i brushed too close to the oven as i passed by and the oven timer, which was set (we are gourmands, we cook, we are dedicated foodies, except for frozen fish stick night) transferred itself to the back of my metal power chair arm. oh -- the timer is a round gadget with a hefty magnet. why the ticking didn't clue me in, i dunno. but it sure as hell got my attention when it went off... another instance of profderien ramming her chair into the wall, this time with sound effects.
anyway, now a good section of The Manor is clean, so those Genetically Indentured Domestic Staffers who inherited those quadrants -- mostly the Smythe clan, I think -- can attend the religious service of their choice, or take the tunnels to Tête de Hergé's best West Lone Alp pub. no, i am not going to name it, not until they fork over some advertising dollars.
and in further selfless service to the sunday worshipping communities, i am sending most of the baked goods along with Fred to the Existentialist Congregation, as those militant lesbian feminist angsters managed to choose 11 am on sunday as their gathering time. what a coincidence. of course, it is now 10:25 and he is still huddled over his coffee mug, unshowered, gnawing on one of the more challenging muffins. he often times it so that he arrives precisely at the end of the service, so as to mingle with his friends, and maybe put together a lunch crowd, or a foursome for golf.
fred is chair of the membership committee.
i find that hilarious.
ah, wait! now he is playing the ukulele. maybe the band is having a rehearsal after the existential non-religious service.
it's unfortunate, but due to the return of the screaming ninnies, the CRPS dystonia spaz attacks, sleep is again a major issue. my hips are screaming, too, now, along with the left shoulder, making everyone with medical degrees say stuff like "oh god, no... please, jesus, intercede... mary? mary?" and stuff like that. i've been off of antibiotics for over 16 days now, so the verity of things are showing up, hence the twitching, the screaming, the suicidal ideation, and the baking. also the pompeii mosaic *may* look a little different now. i made some judicious drug-addled improvements.
anyway, as the kids say, meh, and i am climbing back into bed to watch the sunday political bullshit fly on the television, which hopefully will rock me into a snooze.
i can't believe it. it's 10:35 and he is just now jumping (there has to be a more realistic verb, and something better than "getting") into the shower. i won't be able to fall asleep until after he brushes his teeth, because he makes this ungodly sound with the last rinse that wakes, i am sure, even the cistercian brotherhood.
though what they'd be doing asleep right now, i cannot say. this is the most exciting time of their week, the guitar mass.
Thoughts. Too many. Once again, I find myself wishing for a Pensieve, à la Dumbledore.
It was only a few days ago that I learned "dumbledore" was not just the name of Hogwart's best ever headmaster, but also designates a bumblebee. One day, this will pay off in a fierce game of Scabble. Or maybe Scrabble.
"Scabble" has the sound of a promising game, but more of a physical one, involving grabbing, slinging, or incessant itching, than a sanitized board game.
Or it could all be more fodder for the Pensieve.
I wonder if geniuses (of whom we are aware) -- who always seem to have a little extra cranium working for them -- have less need of a Pensieve than those of us with normal sized heads. Ah, but sometimes their lop-sidedness makes them tip over, endangering their expertise in areas like... Scabble.
Yeah, so the big news in the smallest hectare of Twitter is that I confessed to bullying a person. She made the mistake of being a prissy-panted smart-aleck who is more passive-aggressive than even... Fred. She's mean. And I'm a bully! I love algebra, and mathematics, in general, and I am pretty sure that together, she and I are Low Common Denominators, as well as, on occasion, rational and irrational -- but above all, in algebraic language, she is a constant and I, a variable.
What I haven't confessed to are my feelings of real friendship, and even kinship, for the person she fearlessly picks on -- not to elevate things too suddenly (Word: They say that applying a cold spoon to your upper back will help to stop sudden nosebleeds brought on by incredibly ridiculous unexpected ascensions... Where the hell is that Pensieve?). Where was I? Ah. Not to elevate things too suddenly, but I, like Saint Peter, denied -- and a good deal more than three times, always out to fool that triune-obsessed crowing cock -- my friendship. Did my friend suffer for it? I don't really know. Because we are a lot alike, it may actually have helped her, as anger is an unparalleled fuel for some of us. Just think of Mitt Romney's clenched jaw and alien, half-choke of a laugh in interviews when he's p.o.ed at the small-minded, repetitive questioning, and I think it will become clear to you that he is running for President because he is so intensely pissed off, he just can't stand it anymore. I await Chris Matthews call -- put me in, coach, I'm ready to play Hardball.
Right, so, summing up: There is a passive-aggressive bully that I have bullied, and a woman that I would like to befriend but don't really have the required strength necessary to be her friend. She is high-maintenance, and since I am, in Fred's lexicon, "overwhelming," this looks like another case, Batman, of a Gordian Knot.
Okay, since truth-telling is the order of the day, the Milanese Nightingale jiust jabbed her knife pointy nails into my thigh -- her favorite acrylic nail style, with glitter and artful white patterns over a black base coat of shellac so brilliant and intense that her nails cease to grow out at all, but do, in fact, retract. The truth is that Gordian Knots are a breeze to undo and I have simply chosen to stay all tied up. It's easier that way. "You want me to do what? Sorry, can't, I'm all tied up..."
The appearance of complication, in other words. The last refuge of the boring.
Aw,. I'm depressing myself and that might mean a trip to the helpful and uplifting Dr. Phil's Depression and Grief "Support" message board, where I'd undoubtedly run into that paranoiac, who would both anger and make me bust a gut laughing, and then where would I be?
But I might also find news from the almost-friend, whose husband is dying of lung cancer. They are all still smoking, but even that doesn't arouse enough rage to stop my caring. I mean, a good deal of my bone issues were brought on by corticosteroids, and were they forced down my gullet? No, I took them, I took them eagerly, even, at times, as sometimes they were the only workable solution against pain. I figure that cigarettes have the same function for some.
Shoot, I remember sitting on the back steps at our Mathews Avenue back yard (which you had to see to believe... we could have supplied a panda clan with bamboo), smoking one short, fat fag after another -- Gauloises, back when they were still a French cigarette. Now, I'd have to boycott them, because they use Syrian tobacco. (Pensieve!) I'd be armed, as well, with high-octane italian roast or a Diet Coke. And the pain that brought me to perch on those warped wooden steps was rapidly subsumed -- or sublimated -- by the better feelings of nausea and dizziness. Then, as soon as I was able, I'd jump up, refreshed, ready to go impart knowledge of French nineteenth century literature to young minds, or wash the dirty clothes of homeless men, or maybe cook Fred a real American breakfast, or prepare a revelatory reading lesson for my literacy tutoree. You get my self-sacrificial drift.
The better thing woulda been to grab our well-maintained kaiser blade and sling blade the hell out of the bamboo, and haul it to the panda exhibit at the zoo, coughing and puking all the while.
I don't *feel* any different for having confessed to bullying this delusional and nasty woman. I am so far from an apology, at the moment, that images of what form my Citizenship Award will take is far more interesting a train of thought.
Ah well.
It's a quiet Saturday morning here in Marlinspike Hall -- at least, once I escaped the moral rectitude of The Castafiore. Sven came in for some refreshment -- he's trimming some of the Labyrinth that tends to get a bit wild in the final days of ManorFest -- and the two of them promptly disappeared into her private apartment.
Fred is fast asleep, having been up all night playing his new ukulele and tending a sick cat. The Genetically Indentured Domestic Staff has the morning off, and almost everyone, it seemed, headed for the underground tunnels, the straightest distance between The Manor and Tête de Hergé's best West Lone Alp pub.
I haven't been able to bathe -- not even take a thorough sponge bath -- in two days, so that is on my mind. Oh, I used medicated wipes around incisions and what my dear StepMom called the "hot spots," plus I did do a half-hearted treatment with hibiclens here, and with acetic acid solution there -- but all in all, I feel gross. But as I have again begun to do headers into the walls, getting in the shower hasn't seemed wise.
Ah, but cut the Gordian Knot, eh? I am going to take both cane and grabber with me into the torture chamber and darned if I will climb out before every bit of not-me detritus is washed away.
That's the attitude!
I also need to clean a bookcase, and somehow, the paperbacks that were stored there. As I was culling offerings to the Militant Lesbian Existential Feminists' annual book sale, I arrived at one of the old Mission book cases that is rarely visited, and stuck in a corner. It seems that this must have been one of Sam-I-Am's favorite spots to mark, that dear dead feline, and it has dried to a gummy and thoroughly gross consistency. The bookcase I can clean, easily. But what to do with the books?! It feels a sin (more sinful even than bullying that Dr. Phil Fanatic) but I may have to throw them away. By which I mean, of course, carting them to the paper recycling bin. The books Sammy so loved seem to be an odd mix of Maeve Binchy (bless her dear departed soul), Dean Koontz, and, sadly, some Dennis Lehane.
Today's mail may bring something I've been dreading. Brother-Unit Grader Boob informed me recently that my stepmother intended to write me a thank you note for the card and the boxwood I sent her when my father died in early July. As I told him, receiving a thank you note for *that* may well break my heart. But it is Her Way, and therefore I will take the nasty tasting medicine in one quick gulp.
I kind of hope it rains. The Cistercian's orchard needs it badly, and maybe the drone drone drone of it will keep the household either asleep or happy to remain perched on a bar stool. After I clean me, the bookcase, and any salvageable novels, I think another cup of coffee and a chapter of the book I just started reading will be lovely.
Continuing the tradition here at elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle of journalistic integrity, I am reproducing below two posts that were removed, without explanation, by the fascist moderators over at the phoctor dill show. Just kidding, they aren't fascists. They're Republicans.
Yes, I am referring to the same journalistic and personal integrity that has inspired, for example the OCHOA series. The fire in the belly feels roughly the same, though a little omeprazole might also be in order. To adequately set the scene for you, Dear Readers. is impossible. This is your chance to fly by the seat of your pants -- an experience no one should miss.
I can tell you that this first post was composed, and is here reproduced unchanged, by one "yeahyoucan," aka pixikuku, C-angels14, maroonmimosabloom. recycledpap, -- she apparently switches from one moniker to another in an attempt to escape me and my sinister stalking, not understanding that she was just one of over a hundred RSS feeds in my Reader, and that the feed automatically made the switch to her lovely new names with no interference or direction from me.
The second post is my very moderate response, which she has already reduced to a self-serving mangle on her Twit Account. She wins the Woe-Is-Me-But-Most-Of-All-I'm-Right Award and gets to bear the trinkets of her office: a gilded plunger and and an empty amphitheater.
Grrrrrrrrrrrr. Well, we'll just add this to the growing pile of I-hate-Phoctor-Dill posts. Yes, thank you, I said I was done with this crowd, and clearly am not. I went back because... a friend was in difficulty. Unfortunately, the Crazy Lady, in her own obsession, thought it had something to do with her.
Please do not continue to obsess about me and since you have over a year I'd suggest you seek professional help. You've been bullying me and stalking me for over a year and stalked me here immediately after I blocked you another place you stalk me after you attacked me again. You even stated THE DAY you stalked me here that your presence would likely distress others and to not worry as you weren't going to stay then you stayed anyway. Yes, being bullied and stalked by you is distressing.
You have said to me and others that you do case studies on us. You do not have permission to document and use information about me and as a courtesy to Dr. Phil Website members should secure permission before doing so. Lots of things not right to do can be done anyway to exploit others as your bullying, stalking and taunting Dr. Phil Website members that you are doing case studies on Dr. Phil Website members as you taunted me too.
You have said to Dr. Phil Website members that since a public forum you can collect information on Dr. Phil Website members yet that's not what Dr. Phil made these message boards for. Dr. Phil is TOTALLY against bullying and stalking. You have a disconnect if you'd exploit the misfortune of another to stalk someone here right after blocked you, as you did me, disrespecting both my and Dr. Phil's philosophical anti-bully boundaries. When I blocked you you were stating to me, as you once did another Dr. Phil Website member you stalked, that you could follow RSS feed even if we changed profile name to avoid your bullying & stalking. I and other Dr. Phil Website members aren't here for you to entertain yourself bullying and stalking us.
That's why I kindly suggested y'all chatting on board y'all said met on since mostly chatting with each other since YOU KNOW you've been bullying and stalking me and may or may not be person hacking into my computer as well. Only hacker knows that and I've only suspected you are hacker as well since I KNOW you bully and stalk me. I was shocked to see mean remarks to me by you on a birthday video I made because once before when you were attacking me you said you realized I was a good person and stopped. I am a good person. It is okay to not like me yet not okay to stalk and bully me and, in fact, it is illegal to bully and stalk as you do me. The polite thing, when you have other ways to communicate with someone, is to not exploit that person, to stalk me here putting us all in an uncomfortable position.
That you stated your presence here could distress others when you stalked me here, right after I blocked you for being mean to me elsewhere: The polite thing when you tell person(s) you've distressed stalking and bullying to not worry because you don't plan to stay is to not stay. That you knew/stated here that your presence would distress others, as did me, when you popped in here... on some level you must know not right to do since isn't right to bully and stalk me then exploit someone else here, and Dr. Phil, to achieve stalking me here, too. Since you seem unable to stop stalking, bullying & obsessing about me I hope that you will seek professional help. That's meant sincerely and not to be insulting...
Instead of speaking in what I assume is supposed to be legalese, why not just address me as me, prof, or,if you prefer, Evil One, Mistress of the Interwebs.. I wouldn't begin to know how to hack into a computer. I don't stalk people. You, I have kept an eye on, and yes, found interesting. You've angered me more than anything, and I have said some things to get your considerable goat. So, I was raised in a barn, perhaps, or maybe I never learned that sweet southern way of insulting people right and left with my many supposed suggestions and judgments. I kept an eye on everyone who was involved in the incident that made me leave drphil com to begin with -- involving unfounded accusations of child abuse and threats flying back and forth -- all coming from people in *this* forum. at the time, i was close to joyce and what i saw happening among you all, well, yes, if you like, it made you "case studies." RSS feeds are available to everyone on the internet and I follow over 100 different feeds, so I wouldn't get overly excited about being included in that group, though it is a group of writers that I find interesting and that have all made themselves available to the technology. There's not one iota of weirdness or illegality about it -- it is just technology. My anger did evolve into bullying -- and since, at the moment, I am extraordinarily angry, I can only say that I'm dedicated to working on that. "Better to say nothing..." is wise advice and I've spent my life trying to adhere to it. You are, however, suffering from paranoia. Or the belief that if you wish others and the world to be a certain way, that others and the world ought to straighten up and follow your orders. I think, at times, some tendencies toward paranoia make you feel targeted when really... no one is paying you any attention, or wouldn't, if you could control yourself. For God's sake, I tweeted something to you -- it was straightforward, a link to something or other, and you started reporting me to the Dallas police. It's not normal behavior and I think your friends and the moderators and Dr. Phil, himself, have done you no favors by not assisting you. It has been easier for them to put up with delusional and paranoid behavior, almost using you as a mascot -- a role that you perceive, apparently, as an appointed cheerleader. Sure, I could use professional help and have sought it when I needed it. I wish everyone would. There's no shame in it. In short -- hacking, no; stalking, no (but congratulations on your healthy ego!) bullying, sadly, yes, I think I have bullied you. When I can honestly apologize, I'll do so. (You would never guess how you've angered me -- a hint: a good part of it involves remarks you've made to the First Family of the United States. and a rather evil xenophobia) Hmmm, maybe I do need help...) Most sincerely yours, Prof
Retired educator, here. I'm in severe pain and managing to piece together a few consecutive hours of sleep could only help. To that end, I took a Lunesta last night, and almost enjoyed falling asleep. Looking back with fondness at those moments, when I woke 45 minutes later, I knew I was... screwed again! So it was another up-and-down night. Still, it was fun cavorting with the huge fuzzy-green lunar moth that flitted around my head, leaving trails of questionable, slightly oily, vapor.
When the felines convinced me it was time to get up this morning, I stretched out my arm, feeling for my glasses. You know, the $379 glasses that I just got last month? Guess who likes to steal spectacles? Yes, our little idiot, the Dobster. I took the bedroom apart – then expanded the search. By the time Fred got up, I had a headache (probably from having to wear an old pair of glasses) and a slight, ummm, attitude. He was immediately drafted for the cause and seemed very eager to help, as he stood there mumbling and scratching himself, inquiring as to the date and time.
So he’s crawling around and under things, armed with one of his best flashlights (one day, I will do 100 words on Fred and the flashlights). Butt in the air, crawling right behind him, sweet and chipper, was... Dobby. Were he not a cat, I would have sworn he was mocking us.
Please note that breakfast had not been served to the feline contingent. To that end, Sam-I-Am felt that he might inspire me by eating a few pages out of the John Grisham novel I’m reading. Chomp, rip! Chomp, rip!
For her part, Marmy peed on the sofa, and -- in the name of parity, I guess, on one of Fred’s pillows. God forbid she should feel left out.
She did what she does best.
Very crafty, very crafty. My attention thus divided by these wily cats, I believe they used these moments of frenzied confusion to transfer the purloined glasses to a new location.
But then, that would sound paranoid, bordering on psychotic. So, of course, I did not see Marmy actually sporting them as she sauntered past me toward my office, her fluffy tail swirling eddies of air. (She handed them off to Dobby, who absentmindedly squirreled them away in an Izod eye case, as he sat talking on the phone to their Grand Kitty PoohBah, evidently the mastermind behind this heist.)
Cough. Ummm. Did *I* write that?
Did I mention that I took a sleeping pill? One, I think.
Sammy said, “Girl, would you get your opposable thumbs together, open those kibble containers, and serve up some breakfast? And, you know, Fred looks like he could use a stiff cup of coffee. C’mon! Move it, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” So I fed and watered everyone, ground some beans, washed a few dishes, and finally brewed a pot. “That’s better,” cooed Sam-I-Am, my beloved boy.
It’s hours later, now. They have me pinned in the bed. Dobby is draped over my left thigh, Marmy is nestled between my legs, and Sammy is curled up next to me, eyeing me over his paws. There’s no way out. I managed to snag my laptop. This is my only hope. Maybe someone out there will notify the authorities that there is a woman, poiseless and glasses-less, a pitiful physical specimen, a whiny gimp, being held hostage by one domestic long hair known for her “*ack*:*ack*” rap, one domestic short hair (whose head is alarmingly small in proportion to his body), and by one large male who is not a Russian Blue but believes that he really, really ought to be.
Fred seems to have left the premises. If, indeed, the world has gone as topsy-turvy as I suspect, he is finishing the mowing job he promised The Cistercians back when Spring was young, in advance of the resurrection.
{What am I, delusional? Drugged? Wait. Oh, yeah!}
It is my belief that Fred has been successfully co opted by the cats. I heard snippets of a conversation between Fred and a cooing Marmy – something about fresh tuna, whole cream, and – sadly – a demand for more better nip, with fewer stems and more buds... God forbid that the cops stop him.
I wonder how much bail might be for possession of nepetacataria.
Bianca Castafiore never has these kind of problems.
I know none of them are surfing the web, hungry for word of The Manor, Tête de Hergé, la Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore, Fred, or even the humble profderien...
But a big, warm welcome to the 500 new residents of the International House at UC Berkeley, best known world over as "the I-House." Students from 58 countries, cells any monk would envy, and the best Sunday Brunch in existence.
Their backs are sore from lugging luggage, their eyes are gritty from long flights, their stomachs are talking from hunger... and excitement. All these faces, all the colors of these skins, the shy eyes, the laughing, outgoing eyes, all these faces.
You are in for an adventure -- and you've chosen to live in it!
Clarifying, confusing, challenging, and never-ending discussions in every nook and cranny, at any hour of the day. Smiles ranging from new-found to ruthless, friends to the right and to the left of you, homesickness all around (and understanding comfort, teas, tisanes, beer, wine, and shared packages from home).
You'll either have a view of stucco and a red-tiled roof, or one of the best vistas in town of the hills and the bay. Either way, you're going to love your time at the I-House.
A warm and jealous welcome from an old alum,
Prof-de-rien
P.S. Sunday mornings, wear an old oversized shirt with big pockets (line several with plastic baggies) and bring your own mug. Catch up with your friends, eat your fill. Then wrap the bagels in napkins, stash them in your pockets, and fill your mug with frozen yogurt. Be sure to saunter on your way out.
Strange, but I've not felt like writing in quite a while. Not even emails to people I love, a quick note to people I like, not even, and this is worrisome, when communication was required to take care of Manor business. I'm not lazy, I swear I am not.
It's Stephen King's fault.
When my Dad died in early July, I needed a new "main" book to read, as I usually keep several going at once, but concentrate on one in particular -- the one that goes with my midnight yogurt and the hope of sleep. Don't laugh at my choice, please.
Tolkien's trilogy. I'm mid-way through The Two Towers, as reading slow, and slowly, seemed important. I had the collection stacked at the highest point of the hutch over my desk and needed one of the handy grabbers to get it down. Even at the most familiar parts of the story, I did not skip a word, and The Fellowship of the Ring was a joy to reread.
Who knows what was going on between my ears. Clear good, clear evil. Honor. Loyalty. World wars. Treachery. "Fly, you fools."
I got the series as Christmas gifts when I was 9, and immersed myself in them, escaped. And that's all there is to say about that.
There came an opening in the book rotation, and in the pile of options was Stephen King's Rose Madder. The pile was a donation pile -- the Militant Lesbian Existential Feminists will soon be holding their annual book sale, and I hate to donate something I haven't even read. Snort. Let's just say I'm over that.
Confronted with my weird choices, the area of my brain in charge of rhetoric and composition just gave up the ghost, and there went my writing, such as it was.
Beware the chasmic gap between J. R. R. Tolkien and Stephen King. I saved myself from a forced reading of a compendium of Henri Nouwen quotes by a swift sleight of hand that landed its uncracked spine about two-thirds of a way down in the charity stack.
A few weeks back, I signed up to receive a Poem-A-Day, from the Academy of American Poets. Some days are disappointments, some days the poem is too much for me, or too little. Some days are sweet memories, more and more are revelations.
Today, it was "To Last" (2012), by D. A. Powell, and it was just right:
I have had to learn the simplest things last. Which made for difficulties... —Charles Olson
We know from accounts of the judgment of Paris how Love took first: the apple burnished by—it turns out—her own husband, working the bellows, forging to Discord's specifications, her need to break the spaghetti strands of marriage, her undiluted vitriol, that oversaw his flux and foundry, guided the sparking hammer to its urgent deed.
Spoils of war.
Power, undeterred and wily as it always is, the figural eye and its agency, took gladly the second chair, from which advantage machinations could be seen. Advised, conferred, deployed the second wave of ships, provided mercenary aid to every side and fanned the air, and made her counsel with all sides, supporting every one and none, out-waiting tides.
If we believe the Greeks, the spokes of Fortune's wheel in constant turn would allow the last to be the first—beatitudes bestowed upon the losing side, a draught of time in which the wily ones, by their equine portage made the mind the victor over Love's inconstancy and strife, and, over brute acts, gave thought dominion in a golden age. But that's just myth.
Wisdom, you are the last to whom I turn. Not for your spear, fashioned in that same fire as all bright jealous objects of desire. But for your shield. Protect the least of us. Or lift me from this battlefield, and take me home.
Of the poet, there is this, from poets.org: D. A. Powell was born in Albany, Georgia on May 16, 1963. He attended the University of San Francisco, obtaining his bachelor's degree in 1991, and his master's in 1993. He then went on to receive his M.F.A. from the Iowa Writer’s Workshop in 1996.
He is the author of a trilogy of books, including Tea (Wesleyan, 1998); Lunch (2000); and Cocktails (Graywolf, 2004), which was nominated for the National Book Critics Circle Award. His most recent book, Chronic (2009) received the Kingsley Tufts Award and was nominated for a National Book Critics Circle Award. His subjects range from movies, art, and other trappings of contemporary culture to the AIDS pandemic. Powell’s work often returns to AIDS, and his three collections have been called a trilogy about the disease. As Carl Phillips wrote, in his judge’s note for Boston Review’s Annual Poetry Award, of Powell’s work, "No fear, here, of heritage nor of music nor, refreshingly, of authority. Mr. Powell recognizes in the contemporary the latest manifestations of a much older tradition: namely, what it is to be human." Powell has received a Paul Engle Fellowship from the James Michener Center, a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts, and the Lyric Poetry Award from the Poetry Society of America, among other awards. He has taught at Columbia University, the University of Iowa, Sonoma State University, San Francisco State University, and served as the Briggs-Copeland Lecturer in Poetry at Harvard University. He currently teaches at the University of San Francisco, and edits the online magazine Electronic Poetry Review.
"Quick, quick," I thought. "Wake the Fredster up, roust Sven and Bianca from their *very* original sleeping configuration (inspired by a shared Olympic synchronized diving obsession) and gather the Feline Remnant! Hurry!"
These are not my average early morning thoughts, which normally range from "Oh, my God, please, Sweet Jesus, O Holy Mary, I cannot do this again." [as in "...live another day."] The coda is normally, "Christ in a freaking hand basket, where are my pills? Where is my grabber? Where are my legs? Why is there air?**"
After invoking this cheery crowd in the Medieval Kitchen, after the 20 minutes required to make each one a coffee with my one drip Melita cone (I broke the café presse last week), such that I was pouring Sven's stein a refill just after serving Marmy Fluffy Butt her first 13-ounce café au lait porcelain bowl.
It didn't matter! Their grumbling mumbling and weird kinesio tape art (another London 2012 fad) and gigglingly timed requests for coffee top-offs could not, would not, defer me from my joyous intention.
Okay, it *was* difficult to ignore La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore, who has reached Tagalog in her project of artistic translations of Gounod's L'Air des bijoux ["Ah ! je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir"], such that there was a constant back beat groove of "Ah! kong tumawa upang makita ang aking sarili kaya maganda sa mirror na ito."
She finally paused in her Filipino practice session to request a cup of hot tea with lemon and honey, and everyone else had worn their wit out; My moment had arrived.
"Good morning, my friends! Magandang umaga, ang aking mga kaibigan! Bonjour, mes amis!" I began with good cheer writ large upon my face.
"It happens so rarely," I began...
"Oh, my God. The miniature gay minotaur went after Field Marshall again," moaned Sven. Field Marshall is 6ft 5ins tall and still growing. He's the largest bull in the world and has not shared with us, as yet, his sexual orientation, although he seems to enjoy his stud work well enough.
"Crap-and-a-half," yelled Fred. "The garderobes are blocked, and right on time, it's our busiest day in ManorFest. I HATE medieval architecture... Would it KILL the Haddocks to fork over enough for a dozen port-a-loos? Do you KNOW what it takes to unclog a blocked garderobe conduit, DO YOU?"
"Fred, dah-ling," purred The Castafiore, "All caps, this is tantamount to shouting. And it is too early to shout, yes, my Fred?" She's been baiting him nonstop ever since he put her on the midnight-to-3 AM ManorMaze Rescue Duty
"*Ack*::*Ack*" was Marmy's contribution, while Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten delicately placed his freakishly large paw into my now cold caffeinated beverage, leaving something small but indefinable floating on my careful foam. Dobby assumed the Perfect Cat Position, and would not budge, no matter the rising kitchen tension.
I began to dole out the heart-healthy and delicious sweet chocolate oatmeal with raisins that I had made, with love, and half-and-half.
That got my Big Girl Diva's attention right away. Bianca's is made with golden raisins soaked overnight in rum. Sven prefers a dark bitter unsweetened chocolate and eight individual packets of Domino's Sugar and Stevia blend, and Fred ruins his with Organic Amber Agave Nectar. The cats add a quarter cup bonito flakes and forego chocolate and sweetener. And oatmeal.
With everyone finally happy, and silent, I finally got to my intended objective:
"I just wanted to let you know that I slept well, don't have a fever, and that I haven't had any CRPS dystonia activity in over ten hours. I am not harboring, to my knowledge, even a single rancorous thought, and am filled with love and appreciation for each and every one of you. Marmy left a poop on the stool by the window in the Baroque Music Chamber, when she easily could have targeted the Oriental Rug Room. Dobby threw up on my new sari quilt,but it washed well, and since it's actually made of old saris, who cares that it faded another few shades? Buddy scratched a hole in the bag of liquified rotten turnips, after taking the lid off of our wheelie bin, and really, it had a homey, nutty kind of smell that we might consider for our next batch of Original Manor Potpourri. Fred scratched my right shin with his untrimmed big toe but the resultant ulcer didn't even bleed. Bianca got to Tagalog and my migraine preventive medication worked like a charm.
** "Why is their air?" Cosby's third album, is my first memory of recorded formal comedy and I loved it. Still do. Much in the same way that I loved a catcher's mitt and wanted to use it in lieu of a proper first basewoman's mitt. That may be how I built up my left wrist to such awesome proportions, a useless attribute because, right-handed, it did nothing to help my future forehand, but did inspire acumen as well as necessity for two-handed backhands.
I *know* that it is poor form (Oops! Someone has been watching too much of the London Olympics on the telly. I wonder what's for tea this afternoon. Is that the aroma of baking scones wafting my way or is it the bag of turnips I let rot on top of a bag of potatoes and a sack of fresh garlic? We better have some clotted cream and jam, either way.)...
As I was saying, I know that regaling you with emails is the lazy woman's blog tactic, but this is the best way to bring you up to date as to what is happening to moi at the moment. I could lie and say that I just hate repeating myself, but, puh-leeze, my Readership wouldn't fall for that.
So... Youse Guys already know how much I rely on the judgment of my MDVIP Go-To-Guy, otherwise known as a pseudo-concierge set-up with a spot on (Heh-heh) internist. Well, here's the latest, and please keep the info in mind should my blog posts get even weirder, if I'm not batting on a full wicket (ar ar!).
I think I may take a break from the shivers and do some imaginary badminton. Or rowing. But if I choose to swim around the moat, it'll have to done nekkid, as I've heard those swimsuit contraptions are nearly impossible to put on without Randy from Say "Yes" To The Dress. Check out how hard it was for Summer Sanders... and then die laughing thinking of me trying to get even one thigh in the right spot of fabric.
FIRST EMAIL, FROM ME TO MDVIP GO-TO-GUY, YESTERDAY:
i had my PICC line pulled tuesday. still having fevers, sweats, chills, spasms, the whole spiel. dr.b was out of town, saw his PA jacqueline. when i asked what the plan was now, i was told "there is no plan." of course! what was i thinking?
is this slow drop in hgb/hct anything to worry about? i know it's not enough to explain fatigue, but i am so tired. they drew labs again this week to see if it is still dropping and i am to show up for one more appt next week.
i see dr.d today and will see if i can get him to somehow pave the way with next week's appt with dr. s's PA. i expect that appt will be a bust, but who knows.
i don't know what to do about my eyes... dr. k probably thinks i've disappeared. ID informed me that p. acnes is one of the most "catastrophic" of all infections after cataract surgeries (well, *of course* it is!) and that she probably will want some assurance that there aren't any p. acnes colonies hanging around. right-o!
yesterday, i briefly blacked out twice, both times while walking to the bathroom. each time, i was able to forestall any severe damage or need for 911 by simply landing against the wall, leading with my head. so my head hurts, but i'm fine. i knew that my brain would count for something one day. if it gets worse, i guess i'll Pick-A-Specialist, probably dr. m.
i hope you had a restful and refreshing vacation.
what are the odds that i could get dr. d to come HERE, versus wickedly tired fred and cheery me hauling ourselves out to the airport office?
profderien, laughing all the way to hell
SECOND EMAIL, FROM MDVIP GO-TO-GUY TO MOI, YESTERDAY:
The HGB dropping below 10 could cause some fatigue. The main concern with anemia is to be sure it’s not coming from GI blood loss.
Have you seen blood in your stools or black, tarry stools to suggest older blood from the upper GI tract? If not, the anemia may be from suppression of your bone marrow from your chronic infection. That will only improve as the infection improves.
The blackouts are another concern. Please rely on your walker or scooter more since you have the anemia. You are at increased risk for blacking out and falling.
Please keep me updated on the labs, etc. I would also hold off on Dr. K until we know there’s no infection.
THIRD, AND FINAL OF THIS SERIES, FROM ME TO YOU-KNOW-WHOM:
dear dr. MDVIP Go-To-Guy,
i've put in a call to i.d., trying to get tuesday's lab results. have both called and emailed. i am feeling pretty awful, temp got to 101, dropped to 99, now back to 101, but more significantly, to me, i'm having chills, feel all woe-is-me-weepy, and exhausted. there's been no feeling like passing out, just a feeling of distance/unreality. and a headache.
if things get worse, i will contact them again, first, using the "emergency" line (my understanding is that dr. b is out of town), and do what they say. if need be, i'll have fred drop me off at the Lone Alp ER. unfortunately, he refuses to stay with me in the hospital any longer... he just hates that environment, and, it seems, me, in that situation.
i'm just letting you know in case there is a communication failure... for instance, when i had to go to the ER a few weeks ago, the EMTs reported that they picked me up in a "GP's office" [instead of the infectious disease infusion center] and that the problem was "a dislocated shoulder." i thought fred was following us over there but, no, he just got in the car and went home. i was shivering so much i couldn't correct anyone, but wish i had a photo of the face of the x-ray tech who immediately filmed my shoulder. she told me, "uh, we need to do this again because i seem to have cut off part of your... [long pause] ... clavicle." sure, i could have told her there was no shoulder on that side, but why muck up a perfectly good learning opportunity?
it's often like that kid's game, "telephone," where you pass around a piece of information to see how changed it is at the end.
i hope to not be calling, but thought i'd give you a head's up. thank you, thank you, for your good care and forbearance.
much of that forbearance is put to use on these emails, i am sure. sorry but when i feel this sick, i talk and talk. i am afraid, and that's what i do!
so i at least hope that my verbose communication sometimes makes you smile, even if it kills an extra few minutes of your "free" time.
hey, j (j is his Super Nurse)! come do private duty with me this weekend????? movies, popcorn, wheelchair races?
oh, and the gut is fine, no obvious bleeding.
bowing out of another graceful communication, profderien
So there you have it, Sweet Readership.
And as is always the case, I feel better already.
Cheerios and Fruitloops, Clotted Cream and Jam for all.
After serving as the responsible full biological offspring representative at my father's recent death celebrations, Brother-Unit Grader Boob returned to the Land of Erudition last week where he continues the attempt to weave and knit together enough university employment to have a usable oven mitt to remove the pizza rolls from the microwave without blistering His Instrument: the red pen-holding hand.
He just sent me an email that had this warning in the subject line: "Get ready for a long one..."
"Ayuh," said the Maine girl in me. I eyeballed the roughly 4 inches of text I was gonna have to labor through, a good part of which consisted of this:
Well, that’s it for now—but let me end with an anecdote.
On Wednesday evening, the entire ABC online faculty had an ******* meeting to discuss the fact that “some” professors were giving higher grades than had actually been earned. The Center for Online Edification had been “horrified” to discover that a basically illiterate student had worked his way through several classes, actually getting a B- for the second Comp course. (I started chuckling and began yelling at the computer: “I’m shocked, shocked to find there’s gambling going on in this establishment!”)
At first, the group blamed student quality, always a safe scapegoat, especially after it was revealed that 75% of those taking the “entrance exam” end up in remedial courses. (By this time, I was chanting, “Money! Money!” at the screen.)
They then decided that plagiarism was the culprit, even though they do like how Turnitin.com has gotten so user friendly. Moments later, there was a call for an institutional grading rubric and a committee to look into that.
“Money! Money!”
Finally, someone noted that this seemed to be a faculty issue, for they’re the ones giving out the higher grades. Silence filled the chat room.
“Exactly! Exactly!”
The evening ended shortly thereafter, with the standard academic result—further discussion and a committee.
Sadly, no one got fired!
Well, that exhausts my narrative skills, and so I’ll just say ta-ta.
I do love my Brother-Units! And their emails. When I get them. Hint, TW, hint. ♥
