Pray for Jessie Claire! Do What You Do So Well For Jessie Claire!

Oh, Dear Ones, I've been raising Cain.. cane...?  I've been making noise over the Duke Blue Devils, over my inability to stand up from this wicked hospital bed, to get to the persnickety bathroom, over our failure to make it on time to the doctors' blessed appointments, over our equal failures to get the felines to obey the feline rules of the feline household! Did I hear that they're pulling Blue Blue Bell Ice Cream?

Well, forget all our usual silly stuff.  This one night, let's even lay gently aside Grader Boob the Lumpy One, though we'll take turns, okay?  Code words: "Beloved Grump." Night?  Oh, however long,  All right, I CAN do that pray unceasingly thang, and cover Beloved Grump, always.  Just gimme a doggone minute.

There is a young girl who needs our prayers, our good thoughts, our best intentions, our most wonderful of wonderfuls, and if you carry such things with you as a matter of course, then give her your matter of course.If you know karma is what is, if you have been so blessed as to know what is, then go to it, my peaceful friend!

You're familiar, if you're familiar with this blog, with parental blogs guesting here who detail the serious health problems of their children in that marvelous format created for them, mostly to share news with family and friends, CaringBridge, you know it has spread as an interwebs' phenomenon, not always, in my opinion, in a healthy way, but mostly, for sure!  And behind the scenes, no doubt, CaringBridge is on the the ball.

Allow me to introduce Jessie Claire's mom's Robin. First a bee-yoo-tee-fuu-ool picture of Miss Jessie Claire, from the outside, showing an attitude that beats all: the love of another creature, freely given, gently offered.

And timely, too! Happy Easter (a little late)!

And here are some excerpts from Jessie's mom Robin who keeps an honest but upbeat, faithful to God, faithful to herself, faithful to her daughter -- faithful to so much I am often in awe.  If you take the time to read her journaling, through the years, you don't see much change in the faithfulness -- hence, the awe. But if you know the bravery in her honesty, in her writing the doctors' opinions, the many tests results.  I applaud her juxtapositions, done, I'm sure, with the help of many prayers, foot stomps -- whatever goes for a good Bianca Castafiore's aria in her home!*  (please see below, the very below)

*********************************************************************

From CaringBridge's journal for Jessie Claire

MRA
By Robin Henson Jul 2, 2014 11:02am

MRA of Jessie Claire's brain showing Moyamoya Disease impacting  middle cerebral arteries. [Lisa's Edit: The x-ray is unedited, unchanged, as is it's interpretation. There is no way.]  Blood flow is white from contrast.  From the center and "branching" right is healthy blood flow.   From the center and "branching" left there is no blood flow. The cerebral artery is closed.

MRA of Jessie Claire's brain showing Moyamoya Disease impacting middle cerebral arteries. Blood flow is white from contrast. From the center and "branching" right is healthy blood flow. From the center and "branching" left there is no blood flow. The cerebral artery is closed.

Prayers Please
By Robin Henson — 23 hours ago

Before providing Jessie Claire's medical update, Jessie Claire wanted me to share this:    Last week Jessie Claire went to visit her Daddy at work.  She put on his "Deputy Director" badge and went into Senate Chambers at the State Capitol. Seeing the Senators vote on bills was educational, but that wasn't what made the day so special for her.  Jessie Claire was treated like a princess.  The Lt. Governor and several Senator's asked Jessie Claire if they could have their picture made with her, gave her gifts, and a quick tour of the chamber.  I was touched by all the people who said they have been praying for her.  Jessie Claire was quick to thank a few of these gentlemen for supporting childhood cancer and she bragged that she is a Rally Kid (Rally for Childhood Cancer).  

Recently, Jessie Claire has had lots of Easter fun starting with a Spring Fling at her old school, Brighton.  However, she has not felt great in days.  Every time we have been out of the house for 2 two 3 hours, Jessie Claire gets in the car, tells me to get her home because she is tired and does not feel good.  Friday morning, Jessie Claire's left leg was numb (classic TIA (mini stroke) symptom).  Something I forgot to mention last week is that I recently learned that Jessie Claire has been having TIA's (mini strokes) for quite some time.

Tomorrow morning, Jessie Claire is having an MRI for Brain Tumors.  The Boston doctor has added additional testing to check blood flow.  This test will help determine how quickly she needs the next brain surgery which will be done at Boston Children's Hospital.

Some people told me that thought the second surgery I mentioned last week was on the left side of the brain.  Although the left side has arteries narrowing, the urgency is with the right side of the brain.  For those who are new, Jessie Claire's right middle cerebral artery is completely closed.  In March of last year, Jessie Claire had brain surgery to try and create a new source of blood flow to the right side of the brain.  We were told the surgery was needed or she would have a stroke.  Now, a year later, we just learned that the surgery did not work.

So, please continue to pray that God continues to protect Jessie Claire and she does not have a stroke. Please pray for wisdom with the doctors.  Please pray that the the brain tumors are stable.  And please pray that next steps are determined and administered quickly.

Thanks for all of your prayers.  Please share Caringbridge with anyone you know who prays. (Confession from Editor Lisa: This was when I felt compelled to write this funky post.)

[Me again, moi, who swore to minimal interruptions to Robin's perfected texts. Here is a journal entry I missed in what seems between day before yesterday and today, and as Southerners tend to, well, shout out: "Well, butter my buns and call me a biscuit!"]

Preliminary Glance
By Robin Henson — Mar 20, 2015 6:15pm

First, Jessie Claire wants to say "I have a soar-soar throat (from breathing tube) but I'm feeling better and spending the afternoon with my Nana".  I am going to take a minute to brag.  Yesterday was a very long day with some delays, but as always, Jessie Claire handled it beautifully with lots of praises from the nurses.

Yesterday we were told something that we are still trying to process...   but first we are praising God that the "preliminary glance looks good" and there is more blood flow than last year.  I asked lots of questions including "Is there enough blood flow to prevent a stroke? Any additional narrowing of arteries?  Are there any signs that Jessie Claire has had TIA's (mini-strokes)?"  Understandably, he has to "comb through the pictures" before he can answer these questions.  This is all we know for now.

Yesterday one of the doctors told me that he does not think Jessie Claire has Moyamoya.  He gave a good argument on how he came to this conclusion.  He believes Jessie Claire has neuro vasculopothy.  I read a couple of abstracts from medical journals to try and learn what this even means but decided that was a bad idea.

Yesterday was the first time I have ever heard the term "neuro vasculopathy".  However, less than 24 hours earlier, I made arrangements for a pediatric neuro-vascular surgeon and two other doctor's on his team, to review all of Jessie Claire's scans.  This doctor is the Director of the world largest and best Pediatric Neurovascular and Moyamoya Clininc.  They are located at Boston's Children's Hospital.    
 
This has been a year full of fear, devestation, prayer, praises, miracles, and JOY!  As always when we are confused,scared and nothing makes sense, God has gone before us to direct the path best needed for Jessie Claire-- His Path!














*"Ah! Je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir!" -- Gounod, Faust


© 2015 L. Ryan

to Jessie Claire... to Robin

Young ladies, I apologize!  Your blog post is coming. It was promised on April 9, and I ache to break my promises.

"Stuff" has intervened, but "stuff" cannot win out every day.

I have a wonderful aide who is going to ease much of my frazzle tomorrow.  It is clearly a requirement that one write of Miss Jessie Claire using the wise guidance of her mom Robin's high standards.

And, well, coughcough, there's my own undeniable provenance that has to be a tad toned down but still discernible.

So let this serve as a placecard for the promised celebratory post of the beautiful girl, protected, explained, and our prayers guided by her faith-driven mom.

I'm gonna say: TOMORROW!

And in the meantime, dear family, the good readers here, even if not yet knowing exactly why, know that they are with you, sensing the need, waiting for the details but trusting in the interim.

Tomorrow.

Love.
The "elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle" magic show




© 2015 L. Ryan

a repost for myself, alone: "your kin have bought the rest by their suffering the loss forever"

a repost for myself, as i keep forgetting who i am, and 
my strengths and purposes. 




From -- Pour un tombeau d'Anatole by Stéphane Mallarmé

RÉSUMÉ :

Le 6 octobre 1879 mourait de maladie, à l'âge de huit ans, le petit Anatole,fils tendrement aimé de Stéphane Mallarmé. Les deux cents feuillets présentés ici par Jean-Pierre Richard furent rédigés par le poète à la suite de cet événement, et pour tenter d'en amortir en lui le choc. Ceci déjà annonce leur valeur : elle tient à leur extraordinaire poids humain ; aucun écrit de Mallarmé ne possède cette qualité brûlante, immédiate, cette puissance crue d'émotion. Mais le pathétique s'en trouve aussi médité et dominé, repris par un esprit souverain, l'esprit d'un grand poète qui met en oeuvre toutes ses ressources créatrices afin de dépasser ce fait indépassable et insupportable : la mort d'un être cher. Comme tant de grands poèmes mallarméens, ces notes décrivent un combat, la "lutte d'un génie et de la mort", lutte à l'issue de laquelle la mort eût été vaincue par le génie. Anatole eût finalement été sauvé par un poème dont ces pages tracent le plan et constituent l'ébauche. Si Mallarmé n'a pu finalement écrire ce poème, il est déjà très important pour nous qu'il ait pu le rêver : car l'on voit ici s'annoncer, ou se prolonger, maint thème développé dans l'oeuvre publiée. Une longue introduction redonne à cette méditation funèbre toute sa cohérence ; elle montre la profondeur, la rigueur, le caractère très purement mallarméens.

Retired Educator here. This is the esquisse, the design, the carefully laid out spaces of an architecture in decline that never knew the light of day and whose replication is full of violence and 'translationary' rape. I love the Paul Auster translation but haven't the inclination to type out his doings of the first ten poem-fragments. Here, however, is his translation of the first section:

child sprung from
the two of us -- showing
us our ideal, the way
-- ours! father
and mother who
sadly existing
survive him as
the two extremes --
badly coupled in him
and sundered
-- from whence his death -- o -
bliterating this little child "self"

There is an inside joke among language teachers and that is to say, liltingly, "Native speakers disagree..." But I hold translations and translators to a higher standard than one of simply being able to correctly channel word and sentiment. "Translators disagree..." is not a problem to be left alone -- rather it is like solving a crime: The problem must be worked.

Or maybe it is more the artifice in play, like that of building replicas of gothic ruins. There is, you know, a robust aesthetic of ersatz ruins, despite the sniff:sniff of those who claim it all romantic kitsch. For the literal minded, it is more a question of restoration.

We work it, we work it, we end up, still, with over 200 ruinous fragments -- la genèse d'un poème -- about the death of his son. Never does the original take completed form; Never could the translation be more than ego-driven lattice work that might bolster the crumbling brick and stone of the original.

Remember always -- and this is, I think, specific to all of Mallarmé -- that in his originality, even his [soi-disant] completed works, there is a high concentration of negative space: the "irrecoverable state of devastation and destruction" that defines a ruin, n.

Were I to work it instead of admiring the sweat of someone else's brow, I would not be snobbish envers literary history -- This work, in particular, demands it. But how do you work and knead anything beyond "[l]e 6 octobre 1879 mourait de maladie, à l'âge de huit ans, le petit Anatole, fils tendrement aimé de Stéphane Mallarmé"? Where is the literary history in that, beyond the date, beyond the age, beyong the provenance?

This is what William Marsh wants us to know -- that Walter Benjamin informs his translation and that he has been respectful of spatial and architectural elements in Mallarmé through some very successful homophonic and anagrammic schemes. There are dangers in citing the authority of Benjamin here, as I don't see the role of the translator of Pour un tombeau d'Anatole as primary authorship, no matter how solemn the task. At the same time, there is no room for error. On this one, native speakers in no way disagree. The less we can posit through the work of literary history and analysis of style, the more dangerous and fictitious our bold restatements become.

Denials of death and negations of history, the fake piles and slivers of disrepair of plaster and paint, trompe-l'oeil trumped, while what is real and undone, or real and never finished, stands as a testament to death, and a validation of certain history: ruins of roman kitchens, the arches and apses of abbeys and cloisters, the armaments of towers, turrets and battlements ("oh, my!")

The ruin can be exploited as a point of meditation -- and as a place of mediation between those things we all are caught in -- life after the other's death, the unimaginable death of a child. Mallarmé is cobbling together all that he can of the experience, saving in his way his son's life, literally making, and carefully crafting, the artifice that is the tomb for Anatole. This ruin of a tomb wants to make the reader squirm, makes the reader question what is inside verus outside, what is private, what is public, what is visible, what is hidden, and what may well be absent, gone forever.

So, yeah, fearless translator, set yourself up as intrepid author! Just kidding.
It's late and we're all tired.

William Marsh explicates his process:

Drawing impetus from Walter Benjamin's claim in "The Task of the Translator" that "a translation issues from the original--not so much from its life as from its afterlife," the following poems attempt to define the "afterlife" of Mallarmé's Anatole while carefully acknowledging both Auster's work and the notion (again Benjamin) that "a translation, instead of resembling the meaning of the original, must lovingly and in detail incorporate the original's mode of signification, thus making both the original and the translation recognizable as fragments of a greater language." With the intention of honoring both the sense and form of Mallarmé's poem (its mode of signification), these new renderings make use of both homophonic and anagrammic translation tools in constructing the English versions (or harmonies) of the original fragments. Employing a set of devices including anagram, same-sound correlations, exact or near-exact cognates, as well as common etymologies (near-matches of meaning), the poems excerpted here try to rebuild the Mallarmé texts in such a way that both the syntactical variety and the physical shape (letters, words, lines) of the originals are reflected as well in the English.



[sections 1-10] [fragments]




1

enfant sorti de
nous deux--nous
montrant notre
idéal, le chemin
--à nous! père
et mère qui lui
en triste existence
survivons comme
les deux extrêmes--
mal associés en lui
et qui se sont séparés
--d'ou sa mort--annu-
lant ce petit <> d'enfant




an infant dies to
us both--de
monstrates our
ideal, child-man
--anew! father
& mother quietly
entrust existence
survive a son in
the two extremes--
malassociating him
acquiescing separate
--death is more--nul
ling this tiny "self" denied



2

(3
meilleures
comme s'il
était encore--
quelqu'ils fussent,
des qualificatifs
digne--etc.
les heures où
vous fûtes et ne
fûtes pas



(3
better is
he becomes --
that which was,
engraved qualities
dignity--etc.
the hours you
fought but never
fought past



3

malade au
printemps
mort en automne
--c'est le soleil
-----
la vague
idée la toux
2



ailing in
springtime
mourned in autumn
--celestial soul
----
the wave -
idea attacks
2


4

fils
résorbé
pas parti
c'est lui
--ou son frère
moi
je le lui
ai dit
deux frères
---



if he's
reabsorbed
is a-part
it's he
--or his brother
me
shall i
say it
two brothers
---


5

refoulée restée
en flanc--
sur de moi
siècle
ne s'écoulera pas
juste pour
m'instruire




repelled - - resting
in womb--
over me
century
won't roll past
just for
my instruction



6

pas connu
mère, et fils ne
m'a pas connu! --
--image de moi
autre que moi
emporté en
mort!




unknown
mother, a face un
recognized! --
--image of me
other than me
transported in
death!



7

qui s'est réfugié
ton futur en moi
devient ma
pureté a travers vie,
à laquelle je ne
toucherai pas --




what's in refuge
your future in me
become my
purity through life,
which i shall not
touch upon --



8

il est époque de
une
l'Existence où nous
nous retrouverons,
sinon un lieu--
--et si vous
en doutez
le monde en
sera témoin,
en supposant que
je vive assez vieux
_______




it's the epoch of
one
Existence in us
in us retrieved,
is not in lieu--
--& if you
doubt these
mundane
testimonies -
let's suppose that
i live long enough
_______



9

préf.

père qui
né en temps
mauvais avait
préparé à fils--
une tâche sublime

--
< remplir--d'enfant
la sienne--la douleur le désire
de se sacrifier à qui n'est
plus l'emporteront-ils sur
vigueur (homme qui'il n'a pas été)
et fera-t-il la tâche de l'enfant



pref.

father who
eve'n in times
gone bad had
prepared a son--
a touch sublime

--
"the double re
plenished--the child's
his own--the dull hour the desir
ed sacrifice to one who's no
more will triumph over
vigor (man he wasn't to be)
& through it all the task of infancy



10

le but suprême
n'eût été
que partir pur
de la vie
tu l'as accompli
d'avance
en souffrant
assez--doux
enfant pour que
Cela te soit compté
pour ta vie perdue--les tiens
ont acheté le reste par leur
souffrance de ne plus t'avoir




the highest aim
nothing but
to part pure
from life
you accomplish it
in advance
in suffering
all this--gentle
infant so that
This will be counted
part of your due--your kin
have bought the rest by their
suffering the loss forever

Bard College's literary journal Conjunctions publishes innovative fiction, poetry, criticism, drama, art and interviews by both emerging and established writers.

The starting point for the [preceding] poems lies in Paul Auster's excellent 1983 translation of
Mallarmé's long poem, Pour un tombeau d'Anatole, released by North Point Press under the title A Tomb for Anatole.

Crazees

© 2015 L. Ryan

outta date ONE

If these are potential stunning new topics astew, in the stir, a-ruminatin', bubblin' in majestic marinations, enter your guesses as to where we've been hanging out these past three weeks, roughly.  Make your entries in the comment section, being as specific as possible, Dear and Belovèd, Chronically Afflicted Readers!

1.  The top three most complete songs-with-lyrics, unavailable in listenable form, that accompanied our time away, had no discernible relationship to our "vacation spot," a term used entre guillemets because of the highest irony and because you cannot -- glad am i -- get a visual of my tired pseudo-academic visual of the hand meme.  No discernible relationship to my mind, but perhaps to yours, more keen with insight?

Acadian Driftwood -- The Band* ^$
Angel From Montgomery -- John Prine* (w/Bonnie Raitt)
Delta -- CSN*
Lookin' Out My Back Door -- CCR*
I'll Rise  --  Ben Harper*
Mr. Tambourine Man  --  Bob Dylan*
Pancho and Lefty  --  Townes Van Zandt*
I Am Not Waiting Anymore -- The Blind Boys of Alabama*

*With weird abruptions, eruptions, abortions, elisions, allusions, transliterations, and inexplicable circumlocutions; without the intended intrumentation, although we thought to achieve the playing of the fairly simple few in "I Am Not Waiting Anymore";  We also confused a cardiac alarm with a car alarm -- on an armored vehicle equipped with automatic weaponry.

^$In a febrile reworking of two lyrics --

Fifteen under zero when the day became a threat

My clothes were wet and I was drenched to the bone

Been out ice fishing, too much repetition

Make a man wanna leave the only home he's known

Sailed out of the gulf headin' for Saint Pierre

Nothin' to declare

All we had was gone

Broke down along the coast

But what hurt the most

When the people there said

"You better keep movin' on"

Everlasting summer filled with ill-content

This government had us walkin' in chains

This isn't my turf

This ain't my season

Can't think of one good reason to remain

We worked in the sugar fields up from New Orleans

It was ever green up until the floods

You could call it an omen

Points ya where you're goin'

Set my compass north

I got winter in my blood

-- of which aberrant specifics I gladly no longer have recollection, the gulf's mild break to the coast, and the sugared fields breaking bad pointing the sweet way, in urinals and bedpans, our bedclothes wet and foul, I seemed always wet and drenched to the bone, at night taking up "Delta," but in waking fits of warmth, water running, smoothing our roughened legs, electrocution always a threat, monstrous white treaty-breakers (reflections of the high command of the motherland in long white billowing attending coats) directing, driving, monitoring, channeling, channel-blocking, calcium-channel-blocking the pressures of our waters, our various surges of wetnesses, of corporate bodies, of cerebration, of Baudelaire's Spleen, of kidneys and salty urines, of frothy spit, of one sticky, rivulet of blood....

oh, i quit.

© 2015 L. Ryan

OUTTA DATE 2

In Emory Hospital, more specifically the CCU spooky unit, the spooks had the Psych Unit Group A, consisting of a large African-American man, leader of the group, in, oh, so many ways, and three Oriental young women, one interesting, in terms of her dress, possibly in other terms, but I, obnoxious, never gave her a God-lovin' chance... oh, and the other two... well, they did not deserve a God-lovin' chance.  Nor a Lisa-lovin' chance, neither!  Cruel AND racist. Actually, I've no idea, no notion whatsoever where the other two originated from, but my linguistic skills can assure you that their primary languages were in the Pacific Island Rim...somewhere. One ceaselessly applied Cover Girl darkER girl skin make up at roughly 5-minute intervals.  Distracting, to say the least.

I find saying the least impossible.

They found saying the least depressing impossible... until Leader Man took over, with the clear intent of wiping the look of horror off my face, and regaling me of stories of UC-B. He gave me memory tests and told me "I am in charge," and they all clumped out.

Was it an experiment. Was it? WAS IT?



© 2015 L. Ryan

Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels-Devil in a Blue Dress

© 2013 L. Ryan

Two Emails: Mostly to the Beloved TW [*Already* Revised!]

Sorry for messing up the time, older sibling.  It seemed necessary. What's terribly luddite o'moi, though? I have four Playlists that go with it, all the same, meant to differ, meant  to include some of yours, some of Kathryn's, Hank's, an amazingly creative musician friend of his Aviva (and the Flying Penguins ) -- but really all I desire is to figure if, when, and, approximately, where, you'll ever stop trying to figure out which number of personality disorders to limit me to. I'm thinking an ODD number (ar ar!) -- knowing the six most close, both genetically and environmentally, to my family:

Antisocial personality disorder 

Avoidant personality disorder

Borderline personality disorder 

Dependent personality disorder 

Histrionic personality disorder 

Narcissistic personality disorder

          Obsessive-compulsive personality disorder

Paranoid personality disorder

          Personality disorders

Schizoid personality disorder 

Schizotypal personality disorder

So close your eyes, cross five out.  Not fair! They've one labeled "Personality Disorders," as if the APA could BE so powerful.  Harrumph.

I figure that's gotta be -- forever, wherever, however -- after the quiet and the music -- to send Robert one a'them greetings from Tête-de-Hergé home-drivin' Lisa-Irene-Bianca-Fred-Aunt Louisa-Uncle Haddock-my real ass' kickin' friends Alicia Harden, a cowgirl, and another real one who sends those tart lemon cookies from Cape Cod, as real a cow girl as I am, Eljay Nayr ---- WAY!  Then, if it is not taken, by too many crowds of floating, wifting, laughing folk, could I have dibs on a colorized Elvis? One of yours maybe?

Bob's attempt, and the fact that he never deigns to read this blog ["Too many words, kid."] is appreciated by his other siblings, mostly, [probably only] TW, maybe Kathryn and her attached, very "sweet" Joe X; $ those rude genetically sub-related siblings, who read without any talent for irony when needed, and with an excess of it, when a dearth would barely do$.

TW an I unnerstanz, az well az miz kathryn an mister Joe X, with more 'n more clarté 'n clarté, 'n laffter 'n laffter, those whose Appalachian ways wez thanks 'n wez refletz 'n giggelz..

By the way, we can call "Joe X" sweet because it's a direct quote from Sweetie/Grader Boob/Lumpy. Then I had my one-and-only conversation with Joe, and Lo! He is hysterical, and sweet.  He is wise, and sweet. He is understated, and therefore beats my funny to death, and I so enjoy the change. He and Kathryn are like -- I've got nothing -- not oil and water, not peaches and water -- just Joe and Kathryn, and they like to keep it that way.

And the Birth Mother, Jeanette, You Young SRA Readers, is NOT included in any of this, by ANY of you, got it?  For:  There does come a time...  She's earned it, raised her due, now has complete dementia, essential emotional and financial embezzlement, and all the nursing care that I do... and so I know how it sucks and is coopted (except in our house!)  

I look under my TV and I see happy gifts from both my brothers -- the complete Marx Brothers, Deadwood, all the Harry Potters (HANK!), all the LOTR (Bob, one twice!), The Wire, and many other things I watch over and over without admitting. To Anyone. One of the greatest plays we've ever seen (Hank loves plays, whistlingwhistling): The Persecution and Assassination of Jean-Paul Marat As Performed by the Inmates of the Asylum of Charenton Under the Direction of The Marquis de Sade (or Marat Sade)* Don't compromise and get Marat / Sade first.

Separate from the boxes of books, tapes, pictures, patches, wonders I wonders at, and prisms -- I receive TW's tomatoes, peppers (several sorts, textures, heats, respectful seeds, a new way this coming year), but there's nothing like those tomatoes, organic, sun-dried; one comes to know them, as one can, by their tint and translucency.  One is sometimes wrong. Chewiness. Suckiness (What's the positive gardening word?) I'm only in my third year. I soak and pick. It's been great fun, and delicious, so slow we've eaten slow, in complement, compliment.  Then I discovered banana beans. And heavy, and light liquors.Vinegars.Ghee. Polentas. A krap load of sauces, with garlics, and mixed tomatoes, and nuts, cilantro, basils, cumin seed, cumin leaves, oh, and lettuces, lettuce leaves. Oh, we had fun. Not always together. A silly idea doesn't seem so dumb at 3am when there is no one to mock you at the cuisinart, art, art, heh, heh, heh. And a little pesto on the toast ain't so funny after all, eh?  For his part, Fred has become a cauliflower disguiser or presenter, at will, given an in-law-of-sorts' provisions. We keep ém, for safe keeping, in their original boxes.

Back to Brother Bob's email of last week:

Those of of us who recommended the suit remember the face, the voice sincerely asking mostly, okay, only, the Mom, who gave good, not out-of-date advice. It was short, sweet, followed by a "Good luck, Sweetie, we love you. Let us know how it goes."

Clink.
Two icy cold Diet Cokes.
A Christian Brothers Chablis.-- quite possibly the last put to barrel, then bottle.

It's of the mid-70's, I think of, also, even earlier, back in Miami, swimming, water polo, Bob breaking away, me the only one I knew was cycling, playing tennis, softball, loving language, maths.  It was Phillipines-N.C.-Miami-N.C.... then a fairly happy split up. Bob to USF. Kathryn to Peace College. Me stuck in G'boro alone with Mom; Dad in Vietnam.  It was, I've said, without shame, the happiest year of my life. The end of the decade was not so happy. I shipped off to an insane little private college where everyone had too many words, and, that year, great basketball!  Then I decided to live in the mountains with true loonies, addicts, alcoholics, people on parole who drove stick-shifts up mountains, and weirdos. Carrot juices, and steam baths. Other amenities! Then I went back to school(s). Eight, to be exact. One, to be exactly worth it.

In case you were wondering, yes, we knew how not to accumulate, how to pack, quick and well, and how to stay out of each others' way.  Except me. And my "[t]oo many words, kid."

Later separations proved, proofed, punched back down, rose again, a little less, a little more, depending. Lacking stinky mother proofs, that bell jar, some jar stinky talent! (A reference to sourdough proof, don't freak out.)

Bob, before he gave up the moniker "Grader Boob" for "Lumpy," currently a contest too heavy for moi to elaborate, between Lumpy One and Lumpy Two--well, I'll present the little that I know, soon. Not my kind of contest.

I would imagine it was about the time one of Bob's students left this fetching review.  There are  worse. We've ALL received worse!  What "tickles"me, in the Southern sense, is this student's goldarn consistency.

Ryan is a bit harsh on grading and he can be a bit moody sometimes. He will help in anyway he can though with your essays. He does explain everything clearly though. He also expects you to do all the readings he gives. He will get very mad if you don't do that readings.

**********          ***********          **********          **********          ***********

From:  Robert Ryan

Mar 2X, 2015 (X days ago)

Howdy--

Ric just sent some pictures from way back, mid 70s.

One, with me and Steve in front of our vending step van, shows the shift changeover from one driver to the next. He did coffee machines; I did coffee, candy, sodas, and so on.

The other, with the vest and tie, has me in part of the suit I wore on a date with Teri to Bern's Steak House, a well-known eatery. And it was on that date, in that suit, that I horrified a waiter by asking for a well-done steak.

Visibly flustered, he stammered at me, "Sir, I'm not even sure that our chef will cook it that way. May I recommend at most, at most, medium or perhaps medium well."

The horror... the horror.

Who knew that the hair would go and...

Well, no more anecdotes today!

Love,

Bob

[Lisa, here: I believe this is "the suit," bought to take one Teri to dinner to ask her hand in marriage.
Teri declined. Her reason? He lacked sufficient ambition. Repeat after me: the phrase of your choice,
because this is a family blog. I know that, well, Jesus wept, but hardly least of all, for Kathryn, Mom,
and Moi, as well, huddled around the phone, weeping and cursing.The photo, so free of well-done steak
 juice (prob'ly the young Ryan's plan, the man lookin' so unfed, and ain't he got the hood up?)
Lisa, years gone now.]

We'll go with Bob's explanation!  He and Steve were vending machine hippy-dippy
machine refillers, which is where I guess that $+%;;@!) Teri got her ideas about
Ambition.She never followed him as he followed him into his classrooms in 
2015, I guess, the !@)(;;^$.
oops.

*by Adrian Mitchell (Adapter), Peter Weiss (Author), Geoffrey Skelton (Translator)


© 2015 L. Ryan

Chag Sameach

The Feast
By Tuvia Bolton

Editor's note: This is an old Jewish story/joke/metaphor. Versions abound. My favorite is Tuvia Bolton's rendition:

There were once two beggars who used to go around begging together. One was Jewish and the other a gentile. As the night of Passover approached, the Jewish beggar offered to help his non-Jewish friend get invited to a seder (the festive Passover meal accompanied by many commandments and rituals) and get a good meal. "Just put on some Jewish clothes and come with me to the synagogue. Everyone brings home poor guests for the seder. It's easy, you'll see."

The non-Jewish beggar happily agreed. On the first night of Passover they went to the synagogue, and sure enough, both got invited to different homes for the festive ceremony.

Hours later they met in a predetermined place in the local park. But to the amazement of the Jewish beggar, his friend was blazing mad.

"What did you do to me?" He shouted. "You call that a meal? It was torture!! It was hell! I'll pay you back for this--you'll see..."

"What do you mean? What happened?" the Jew asked.

"What happened? As if you didn't know! You Jews are crazy--that's what happened! First we drank a glass of wine. I like wine, but on an empty stomach... My head started spinning a bit but I figured that any second we would begin the meal. The smell of the food from the kitchen was great. Then we ate a bit of parsley. Then they started talking, and talking, and talking. In Hebrew. All the time I'm smiling and nodding my head as if I understand what they're saying--like you told me to--but my head is really swimming and hurting from the wine and I'm dying of hunger.

"The smell of the food from the kitchen is making me insane, but they don't bring it out. For two hours they don't bring anything out! Just talking, and more talking. Then, just what I needed.... another cup of wine! Then we get up, wash hands, sit back down and eat this big wafer called matzah that tastes like newspaper, leaning to the left (don't ask me why...). I started choking, almost threw up. And then finally they give me this lettuce, I took a big bite and wham! My mouth was on fire. My throat! There was horseradish inside! Nothing to eat but horseradish! You guys are crazy....

"Well, I just got up and left. Enough is enough!"

"Ah, I should have told you." replied the Jew. "What a shame! After the bitter herbs is a glorious meal. You suffered so long; you should have just held out for a few more minutes...!"


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The editor again: Jewish history is a seder. We've had our appetite teased with small moments of triumph. But mostly we've had "bread of faith" that our palates can't really appreciate. And generous helpings of bitter herbs.

The lesson? Two thoughts come to mind. You need patience to be a Jew. And since we've swallowed the maror already, we might as well hold out one minute longer and get the feast...

Horseradishes

Herbs for Coughs and Colds, Maror

Maror symbolizes the bitterness of slavery, usually in the form of horseradish mixed
with beets. Having never been a slave, it's hard to be definitive, but it seems unlikely that
 its bitterness is comparable to horseradish. Probably closer to diet Mountain Dew.
This year I mixed the horseradish with a ceviche marinade for tuna and set the fish
over roasted beets.  -- Corey Mintz

Beet Maror Gluten Free

To those who think I dabble in nothing but trivia: Dear Lisa I wanted to pass on an email I received yesterday from Berkeleyan Richard Nagler, who weathered the serial theft of his Wall Street Journal for years with such fortitude. He asked me to share it with you.  Tracey

To the Berkeleyans who have stood by me in this dark and difficult time in my life:   As many of you know, the story of the continual and criminal disappearance of my Wall Street Journal, and my solution to the problem, has been broadcast around the world after Berkeleyside ran with the story. Here’s the outcome: With your prayers and some intense Primal Scream therapy, I am now working hard to put myself back together. The inability to read Karl Rove columns so many times over so many years has left me bereft. Also, just between us, my wife regrets to report that going viral makes one less virile. The fact that the Wall Street Journal editor-in-chief has sent me an iPad with the WSJ App is little consolation for my grievous loss. Rest assured, I do have some Berkeley integrity left. I will be turning over the iPad to left-wing guerillas in an as yet unnamed third-world country, as soon as I have had a chance to test the iPad over the next two to three years. But through this dark episode I have also learned of another theft that threatens the very essence of our Berkeley community. Apparently, there are a few Berkeleyans who read Berkeleyside regularly without paying the minimum suggested $5 monthly subscription fee (I know it's not required, but c'mon). Please God, dear reader, that you may not find yourself amongst this despicable few. For those Berkeley cynics out there who are about to “Comment” on Berkeleyside that this has all been a publicity stunt with nefarious intent, let it suffice to say I have no desire to use my new-found celebrity to profit on or to promote any product or service. What say, Berkeley? Let’s just all “Kick back with a can of COKE®” ©™ and relax. Om sweet Om Richard Nagler

Copyright © 2015 Berkeleyside LLC, All rights reserved. You requested our daily newsletter on Berkeleyside.com. Our mailing address is: Berkeleyside LLC PO Box 5232 Berkeley, California 94705 Add us to your address book

© 2015 L. Ryan
Whose copyright bears more weight?

Good Work: "Void and Compensation (Karaoke Genesis)" by Michael Morse

Please take me seriously. Please.
I wish I could claim that tears fall uphill onto laptops hitched up on knees in hospital beds, the keyboards held by ribs, head cocked by a funky pillow and a cat watching blessed neighbor Michael mow our lawn (need it or not, before dawn or not!). Ah, that slight pause that had Buddy so enthralled was a switch to a mulcher do-dad.  When Michael retired as a High School Football Coach, two things happened: his wife, who kept teaching (some mysterious course) became a bona fide screeching witch and, shortly thereafter, Michael opened a 7-day-a-week landscaping service.  And he included, gratis, all his neighbors -- mowing only.
Buddy has departed. Doesn't like my tears. Or Fred has put out the kibble.
Buddy also likes to eat before he watches, with big round eyes, the bedpan saga.  He doesn't miss a trick. He provides comic relief.  For *me*, at least.
So...before my big announcement, some smaller ones.  My nurse has disappeared.  Hasn't shown up since last Thursday.  I sorta kinda not-so-much liked her. She took my temp and my blood pressure, talked politics, had me sign two papers and left. Made a big deal about how she had 6 more patients to see, and it was always at least 4 pm. One day a bill collector called. That was pleasant for the both of us.
Let's see, what else?
I have two bedsores on mine buttocks, and more on the way, and they're bleeding. Fred is not equipped, let us say. To be fair, with one hip collapsed and the other quite painful, I am not equipped to pull off the ever- lovin' "turn every 20 minutes, turn! turn! turn!" advice that Fred 'n I keep getting chirped at -- without a breath between chirps.
I'll spare you the bowel movement data, as that's Fred's domain, statistics and all. He likes to loom over me, and if any of you can quell that habit, and I AM NOT KIDDING, please do so. He says, booming, looming: "I'm going to have to have to have to call 911 again, you're going to be back in Emory. You remember Emory?  No? Well, it's going to be that nightmare all over again if you don't go to the bathroom." Well, or something a little gentler and kinder.
Pain? Worse, but since Fred and the nurse both mocked my moaning when having to turn on my left hip, I've kept it to muffled moaning and silent tears, and asked them to "please shut up."
And then there's the fact that I am definitely sure I've finally suffered brain damage.
Don't make me go through the various proofs accumulated over the past 3 weeks.  They MIGHT defy physics, or logic, or geometry, or whatever, and cause tears to reach my laptop.
Fred is big on "You've messed up your drugs," because Fred is big on getting mad at me.
And if any of you can quell that habit, and I AM NOT KIDDING, please do so.

I chose this post to repost because it was the last post I could clearly remember and because it was the last beautiful thing I remember sending to Fred -- two poems, and he thought I meant the other one!  Poets, always learning, but never learning to shut up, at least not in this house.

I've finally suffered brain damage.

****************************************************************************************************************************************

Part of the loveliest gift of each day, always full of promise, sometimes a complete, embarrassing failure, sometimes such a triumph as to invoke sacred quiet, or a rowdy fist pump, and often, the kerplop of a spilled diet ginger ale in the wild, waving, anachronistic search for a paper towel with which to wipe it up.

Leave it alone.  Just leave it alone.  Completeness ain't all it's cracked up.

I mention, and plagiarize, from time to time, the Academy of American Poets' project "Poem-a-Day":

Launched during National Poetry Month in 2006, Poem-a-Day features new and previously unpublished poems by contemporary poets on weekdays and classic poems on weekends.

A lovely thing to save in your email listings until that certain time of the day.  Or to stockpile for a few days, if you feel the need to sort, to rank, to wield, that sorta impulse -- which will be deflated nicely by some rhyme internal, infernal, joyous, near, far, or almost failed, on purpose -- which will curl your toes, manicured or fungused [boozed, bruised, cruised, fused, fuzed, mused, oozed, rused, schmoozed, snoozed, soused, used, abused, accused, amused, bemused, confused, defused, diffused, enthused, excused, infused, misused, perused, recused, refused, reused, suffused, transfused, disabused, overused, underused], according to ancient watery rhythms.

Or to open straightaway, a child, or a woman, hair held back by a thirsty towel, face shiny from witch hazel, and whatever signifies a man, intrepid.

Today's Poem of the Day merits.  Deserves.  It shames my verbs, as a matter of course.
"Too many words, kid," Lumpy would say.

Still, still -- the quiet moment together with the need to turn and share the work of this Michael Morse.

Michael Morse is the author of Void and Compensation (Canarium Books, 2015). He teaches at the Ethical Culture Fieldston School in New York City and lives in Brooklyn.

Void and Compensation (Karaoke Genesis) Michael Morse

Since when did keeping things to ourselves help us to better remember them? We need tutorials from predecessors. To restore what’s missing makes a science of equating like with like, or touching small pebbles on a larger mental abacus. We hitch a memory of order to ourselves: From rotating bodies in space comes wind, by which we’re buffeted, cooled, or graced; The sun warms both the sunflower and the angel with whom we might wrestle; We get some lyrics from a higher power and then we act on or for each other. In calculated reunions of broken parts, the latter must always feel the former, inherit both the track and the turn. A situation like an empty orchestra. And when we try to sing above it, intuit, and even in our singing are mistaken— if pitch is something sought and never pure, if latter sounds like something we can climb as opposed to where we find ourselves more recently in our relations, in time, having been left or starting our leave-taking— something happened—someone followed someone. Someone had. Even held. Our formers. We’re doppelgangers, saintly or undone; pick a song and listen for your cue. Here’s the void. Now sing some compensation. About This Poem  “Karaoke translates into English as ‘empty orchestra’—a portmanteau of sorts from the Japanese words for empty (kara) and orchestra (ōkesutora). I can hardly sing a lick and my limited range yields Karaoke choices that are more talky than sung. And yet I love the idea and essence of the act. Singing lyrics that we learn (or read) parallels what we inherit—as family members, as inhabitants and citizens of particular places, and as poets—from whomever and whatever we follow. What follows is a kind of genesis, a making in which we simultaneously borrow and add our own stamp.”—Michael Morse

To Dear TAM: I AM BACK

written as a response to TAM's comment on the last post -- although the last post's comment length entry limit cut it off... so i brought the whole thing here, though i hope not to embarrass TAM by doing so!


TAM -- je suis de retour!  i am back!  after a tour in CCU and then a so-called "step-down" unit, a meeting or two with a psych team (i thought i was bianca), and a stay on the regular cardiac floor, and now home with the flunky-padumpy hallelujah-chorus-wunnerful-wunnerful Baby Dearest (well, whadda ya want, "Mommy Dearest," [ewww] is on the telly!). i feel... a little clearer day by day by day, but can't get out of bed without the help of physical therapists; Poor Dear Darling Fred has Bedpan Duty, Feeding Duty... and seems to have adopted a new duty: Glaring, Slamming Things Duty.  Making Me Feel Horribly Guilty Guilty Duty.  he can't help it.  as i can't help it. as only i can apologize.  anyway... it has been 3 days since i got home.  one day since i was able to get the computer -- late last night... and only late late last night was i able to hook up the laptop to the power cord after the battery ran out.  it took three hours to get through saving the debt collectors, i had missed so many payment deadlines since my bank account was hacked just prior to Fred having me hauled off in the Tête de Hergé night!  of course, i had cancelled all automatic payments, not knowing Fred was going to have me hauled off in the Tête de Hergé night.  then we discovered they would not believe Fred was the true Fred, despite the true Fred knowing the true Moi's Secret Answers to the true Moi's Secret Questions!  Quelle Horreur!  unfortunately and malheureusement, today has been spent, in its entirety: using every bit of my powers of abstinence to keep from ringing Poor Sweet Dear Darling Fred to come and give me a bedpan, to then [pan emptied, gloves off, hands washed!] make a quick sandwich, as the meds of 6 hours ago and the ones i'm about to take are/and will eat through my stomach, as they added some caustic ones in the last cardiac heasepital;  this early afternoon's Poor Sweet Dear Darling Fred proved sweet as can be and we accomplished bedpan and breakfast as if the two went together naturally;  then i managed the Grand Scoot Up In The Bed, always a PhysEd exercise for Moi, involving this crushed left hip and super athletic CRPS right leg, watched curiously by 2 of 3 felines with désapprobation; then, with my blue grabber i promptly knocked over my raspberry-flavored carbonated can of water, which i promptly rescued, half-emptied, with my blue grabber from the floor, risking falling from the bed, which barely beat, by Moi's calculations, the wrath of Poor Sweet Dear Darling Fred -- very, very wrong though i was, still delusional though i must have been to pick up on the expectations of the hearsepital stalinesque nurse-hitlers [who could not understand my reticence to turn on that left hip or have my leg and foot pulses checked with their heavy Man Hands}; then the previously mentioned caustic morning meds hit their full stride and Moi had to rest, plus there was that tingling up and down my left arm, the heaviness in my left jaw and in my left non-existent shoulder, signaling a jaw and shoulder lacklusterhood [moi-swearing to Godly non-existent heart event]; and everything dissolving in the confusion of Fred's good natured return!  enough time had passed that i no longer needed to watch/listen for the phone, tucked neatly in my scrub top, for the Occupational Therapist or the Home Health Aide who were supposed to come today, if today was indeed Friday.  "office hours" are , at least over, and the PT and aide are "dispensed" by the "office." it's nuts.the rest of the day has been spent... currying Local Favors, iffen youse getten mines driftens.  anyway, i am also working on an- oh-so-clever **WELCOME BACK, GUESS WHERE MOI HAS BEEN!** post for the less dear than thou, dear TAM, to be posted ASAP, depending on when and how dinner and the next two rounds of caustic hearspital meds go, as well as precious, beloved time spent with the *undeservedly* maligned Fred.  the post is mrant to be clever and funny, not things i should probably attempt, ever, or, at least, right now, while still hearsepital-paranoid. i musta been psychic, posting this photo of dobby serving as angel to sammy.  wish i had not.  it still makes me cry.  but it still makes me love on dobby and smill up at sammy that much more.  there never was such a kisser and never will be.



© 2015 L. Ryan

"C'est la fille d'un roi; Ce n'est plus toi..."

hello, fellow travelers, pilgrims, and any sister souls who believe going straight takes one due north.
the bianca castafiore in me greets the milanese nightingale in you.

take a moment, sing her aria, belt it out, we can never quite get enough of it, sacré bordel!

Ah! je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir, 

Ah! je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir,

Est-ce toi, Marguerite, est-ce toi? 

Réponds-moi, réponds-moi,

Réponds, réponds, réponds vite! 

Non! Non! ce n'est plus toi!

Non...non, ce n'est plus ton visage; 

C'est la fille d'un roi;  

Ce n'est plus toi...

it's been a long stretch of mounting stupidity in a parabolic zone that seems to require my spinning nucleic presence to metabolize the exact quantity of stabilizing dumb [SD] necessary to preserve the nature of things. when reincarnated as a worm, i hope to play the warmer, mealier role of preserving the things of nature.

all of which is to bring you, from northside hearsepital's most rockin' and a-reelin' bed of music and magic -- 5C-507 -- this newly discovered, swiped from the archives [what to do at 3 am when even the swingingest nurses are dragging their high heels?] photo of saint dobby as he led his friend sammy, my greatest cat love through the last stages of life.  dobby is, and is told daily, that he is 90 % angel, 10% house elf, and with witchy math part rin tin tin, a very tough cat, and a sweet pea.  since buddy's arrival on scene, he has bouts of needing to be the resident Bad Boy, so long as he can drop out of the role after five minutes, tops.

anyway, here they are.  sammy never wanted to be alone in his dying, and never was.

sammy, of all the male anythings I have ever kissed, was the best kisser of them all.
not to overdo things on the originality front, but dobby is given frequent reminders that he's a very good boy.










© 2015 L. Ryan

Five Tools

giacometti: "figurine dans une boite entre deux boites qui sont des maisons"

when i can't deal with my mp3 player, even, as happened this morning -- i have THREE new tools in the distraction/mindLESSness effort.  that's a total, when all is well, of FOUR tools.

if i can read, i now have [ONE] oppen's COMPLETE work, and [TWO] oxford's collection of american poetry. the other big "if," and it's sucky, is that these books are large and heavy, and at the times i need them the most, too large and heavy to be of use.  that's how poetry gets to kick a person in the ass.

if my hands can grip the the little non-skid plastic non-skid plastic corner stick-ons decorating the underside of my workaholic laptop, then if the index and thumb can toss it onto the pillow awaitin' on my lap, then we can try to get to youtube and [THREE] wallow and smile with maru, and now, with and at, maru&hana.

[FOUR] there is almost always an *actual* cat, always there has almost always been a cat, but it's different now.  they take turns checking.  i've begun wearing hoodies to bed, with the hood up. in the beginning, the hoodie went up to aid in sliding up in the hearsepital bed without also dragging hair and whatever sexpot top i sported. then the hoodie stayed up to protect the mp3 wiring, then to keep my head warm, then because it comforted me, and always because it kept my unkempt hair more kempt.  so, anyway, the cats, in turn, snuffle at the perceived entrance to my face, and issue their particular greeting.  buddy, small melodious things. marmy, *::ack::*::ack::* + apologetic purrrrr and approximated headbutt.  dobby, a loud, unmodulated, caricature of a MEOW. dobby always scares me to death, if i have actually achieved sleep, and i squint to perceive a worried pink nose. yes, a nose can worry.  there's more, lots more, to number FOUR, but i'll spare you.

the mp3 player senses change.  it first died and required resuscitation. then twice, then, after a third, almost mechanical, heartless lazarus play, one night found me cursing new curses. "not that song again, no, not again, did we not do that song just, what? twenty songs ago?"

somehow, we were down to 22 songs, and, the odd thing? they were all of an era. go ahead: shiver the creepy-shiver, all at once, as one. here, this will help you pull it off: melanie, candles in the rain. 

ohh, emm, gee, mine people, ohh, emm, gee.

Lay down, lay down, lay it all down

Let your white birds smile up

At the ones who stand and frown

Lay down, lay down, lay it all down

Let your white birds smile up

At the ones who stand and frown.

We were so close, there was no room

We bled inside each other's wounds

We all had caught the same disease

And we all sang the songs of peace.

Lay down, lay down, lay it all down

Let your white birds smile up

At the ones who stand and frown

Lay down, lay down, lay it all down

Let your white birds smile up

At the ones who stand and frown.

So raise the candles high

'Cause if you don't we could stay black against the night

Oh raise them higher again

And if you do we could stay dry against the rain.

so the mp3 now has been reformatted.  and no, i had not been so organized as to save its last incarnation, as each incarnation was a work in progress. which is why we all come back as worms -- don't be fooled.  the universe doesn't save or back up its work, either, not believing it can make a mistake, being the universe 'n all. did i tell you what a god-awful anthropomorphic nitwit i am, and always have been, will be?

so the reloading goes well, and is a pleasure.  

we reloaded less than two-thirds of the former songs, adding a few new ones, and a few that had been removed in fits of pique.  we had a bad day yesterday, breaking beneath the weight of physical, but not mental or emotional, pain.  the perfect day for the betas (in alpha testing, a.b.o.u.t. ready for launch!) ONE, TWO, THREE and FOUR.

don't be jealous because i have five tools in my toolbox.  be happy for me.  and get me a perfect mp3 player, with seamless wireless paid for by, i dunno, you, and enough memory to hold the impossible recordings of all oppen's work as read by oppen, live, before a live audience, and the bazillion poets the oxford edition included, all recorded live, audiences optional.  no podcasts, no video, just the voices. maru and maru&hana are a whole, are "as is." the actual cats stay as they are, too, cannot be improved upon, marmy's breath excepted.  

oh, and with time, i'm sorry to break it to you, the various versions of the serenity prayer fail, usually before giacometti, brancusi, duchamp, modigliani, rothko, beckett. you will have your own sacred list.

now, if the hands fail, well, we'll revisit all this.

© 2015 L. Ryan

Were It Not For The Annoyance Of Waking Up

this is another repost. call it an early anniversary republication, the original date of birth having been 10 february 2014.

Last night, I acted on a promise, I announced a dream come true.  Change.

I wrote to a beloved:

i'm trying to change myself -- overnight.  that's correct:  tomorrow, a new me, a new attitude, no fears, no woes, as much appreciation of the beauty in everything as my spirit can take, and large movements of big muscles.   

and learning.  i need to learn.  travel with some one or some thing to a mutual smile. 

no, i'm not on more pain meds!  and i mean what i am saying.  i've no expectation of obliterating my faults, finding god, becoming good or saintly.  in fact, eliminating those subterranean poofy pink desires, choking them out with some living vegetation, would be a relief.

Believe it or not, so far, so good.  I got up with the dawn and baked.  The batter, itself, was enough to satisfy my pissy pickiness, the evident enemy in all of my attempts to accomplish.  Accomplish, yes, without a direct object.

I learned about curling, with a man who ran quickly to his coat closet and found a supremely cool Norwegian cap, a gift someone he'd had business dealings with had tossed into one of their uber-serious business boxes. He then proceeded to decipher the mysteries of curling as the United States men battled the Norwegians, in their flag-coded, wildly paned pants (held up with a white belt).

In between the workout of blending and stirring and pouring and lifting, and the revelatory moment of the blue circle, the stone guided there by sweeping fools and ice chips, I slept.

During the night, I fell into music, a string of dear songs helping the trip to the other side of bed-shaking spasms.  When necessary, I brokered peace between Buddy the Maine Coon, beset with jealousy and insecurity, and Marmy and Dobby, who both have a hunted, haunted look, and have tufts of their hair scattered over the living room rug.  Buddy knows no other way.  He can only feel loved if he is the only available cat.  The look of confusion on his face is upsetting.  The damage he can do to other cats (and to my forearms) is remarkable.  

Punishing a cat is pointless.  I tried giving him a quick swat, and the bewilderment that resulted taught me to never do that again.  It's love, all the way, or nothing.

Fred the Wise sighs over my efforts to create peace.  "Let them work it out," he says.  He who rarely witnesses the violence.

I prayed for Syria and that felt like a waste of time.  I meditated, mindful of Syria, and left it "there," and that was infinitely better for me, though it did nothing for Syria.

To the same beloved, I shared my greatest Olympic memory, one he should have witnessed firsthand -- an account of Brother-Unit Grader Boob and his amazing physical mimicry:

once he hit 6'4", he perfected an impression of a ski-jumper that was astounding.  size 13 feet firmly planted on the good earth, he'd launch, then actually bring his body, pretty much in a straight line, almost parallel with his imaginary skis, forming a perfect V with body, feet, and floor. hands floating at his side.  then he'd execute that lovely bent knee landing... complete with whistling wind noises. 

Were it not for the annoyance of repeatedly waking up, these would surely be my final days.

© 2015 L. Ryan