Loved Emily Nemens' The Cactus League. Everything about baseball, with a little actual baseball thrown in. Read it!
Meeting Emily last month inspired me to sign up for all the MLB radio broadcasts. I turned it off for a minute, at a 4-4 Yankees-Brewers tie & 5 minutes later the Yankees had scored 7 runs.
My life of baseball & driving is drifting back...
I'm trying to ignore war, technology, climate change, economics, elections, this week's trial of the century, etcetera (etcetera), by not writing about it here. I don't have any insights that I didn't strip from all the newspapers & magazines I read. My cozy life is where I'm staking my days. My beloved, my team, the poetry I read & write, the distant dream of learning to yodel. It's all I can do. (Oh, & a little community organizing.)
While I'm not much of a weather guy (except for snow. I love snow!), I'm appreciating the perfect day today: hot with a chilly breeze. Incandescent tulips. Sprightly clouds. Spring is everything all at once.
As Ted Berrigan wrote, "And if the weather pleases me, I'm happy every day."
We got the sign made in 1983 in Ocean City, Maryland. It came down when they put up a new door & Keith (pictured), who takes care of things & works in the store downstairs, glued it back up a day or 2 ago. People sometimes stop me coming out of the building: "Did Pound live here?!" I don't tell them the real reason for the sign. We would see all those buildings with their fancy-ass names: The Van Gogh, The Dakota, The San Remo. Why shouldn't we have a name, we thought, & why shouldn't we be able to say we live at the pound.
Note: I forgot to write in advance that I'd be off 2 days for Passover. Not that it's over. Just 5 more days of the holiday of affliction.
The meaning of life is to find your gift. The purpose of life is to give it away.
~ Picasso
I thought, Hmmm, that sounds a little too tidy for Picasso. Did a little more digging.
The purpose of life is to discover your gift.
The work of life is to develop it.
The meaning of life is to give your gift away.
~ David Viscott, psychiatrist and talk show host in the 1980s & 90s
from Finding Your Strength in Difficult Times: A Book of Meditations (1993)
There's been a lot of crappy stuff happening lately, but having & seeing old friends more than makes up for it. Seeing what a long way we've come... reminiscing about significant moments & small ones... knowing all the names no matter how long-winded the story... knowing that we've had each other's back all this time. It's great & the rest seems petty & unmentionable.
The pigeons made a nest & actually laid TWO eggs. One pigeon is the same one, but with a new mate. Everything was fine this morning at 9 but when I came back a couple hours later, the nest was gone & the eggs smashed on the ground. I assume the new super destroyed their nest & eggs. Cruel. Unnecessary. The birds were as upset as I was ~ it's easy to identify the cries & gestures of distress. In case they try again, I taped a sign to their ledge: PLEASE let Walter Pigeon & Rita Dove roost in peace.
I moved into the Ezra Pound the same month Jimmy Carter was inaugurated & am now the person who has lived there the longest. It was easy to get an apartment & cheap. I don't know where people on SSI live these days but back then Bobby & Lucky, who were a couple, had their own adjacent apartments. I asked Lucky once how he got that nickname. It wasn't enough that his real name was Homer, I must have figured. He lit up: I really am lucky, he said. I have enough to feed my pets, & I hardly ever need to borrow more than $20 to get through the month.
Hearing of the recent death of Hall of Fame manager White Herzog (who managed the Cards in the 1985 World Series), I thought of this poem of mine from the same year:
Game 4, American League Championship Series, October 12, 1985
Bases loaded no outs & pitching on a mere 2 days rest
Dave Stieb looks so desperate I chew my fingers as tho
at a Stephen King movie, I can't watch alone!
so call Steve, who's sleeping
but amazingly enough Marion has the game on
not however imagining poor Dave
is as hounded as he looks to me
talk turns to tomorrow's reading
—oh man he just walked in a run—
I haven't really been watching you understand
typing all day
nothing like a reading to burrow for poems
Steve's a little depressed, Marion says,
he has to finish
all his poems
Yeah, I agree, I have about a million works
that're terrific till late innings then stop short
I'm getting a stomachache
watching Stieb claw around for help
And so is born another million-dollar scheme
The Relief Poet!
who'll come in at the end with a trick pitch
witty poignant heat
& finish off your poem tidy up your poem
getting credit for a save of course
Then I remember for Marion
the incredibly short shortstop
the Royals used to have was Freddie Patek
& we 2 happy geniuses hang up
as Tom Henke comes in to get the inning's last out.
Another nest, another egg, another worry.
Can I love again, knowing what love can lead to?
This time around, they'll have to find their own food. It was way too messy & eventually the original two pigeons brought home too many friends.
For progressive people the present is the beginning of the future. For conservative people the present is the end of the past.
~ Karl Mannheim (1893-1947), Hungarian sociologist
And as we progress through our lives, we often find a spot where we would like the present to stop. "I'm good, let's stay here."
When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd,
And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,
I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
159 years since Lincoln was assassinated. Sadder because another assassinated pigeon & I'm afraid it's my baby, my darling PiJean. The dead bird is on its back & torn open so I can't see it's feathers to tell if he's one I know. I thought I'd seen PJ since there was a body but now I'm not sure. What a terrible witness I would be. Read Whitman's poem, everybody!
An old friend inexplicably sent me a "personal fireplace" ~ so far I haven't found the bio-ethanol fuel it requires or for that matter, instructions on how to put it together that ensure that I can, in fact, put it together. But it will be fun if I do manage to assemble it, or more likely, get someone to do it for me.
Her reading last night was so riveting that she used up all the words in the world. There's nothing for me to say except read her!
Much as I love winter, I also love changes in the weather & getting new seasons regularly. The last couple days have been top 10 ~ not too hot & lots of spring flowers & flowering bushes with their profligate beauty. I have been inveigled by spring into abandoning snow! Happy to report that I went down 2nd street to enjoy the tulip tree in the Marble Cemetery, which I managed to miss last year. How many more times will I get to see that tree in its pink & white Fragonardness? I used to believe I would die because I would never read Ivanhoe, that there was a limit to the books I would ever get to. And then on the 3rd (or 4th or 5th) try, I fell into that book & gulped it up in one sitting. Now I measure mortality by how many more springs I'll have on 2nd street. (Hoping there's still quite a few.)
In 1986, we went to Coney Island to see Halley's Comet & bury my turtle, Happy. We saw the comet in the general sense that we looked where the park ranger told us to. Yesterday's eclipse was along the same lines. I guess I saw it, given that I was on the roof at the time they told us it would be happening. Apparently you had to be in the path of totality to appreciate it, but I'm content in not having gone farther than upstairs. We had quite enough natural phenomena with last week's earthquake, thank you very much. Besides, I did feel the primitive superstition: the world is ending when dark marches into day.
Cher Ami and Major Whittlesey, by Kathleen Rooney, is a novel based on the true story of homing pigeons and the Lost Battalion of World War I. Tragic, as pretty much everything about that war was, but also soaring (no pun intended). It was recommended to me because of my new-found love of pigeons, and I'm glad I read it.
When things are working right, you don't give them a thought. When they go haywire, it's a different story. I used to change the oil in my car as a superstitious guarantee that something worse (more expensive) wouldn't fall apart. What little & easy thing can I do that will coax my excellent sleep back? For the last two days I've barely gotten out of bed. Am I caught up? Can one catch up? If you start saving $$ at a mad pace, will you have as much as your peer who's been socking it away since she was 30? Can you compare sleep to anything else? If I didn't drink water yesterday, & today I drink twice as much as usual, am I caught up? Or am I simply delirious because of all the non-hours in the sack.
For the third time (that I recall), Johnny left his phone on a bench. Once it was a bus stop, twice it was the same bench between Ave A & us. For the third time, a kind person made sure he got it back. Last night, after it wasn't where he left it, I called Johnny's number & Israel (my new best friend) said he was at Stanton & Ridge. Take your time, I'm here, I'm waiting for you, he added. I practically ran. Where's Ridge Street, Johnny asked when I got home. It's almost not in our neighborhood, way east of Clinton. No Israel.. I called again. Stanton & Eldridge, which is right across the street from us. Where's Ridge Street, Israel asked. Don't rush, he repeated, it's all good. He was there, we hugged, I hugged his beautiful girlfriend. All was good.
But it's driving me crazy that this keeps happening. Johnny seemingly can only think of one thing at a time, & it's usually dinner, & not that he put his phone down on the bench instead of in his pocket. Apparently people lose their phones on an average once a year, so maybe it's not as dire & senile as it seems. (I've never lost my phone.) What can he do to put this in the front of his mind?
One of PiJean's parents is dying on the stoop right outside my door. I didn't mean to love them so much. I didn't think I would be so sad. PiJean and the other parent are keeping a broken vigil.
... that has an exclamation mark in the title? Really, if Bullitt didn't need one, why would Chicken for Linda!? For some shameful reason this reminds me that long after we were together, I heard Johnny reading from his early 20s. He had such a New Yawk accent. I knew I wouldn't have gone out with him if he had still sounded like that. The movie I may or may not go to is also in French. And animated.
I sat in the new coffeeshop at 2nd & St Marks for a while & even looked at photos of its past incarnation before I fully realized this was the Gem Spa. It sure made me miss Ted & running into people buying newspapers & magazines & violet lozenges. New York stays New York even when nothing of New York remains. Like all of us, I suppose.
Honest people, mistakenly believing in the justice of their cause, are led to support injustice.
~ Elihu Root (1845-1937), U.S. Secretary of State, Nobel Peace Prize recipient.
In an excellent article, "The War at Stanford,"* Theo Baker, a sophomore at Stanford and already the recipient of a George Polk Award in Journalism, writes:
The real story at Stanford is not about the malicious actors who endorse sexual assault and murder as forms of resistance, but about those who passively enable them because they believe their side can do no wrong. You don't have to understand what you're arguing for in order to argue for it. You don't have to be able to name the river or the sea under discussion to chant "From the river to the sea." This kind of obliviousness explains how one of my friends, a gay activist, can justify Hamas's actions, even though it would have the two of us—an outspoken queer person and a Jewish reporter—killed in a heartbeat.
As always, we have to learn again what we already know.
*Link available for 14 days.