A little story about men with beards: I knew Johnny (this isn't Johnny) for several years, all of which time he had a heavy beard. One day I went to a reading at the Poetry Project & said, Who's that? about some guy across the room. That's Johnny! No, that cute guy over there. That's Johnny, my friend repeated, he shaved. We started dating soon after.
I was reading some humorous stories about people's self-diagnoses ("Doctor, I think I've caught that Down's syndrome") & remembered many years ago when it looked like I had pneumonia. I was so tired I couldn't even climb a flight of stairs so my late friend Roberta hustled me over to urgent care. They took a chest X-ray & I went to the doctor's office where my X-ray was pinned to the light box. He pointed—"there & there, yes, pneumonia."
Yeah yeah. I wasn't really looking because I saw the giant tumor that covered half of my chest. "What's that?!" I gasped, wondering how it was even possible I was alive.
"Darlin'," he said, "that's your heart."
Oh.
OK.
Never mind. I'm going home now to take my medicine.
Questions & Answers
Why are you washing your clothes in soup?
That's not soup, that's air.
Why do people live in New Jersey?
That's not exhaust, that's air.
Also, too lazy to search for the pink promise.
When will my leg be better?
The Shadow knows not.
Who is sleeping in my bed?
You, your man, your cat, & soup.
What time is it?
No trick questions! No philosophy! No speculating! Drop that bone & back away!
Where time is it?
I can answer that!
Let's see: my young friend Eli died unexpectedly on Wednesday, apparently from an aneurysm; the shiva was exhaustingly sad. On Friday, my brother-in-law's brother & his wife were killed by a truck that blew through a stop sign; they were the loveliest, liveliest people & their huge family is devastated. On Saturday, I went out for a quick cold drink with a friend on her way out of town for the summer & came home an hour later to find Johnny passed out in his chair. Lucky me to have a medic upstairs. His blood pressure was 67/36 & he could have died if I'd been out much longer. This was probably due to his having worked out in 100° heat without hydrating sufficiently. When I came in to my office this morning to find a big mess where a big chunk of ceiling fell, it felt like the universe maybe thought I hadn't noticed what's been going on. But I have! Believe me, I have. I'm heartsore & weary.
Thursday Update: But wait! There's more! Old pal from college, John McCarthy, died yesterday from pancreatic cancer. A lovelier, more shining person there never was. He was openly gay so early (1970) that I almost didn't even know what it meant. He was always, utterly himself & therefore kind & accepting to everyone around him. Beautiful man.
The highest patriotism is not a blind acceptance of official policy, but a love of one's country deep enough to call her to a higher standard.
~ George McGovern
When Russell Means died the day after George McGovern (Oct 21 & 22, 2012), I'm pretty sure it was the only time two South Dakotans led The New York Times obituaries.
I have admired Senator McGovern since I was a kid. The best of the best.
Also, it is too frigging hot.
Debbie & I were at an American Legion game because her boyfriend (who became a high school football coach) was playing. I remember sitting in the metal grandstand behind 3rd base, staring hard at that big full moon, thinking I would see those men hopping around on it. Thinking that we were here & they were there. I had never taken a science class & really didn't know how ridiculous that was.
From my diary:
Today is the most significant date in the history of mankind—man landed and walked on the moon. My God! Right now I'm watching them! At 4:17:42 EDT, Neil Armstrong & Buzz Aldrin became a part of history. I'm seeing history. Of all the thousands of years man has existed, it was right now that this happened. Men have been dreaming of the moon all those years, & it's now, when I'm 17 years old, I Elinor Nauen am alive—imagine what will be going on when I'm old. It's familiar, because it's basic to science fiction that the moon is a space station but this is real. To me it's incredible, but Varda & kids her age (7) will grow up with this, take it for granted. I now feel old. Oh God. Men are on the moon. Men are on the moon.
And now it's 50 years later, just like that, and I AM old. And even though I said it clumsily at the time, it WAS thrilling to be alive for something historic & wonderful.
He was a good-looking black hipster who was also a very conservative Orthodox Jew. He read Torah beautifully & had an eidetic memory. He tried to make me see the different shades of black skin. One year on Yom Kippur we walked to the East River, talking intensely, & agreed that that was the highlight of the holiday for both of us. Seriously fun.
Eli died unexpectedly yesterday.
It's hot & we sleep. One of this little loving machine's best qualities is that the minute I get into bed, he hops in & snuggles between me & Johnny. It's not always the best quality when it's 100° out but I love it, & that he starts to purr the second he comes near us.
Old Person Poem in Two Parts
1)
my mother asleep
in her hot
nursing home
I sit
like a three-day airport delay
waiting
she's not dying—
it's not a vigil—
no one relieves me
she is 95, she is dying
slowly
I can't—
long enough to be—
patient, to be an ant
on the last peony
2)
the very old mostly sleep
the half-old kill time
the young dash to a brewery
when I was young
I smoked pot all day
it takes a wheelchair to get my thoughts to the table
Bombs and pistols do not make a revolution. The sword of revolution is sharpened on the whetting-stone of ideas.
~ Bhagat Singh, Indian revolutionary hanged at age 23
Bombs & pistols also don't make a public policy, or make for a comfortable time of it, or much else in fact. And if people had sharper ideas, bombs & pistols would be less prevalent, no?
Pigeon holing sounds dirty, like cornholing, which is in fact only beanbag toss. Who would put a pigeon in a hole? & why? What is a pigeon hole? When did the pigeon go into the hole? Did it want to? Is it still there?
Is "hole" a dirty word, is that it? Ace in the hole, to buttonhole someone, burn a hole in one's pocket, watering hole, hole in the wall, hole in one.... Nope, they're all OK.
So?
Little red rooster, they treat him nice
He ain't laid an egg in all his life
I'm going away somewhere before long
Fantastic to take the great Ed Foster to his first-ever baseball game, & to sit in the first row. He understood it more quickly than any other newbie I’ve gone with. (I often think about Endi, from Sarajevo, who stared fiercely for a few minutes & then announced, “I understand! Nine against one.” He sat back smugly & didn’t pay attention until he suddenly noticed that the bases were loaded. Which confused him to the point where he lost interest altogether.) Ed, though, never took his eyes off the game, asked a few questions (he started at “which one’s the shortstop?” but pretty quickly was asking sophisticated questions that showed he really grasped what was going on) & immediately put on his souvenir t-shirt.
One of the pleasures of baseball is thinking about why I like it. Today’s reason: with baseball you don’t have to have a stance, you don’t have to proceed. You’re just there, in a pleasant fog, untimed. You don’t have to be productive or thoughtful. You just have to watch. You just have to be present.
Why don't I get out of town more often? It's unbelievably quiet here. I breathe. I read a few pages. I look up & breathe.
Many human beings say that they enjoy the winter, but what they really enjoy is feeling proof against it.
~ Richard Adams
For sure, among the many things I love about winter is being indoors, preferably with hot chocolate, watching the flakes come down. But there's so much more.
I'd guess that it's these hot days of July when people most (think they) enjoy winter?
I love fireworks & the years when we can see it from our roof usually satisfy me in a primordial-fire ooh-aah way. I have memories from decades. The assortment (snakes, roman candles, sparklers: Safe for Kids) we'd buy from Rich Brothers—just driving an unfamiliar road outside the city limits was exciting. Hitchhiking home to Maine & crossing Pennsylvania during the Bicentennial, with fireworks a few miles off the highway in every little town, me sitting up high in a semi, wondering. My birthday fireworks one February on Chinese New Year. Stopping with Eileen at a giant place in South Carolina, where we separately spent the same amount of money & bought almost the exact same things. I could write the story of my life in firecrackers & bottle rockets.
They were as beautiful as ever last night but alone on my roof, I couldn't enjoy them aesthetically for thinking about tanks & camps & despair.
Khruschev's Hat
Harry Truman is sizing up Khruschev's hat
he remembers it
from their days
in the rodeo
he advised him to get rid of it
now he is thinking
about kicking Khruschev
in the head
lie down, Nikita, he taunts, & I'll do it
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
I love this guy (by which I mean this poem) & it seems like the right thing to post on Independence Day, dunno why.
That's one hole too many & the top's stretched out.
Maybe I'll throw away something else some day.
It is not necessary that you leave the house. Remain at your table and listen. Do not even listen, only wait. Do not even wait, be wholly still and alone. The world will present itself to you for its unmasking, it can do no other, in ecstasy it will writhe at your feet.
~ Franz Kafka, The Zurau Aphorisms
What more is there to add.
Paving First Avenue. Now they're putting down a zillion lines for traffic. I don't know what all those boxes & stripes are supposed to mean. Does anyone? (I'll try to remember to take pictures.)
I once bought a lutefisk TV dinner for the plastic cover with its scan of the lutefisk & potatoes. I threw the food away many blocks from me.
Y'all know about lutefisk, right? Cod cured in lye, a Scandinavian "delicacy." My dad had his office in a small building called the Nordic Hall, where the Sons of Norway had their lutefisk dinners. I am here to tell you that lutefisk smells awful. I got Myron Floren's autograph at a Sons of Norway event. Only one person, my accordion-playing friend Rachelle, was every excited about this revelation.
I also had a book of lutefisk cartoons that to my chagrin has long since disappeared. The only one I remember was a golden-arches fast food McOlson's LutefiskBurgers, with the display "1 sold." (Oh my, there's one copy available at Amazon for $1,999.99. Free shipping!)
Finally found the postcard of our front door (see June 25). (Does this mean I can stop searching'n'cleaning?) Our super, Jeff, made the sign. I still am astonished that it worked. That was pretty much his entire success as super.
Jeff, not yet 60, is now living in a nursing home in Maine, his memory destroyed, I assume from HIV. The last time I spoke with him he didn't know who I was or any of our mutual friends. Several others have died & I think only Maggie & I still live in the Pound from those days.
When Sam Shepard died almost 2 years ago, I looked high & low for this photo of him. Today I looked everywhere for a "don't piss here" postcard & found this photo. Alex was filming a documentary on Kerouac & Shepard was one of the people we interviewed.
Not just the neighborhood, that’s my front door. The graffitti won’t be there long, if our landlord’s recent (fency!) past is anything to go on. Long ago, when the area was much less bustling, the super had to post a sign on our door: “don’t piss here.” Which worked, to my surprise. No one ever used our doorway as a urinal again. Someone made a postcard of the doorway. I’ll find & post it.
We all know that prime ministers are wedded to the truth, but like other married couples they sometimes live apart.
~ Saki
Seems like a good reminder as half the countries in the world seem to be choosing leaders, in one way or another.
It's the summer of adventure! Robyn up for anything & today it was the Conservatory Garden. The neighborhood around the train hints at the East Village from my early days. The birds—wren? nuthatch? sparrow?—bathe with obvious enjoyment in a fountain. Something violet in a strip of white & red. It's OK that I don't know what I'm seeing. I see it.
Water Heron Rock
Rock standing still
looks no closer
than water
rushing
great blue heron
intent on dinner
ignoring our desire
that it spread
shadow wing
over
mushy leaves
mill ruin
dog path
Carolina wedge
not-quite-cloudy
sky
When JetBlue emailed me to say my return flight from Ecuador had changed, I noticed it left Ft Lauderdale 3 minutes earlier than before & they had put me in a different seat. Much to-do later, I was all set.
The next day Willis pointed out that the flight was actually a whole day earlier, not just three minutes.
You can kill a man, but you can't kill an idea.
~ Medgar Evers (1925-63)
Do young people know who Medgar Evers was? Mississippi civil rights activist, the state's field secretary for the NAACP, a World War II veteran. After the Brown decision in 1954, he was denied admission to the University of Mississippi Law School, but was instrumental in the eventual desegregation of "Ole Miss" in 1962. Assassinated. His widow spent 30 years pursuing Byron De La Beckwith, who'd been acquitted by an all-white jury—Beckwith was finally convicted 30 years later & died in prison, still an unrepentant segregationist, from all accounts.
Marble Cemetery looking towards 3rd St, 8 a.m. today. I don't know that I've ever seen it so green. Every spring, the magnolia tree blossoms briefly & I wonder how many more times I'll see it.