If This be New Year's Day, Can Spring be Far Behind?

Had the sweetest dream this morning: I was going out for a walk, despite a mild shower, and discovered that it was spring and all the trees were in leaf, in bloom. One, filled with white blossoms, made me laugh out loud. I woke myself up giggling.

My daughter (avid gardner) says when she awakens on New Year's Day she always thinks 'In one month there will be daffodils!'

Reading

Been a long time since I have written here, as my friend Jen kindly reminds me from time to time.

Great aha moment: this week I realized that the older you are the more money you need. And I don't mean for trips to Monaco.

Also, just now, thinking that one of life's greatest pleasures is knowing that I have a wonderful new Rankin waiting for me, Bleeding Hearts. It is not a Rebus (can't have everything) and the first person narrator is a hit man, but hey, it is Rankin at his deliberate casual best.

I have read quite a pile of books since writing here over 2 months ago. Some I want to note.

I am debating whether to make any New Year's resolutions. Last year I resolved to read more poetry and laugh more. If the resolution game gets any more serious than that, I know I won't follow through. I am looking forward to the new year--aside from the poetry and a few laughs, 2006 was not an upper.

ION, my 10 year old granddaughter just won her first game of Continental. Yahoo! I used to play that game with some cutthroat players and it is a challenge, whatever one's age. I am impressed.

A Spot of Bother

Mark Haddon's book gave me a lot of pleasure. Like the Crusie and the Homes, this is a book I would own and reread. I love it when a book is so funny that I just laugh out loud, wherever I am reading. Doesn't embarass me, even if I am on the bus. Or maybe most especially if I am on the bus, since bus riders tend to be in such dreary moods. So, that's to recommend it. It is a romcom. After I got well into the Hall family craziness, I checked out Haddon's credentials, on the book flap. It did not surprise me to read that he has won prizes for his TV screenplays. There were moments toward the end which smacked loudly of being scenes contrived for a TV series. It all worked up to a crescendo--went from the quiet sort of English humor which George's line about "a spot of bother" typlified, to utter mayhem. I did love the book but hated the ending. But as Forrester said, endings are always unsatisfactory. I was reluctant to part ways with the Halls. The blurb tells me there are other Haddons to be had. So I am going looking for those, since this one brought me such pleasure.

Donuts

What are the odds that I would read two books in a row, both chosen at random, that revolve around donuts?

Even stranger is that first one was a Jennifer Crusie, Bet Me,and the second one was by A. M. Homes, This Book Will Save Your Life.

My daughter is a Crusie fan and sent over Bet Me. I don't ordinarily read romances but I thought what the hell and then read it every free minute and finished it in about 24 hours. All the while I kept thinking 'what am I doing?' alternating with 'she is really a smart writer' and 'brilliant' and 'they should make a movie of this.'

The next book on the stack was the Homes. It was one of those mystery books. That is, a book I put on hold because I had read something about it which struck me, sometime, somewhere. I could not recall anything which would suggest why I might like a book with a title like a self-help book. (Not that I have anything against self-help books--a couple of those may have saved my life. The jury is still out.) I picked it up, began to read it and soon was completely involved in the picaresque quest of Richard Novak. I read it as fast as possible right to the end (yeah, like the Crusie) in about 24 hours.

I got the feeling while reading the Homes that she herself just may have an idea about her book being turned into a movie. But that aside, I was intrigued with Homes' writing, her completely believable characters and the poignancy of Novak's dilemma of how to live after becoming completely numb. How to relate to human beings other than his cleaning lady. His primal scene with his son Ben was a no-holds barred view of what people in families can do to one another.

In her aknowledgements at the end of the book, Homes cited people who inspired her and mentioned Amy Hempel, who is one of my favorite writers. (I keep buying copies of Reasons to Live as gifts for people.)

All the while I was reading This Book Will Save Your Life I kept thinking that her style was so familiar. Homes strings together these odd scenes, each more poignant than the last. Short vignettes, each with impact that is very reminiscent of the emotional blows of Hempel.

If you read it, let me know what you think of the ending. I am hoping for a sequel.

Oh, about those donuts. In the Cruisie they are Krispy Kremes. In the Homes they are gourmet donuts, hand-crafted by a fellow named Anhil. Enough said.

Music to Bead By

After a long hiatus from beading I did a major piece today--beading to Kitaro's Ancient. If you like the city sounds of fire engines and police sirens smoothed into the scary sounds they use in horror movies, then Kitaro is a good pick for a quiet afternoon of crafting. I say that somewhat tongue-in-cheek--I like his sweeping high-pitched whirling trills. Reminiscent of Suzanne Chiani's Velocity of Love,another fave.

The piece took about eight hours, total, and involved lots of wire manipulation. My wire manitpulation skills are rusty, no pun intended. I rarely step out of my comfort zone, when beading. Spell that "d.u.l.l" This was definitely a reach, and though I was not completely satisfied with the finished piece, after I got into it, I started having fun. There was quite a bit of making lemonade, so I played--and the play gave me new ideas to build on.

Maybe I won't hide out so long, before tackling another complicated piece. Put on another Kitaro--he served me well today.

Moby

I rarely recall how I "discovered" a book or CD. But however I happened on Moby--oh, yeah, I do remember: there was a piece on Pure Moods, Love of Strings, that impressed me so much that I sought him out and with such flimsy info, happened on 18, which I have been listening to now for days. The surprise was that many of the songs are familiar and I loved them before ever playing this CD, without knowing anything at all about Moby. But what great fortune, to be able to play this CD whenever I so wish.

Fall Blues

The blackberries I picked this afternoon in my back yard are fat and juicy--nearly twice as large as the last ones, a week ago. The hot sunny days and a few light rains made the difference. There are more coming on, but they may be as minute as those others--rain yes, sun? doesn't look like it.

Which brings me to the subject of this post: Fall Blues. Not because of the rain. I have grown to love all the different kinds of rain we get here in the Pacific Northwest. But the last few days I only had to glance out the window and know it is fall. And I feel gloomy. Don't like the thin insubstantial light out there. Mingy Northern light. Torturing myself, I think of Mediterranean light at this time of year--illuminating the aqua-trimmed cream-colored buildings in Nice, for example. No consolation, but certitude--confirmation that the light out there in my back yard is thin, weak.

No doubt a model of the earth and the sun would illustrate the scientific explanation for this phenomenon I fret about. But knowing pragmatically that it is perfectly predictable would not comfort me.

I have been mooning around for the past week and would like to say that it is all because of fall blues. Unfortunately not. I haven't slept well for over a month--in pain, tossing and turning to try to find relief. Waking up and not really awake--in a fog. I am only half with it and feel I am not doing anything that can be remotely described as productive. Just keeping this place from going to hell in a hand basket saps what little energy I have, whine.

So here are the blues and here I am, shiftless from lack of sleep, accomplishing zilch! Blues heart and soul.

Arthur

I turned on AMC while eating my breakfast and there was Dudley Moore, spotting Liza Minnelli stealing a tie. It's a comedy, right?--the heir to a billion falls for the would-be-actress shoplifter. Pretty predictable stuff. Then there is this scene at the hospital where he takes care of his valet/guardian, John Geilgud, terrified that he may die and leave him. Moore transforms the hospital room--recreating no doubt the valets own bedroom--and orders in kippers and eggs. He hams it up with cowboy hats and toy pistols, a basketball and a toy train engine. I cry. That is love.

Re-Entry

Long time no blog. I am just flexing my muscles here--preliminary stretching for the marathon ahead.

Since the last entry I went on vacation, my oldest grandchild turned 15, another is now 10 and, sadly, my son and his wife separated.

I have just diddled around for the past month, working in the house, working in the yard, emailing friends and family and just generally celebrating summer.

I vacationed in Utah, which might sound like an odd place to vacation in August, but I was in the mountains where it is cool, not down in the valley where it is generally in the 90's at least every day.

Maybe this is the odd part--while in our time-share condo I watched episode after episode of Startrek Voyager with an extended family grandson--and loved them. (No commercials!) So much so that when I went to my wonderful library and saw a novelized version of Flashback on the paperbacksforgrabs shelf, I grabbed it. I was surprised to find it fairly well written. A "real" novel. The story did become a bit convoluted and repetitious, (those script writers!) but I stuck with it. I would pick up another, for a summer read. (It was perfect for waiting in line, or riding the bus.) I think my having seen about 20 episodes of the original series was an aid to reading that book--I could easily see and hear B'Lanna, Tuvok, Neelix, Kes, Chakotay etc., although Flashback was not one of the episodes I had watched.

What was memorable about the book? I started watching Startrek the Next Generation with the aforementioned grandson when he was only 3 or 4. I like that series because it was relaxing and it espoused values I could appreciate. In each episode they solved galactic problems while embracing compassion and respect for other cultures. Voyager continued in that same vein. Plus, of course, here was a woman at the helm. I can recall that having a woman as Captain back then was controversial. The book Flashback no doubt follows the original script religiously. As usual, the writer of the series is gently imaginative, contriving scenes underpinned by equally imaginative science. The plot is not merely explosive action--at every juncture there is a moral decision to be made--a decision of conscience, even if the character making the decision is a mere holographic display--the doctor.
Well, it is truly humorous that of all the books I have read this summer the one I write up is a Startrek novel. Hmmm. Will have to do some others justice.

Old Wine Shades by Martha Grimes

After reading aforesaid book, I loaned it to a neighbor who handed it back soon after, practically spitting: "I hated it!"

I was not surprised. I think Grimes has very idiosyncratic appeal. She is whimsical. Romantically whimsical, despite the ugly things that happen to people in the course of her books. Some people prefer Ian Rankin and don't get Reginald Hill. That is OK. I don't care if some people hate her books, just as long as she keeps writing them for her devotees, like moi.

Yes, I noticed that Carol Anne was reading fashion magazines Yet Again, and that reference to Wiggins' disgusting charcoal drink, and that there were kids and dogs yes again and that Melrose had a star turn and complained of Aunt Agatha Yet Again. Grimes repeating herself is not annoying--she is soothing. Those are all old friends, including Aunt Agatha, after all. If they don't change, that is not a minus. Everything else in life is changing, but we can sit down to a mystery by Martha Grimes and experience the familiar, and bask in the care she lavishes on characters we like every bit as much as she must do.

I wonder if it was Mungo's antics with the kittens that put my neighbor off?

Drunken Master

Just watched Drunken Master. From the sublime to the ridiculous? I dunno. Between packing for a short vaca and beading new necklace for said event, the movie went down a treat. One long cowboy saloon brawl, with Jackie Chan as the rude, crude and impudent son of a Kung Fu master who misbehaves all the time, sort of like the proverbial preacher's son. The complex Kung Fu choreography gave him opportunity for many comedic moments, as for example when he pretends to be Miss HO, one of the drunken Kung Fu goddesses. Perfect! What a talented ham! And, what's not to like?

Two old movies

Yesterday I watched Annie Hall, with many interruptions--such as four hours of work. I have not seen it for decades so I was surprised at how much I had forgotten. It is still an amazing work. Brilliant. Very funny and inventive. Few films yank in the viewer the way it does--with the street interviews, the scenes from Alvie's childhood, and his stand-up bits. The throw-away lines were hilarious--for instance, their dividing their buttons and his being all 'Impeach Nixon, Impeach Reagon, etc.'

I recall someone criticizing Keaton's acting as not "really being acting," when she won her Oscar. Hah!

What a sad surprise, too, how moving the ending was--Alvie's loss of that wacky girl was so typical of losses of that period. Any period?

Annie Hall evoked a time and a style so familiar....We stood in line to see Zelig and were just as annoying, for sure, as that guy in line for The Sorrow and the Pity, discussing of course Woody Allen's oeuvre.

The other movie which I saw today, is Say Anything. I missed it when it first came out, though I was always taken by the emblematic scene of him with the getto blaster, in the previews. The film was not predictable and it was memorable. I loved the ending that left me--and I would assume most viewers--wondering if Lloyd Dobler's and Diane Court's romance lasted even as long as Alvie's and Annie's.

Migraine City

I have had a migraine every day now for seven days. Which is probably some sort of record. (Though I seem to recall having a migraine off and on for several weeks, this one is with me when I wake up, every morning.) Oh, I take a drug which ameliorates the pain, but the headache hovers there behind the pain, waiting to come out when the coast is clear. And the drug alters my moods and makes me snarky. (At least that is my excuse for my impatience, now that it is cool and beautifully sunny and heat cannot be blamed.)

I am not one for lying in dark rooms and being one with the throbbing but light is torture.

With or without the drug, I feel like I am in a capsule, not in the same world as everyone else. That feeling of distance brings out my cynicism, I note, while watching C-SPAN.

Update on Couple in Beirut

My son-in-law's sister and her husband are finally out of Beirut. They were flown to Cyprus and will be returning to the U.S. on leave. This was not their choice. They intend to go back and wanted to go to Turkey, and wait there until it was safe to return to Lebanon.

Looking at the news, one wonders if it will ever be safe. Interesting that the U.S. disagrees with the idea of a cease fire on the grounds that Hezbollah=terrorists need to be disarmed. And that will work as well as it has in Iraq?

Beating the Heat with Hill Street Blues.

During too many days of high heat I holed up in my apartment. I had severe heat stroke as a teenager--huge blisters on chest and back, from sunburn, high fever and chills that shook the bed. I still feel the effects--inability to adapt to temperatures over 75 degrees, turning purple instead of sweating, general malaise.

With the noises of the fans and the AC, and the blinds closed to keep out the sun, holing up was more than a little like being in prison.

How is it that even if the thermostat reads 75 degrees I still know that it is blistering outside? I rarely read during the day, since there are always jobs to be done, but I would watch episodes of Hill Street Blues during breakfast and they would slide into the time allotted to jobs awaiting me.

The library has the first two seasons on disc, but since I am now nearly through both, I regret that they don't have all seven seasons. (Don't know if they are all out on disc.) Someone said that show depressed them back in the days and still does. I have no idea why. That mother of all cop shows is a comedy at heart, meant to express the upside of policing, certainly, as well as portraying the underside. (In fact, during season two there were too many long sermonizing speeches, for my taste.) It is a comedy, with aspirations of being a drama--or vice versa.

While watching it I could not help but wonder about the voyeur aspect of such shows. Probably most viewers, past and present, have never been arrested and sit in their living rooms catching the action with the erroneous sense of being in on it. I first saw show back in the 80's, of course. Not the episodes I have been watching, but later ones--forget which years. The Shakespearean portrayal of the gangs and the cops was a hoot. I have great affection for the show and for the actors, especially Charles Haid, as Renko, and Bruce Weitz as Belker. It has been a pleasure to watch them perform again in what to me are classic roles.

Beirut

My son-in-law's sister and her husband are in Beirut. I scan the faces of Americans there,on CNN, hoping to see them leaving, being evacuated.

I listen to the interviews of the bigwigs on both sides. They sound children quarreling, but with horrible consequences.

Roller Coaster Day

This morning my son, who is in his forties, was hit head-on by a dump truck that missed a curve on Foster. For a just a short time, I did not have any idea the extent of his injuries. Nor did his sister, who worried for two hours after hearing of the accident, before calling me, because she could not find the phone number for the hospital. There is no describing that feeling, but despite the terror, I felt--irrationally but absolutely--certain that he would be all right. As it turns out, he is very battered--sore from the inflated airbag in his shredded Mazda, missing some teeth, and sporting as many stitches in his head, apparently, as Frankenstein. The worst injury was to a pinky, (left, right, who knows?) which was what he first noticed when the car stopped spinning--the bone sticking out, the tendon torn. But when I talked to him nearly six hours later he was upbeat and sounded strong--and thank god completely clear-headed.

That conviction I had that he would be OK--is that common?--simple denial?

Haircut

Have no idea how long since I last had a haircut--but way too long. Hair: way too long! At that "Hand me the scissors! I am going to chop it off myself!" length. My hair all silver, curling this way and that. I looked like a wild woman. So, last Wednesday finally got it successfully chopped, by a professional. Great haircut, sigh. And it is now sort of a cross between grey and brown. I don't know how that happens, but whenever I get it cut, what goes is the silver. And usually I look younger, afterwards. Not this time. I guess 67 is the cut-off for such transformations. I look better, but just as tired as ever.

I don't know how others feel about haircuts, but I always feel liberated. And I think this one is doubly symbolic. For sometime (witness the long hiatus between posts) I have put my own life on hold. Well, I am back.

Beating the Odds: Staying Upbeat

Today I accompanied, as caregiver, my disabled client first to her doctor's appointment and then to Winco for a shopping trip. The latter was a drawn out hoot.
Despite over four hours of gruelling work of loading and unloading twelve bags of groceries not once but five times, I was still laughing right up to the end. Certainly all those dashes with a heavily laden cart, from one end of the store to the other, for forgotten cans of corn, or bulk romano-parmesan, etc., were a giggle. But the real source of my upbeat mood: two women we had never met volunteered to help us bag all those groceries. I am sorry I do not know their names. But I cite them for today's Anonymous Humanitarian awards.

It's been too long

When I finally was able to get back to this blog, I was shocked to see how long it has been since my last post. And even more shocked to find I could not get in to post without my password--which I have not used since day one and had totally forgotten, Of Course! Well, the folks at Blogger were very helpful and about 8 emails later, here I am with a new password. WHEW!

The moral of this story is use it or lose it.

Quiet Birthday

Yay, I'm 67. I have been geared for this day, one, because I feel MUCH better than I did at this time last year, and two, because last week I got good numbers, when I saw my doc: blood pressure 120 over 60, cholesterol 100 points lower, good cholesterol 4 points higher. Pills, better food choices and Yoga seem to have helped. Hurrah!

I did not have any special plans for this day, actually. I did hope to go birding today, but the rain detered me.

So, it has been a quiet day--somehow the timing or the weather off for doing any of the things we thought we might do, like the birding trip or dinner and a movie. My daughter and two granddaughters came over with breakfast from Delfina's and a little present, this morning. That was very special. I was quite touched that my daughter made the effort.

After they went off to the mall, we went for a long drive and have been watching videos. And napping. I rarely nap, but today took two cat naps--what luxury and those beasts do it every day! Last night I read until after two; I can no longer get by on five hours sleep.

I can celebrate my birthday all this coming year, not just on this one day: this is a new beginning, after all, the first day of my 68th year. Yesterday I spoke on the phone with friends I have known for decades, although we have not seen one another face to face for fifteen years. He is now 80, she was 65 in April. We talk now and again by phone and it is remarkable how, the minute we start talking, it hardly seems that any time has passed since we played interminable Continental Rummy games and Scrabble and Charades and held pot-lucks with elaborate menus. (She always mentions those cook outs, and then I say I no longer cook anything requiring lengthy preparation. She doesn't believe me.)

67 does not seem like a special number, except that it means I am creeping (good word, esp. after sitting too long) towards 70. But 68 has a fine ring to it.

It might be a good year, in fact, to go and see old friends. My life was sundered in two fifteen years ago. But I feel now that breach has healed. The halves are one again. I have finally let go of much that caused me pain. How much lighter I feel. I don't know what to credit that to. Maybe just time--and the late recognition of what is truly precious.

To Blog or Not to Blog

It is the "B" in that word that I am musing over. As in Being. I would guess that phrase pops into the mind of every blogger, at least once.

Here is the thing. I am getting hooked on reading other blogs--spending more time in other bloggers' minds than my own. Maybe that is the point?

And, off on Mernit's trip to Amsterdam, which might just be my favorite city in the world (clouds/rain here in Portland remind me of that city) I realise that blogging works the way that my poor mind works, already. Here I am, tripping from one idea to another, navigating stepping stones with no particular destination in mind. Seining, along the way, for yet another bzillion reads.

In the poetic words of my favorite commercial, "That cain't be good!"

Or can it?

4 Page Turners--4 quick and dirty recommends

One Shot by Lee Child. The ninth Jack Reacher thriller. Jack Reacher is something of a superhero, a superman, really--doesn't put a foot wrong. Neither does Child, in this fast smooth read, except for one ridiculous glitch where he has a bad guy speak some ridiculous lines just to help wrap up the plot. How could he do that? Not cool. But I forgive him, for the rest of the ride.

The Lincoln Lawyer by Michael Connelly. The MC here is Michael Haller, the lawyer of the title, a sleaze lawyer with sleazes for clients: it is really hard to like the guy. But he has a code he lives by and being a citizen of the U.S. one has to respect that code, right? that all people are presumed innocent, esp. if they can afford a lawyer who will get them off on a technicality. In this page turner--I staying awake until 3 A.M. to find out how it ended--Haller risks his and his young daughter's lives, searching for the truth about a friend's murder. Lots of twists and even a few surprises.

End of Story by Peter Abrahams. This is billed as a thriller. I have always thought that technically in a thriller the reader gets a glimpse into the mind of the villain--sees the world from his POV. This novel is unrolled strictly from the third person point of view of an aspiring writer, Ivy, who works as a waitress to pay her bills. (The strict POV makes for some fancy dancing, on the part of the author.) Ivy gets a job teaching writing at a local prison and becomes convinced that one of the inmates in her class is innocent. It probably helps his case with her that he is very attractive. There is a lot about writing in this novel, and that was a definite plus. But the draw is the story, of course. There were a lot of moments when I said (yeah, out loud, they were those kinds of moments!) 'Oh, no, she didn't do that?' This book is a page turner, "a novel of suspense" (it says on the cover) yeah, but somehow in a category all its own. I will definitely check out more of Abrahams' work.

The Depths of Solitude by Jo Bannister. "...Mr Turnbull had met dogs like that. They didn't bark, they didn't growl, they didn't show their teeth--but you knew that if you handled the next few minutes wrong, you were going to be picking fangs out of your leg." Mr. Turnbull is thinking about the protagonist, Brodie Farrell. Elsewhere described by her lover this way: "She looked like a geisha, thought like a samurai and talked like a sumo wrestler." But to get back to those fangs--that description could be used to characterize Bannister's prose. She is fond of similes, and they are usually sharp and stab you unexpectedly: "Deacon followed him; not exactly like a lamb, more like a wolf who has unaccountably been mistaken for a lamb and is wondering whether he should eat very fast or try bleating." This is the English (cosy ?) novel of the group and it is as much a suspenseful thriller as the others--picture Brodie being stalked by a villain (old fashioned word, but he is of the old fashioned tie 'em to the tracks variety) with the technical genius to rig up fun rides on a run away elevator. (Bannister unleashes lots of similes, describing that ride.) The villain is the sort who is able to conjure up the darkest most awful moments a person can suffer.

I read these in quick succession. I hadn't read any of the writers before--not sure how I missed Child and Connelly. Great fare for the beach.

Just doodling

I have heard this song by Paul Simon twice in the last week and now I can't get this lyric out of my head: "Who's gonna love ya when your looks are gone?" It repeats over and over and over.

About Paul Simon: It seems the wheel has turned and his social commentary is in style again? The other song of his I heard was about the environment. But none of that song stuck in my head like the line above.

Non sequitur: I wonder if a female feline's fur is softer than a males. My sable cat has very silky fur, unlike her stepbrother. All the cats in this neighborhood (six regularly hang out in my back yard) are males, and none are as sweetly soft as she is. [Obviously I am no scientist and also a little nutty to boot, or I wouldn't even entertain such speculation.]

'Nother non sequitur: Played in the yard a while this afternoon, finally putting out plants that have been languishing, including some I got for Mother's Day. It was about 70 degrees and delightful. What is it about digging in the dirt? We have a combo of plants in the ground and plants in pots. Somehow the number of pots keeps increasing. My plum tree got another spritz of Mentholatum, to keep off the ants that keep attacking it. It has 8 plums on it, that I am treating like golden eggs. I am not an ardent, obsessive gardner, like my daughter, but I love looking out our back window and seeing flowers, esp. those that over-flow the container, like Million Bells. Two of the pots with plants that wintered over were so huge that I could hardly get them down our back steps. I have to pace myself, or I will find myself unable to go out and water the precious plants we have.

And a last non-sequitur: Yesterday watched what I think of as the Keira Knightley version of Pride and Prejudice. I thoroughly enjoyed it. And afterward wondered: why? Why does that Austen stuff appeal to an almost-67 yo woman in 2006? Well, it was funny. On first viewing I enjoyed the scenery and costumes. It was romantic. (We all have a seam of romanticism lurking somewhere, but I am an unabashed romantic/cynic.) It was not only romantic, a few moments were almost steamy.

I wondered about the cuts and changes a bit--sure that made that version more palatable to a contemporary audience, but what was lost. Heck, I decided, I don't care. I even found the bit tacked on, the Mrs. Darcy refrain acceptable.

I kept thinking that people of that day did not talk like that--but what do we know, really, about how they sounded? We just have Austin's (and other's) word for it, right?

It was good entertainment, an afternoon well spent.

Short Review of a Long Movie

Went to see The Da Vinci Code this evening and I liked it, though I understand perfectly those that say it drags. I did not mind, for, instance, the long expository dialogues about the codes and secret sects. I did mind that what should have been really important dramatic moments (how many have been told they were direct descendents of Christ?) were considerably less exciting than the violent, gory crimes committed by a zealot albino. On a scale of 5 stars? ***for trying **** at least, for the music. Dan Brown actually played and performed something. Renaissance Man.

Those crafty bandits!

Caution: This entry contains material which may cause nausea.

There are four racoons who come nearly nightly to scarf up the food I put out for Odie, the black feral cat who lives under our house. I try to outsmart them by timing her feeding so that it comes after their visits, but I am not always successful--like last night.

They make a disgusting mess! Today I wore gloves when I cleaned the cat's bowls. Ugh! the smell! Wet dog hair. They wash their food before they eat it, so I can tell when they have been by--the water bowl is always muddy.

This afternoon, while watching an OPB video about forensics, I learned something new about the smartest mammals in North America: they are ranchers. That is, just as we raise livestock to ingest, they raise GLEH! maggots. When they come across a piece of carrion, they poke a hole in it, to allow flies admittance, then they return and dig out those little white larva and eat 'em. Actually return again and again for that tasty snack.

(The video had footage from the body farm in Tennessee of the cute little guys in action.)

I will never look at that water dish the same way again.

A Good Day for Japanese Maples

Pure joy: Lingering to look up at bronze-red leaves of an old Japanese maple, patches of sun bleeding through.

Oops! Back again, to look without sunglasses.

Closer to home, a finer-leaved green maple. I stand a while under its cool canopy, but a squirrel barks at me.

Poet Power

"The exile of a poet, is today a simple function of a relatively recent discovery; that whoever wields power is also able to control language, and not only with the prohibition of censorship, but also by changing the meaning of words." Czeslaw Milosz, from Nobel Lecture

I cried today when I read those words. Remembered tears. I remember how I cried decades ago when I read the poetry of Anna Akhmatova and read about her life. Not because of the horrors she lived through: because elsewhere there exist countries where poets have such power that they are imprisoned.

Surprise

My sable cat moves from sill to sill, with the sun. She stretches out to catch the rays, body flattened, chin on her forepaws. When I walk by she yeowls to be brushed. A brush hangs from a hook, by each sill.

Her favorite sill, where she watches birds and any four-legged intruders to our yard, is nearly four feet high--pretty much the limit of her leaping abilities.

Seeing her there, I go in and stroke her throat and chest, which makes her purr. For the first time, in the bright May sunshine, I see that she has a good-sized patch of white hair on her chest. Alarmed, I try to compute how old she is. Let's see, we got her when she was about six week's old from my granddaughter's nursery school teacher. My granddaughter was about four then--now she is fourteen.

We call this still-feral cat "the Baby." She is small and somewhat younger than our neutered male.

I stroke her hot fur. She mews and then purrs. She can't be ten.

Antidote

A quote from Henry James: "Three things in human life are important. The first is to be kind. The second is to be kind. And the third is to be kind."

My daughter sent me this. Kindness is the quality she values most in a person.

How timely! I was hardly a kind, compassionate person today, as I zipped around, full of beans and trying to get lots done. I was in fact impatient and argumentative. Grumpy and impatient. Did I mention I was short of patience?

She could not know that, so her choosing to send the quote (a forward from an old, dear friend) was serendipitous.

Tonight I Said Goodbye by Michael Koryta

I generally put holds on books based on lists and reviews and interests. Tonight I Said Goodbye was one I just grabbed, while picking up my holds. A lucky grab--I don't read the blurb until after reading the novel, so I was happily surprised at how first rate the writing was. Set in Cleveland, a city I am pretty familiar with, the book has a lot of light humor and the drily witty main character, Lincoln Perry (first person narrator) is, as he says, a very good private eye.

He and his partner, Joe Pritchard, are hired to uncover the truth about the supposed suicide/domestic homicide of another private eye (small world), Wayne Weston, by Weston's father. John Weston is sure his son did not kill himself and sure as hell did not kill his wife and daughter. The wife and daughter are missing, so the police have come up with the scenario that Wayne Weston killed them and disposed of the bodies, then offed himself. Sounds fishy, huh?

Once I had zoomed through the book, which was a real page turner, what with the Cleveland Russian mafia going after Perry and Pritchard, I was interested in just who Michael Koryta was, anyway. I had never heard of him.

Well, it seems that he wrote the book while he was only 20, and it has won a number of prizes, such as the prize for the "Best First Private Eye Novel" from St. Martin's Press (he was the youngest to win that prize), a Great Lakes Award, and was nominated for an Edgar Award. Pretty good credentials since he was still in college when he wrote the book. Koryta works for a legal investigator, having attended IU, studying criminal justice. He already has a new book out, at 22, Sorrow's Anthem, and is at work on a third. To which I say Hurray! I love it when a good writer is also prolific!

Walkin' yes indeed I'm walkin'

Today I was actually eager to get out, after doing a project that meant sitting on my butt for 2 1/2 hours. But, gol, I am so lacking in energy. CF previous sentence? It is such an incredibly irresistibly fine day that I should have been all la la la, but instead had to consider do I really want to walk more or just do a few blocks?

I duly noted the trees still flowering, and the flowers coming on (the irises are looking so promising--have never seen the leaves so tough and strong) but kept my feet moving briskly, in order to not fall over.

I was only four blocks from home when I finally got that tingle in my finger tips which means the blood is flowing. Not impressive. I bethought me that there has to be a better way--like duh! walking at 10AM each day, instead of waiting until my butt et al is sagging.

Yeah, I think I will try that.

How to Avoid Making Art (or Anything Else You Enjoy)

This is a hilarious take on the excuses we all offer for the decisions we make. I nearly passed this up--in fact got all the way out the door--when I saw it on the shelf of the Hollywood library, while picking up the Di Camillo tickets. But I had leafed through it--OMG, that was me on every page. I popped back in and checked it out, then read it on the bus, probably convincing my fellow riders that I was nutso, since I was soon laughing out loud. They would have really thought I was nutso if they had known I was laughing at myself!

The text is by Julia Cameron (of The Artist's Way fame) and the cartoons are by her sister Elizabeth.

Here a few sample excuses (I am just opening the door randomly, to any page):
How to avoid making art? Make your first project really BIG.
Burn yourself out in nurturing others so much that when you hear Florence
you think Nightingale not art.
Watch TV instead of the movie in your mind.
Choose someone who feels their dreams and goals are far more important than yours.
Demand that what you do be absolutely original, totally brilliant, and never done before.
Demand 8 pristine studio hours before you will pick up a brush.
Focus on how much is left, not how much is done.
Under no circumstances make any art just for fun.

* * *
Well, I could go on and on--I read myself on every page. The book is a hoot, with all the different creatures in the cartoons. (What is that one on the cover? A hippo?)

Close to Nature

Watching the sad but determinedly constructive PBS film, Journey to Planet Earth, narrated by Matt Damon, what struck me was peripheral to the central message (the Planet is in trouble, we are in trouble; we need to do soemthing to save the planet, we need to do something to save ourselves.)

What struck me was the lives of the cowboys in Florida, the black sheepherder in South Africa, an the cowboys in Montana. Hard physical lives, hard physical work, done out of doors. Not indoors, at the computer, or with book in hand. (They may have iPods, but probably don't use them while herding.)

There they are, in 2006, people still doing what people did 100 years ago--and what they are doing is precious to them.

For me, the most moving part was the bit about the Blackfoot Challenge, a group of people in a small community in Montana who have decided to live with the grizz;y bears, for the benefit of the bears, of course, but also to preserve the life--the environment--that is dear to them. (Whoa! Imagine choosing to accept that grizzly peering in the window!)

Amazing.

So, what do we do to curtail the Sixth Extinction? I don't see what we can do about the polar bears drowning--can't stop the ice from melting.

Or can we? I realize I haven't a clue where to begin to do my bit to heal Planet Earth.

Because of the Green

My former husband (I am trying to drop that X thing--he isn't dead, after all, just gone) had a relative who spent time in an institution. The letters he sent home were all about the Green. "It is because of the green.....If it weren't for the green.....I am so lonesome for the green. I do miss the green."

Yesterday out running errands on both sides of the river, I was thinking the green. The green in my eyeballs. The green in my heart and gut. The green of the hedges, the fir shrubs, the spring grass, the euphorbias. Even the ginko leaves are small to begin with--and that green. The vibrant green. The green. The Green.

I don't get out much

Yesterday was magnificent and we had errands to run--trip to PT, and to the vet, to take Patchie. Not really fun stuff. It was so nice, though, with the breeze and the flowering trees everywhere where there weren't burgeoning green leaves, that despite worries about the cat and our continued mobility, I saw many things to amuse me. Like at Kaiser a white Scottish terrior, with a tiny miniature white Scottish terrier racing to keep up. (OK--I am easily amused.) Downtown, someone moving in a small station wagon with all this stuff piled on top: a leather drum, half a dozen bicycles, wheels spinning, and topping it all, about 200 hangers in a variety of colors. Oh, for a camera to capture that sculpture!

I had skipped Yoga yesterday because we were running late for our first appointment. It would be so easy to make an excuse every day, but I try never to skip more than one day--any more and the habit will be lost. I need the Yoga too much to get out of that habit, which has been long in coming.

I sometimes wonder why I bother. Ever closer to shedding my mortal coil, I can see the daily deterioration in the mirror and certainly feel it in my joints. Despite stories about the (rare?) 72 yo running marathons, or the 90 yo still lifting weights at the gym, realistically, my back knees and hands are not going to ever feel the way they did when I was 40.

So why do I bother? This morning, after all, working with the Rodney Yee tape it seemed especially ridiculous. He looks to be around 30 sitting there relaxed, on the tape and here I am, nearly 67, with knees that won't ever get any closer to the floor, while sitting in simple cross-legged pose, and hips that ache so badly, while sitting in simple cross-legged pose, that the ache completely fills my consciousness. (I always end with a chair corpse pose, which takes the pull off those sad muscles.)

But earlier, I was able to do that cobra right along with him. Hah!

I get up feeling better than when I got down on my purple mat, and thinking who knows? maybe eventually these old hips will not hurt so much, sitting there in simple cross-legged pose.

Searching for Mr. Bird

My sable cat trying to find Mr. Bird. Listening, head cocked to one side, walking back and forth in front of the little CD player, peering behind the TV, where of course he is not. She gives up, goes back to her perch in the kitchen window, to resume watching birds rain and neighbor cats.

Comes back to nap in her favorite chair, not eight feet from the CD player. Opens her eyes wide, then narrows them and lays her ears back, watching me dancing wildly to "Satisfied."

The Accumulative Effect of Andrew Bird

Humor is cumulative. While going through a book of cartoons, say the Farside ones, the cartoons are moderately amusing at the beginning but gradually they become funnier and funnier, until eventually it is hopeless and I am laughing till the tears come, tripping on the edge of hysterical laughter.

Today hearing Andrew Bird for the first time, listening to The Swimming Hour, I experienced the accumulative effect of Andrew Bird when I reached "Satisfied, " the tenth song. I felt moved beyond the words--looking at them now, I can't say what they mean. Naw, it was the sheer delight of his musicality.

Why did it take me so long? Maybe because it was the first time hearing him and my mind was working too hard, taking in the sounds, the instrumentation, the words, the variations of his vocalizations. But it might just be that particular song.

Need to listen again--and then many more times. Thanks, Jen.

Kate DiCamillo

Tonight I took one of my granddaughters to the Kate DiCamillo lecture. A small woman with big hair, Kate DiCamillo (wonderful name) was down to earth and feisty. Edgy. She is not all sugar and sticky candy, that's for sure. After announcing that she hates giving speeches, she gave a speech in which she told about what may have been her most embarassing moment. As a child she copied in long hand a story from Humpty Dumpty magazine and her mother leaped to the conclusion that she had written it--which she had, in a sense, which led to a misunderstanding which balooned up into a massive ugly sad mess.

The point was that the attention she got when everyone thought that she had written the story led to her deciding to become a writer. During college and after she always told everyone she was a writer and bought a lot of black turtle necks and went around looking aloof and morose.

But she did not actually write anything that was published until she was 36. At that time, she had an epiphany: If she was going to be known as a writer, she would have to write something.

She lived in Florida most of her life, but at the age of 36 moved to Minneapolis. (She is now 42 and still lives there.) This is the story of why she moved to a climate she likened to that of Siberia, after living in sunny FL most of her life:

She had been going with a guy (she pronounced his name slowly and clearly and even provided the spelling) for ten years and was thinking it was about time he asked her to marry him. So when a friend said she was moving to Minniapolis, Kate DiCamillo said she would move with her, thinking of course this would put a burr under his saddle. When she told him she was moving to Minneapolis, he offered to help her rent the trailer.

To sum up, Di Camillo's advice to writers just starting out is to write. And, oh, yeah, to read a lot, also.

She did not suggest that writing is easy. Rather, she said it is painful process for her, but she loves the finished product! That book she can hold in her hand.

I bought two of her books, Because of Winn-Dixie, and The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane for my granddaughter, but since getting them signed meant standing in line for two hours, we had to forego that pleasure. Because of Winn-Dixie has a huge smiling galumphing dog in it. (I may have mentioned that I am a sucker for dogs or cats, anywhere, anytime.)

The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane is about a stuffed rabbit toy that winds up naked in the ocean. I have not read it yet--I'll have to borrow it from my granddaughter. I think DiCamillo's most famous book is the sweet onceuponatime story of a mouse who falls in love with a princess, The Tale of Desperaux.

In my mind, there is no division between children's books and adult books--a good book is a good book is a good book.

the greening

If of thy mortal goods thou art bereft,and from thy slender storeTwo loaves alone to thee are left,Sell one, and with the dole Buy Hyacinths to feed thy Soul
—Sadi

How fortunate we are! Today we can feed our souls without relinquishing even a crumb of bread. Spring has waved her wand here there and everywhere, greening the earth. And the hyacinths still are hanging on, thanks to the delicious cool and the delicious rain.

Glorying in the glorious day

I got out to run an errand--pick up tickets to the Di Camillo lecture--and it was glorious! What a wonderful day! Too good to miss. Absolutely perfect! The temperature, the sun the sky, the flowers, the birds--all of them singing for a mate--or to celebrate the one they have, like the red-headed finch I saw, serenading his less showy wife.

I came home fired up and diddled a little in the yard. We are having a time attracting birds, whereas we have always had a yard teeming with them. Could it be the cats all the time prowling out there?

After I emptied the feeder that none of the birds seem to find attractive, and refilled it with thistle seed, I took a little time to enjoy the wild life. Our double kitchen windows look out on the yard. A squirrel, tail held high, nibbling away at the sunflower seed I dumped in a spot that nothing ever seems to grow in. And a pair of robins, the female perched on the bird bath, the very showy male across the fence, on the broken-down pear tree that is blooming there. A chicadee hanging out in the plum tree, and then making fast forays to one of the feeders. Back and forth, one seed at a time. Most beautiful, seen through the binocs, a white crowned sparrow, so plump! on the fence.

For me, the star of the yard is that aforementioned plum tree. My daughter gave me that tree, and a cedar tub, two years ago. This is the third year I have had it and it is blooming for the first time! I have no idea if it will bear fruit or if it is merely ornamental (she doesn't either; I called her to check) but I love the white flowers, which cover every branch.

So, I am gazing out there at this idylic scene, but what is that, creeping through the fence? Ah, yes, the neighbor's canny little black neutered male, with a red collar, his eye fixed on the squirrel. He creeps closer and closer and the squirrel ignores him , making a dash for it at the last minute, after a few more bites of sunflower seeds. By which time the robin is already gone. The cat crouches by the bird bath, to await more prey.

I think I will buy that cute kitty a present--a little jingle bell.

Walking upright

I got out for a brief walk today and amazingly I felt drawn up to my full height from the get-go. Those extra two hours of sleep? (No, not a Spring Forward hangover--benadryl grogginess.)The Yoga I did earlier? Heck if I know, I just hope my back continues to offer me its strong support.

April is doing her shower thing, but I managed to avoid a downpour. Saw the results of her work, though: all sorts of cheery flowers, including species tulips in a luminous orangey-red, purple and white anemones, their stems all straggled about but still bravely holding their own. And what are those puff ball flowers? I loved those. They were white, sort of like a round cluster of stamens, each strand tipped violet. Not a very good description. I have forgotten most of what I ever knew about flowers--I will have to look those up.

It was dark and drear, but only one house had blue smoke pouring from a wide chimney.

Monopoly

My two youngest granddaughters, cousins aged eight and nine, were here for a sleep-over the night before last. They are of course adored by this grandmother and I cherish the time I get to spend with them. They spent lots of time online playing Battle On on Adventure Quest. I am not sure that is educational, but they had such a great time I was loathe to kick them off the computer. They made up songs about the game and sang them and their singing was indeed music to my ears. They also sang Frere Jaques very sweetly and in tune, by lord.

But the best time during the twenty-four hours they were here for me was when we all played Monopoly. The eight year old is a master at that game, her cousin and grandmother novices. It was hilarious. The first day we played (for three hours) I was lucky and accumulated so much cash and land (Boardwalk, railroads and utilities in my generous portfolio) that when I stopped to cook dinner I split it all between them and what I gave them was probably at least equal to what they had.

But the next day--that is yesterday--was a different story! I had no luck and did so poorly, that my nine yo granddaughter kept patting my hand and telling me that she was truly sorry I was doing so badly. But I would not trade that game for tickets to Cirque Du Soleil! I laughed more yesterday than I have in weeks together. And laughter IS the best medicine.

Yoga yearnings

Yahoo! Today I was able to do the Cobra pose properly for the first time and hold it to a count of 1010. Yahoo, indeed!

I have been back at doing Yoga now for about 6 months, after a 15 year hiatus. At first my 15 minute tape seemed hours long. Now it seems quite short. Maybe a more challenging tape is in my future, but for now I want to enjoy the sensation of having accomplished something I would not have thought possible, when I began.

I am 66--67 in May--and yesterday I was complaining about a) a sprained hand, from cracking Brazil nuts for my granddaughter, and b) the ravages of time--a sprained hand from something so easy, something that was incidental at 40, even 50? It seems like every day I notice some new sign of the inroads of time on this body. "So get over it" or "face it, that's life--just accept it" is what I hear when I muse on that subject with some contemporaries. But Hey! I am going to do what I can to keep moving.

After I began doing the Yoga I noticed an improvement in my flexibility immediately. Oh, I still wake up stiff and aching, but after doing the Yoga, I rise to my full height and walk freely. What a return for an investment of only 15 minutes!



.

making the sacrifice

"A green grape rolled down the aisle of the bus." --from a Farside cartoon

Yesterday I just made it around two blocks, while walking. I have revised my expectations. I realized that my goal of pushing to add two blocks each time was actually preventing me from doing any walking at all! It is better to walk a little than not at all.

Although it was overcast by the time I got out there, it was so nice to be on the move. I passed a family, including two little kids, working hard in their yard. One of the little girls, only about three, decided to go for a walk of her own, just as I approached that yard. I gave her wide berth on the sidewalk, but even so, the father was on her immediately to get back in her own yard.

On my last walk I saw pairs of squirrels and a pair of chickadees chasing one another--it is that time of year. But yesterday nada, not even a cat. Guess they were expecting a shower. It sprinkled a few drops. Some of the street lights had come on, even though it was only 3 PM.

Madagascar Hissing Roaches

They are selling the live little babies on eBay for only $80 a pop. But they are not your kitchen variety roaches--they are bred and fed esp. as pets. And come with leashes, so you can attach the little critturs to your bosom, and--this is the exciting part!--they are bejeweled!

Someone actually takes the time and expends the patience to apply little jewels to their carapaces. (Not any other part of their little brown bodies--on the carapace the jewels don't retard movement or impact their health.)

Imagine: your own creepy crawly jewelry.

But certainly they aren't for everyone. (Roaches give me the geegees big time and these are at least two inches long.) Paris Hilton, maybe?

migraine

I scrap Yoga, my walk, pull chartreuse fluffy socks from my drawer to warm my feet. The acid green is lovely with my blood-red sweat shirt--I think, "The color will soothe my migraine." Watch Huo Che. Covet the old gambling cups.

Shy

Spring took a bow yesterday and then fluttered offstage. I am screaming "Encore! Encore!" between claps.

The Caravaggio Disease

The Da Vinci Code read like a treatise tricked out as a novel. But The Lost Painting, by Jonathan Harr, reads like a novel, even though it is an account of a scholarly search for a lost painting by Caravaggio, The Taking of Christ. The Lost Painting is an easy read, completely without the obfuscation one expects from scholarly writing. I picked up the book to sample it and read rapidly through the first fifty pages, completely hooked.

Harr interweaves the story of the mystery of the whereabouts of the lost Caravaggio, an account of Caravaggio's life, and the description of the restoration of a painting which just might be the one scholars have been trying to locate. All those bits are fascinating. The real people in the story, Francesco Cappelleti and Laura Testa, two Italian students searching through dusty files to find a trail to the painting, Denis Mahon, the dapper English Caravaggio expert, and Sergio Benedetti, the gruff Italian restorer living in Ireland, are described as if they were characters--they are three-dimensional, each with his or her own foibles. But the central characters are Caravaggio and the precious painting.

Francesca aludes early on to the "Caravaggio disease." Scholars become gripped by it and it takes over. They become obssessed with all things Caravaggio. One is described as nearly falling from a scaffolding, while trying to lean over and kiss a Caravaggio being restored. And she herself is under the spell of the artist who has been called a genius, but it is not the myth or legend which binds her--it is what she sees, when she looks at one of his works. She enters into the painting and for a few minutes in time, before being brought back by the activity around her, she lives within the painting itself.

Caravaggio is a fascinating character. Harr's description of his strange habits only served to whet my curiosity. According to Harr, C. cared very little for his personal appearance and would go without washing and wear his clothes into rags. He consorted with prostitutes, and when flush, after selling a painting, would become wildly and belligerently drunk, picking sword fights, one of which ended in his murdering the man he attacked, and eventually being hacked in turn, his face suffering the worst of the blows.

But I am most curious not about the colorful bits of his life, (there must have been scores bad actors who behaved exactly like him during that period) but about what set him apart: his ability to compose works which still astound with their drama and originality.

The Taking of Christ is reproduced on the dust jacket of The Lost Painting. But it is a small reproduction, very dark. It is not possible to see clearly the details Harr aludes to. (Have to go to Ireland, for a good look.) I hefted out my old Jansen, to get another view of C.'s work and found only one, The Calling of St. Matthew, but it is a full page color reproduction. (About 1/100 the size of the actual painting, that is.) Seeing the two reproductions together brings out the qualities I associate with Caravaggio: The dramatic lighting and the use of common people with very individualistic faces in a composition deliberately designed to illuminate the religious message of the painting.

I am well on the way to having the Caravaggio disease, myself. Seicento, puntinature, pentimenti, lacunae, lead-tin yellow, malachite, red lake, bone black, green earth, walnut oil--those words strung together are like poetry. I need to catch some glimmer of what drove C. to paint. Did he paint merely to be able to buy wine and debauch? The paintings tell a very different story. At the end of the Jonathan Harr provides a list of his sources (he met and interviewed all the people he describes), including three biographies of Caravaggio that he recommends. I can hardly wait.

Blogging

Jen at Law of Sympathy (I am too tech dumb to provide the link) said yesterday that she had "browbeaten" me into blogging. Well, she did encourage me with great unflinching regularity, tee hee.

But I have no idea what this blogging is all about, even after checking out a lot of different blogs. It seems to be an online journal that is whatever the blogger wants it to be, right? So I am just writing whatever comes to mind, and trying my damnedest to write what is meaningful to me, without weighing whether it has any meaning for anyone else. Until she added my link to her website, I felt safe. She was the only one likely to read what I am writing. If any of you out in cyberspace have opinions, I welcome those with open mind and open heart. Even as I muddle along with my solipsistic musings, I welcome dialogue.

Grey Day Blues

After getting a late start on my walk today, I plowed on and even managed to add two blocks to my previous count. At the half-way point I debated taking the short route home--this is supposed to be about doing something to make myself feel better, after all. But I was feeling taller and striding along without too much pain, so I decided to push it--especially since I had missed the last two days of fine weather.

It certainly seemed bleak today. Grey and overcast. As someone said yesterday, typically Portland. Once in a while, we will have a glorious spring, with every flower bursting out at once and the sun shining on it all. This spring will unfold slowly, it seems. The flowers today were as bright as when the sun shines, but they did not stir me as they did on the sunny days. It is the sun that puts a smile on my face, irresistibly.

[The silly thing is, it cleared up later. My sweet spoiled sable cat's fur was actually hot to the touch, from baking herself in the sun in one of the West windows.]

I was heralded nearly every block by raucous caws. Crows must be guardians, protecting their territory. I have noticed that city crows are actually much larger than crows I see at the beach. (The ones that have been coming to my yard for handouts--now probably at least fourth generation--are really big. They strut about, big as banty hens.)

This neighborhood is very familiar to me. I have been walking these streets for over ten years. Seen most of the houses change hands. Noted the changes people have made to their yards. Have it down, where I can see a flicker pecking away, or huge flocks of robins. Today passing the yard where an ailing birch used to be a favorite of the flickers, there were a half dozen crows in the yard, who flew off noisily when I passed by. Two young squirrels high-tailed it to trees on either side of the walk, to peer at me, angrily, it seemed. They were equidistant in their respective trees, both facing me, like a formal design--or combat maneuver.

We feed the squirrels black oil sunflower seeds, and I always wonder why we only see young ones. Squirrels are not social animals, but the older ones, the parents, must be around somewhere, after brooding the young.

As I walk, I look for color. Today I note the orangey-red of a rambling picket fence, smeared vertically with yellow moss. I like the way it looks--aged and a little uncertain. I see yards where every blade of grass is manicured, but I prefer the yards with toys--kids' or adults'-scattered about and the flower beds a little wild, even undefined. I think those are a haven for creatures and birds.

I brought home a couple tails from a monkey puzzle tree. (Wow, those funny trees do create a lot of litter!) I will smear them with peanut butter laden with seed, for the birds and squirrels. It is getting warmer, but there are plenty of cold days ahead.

A little addition about the monkey puzzle trees: seeing them on a visit to Portland was one factor in my decision to move here. That and the small-town feel of big-city Portland. Now this area seems as familiar to me as--the place where I lived for thirty years. But at first it was like being in a foreign country. Different trees, different birds. (I cried on seeing cardinals, on my first visit back to the Midwest.) An adjustment. But the monkey puzzle trees are a bonus: we sure didn't have those in the Midwest.

Revisionist Walkabout

I got out late today--it was looking dark and I expected rain before getting back home and I was right. But I did not walk yesterday because of 'prior commitments,' so it felt important to push myself. (I look forward to the time when no pushing is necessary.)

The same moss that glowed the day of the snow was yellowish, sort of rusty, some places nearly amber, today. Chlorophyll shortage, because it is overcast? I definitely have to learn more about mosses.

I have to revise some of my impressions from those other walks. That little ugly bush looked cute today--it was be covered with buds. Now I can't wait to see what it will look like, when they open. And the leaves weren't so miniscule, either. Ranged in size to as big as my thumbnail. The flowers on the variegated Daphne are, more accurately, a deep rose, rather than burgundy. Obviously what I remember is not always accurate. Another reason for getting a camera!

I added two more blocks, but boy those last four seemed long. About three blocks from home I had to walk out around a car parked on the sidewalk, and turned my left foot. Got a sharp pain. Worrisome, since at Christmas I was hobbling around with a cane, after mysteriously injuring it. (Getting old ain't for wimps.) But, after a few strides, it felt just fine.

Floppy Flakes

I am trying to establish a routine here: Yoga--Breakfast--Internet--Walk. So I pushed off about half an hour ago and managed 2 extra blocks, despite the weather. Portland does have snow! Big floppy flakes on a kamikaze mission, coming in at a slant from the South and diving hard and fast at the sidewalk, to magically disappear. I only saw two other people while out there--a couple, walking huddled under an umbrella. The mosses are that vivid green I love. New growth?--don't know anything about mosses. My eyes kept taking them in. On one of those raised gardens, that come about to my armpit, the gardener (optimist) had put out several decorative tiles. On the wall, carefully placed, was a chunk of limestone with moss growing on it, not much yet, but beginning to flow over the edges. That perfect green.

When I came up on my porch, the feral Siamese-mix stray ran desperately in all directions. She has blue eyes that can be seen at forty yards, and four white boots. Her life is a hard one, but I know there are at least three people who take her plight to heart. I was glad to get home and take off my wet clothes. Thanks to my Goodwill Landsend gortex, I stayed dry, but my boots and jeans soaked through, in just 45 min.

Walking in Circles

Years ago I walked everywhere. Refused rides home, unless it was 20 below. (Ohio.) Battled through 3 foot snowdrifts in my Fry's, to get downtown. So why is it now so hard to just get out and walk?

Today I put it on my list, layered up really well, against the wind, and went out before lunch, before showering, before doing the laundry. Because I do know that if I wait to walk after all doing all those things, I won't get out--like yesterday.

Max(his name has been changed to protect his innocence), a neighbor's sweet broad-striped tabby, was waiting outside the door. He pranced around, wanting to come in. But from experience I know that my cats will welcome him with claws, hisses and deep-throated growls. I want to pet him, but he is hand shy.

I followed his wet tracks down my steps and started off, not going too fast. In fact, though I did not know it then, I never did pick up any speed. The whole walk, my feet felt like I was wearing Moon boots, but walking on Jupiter.

What I dreaded, as I rounded my corner, was the painful pressure in my chest and jaw I often feel when I walk. But I knew that if I concentrated on that feeling, it would only feel worse. So I concentrated on what I could see, which is all the flowers and trees in bloom that think it is spring, despite the rain and despite the snow predicted for today.

After walking just a block, I saw something dive into a very low bush ahead of me. The bush was cropped short, with mingy little leaves the size of my small finger-nail and some sort of berries. Not one I would plant. When I got to it, I looked for what I had seen--a bird? But I didn't find it, only a bunch of brown oak leaves, from last year. Maybe I imagined it, or it was just a dried leaf, blown by the wind. Today the wind has tossed the yellow recycling tubs into the street.

A stand of rose bushes where I often pause to sniff in warm weather looked as if it got caught unawares. At first I thought the pink was early blooms, but it was just the backs of the leaves. They twirled, hanging limply. I wished I had a camera, to catch the tourmaline colors.

Another place I wished for a camera is when I noticed a spindly varigated daphne. The yellow-green edges of the leaves contrasted sharply with the dark burgundy of the flowers. There were many daphnes that I passed, but none as eye-catching as that one. I hope it thrives.

My usual walk is a loop, which I try to expand each time I go out. I took in the plants and looked for birds--saw only crows--and heard them! I concentrated on the flowering quince and forsythia, checked to see what trees were ready to bloom (like a small magnolia, with pussy-willow-buds) and just generally focussed on what I miss when I stay inside with the TV, computer and the books. As I passed the half way point, I was feeling taller and though I still plodded, I had forgotten the annoying rustle of my gortex hood and only noticed the ache in my back when I turned my attention to it.

I don't generally pay much attention to the people wrought stuff along the way, but someone had put a round mosaic step stone near that bush where there just might have been a bird. And smack at the edge of the sidewalk further along another person had laid some blue-glazed tile in an unlikely place--at the top of one section a short wall. Pretty.

I thought of those bits as I walked. Thought about that camera that I want, to record what catches my eye and heart. It must not weigh me down, or else it will just sit here, unused, like me.

When I had looped back to withing half a block of that small ugly bush, I decided backtrack and see if I had imagined something fluttering to it. As I walked toward it, I again saw something small and brown fly before me. Must have been a leaf, I thought. But when I got to the bush, out flew a bronze song sparrow. It flew to a break in another bush about twenty yards away, and peeked out at me. I had disturbed it and now I regretted that. I wondered if the brown leaves were part of its nest, but surely that couldn't be. No bird would nest in such a low bush right next to the sidewalk.

When I walked past Max's house, he was there, on the lawn. He dashed up the stairs and leaped up onto a window sill. Max is a lovely kitty, but thin and getting thinner. He peered in the window, but the rooms were all dark; his humans were at work. I felt a pang, seeing him unable to get inside. Could he sense snow in the wind?

the Oscars, thumbnail version

"If I repent of anything, it is very likely to be my good behaviour." Henry David Thoreau


Well, I can't complain. I only saw one movie--Breakback Mountain, so how can I judge? But I can still regret that Breakback Mountain did not win for acting or picture. I thought of that movie and those two guys for weeks afterward. At all sorts of odd moments. Found myself crying while driving over to pay the rent. Thinking of them while scrubbing counters, taking out the trash. The film sprouted many conversations.

It is hard for me to imagine that any of the other films were more moving or memorable. Or the acting more perfect. I will certainly check out the film's competition.

But even as I write that, the ridiculousness of the whole thing strikes me. How can there be only one Best Picture? I think, they could have more than one winner. ( I am a weenie.) But no, that doesn't make sense either. How many? But we can look at the list of nominees and think: THOSE were the best pictures of 2005, judged by a jury of their peers.

After seeing the movie I read the short story by Annie Proulx. I have not read anything else of hers, despite trying, but I admired that short story very much. It seemed to me that she described their lives with exact details of the sort only guys of that period could know. But, while reading the story, I admired the screenplay even more. Of course McMurtry and Ossana had the advantage of the director and esp. the cameraman, but they expanded the story and showed and brought to life what she described.


On the lighter side, I love the frou frou and glitz of the occasion. Now why won't they leave Theron's dress alone? It was an amazing construct--probably way too sophisticated for the occasion and certainly for the commentators.

Catching Up

Admiring friend: 'My, that's a beautiful baby you have there!'
Mother: 'Oh, that's nothing--you should see his photograph.'

Catching Up
I dragged my foot setting up this blog, because I know how infrequently I do anything on a routine schedule. Well, feed myself and feed my kitties. But that doesn't count--the cats don't let me off the hook, in fact tyrannize me! and eating is something I have to work to avoid, rather than the reverse.
So here I am with lots of stuff that has been littering my brain, waiting for an outlet.

Like the Olympics.

I have been watching the Olympics since moving to OR in 1988. (Before that I did not have a TV. If I did not have one now I might accomplish more, like writing here, but who knows?) This year I watched every minute possible, and still missed more than I would have liked. I loved the big opening ceremony, with the runner and the lighting of the torch, which, as my grandson said, was awesome. I am a sucker for the sentiments of international peace and good will, what can I say? I also get a high from the true athlete's work ethic and I get teary eyed when an American wins. For instance, I could watch Apolo Anton Ohno win his 500m gold metal again and again and never tire of his glow of happiness. (Actually, I do revisit that moment, at apoloantonohno.com) Or, what a high, watching Sasha Cohen pull out a medal after two falls!

But I was a little disappointed this year at the antics of some of the American athletes. I would not say that I wanted to bag the whole Olympic experience, but I could not help wondering why we often appear to be acting like jerks, without any manners or respect for the occasion. They asked Bode Miller if he planned to compete in Vancouver. His reply was noncommittal, like, 'I don't know maybe.' Why would anyone sponsor Bode Miller for the competition in Vancouver? Hmmm. Could be he is going to grow up in the next 4 years?

Apropos of nothing: "Civilization is cutting your sandwich on the bias."

Current reading (no spoilers):

I am on an Iditarod kick, which is pretty timely, since it is run in March.

I usually read one book at a time, and nearly always perservere to the end. But I had three or four books started and stacked open, (including Never Let Me Go, by Kasuo Ishisguru--I might have something to say about that one later--if I finish it), one on top of the other, when some holds by Gary Paulsen came in: Dogsong, Woodsong, and Puppies, Dogs and Blue Northers. I happened on those while searching the catalog for My Life of Adventure, by Norman D. Vaughan. (I have yet to move on to that, my 'real' goal, right?)

I dipped into Dogsong, which is a fictional account of a young Eskimo, Russell, who seeks to return to the ways of his ancestors. It is written like a hymn to the old ways, but pursuit of the pure, clean way of living, such as they knew, extracts a heavy price from Russel. I dipped in and then settled down to read it, almost clandestinely. There were all those other, substantial books waiting, after all, and this was catalogued as a juvey.

I read that in one sitting (well, it IS short) and then, hooked on Paulsen's view of life in the cold NW, I moved on to Woodsong. I read that one even more quickly. But I wasn't just rushing through--I was rapt, reading about Paulsen's relationship with his sled dogs, and what they taught him. Besides the dogs, which fill his mind and heart, there are uncommon experiences with other creatures, like a common squirrel. His descriptions of such scenes have made me look at those creatures with a new eye. What do I really know about those wild animals that skitter through my yard?

Not having gotten my fill, I picked up Puppies, Dogs and Blue Northers just as I put down Woodsong. Yeah, I must admit that I am a sucker for any book that has an animal in it--I zero right in on that animal, even if it is just a kitty owned by the detective, passing through or being fed. But, Paulsen's stories about his puppies and sled dogs made me laugh and made me cry--and shocked me and grossed me out--and kept me reading till the book was finished, long after I should have set it aside and turned out the light.

I've checked the Powell's website and there are many Paulsen books listed there that I have yet to read--Hurrah!

So far so good

So, a good and very patient friend has put me through all the hoops. Whew, again.

An innocent abroad

Whew! This is the launch for this baby. Scary and fun, at the same time!