The shape of my story

The shape of my story just changed. I wish I could draw here, but imagine a long, winding, murky path, in some places expanding into sunshine, but most not. You are standing inside at the current end of path, looking not back, but forward. You see in front of you a wide, open spray of sun, green grass and trees, calming breeze. You stand still and breath at the wonder of it.

Living Room

New

Apartment!

Burbank Senior Artists Colony

Burbank, California

Balcony

I have just put a deposit on an apartment in Burbank, California! The main draw is, of course, my daughter, who just moved there last month. The main push is to transplant myself, reinvent myself, re-story myself.
The apartment is tiny, but I need no more. I am now starting a two-month process of organizing, selling, giving away most of what I have. And won't it be a blessing that my children won't have to face that! Although on of my sons has already offered himself and his two children for the organization and packing part. And himself and a friend for the moving!


I know I've talked in the past week about this possibility and when in doubt, don't, and wherever you go, there you are. And I followed that for almost exactly one week. I came home, settled back into my nest. As I looked at my surroundings, I thought, "I could get rid of that. That can go with me." And then I would think, "I wish I'd had the courage to jump." This morning, I called and asked if the apartment I'd looked at was still available, and Rose answered, "No, but I have a better one." 


Phone call to Alwyn, "Can you take a deposit check over to Rose?"
"Of course, we're on our way."
Later phone call from Alwyn, "I've given them the deposit, and the apartment is darling, and much better than the other one - more shaded, green. The tops of trees are reaching for the balcony. I've sent you pictures!"


She'd even sent a video in which I heard her voice saying, "Just perfect, I think we're definitely going to take this."

Your Life as Story

I am excited about this book and after only one and a half chapters, I want to write about it. It's about writing, about seeing what happens when you write. It's about seeing the arch of your life, the shape of it, finally, so far. This blog is by way of being (what does that phrase "by way of being" mean, anyway?) writing practice, as I read and read, preparatory to jumping into a book. It all stems from the 50th reunion and what it meant to me, what it still means to me. For the first time, when I was in Cambridge in May, I was able to look back across 30-year period of my life that had become a black hole. I was able to recognize the person I was then, although not yet clearly, and that lends me a certainty that I will have a self in the next 30 years and that that self will be and is worthwhile. It's all about observing the present, past, future, and seeing my story.

The Paper Garden

I returned to The Paper Garden last night, and finished it this afternoon. It was a bit of a chore, because the structure of the book didn't feel sound. Molly Peacock seems to have done a credible job of distilling a great deal of material into a clear biography of an extraordinary woman, but she injected too much of herself into it, in two ways: first, she chronicled her own journey in the process of the book in a way that was jarring; and second, she made far too many jumps of interpretation of Mrs. Delany's  flowers. I think Mrs. D would be shocked at what her work is assumed to mean. Also injected was quite a bit of biography of others, notably Ruth Hayden, a relative of Mrs. D's, who wrote her own biography, Mrs. Delany, Her Life and Her Flowers, published in 1980. Other famous figures take their place in The Paper Garden, to the point of intrusion.


That said, there is hope in the tale. Mrs. D came to her work (perhaps not at 72, but 73) after a four-year recovery from the death of her husband. I'm not even finished three years and barely getting a hold on anything and besides he didn't die, which makes it harder. But to think that there is still time for me, that there will be vitality, energy to create even if in a small way, is hopeful. 


For a book I really didn't like much, I marked quite a few passages - all of them relating to my own experience, hopes and dreams and not so much to Mrs. D's.


"It is a privilege to have, somewhere within you, a capacity for making something speak from your own seared experience."


"You might not be able to draw a conclusion from what overwhelms you, but if you describe it, you will come to know it. And when you come to know it, you are less afraid of it. And when you are no longer afraid, you have balance. And when you have balance, you have the poise that is control." (I'm not sure about the control part, but the poise is longed-for.)


"Without the communication of a real friend, sorrow would sink one to the lowest ebb... the compassion a friend affords one... is like opiate to one in racking pain." (In writing, I assume any reader to be a real friend.)


Peacock's quotation from Gerry O'Flaherty, a Joycean in Dublin, "Don't take another picture of people! Photograph the dishes on this table. It's pictures of people's everyday lives we need!" (And in writing, if we can capture the everyday-ness of our own lives, or of the lives of the people we write about, then we can have that "communication of a real friend.")


"One of the antidotes to depression is actually doing something, provided you can manage the energy to put one foot in front of the other." (This last in speaking of Ruth Hayden.),


I've put the Hayden book on my wish list.


ps
As to my brief discussion of Northern Lights, I read (in Wikipedia, so take it with a grain of salt) that this series is of an anti-Christian nature and is in opposition to C.S. Lewis, Tolkein, and Rowling, according to Christopher Hitchens. I must say that in none of these books do I recognize most of the allegory. My failing, I'm sure.


What to read next? Your Life as Story, Tristine Rainer, recommended by Judith Nies who wrote The Girl I Left Behind.

Northern Lights (The Golden Compass)

It's been a while since I've written about what I'm reading. I stopped in the middle of Paper Garden to read The Psychedelic Club by Don Lattin, and then read an early Joan Didion, Slouching Towards Bethlehem, and then went on to Phillip Pullman's Northern Lights (or The Golden Compass, as it's titled in the US). The Lattin and the Didion are both related to my new interest in my old life, that of the 50's & 60's. Paper Garden is related in my interest in being 72, that is, now and onward. Northern Lights is pure escape into other worlds. I read and then forget, so I will include book comments in this writing. I can't recall right now if I've written about The Psychedelic Club, but I think so, so I'll say no more than it comes out of Harvard at the same time as I came out of Radcliffe, and takes a road that mine road paralleled for some time. If I need to say more, I will after I've checked back in my blog work.


What a wonderful title is Slouching Towards Bethlehem! This collection of essays writes about times and places that I lived in, and is an almost embarrassing look at myself living on the side of of the psychedelic era, which includes Viet Nam, Roe v Wade, Martin Luther King, John Kennedy, free love, and of course psychedelics. I say living on the side, because I see much of my past living on the side of wherever and whenever I was. Awakening from this half-dream life is my work now.


Philip Pullman was mentioned to me by Roxane, whom I also have to thank for (and return to!) The Psychedelic Club. I don't remember the conversation about Pullman, although I recall it was in the motel room in Alameda; the name stuck in my mind and I bought a Kindle version of this first of a trilogy called His Dark Materials. It's listed as young adult fiction, and falls into a category that now includes Harry Potter, written for a young adult reader and read by adults. I've got the other two on hold at the library.


I love reading on my Kindle, but prefer to get books from the library when I can. Sometimes I forget to go there first. I read somewhere today (maybe on Brain Pickings Weekly) that there are more libraries in the US than McDonald's. Hooray for us!


Back to Paper Garden.

Wherever You Go, There You Are

Two of my readers have asked where this phrase comes from and what it means. (I have readers?!)

It is claimed that the saying goes back to Confucius.

Wherever You Go etc. is also the title of a book by Jon Kabat-Zinn, with a subtitle of Mindfulness Meditations In Everyday Life. I've learned something of mindfulness meditation and it is the path my meditation usually takes. Jon Kabat-Zinn also wrote Full Catastrophe Living, which I haven't read, but probably am ready for, now that the catastrophe lives not so much in the present. Two other books come to mind: Be Here Now by Ram Dass, and Eckhart Tolle's Power of Now. They all teach the same lesson. Ram Dass' book was written in 1971, and is followed, after Ram Dass' full catastrophic stroke, by Still Here. 

That lesson finally came home to roost last night. I'd been the day before to look at a place to live in Burbank, near to my daughter. There are many good reasons for that move, my therapist, psychiatrist, and son all think it's a great idea for me. Of course there are pros and cons, as there are for everything, but weighing those didn't solve my dilemma. Confucius did. The truth is that I came away from viewing the truly wonderful apartment opportunity with only one thought screaming - "Give me a lot of chocolate, now!" That was the first clue that my mind  - my soul? - was trying to tell me something that had nothing to do with pros and cons. That thought grew through the next 24 hours, and became fully-grown and intelligible: Mostly I want to move because I think I am uncomfortable Where I Am. I am uncomfortable, period. There is good reason for this (see Full Catastrophe!) but the solution is not to take myself elsewhere, but to go inward and become comfortable there. I am Here Now. Where I live will be an easy transition in space, not an arduous dilemma; a smooth flow, not a rocky terrain to clamber through. I am reminded to be more diligent in meditation.

Let's check back in a year - in five years. 

For today, I took the 134 to the 170 to the 5, off the freeway in Merced, and then backroads to Murphys. I am Here Now.

Dilemma Resolved

Wherever I go, there I am.

Dilemma

I've been in Burbank for five days now, and just went to see the Burbank Senior Artists Colony, which I stumbled across one day on line. Alwyn, Daniel, and I went to have a tour, and saw a very affordable apartment, plus the many beautiful amenities of the apartment building. I have until 9:30 tomorrow morning to make a deposit for a lease starting September 1. And I find myself immobilized. Do I want to stay in Murphys? Will I have to move from where I am. Should I make this big of a move at all? (Northern to Southern California is a BIG change). Where do I belong anyway? There are so many questioning squirrels running around in circles in my head, and no answer gives me THE answer. I am so unsettled that I can hardly write. I was going to write about music - a much more interesting subject than my dilemma, but I'm afraid that this is what you get today.


I remember "When in doubt, don't."

Test Blog

There is a setting, when I publish the blog, that asks if I want to share it. I don't know where it will go, so I'm going to try it now. Perhaps it'll turn up on Facebook!

Zuma Beach

Another day at the beach. The water you see is the Pacific! Daniel, Alwyn, and I went to Zuma Beach, north of Malibu, today, to get out of the heat and into the sand and the sun. When we got there, it was almost crowded, enough to remind me of Crane Beach and Singing Beach. It was 20 degrees cooler than inland, and the wind was high, but in true beach bum style, we set up blankets and umbrella, and I immediately lay down in full sun. Yes, I did spray on sunscreen, this time (my back and shoulders are still peeling from sun two weeks ago in Murphys Diggins pool).  When I came out of the most wonderful sun bath I've had in years, I sat up and the beach was as you see it - completly clear! And cold! Alwyn is wearing a fleece jacket zipped to the chin, while I, hardy soul, have a sweatshirt around my shoulders. We are shaking the sand out the beach blanket and it was a kite, full horizontal. Doesn't my darling daughter look like a movie star? Then supper at Malibu Seafood - Dungeness Crab Salad for me, Alwyn had a squid steak sandwich, and Daniel had snapper - all wonderful but surprisingly the squid won. Earlier in the day, we met Maggi for lunch. I've known Maggi since she and Alwyn were three.


I was so tired last night (still jetlagged from the six hour north-south drive?) that I slept without writing about the wonderful string quartet we saw yesterday afternoon. They played a Mendelssohn that I'd never heard before that was just beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful ending of any quartet ever. Then Beethoven's Quartet No. 7, his last. It was quite short, because, as the program notes said, his publisher didn't want to pay him enough. Okay he said (in perfect German), if they circumcise my ducats, I'll circumcise their quartet. This and the next quartet, the American by Dvorak, are both very familiar to me, and beautifully played. After, we went to The Vegan Plate (gave the Juicy Ladies a miss, sadly - next time for them) for an amazingly wonderful dinner. 


I am living the life of a well-loved princess.

Another day in LA

Stayed up late last night, and then woke up late this morning. Alwyn and I drove to Orange County - Irvine, I think, where she had a rehearsal and a concert with the Pacific Symphony. During the rehearsal time, I went to the mall, of course - I am in Southern California, after all. It was more like Disneyland than a group of merchants and buyers. Going to the mall is an outing for families, couples, teenagers. The idea of even entering the doors of a store was overwhelming, and since I had three hours to wait for Alwyn to come back and pick me up, I went to a movie! Of the ten or 12 choices, I opted for Ted (somehow Batman has lost its appeal). Ted was silly, cute, fraternity gross, and a love story.  I felt just silly. After the movie I found a comfortable chair to sit in and read until Alwyn came back. (I started reading The Golden Compass, which Roxane mentioned to me. A propos of what, I can't recall now.) Multiple texting back and forth brought us together and we went to the Veggie Grill for a wonderful tempeh supper. 

Then on to the main event, the concert at the Verizon Ampitheater. The program was Broadway show tunes, and featured the Three Phantoms - three singers all of whom have sung the lead in Phantom of the Opera. The music was wonderful, and the entertainers put on a good show. Then an hour or so on freeways back home. It's a heady life.

California Living

Billy and I spent an hour or so outside on the front lawn. It the adventure and activity left him very tired.

Southern California

It's 22 minutes past midnight, and I am in an upper room in my daughter and son-in-law's house in Burbank. We've sat on the lawn with Billy the cat on a leash, we've gone for a walk, and now I'm getting ready for sleep. Sharing the room with me is Charlie, an older cat who was Alwyn's for many years, became someone else's for the past two and a half years, and since day before yesterday is Alwyn's again. There's another cat, Pearl, who lives here too. Charlie's older, and this move was hard on him, so I'm breathing in and out calming and healing energy.


And so to sleep.

Reading

 Reading maketh a full man; conference a ready man; and writing an exact man. And therefore, if a man write little, he had need have a great memory; if he confer little, he had need have a present wit: and if he read little, he had need have much cunning, to seem to know, that he doth not.


This by Francis Bacon, in an essay "Of Studies," which came to me via a weekly email from Brain Pickings Weekly, to which you can subscribe by going to www.brainpickings.org. 
The website states just above the sign-in box: "Brain Pickings has a free weekly interestngness digest." How can you pass that up?


Here, in this week's issue, is Book Spines Poetry:

Bursts, music, big questions: A working theory of love

What kind of poem could be made from the book spines in my last post?

The Girl I Left Behind, Agewise and Aged By Culture; 

The Harvard Psychedelic Club and Paper Garden, Mindfulness and the 12 Steps: 

Your Life as Story

Thank you for allowing me to confer with you through writing, thus I become a full, ready, and exact woman.

What I'm reading now

The Harvard Psychedelic Club, Don Lattin. I lived my late '60's and early '70's on a nearby parallel road. Roxane loaned me her copy after I started it when I was visiting her last weekend. 


Paper Garden, Molly Peacock. As I wrote before, the story of Mary Delaney who became a "mosaick" artist at the age of 72. The writing style almost gets in the way of what is really a fascinating story.


Just got in the mail from Amazon: Your Life as Story, Tristine Rainer. Recommended by Judith Nies. Maybe it'll help this blog take new and lively (pun intended) directions.


Waiting at the library, Slouching Towards Bethlehem, Joan Dideon. Now I can't quite remember why I reserved it, except that someone mentioned another book that she wrote that I couldn't find and I love her. 


New on my Kindle: Fire in the Lake, Frances FitzGerald. Another classmate's book about Viet Nam, feeding my interest in the decades in which I grew and lived, and mentioned in The Girl I Left Behind, Judith Nies, about which I've already written; and The Golden Compass, Philip Pullman, also mentioned to me by Roxane. 


There was a table at the Harvard Coop (and for you here on the other coast, that's pronounced as in the hen house) that had piles of books written by people in our class. I wanted to buy all of them, but for the weight of my luggage. I've bought a few since I've come home. They are part of the link to the person I was 50 years ago, and looking forward to the person I am becoming. 

Alameda with Roxane

One of the new old friends from the reunion, Roxane, has a daughter who lives only a couple of hours from me, and Roxane was at her daughter's house last weekend. I drove on Saturday, Route 4, to 238 to 880, and off the freeways, finally, near the Oakland Airport, to Alameda. I went to the Coral Reef, where Roxane had left a key to her room for me at the front desk, and went to her room where she appeared a few minutes later. We knew each other through college, and only reconnected at our 50th reunion, and it is an amazing gift to be her friend today. We had supper at the Bombay Superstar, where I've been with my son a number of times. Here's the tea leaf salad!

Clockwise from the upper right corner: powdered shrimp, peanuts, dried garbanzos, sesame seeds, sunflower seeds, roasted garlic slices, chopped red bell pepper, and at 12 o'clock, a lemon. The center is a bed of rice with the tea leaf dressing, which is in consistency like pesto, but a flavor unlike anything I've eaten. Salty, spicy, savory. They serve it like as it appears, and then toss it for you. All tossed, it's not as beautiful, but the flavors and textures are perfection. 

After dinner, we went across the street and browsed in a bookstore, that I thought was independent, but my son, Will, informs me that it's a chain of independent-looking bookstores! I practiced restraint, but Roxane found a few books to buy. Then we went to Tucker's for ice cream - it's famous, and rightly so. They had purple yam ice cream, which we tasted, but it had no particular taste at all except sweet.

After much conversation, and a night's sleep, we went to breakfast, and to the San Francisco Airport, nicely avoiding the Giant's game.

I drove home, reversing the route, and skipping Stockton, so you can add Routes 204 and 180 east, and leave out I5 north. If I were writing from Southern California, I would put the word "the" in front of the route number. The 580 to the 180. Southern and northern California are different states. 

Cupcake Wars

It has to be the biggest event ever in Murphys, California, at least since the brothers John and Daniel Murphys struck gold in 1848. 


My friend, Karen, went to LA to compete in the Food Network Cupcake Wars. Karen has a catering business and cupcake coffee shop, named Lila & Sage, that is located on Main Street in Murphys, now a bustling town of 2,000 residents. She invited 300 of her friends to a golf club restaurant, Camps, in Angels Camp, to view the show. I think everyone knew she'd won, but we all pretended we didn't.  My sister had seen it three hours earlier on the east coast and told me. We had fruit and cheese, and the finest of Murphys were there. Many beautiful women wore gowns (no man wore a tux); my friend Kate and I thought we might be overdressed in a summer dress! There were televisions strategically placed around the crowed room and at 8 o'clock, the show began. We watched breathlessly, and cheered enormously, as one by one, the four contestants, with their assistants, baked and presented beautiful and delicious cupcakes (where is smell-o-rama when you need it?), and as, one-by-one, the four were down to the final two, and the winner, Karen, of Lila & Sage, in Murphys, California! Then we all had cupcakes and all went home, replete with glitter, excitement, drama, tension, and the celebratory chatter of good friends.

Conway Lake Beach

Two years before I was born, in 1938, my grandfather bought a summer farm in South Conway, New Hampshire. He bought it to be a family summer colony, with himself as Chief, and in fact he was referred to as Chief by some of my uncles. His chiefdom was sadly shortened by his death when I was nine, and the farm became a hub of matriarchy. My very first memory of swimming in New Hampshire was in a little kiddy pool (made out of canvas, with a wooden frame). I wore a knitted wool bathing suit, which of course stretched very uncomfortably as soon as it got wet. 


There were two possible lakes where we could go to swim, once my sister and I and our two cousins had outgrown the kiddy pool. They were about equidistant from the farm. Crystal Lake was downhill all the way, on paved road, and right beside Route 153, in the Town of Eaton. Conway Lake was on more or less level dirt road and a much more exciting ride for us. The controversy over which one to go to had to do with gas. This was wartime, and gas was strictly rationed, so a trip to the beach was a precious event. The question was, does it use less gas to coast all the way downhill, and then drive back up, or would it be less to drive both ways, but on flat road. That question, as far as I know, was never answered to any one's satisfaction!


At some point after the war, the South Conway Club was formed, and a beach was established on Conway Lake.  The opening day of the beach included a picnic and of course swimming. I'm sure there were margaritas for the grownups, there always were. 


There was only a small handful of children, but our dear friend Mr. Harper had come down early, and when we got there, the beach was blooming with dozens of lollipops planted in the sand. 

More at the Beach

:

The first picture is the group at Ocean Beach, Maryland, in 1958. The second picture is the same group minus one, in 2008, at our 50th high school reunion. We're all in the same order.

Speaking of beaches, as we were, it's Crane Beach in Ipswich, MA, not Crane's. And my sister informs me that CNN reported that it was one of five beaches closed on this hot day. Here's the news from the Andover Tribune:

"All Ipswich beaches were ordered closed yesterday because of concerns about bacterial contamination.

"The town's wastewater treatment plant was discharging higher-than-normal levels of coliform bacteria earlier this week, and the health department closed town beaches and clam beds yesterday afternoon as a precaution."

"Monday's mechanical failure at the wastewater treatment plant, which caused the increased levels of bacteria, has been fixed, said Tim Henry, director of Ipswich's Utilities Department."

My sunburn continues to feel like sunburn 48 hours from the burn!

Red as a lobster

Just yesterday morning, my skin was, as you can see, as white as the strap marks on my shoulder. I bought sunscreen today, and went swimming again, with a chorus of "ow, ow, ow" from my pool companions. I don't know many people who live in this little mobile home community, but I think a few more will not forget me! Last night when I went to bed, I was afraid that the sheets would be too irritating to my burn, but I found that the familiar prickle from my childhood was comforting. I slept well, wrapped in absorbed sunshine, and in memories.


I remembered another sunburn; this one the week after being graduated from high school. A group of us rented a house on Ocean Beach, Maryland, and I became the usual scarlet. Maybe the fact that this feels so comforting is that it reminds me that I am still young and foolish.

Summer Days at the Beach

Today, with temperatures of 102, my dear friend, Gail, and I took to the pool. We were in the water all afternoon, chatting, chatting with others as they came and went. Mostly we had the pool to ourselves. (Why don't I remember a camera?) I am red as a lobster, and very very content. After the pool, we sat in the lawn swing and drank iced decaf, with Jenny Lind and XieXie. 


Memories. My first spring in Cambridge introduced me to the joys of sunbathing on the roof of Comstock Hall, and even more exciting, finding someone with a car who could take me/us to Crane's Beach in Ipswich. It usually was a weekend, and we inevitably sat in snail-like traffic for two hours there (and then back again). When we got to the beach, we would search for a beach-blanket-sized spot. The sand was literally covered in beach blankets, each with its own transistor radio, picnic basket, and, if you were unlucky, three or four kids. We would lather on the baby oil and iodine (which of course would immediately attract a layer of sand) and sit in the sun, with brief forays, picking our way though the blankets and towels, to the sea. I was red as a lobster back then, too. 


I looked up Crane's Beach, and found that today it costs $15 to get in - $25 on weekends. 


There was also a beach that we frequented in Manchester, called Singing Beach, named after the particularly squeaking sound of the sand as it was being walked upon. What did we wear on our feet in those days before flip-flops? I remember burning the soles of my feet on hot days at the beach. Singing Beach now is open to non-residents Monday through Thursday only, at a cost of $25.


Among my fond memories of those beach days is a stop at a fried clam shack. I often order fried clams when they appear on menus, and am always disappointed, for nothing will be as good as those stored in my memory. Howard Johnson's used to have good fried clams, but I bet they're not the same now.

Depression redux

I am not at all where I was yesterday - I knew that would happen. I can begin to really rely on it now. Writing about it, shameful as that now feels, was a help in leaving it behind. Therapeutic suggestions are not, thank goodness, pharmacology, but exercise, mentally challenging my old victim ideation, subtle as it can be, and a cup of coffee in the morning! 

The Girl I Left Behind

I just finished reading The Girl I Left Behind, by Judith Nies (which I spelled incorrectly the last time I wrote it), subtitled "A Narrative History of the Sixties". It wasn't my sixties although we are of an age, but it was hers, and also was much of the country's. Political goings-on that I had never known of. She researched and wrote about how Washington works, and coincidentally, the CIA, FBI, the women's movement. She talks at one point about finding her voice as a writer, having written professionally for others' voices - speechwriting, memoranda in the halls of Congress. She certainly has found her voice (this is not her first book, and I understand that she is about to publish another).


In a chapter titled "The Failure Theory of Success", she quotes Joseph Campbell, "We must be willing to get rid of the life we've planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us." That struck home for me of course; the life I had planned came, as she goes on to say, "to a dead stop," but I haven't let go of it yet. I need to get rid of it, or I won't have the life that is waiting for me. Later in the book, in a chapter titled, "Leave the Gun; Take the Cannoli," her opening paragraph is:


"Job. Marriage. Home. These are the three pillars of adult life, the rituals and institutions upon which we hang out our identities. Their loss strips away the person we think we are and leaves us way back inside ourselves, looking out at life as if through a porthole. We see a landscape we don't recognize."


I'll have to reread the chapter to see what its title means!


I read the book personally, trying to find myself in it, and maybe I did find a whisper.


Great book, subject, and style and voice. 

Chocolate pizza

The chocolate pizza was store-bought, from the Chocolate Lady in Angels Camp, California. I've never attempted chocolate making. I suppose you melt chocolate, add spices (I picture it being continuously swirled in a large bowl set over warm water), then put the toppings in a mold (would they then be bottomings?), pour in the chocolate, add toppings on top, and drizzle with more chocolate. 

Depression

My dear blog mentor has advised me to not talk about depression; that I should go for a walk, whistle. She's right, and my therapist agrees with her.


But the big black fog of depression has settled in, and I need to describe it - for myself. You can skip this one, if you'd rather.


I sleep too much. 12 to 14 hours a day. I am sad all the time. I am uncomfortable in company, except a very few close friends. Any job, no matter how small, seems overwhelming, and when I'm finished, I don't have that feeling of accomplishment, I just feel exhausted and glad only that it's over. I am eating badly, taking care of myself and the house minimally. I am skipping activities, meetings, events. The cheerful face I've put on the last few days or weeks has become too much of an effort. 


There's really nothing to attach this depression to, except the trauma of the past three years has both heightened and deadened my emotions. That's really where it came from, and I've been forging ahead, trying to cope. I think this current dip in the road is just that, a dip, and I will get better. That's not really hope, it's belief that this phase will change, as have all the other phases I've been through. 


It might be a medication issue, as well, and I will start to deal with that tomorrow with those that I trust in that arena.


These pages might become a journal of this depression. I understand if any readers do not want to follow me here. I am writing this to save my life.

Chocolate and books

Here's the leftover chocolate pizza!

I may have lost track of what I've read since I last wrote about books. I hope not. 

I've finished The Plug-In Drug. It's aimed at parents with children, particularly young children, but I found it very apt for me. As I'm building a new life, I've used TV for escape - haven't we all, well most of us? Then the set was out for a month, got fixed a month ago, and I've watched only one hour in that month. The idea of losing my mind to the Plug-In Drug is kind of scary, and although I've not yet sold it, I may have a buyer, and I'm about to take the plunge. I think.

I also finished What Was She Thinking - Notes on a Scandal. That was the cosy I was thinking of. I loved it and can't wait to see the movie - which I can still do on my lap top, right? That's not cheating? It's not so cosy, but the characters are wonderful, and I'm sure that Judi Dench, Cate Blanchett, and Bill Nighy (two out of the three are also in the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel) portray them perfectly.

Now I've started The Girl I Left Behind, by Judith Nyes. I'm absolutely mesmerized by her writing of her life in the world of national and international politics, the women's movement, the Viet Nam War.

July 4th Redux

We in Calaveras County celebrate July 4th on a nearby Saturday. There's a parade in Arnold, 20 minutes up Highway 4, and in Murphys, we have a big wingding of fireworks and music at Ironstone, Kautz Winery and venue for big name concerts and other more local events.  But we were not at Ironstone; we, Gail and I, went to Barbaranne's new house on five plus acres, a couple of hills south or maybe west, from Ironstone. Barbaranne was hosting us and her son, Kelly, for supper, games, and dinner. 


Before dinner, we talked and tried to solve computer mysteries. Barbaranne is very on top of all things computer; Gail is a teensy bit computer phobic; I am a moderately skilled user. We had a tablet going, we tried to get a desk top Mac going, we even preempted Kelly's computer for a while. Barbaranne served ice tea punch and chips and salsa and guacamole.


The next thing on the agenda was a game - Ticket to Ride. You might know it, but Gail and I didn't. It's simpler than it seems at first, involves strategy and some luck and its rules are interestingly different from many games' rules. We got tucked into the game, and then decided it was time to eat, while we played.


Barbaranne brought out chicken Caesar wraps, and the melon balls I had brought, and we ate and continued our game. We were waiting til dark when the fireworks were to start. The location of Ironstone from the house was plotted and we kept starting hopefully at the hilltops for the first rocket's red glare. It took a long time to get dark enough, so we started in on the dessert that Gail had ordered from a local chocolatier in Angels Camp. 


It was a chocolate pizza! They made the "dough" from a spicy (i.e. peppery) chocolate, and Gail had chosen a turtle topping - chocolate, caramel, pecans. Only the spiciness of the chocolate kept us from eating second helpings right then and there, I think, but we brought seconds home. Sadly, I can't get my camera to download right now (what's with that?) so I can't show you a picture of my slice. 


The pie was almost finished when we saw the first burst of fireworks. We went outside in the cooling summer night and had the best seats in the house for 30 minutes of ooh and ahhh! It was a spectacular view of wonderful fireworks display, with good friends, good food, beautiful country.


When the last burst faded, we went back and finished the game. Kelly won.

Family

I thought today I'd introduce some of my family. This is Jenny Lind and XieXie.

Still the 4th

Still thinking about the 4th of July. From the yacht disaster in Long Island Sound, and the evacuation of the Shell in Boston due to electrical storms in the east, to the fireworks fiasco in San Diego, it sounds like a dangerous holiday to be sure. The announcement of the Higgs bosun could have had something to do with it? The popular name of course is The God Particle, although Leon Lederman, author of the book by that name is quoted in the all-knowing Wikipedia that it was supposed to be titled The Goddamn Particle, but that suggestion was nixed by the publisher.


But what I really was thinking about was a parade many years ago in Woodacre, California. There is always a July 4th parade in Woodacre, a very small town, and almost not enough people to both be in and watch the event. The end of the parade was always a man with a wheelbarrow and shovel to clean up after the hourses.


My son, Will, was about eight, and my daughter, Alwyn, was about six. As I recall. Alwyn and her friend, Maggi, for weeks had planned to be ballerinas and were fully tutued in pink, their hair was in classical ballet buns, and they each had a Gerbera Daisy as part of the hairdo. Will had declined to be in the parade until the morning of the 4th, when he decided that he wanted to be a spaceman. As a mother I had to often think very hard and fast to get out of a tight spot, and this was a very tight spot. There are no stores in Woodacre, and it was too late to drive "over the hill" to Fairfax, and besides I think all stores were closed on the 4th in those days. My hard and fast thinking came up with a motorcycle helmet covered in aluminum foil, a pair of shorts, and a lot of green poster paint. He wasn't a friendly spaceman, and followed the adorable dancing girls, stomping his bare feet and roaring at the crowd. He was adorable too.


I have a picture somewhere of the three of them. I also have a picture of me at the end of the parade, wearing a short short skirt, with a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. But that's another story.

On Reading

Fearless Jones and Paris Minton got themselves out of their pickle at the very last moment, and breathed a bitter-sweet sigh of satisfaction and sadness that the book was over. There are more, and I look forward to them, but I can't read another right away - too rich.


I just read the essay (long blog) by Lee Siegel, called Harvard is Burning. Since I am politically unastute, I won't say more than it's a rant, and I felt abused after reading it. I just didn't get it, and don't get him. Cultural criticism? 


So now what to read? There's a book waiting at the library (yes, I do go to an actual library as well as two other libraries that carry eBooks and of course Amazon) - named What Was She Thinking - Notes on a Scandal. The latter title is the movie title and maybe was the original title or subtitle of the book.  But it's only 7pm, and I have two or three more reading hours (well, reading and writing and laundry), and I need a book now! I'm a third of the way through The Plug-In Drug and can dip into it some, but I'm looking for something more cosy.


I'm always happy when I'm in a good book. 

Long Driving Day

Better Blogs Before Breakfast?


It's 8:15 here in the Golden West, and I'm just home from a Murphys to Alameda round-trip lunch visit with my son, Will, for his 41st birthday. And with his girlfriend, who I just met for the first time. She lives near Bloomington, but in Illinois. I think. She flew out to surprise him. It took a scores of many fine actors to pull it off, but he was truly surprised.


We had lunch at the Bombay SuperStar in Alameda, and I had my favorite tea leaf salad. They bring to the table a plate of lettuce, finely sliced, and all around it are piles of comestibles - peanuts, toasted garlic, sesame seeds, soy nuts, shrimp dust, and a bowl of the tea leaf dressing. Next time I'll bring my camera. Ahem. Trust me, it's a beautiful plate, and the server mixes it all up in makes it not so beautiful, but absolutely delicious. 


Heavy heavy traffic this eve of the 4th, and a recently removed obsession returned. Thank goodness for cell phones, as I was able to call a friend who talked me down. I am truly grateful. Yes, I have a headset - no hands on phones in cars in California. I am grateful for cell phones, but mostly for friends.


So, tired to bed and more Fearless Jones, whose friend, Paris Minton, has gotten them into a real pickle.

The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel

I recently read the book, and miraculously, the movie appeared yesterday at the Angels Camp Theater. Barbaranne, Gail, and I had a fabulous dinner at the Mercantile before, and when we got to the theater they had three seats left - not together of course. The film was shown in what it called the Filming Room - a special small theater for small audience expected. I don't pretend to understand the movie house business, but this movie was sold out for more than one show.


The movie v the book. The book, as I might have already said, was somewhat dark and edgy, with many interweaving people and their stories. The movie was much lighter and softer, and many of the story lines were left out, as well as some of the characters. I wish I could read/watch side by side to be sure what changed. The movie is a gem - how could it not be with Maggie Smith, Judy Dench, Bill Nighy, Tom Wilkinson.


I stumbled on another movie, Notes on a Scandal, also with Judy Dench and Bill Nighy, Cate Blanchett as well. It might be an old movie that I just missed? Yes and I can get it from Amazon for 2.99.


Did I say that I'd finished I Can't Remember Anything? I can't remember. In honor of Nora Ephron. If she can't remember anything, then I needn't worry too much. I was disappointed that it wasn't a novel, but she's not a novelist and this isn't a novel. I'm sure there's a name for that kind of book - David Sedaris writes them. Essays, short stories.


Reading: Fearless Jones, Walter Mosley. I thought I'd read it before I took it out of the wonderful eBook library (this one in the county next door, Tuolumne), but I hadn't. I heard Mosley do a book talk once in San Francisco and I recall him talking about the role of the black man in the family. He said the father in a black family is often misportrayed, and is, in fact, a warm and solid figure, generally speaking.

Aletheia

I finished reading The Women's Room a couple of days ago. It was part of a reading list that grew out of our 50th Reunion - books that were written in that time, about that time, by authors of our time. The Group, The Class, You Can Always Tell A Harvard Man, Pitch Uncertain, I Remember Nothing, The Red Book, A Sense of an Ending, an article entitled Harvard and the Making of the Unibomber.  Three other friends and I are reading and talking about these books in preparation for a writing project of our own.


Because I have been away from Cambridge for 50 years, and away from friends there, I have lost much of that context for memory, and so I think I remember much less than my friends do. We keep memory alive by memory; telling stories, comparing notes, seeing places, writing it down, taking photographs and then looking at them, living in the context of the memorable events. I have done very little of that - I would say none, but I know there are one or two exceptions, but I didn't let them get large enough to build a context to live in. This idea of context isn't my own - I read it somewhere in those books in the list above. Maybe I'll remember where, or one of my friends will have noted it as well.


I read The Women's Room years ago, soon after it was published, but as I reread it this week, I only recalled the first few pages. Maybe I didn't finish it back then, I don't remember. The women in the book were about a half a generation older than me, and seemed to be more mired in pre-women's lib that I ever felt. Maybe identification builds context for memory. I was wrapped in myself for years and years, and find myself at 72 searching for both memory and identification. 


From The Women's Room: "You know, the Greek word for truth - aletheia - doesn't mean the opposite of falsehood. It means the opposite of lethe, oblivion. Truth is what is remembered."


That's what is important. Memory, not oblivion. Even if the memory is false, as it is sure to be sometimes, it is not oblivion.