Disausted !!!!!

Wes used to say that when he'd get very tired.
I think he was 4 or so. He'd say, "Mommy, I'm
just disausted!" Great word. Combination of
disgusted and exhausted.

Was on the phone until after 11. The hospital
released A. in her father's care. He knew she was
still not herself but was willing to go on with the
charade until she wigged at dinner. When I got
him on the phone at 10:30, they were on the way
back to the hospital. I don't know what's causing
all of these things in her mind. Drug-induced psychosis
can be long lasting, but is generally short-lived.

I have some research to do today.

Poppies

Red ones, all along the median and on the sides
of the road for a long stretch of drive on the WK.
And some kind of yellow wildflowers. Lovely.

Stayed Sunday and Monday night in Lexington
with D. Drove home this morning (had to leave
at 5:45 to get to work in time). WE had a great time
together. Ther aren't many weeks left until she
completes her PhD and moves on. I don't think
I'll get to go visit her as much if she chooses DC
or Atlanta. Atlanta not so far--6 hours. DC--a
flight, but I'm gonna bite the bullet some day
and fly.

A. hospitalized again. I think this is more than just
having bad trips. I am concerned about the possibilty
of mental illness and it going undiagnosed if certain
people keep insisting it's the drugs. Got the call
Sunday shortly after I got to L'ton. Boston. Too far
for me to go. She's stabilized. And still hospitalized
and her dad should be there by now.

Went to the movies with B. and R. to see Terminator:
Salvation. It's ok. I still think the first one is the best.
After the movie (Friday night), we went to J's and met
her friends from Raleigh. Lawyers. Funny, smart,
interesting two. He's going to be climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro
on 7/25 instead of going to his class reunion. Can't imagine
making such a tough decision.
Ha!

Saturday was cookout at M's house. About 10 of us there.
Those of us who work togther in crisis and a husband and
some of the husband's guy friends. Good time. Good food.

Big night this Friday night. Wes graduates from high school.
I can't believe it. Seems he was just starting kindergarten
yesterday.

Next week, I drive B to the Cleveland Clinic for some tests.
We remain hopeful. I'll take a day and 1/2 off to make the
trip.

Still reading Last of the Romanovs (have not picked it up
in a week or so--not been in a reading mood).

Yard is a wreck. Weeds overtaking everything. I am
ashamed and appalled that I have let things get to that
point, but I am not feeling energetic enough to tackle
it just now.

The Potato Eaters
Vincent van Gogh, 1885

My Brother's Mirror
by Donald Platt

At eight years old my brother born with Down syndrome
liked to shuffle
down the sidewalk holding our mother's hand mirror

in which he'd watch
what was happening behind him. What did he see so long ago?
Me on a butterfly-handlebarred

bike, which he would never learn to ride, about to run him down,
shouting, "Look out,
slow poke! Make way, bird brain! Think quick, fat tick!"

I would swerve
around him at the last moment. He gazed back at me with blank
cow eyes and couldn't

speak. He warbled like a sparrow, drooled, and went on
looking
in his mirror. Did he see the wind shake the lilacs

by our neighbor's hedge
back and forth like handbells? They kept ringing out their sweet
invisible scent.

Peals of petals fell to the ground. "Look harder, Michael,"
I want to tell him now.
"Your namesake is an archangel. Do you see Kathy, our beautiful

babysitter, who will
kill herself years later with sleeping pills, waving her white dishtowel
to call us home

to supper?" She once caught me lying on the floor and trying
to look up the dark folds
of her schoolgirl's wool skirt and slapped me. But don't we all

walk forward, gazing backward
over our shoulders at the future coming at us from the past like a hit-and-run
driver? Michael,

God's idiot angel, I see in your mirror our father
yanking out
the plugs of all the TVs blaring the evening news

on his nursing home's
locked ward for the demented. He hates the noise, the CNN reporters
in Bam, Iran,

covering yesterday's earthquake, 6.6 on the Richter scale,
twelve seconds,
twenty-five thousand dead, thousands more buried alive

beneath the rubble.
The aftershocks continue. We get live footage of a woman in a purple
shawl, sifting

through her gold-ringed fingers the crumbled concrete
of what were once
the blue-tiled walls of her house. She wails and keeps on

digging.
This morning I dreamed that I was building an arch
from pieces of charred

brick I'd found in that debris. It was complete except for
the keystone,
but no brick would fit. What I needed

was our father
to put his splayed fingers into the fresh mortar where the keystone
should have gone

and leave his handprints there, so I might put my palms to his.
Brother, I held your hand
for the first time last winter. Your fingers were warm,

rubbery.
The skin on the back of your hands was rough and chapped.
They are the same fingers

that weave placemats from blue wool yarn every day,
slowly passing
the shuttle over and under the warp, its strands stretched tight

as the strings of a harp.
It's a silent slow music you make. It takes you
weeks to weave

a single placemat. Brother, you dropped the hand mirror.
It cracked, but didn't
shatter. It broke the seamless sky into countless

jagged splinters,
but still holds the aspen's trembling leaves, the lilacs, you and me,
all passing things.

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

This poem was in my email this morning from poem-a-day
from poets.org. It didn't format correctly, but one does not
necessarily have to see it in the format the writer intended
to appreciate this poem. I often wonder why some writers
choose to weave their words in and out, not flush with the margin.
I'm not sure I always get the effect they are striving for, or
feel at times that it's a gimmicky kind of thing to format a poem
a particular way for no reason I can ascertain. Jorie Graham
comes to mind. This one definitely looks and reads better
when in the correct format, but I don't know how to get it
that way.

Lauren and Jon just left. Wes still in Lexington.

It's very cool outside. And sunny. A perfect day to work in the
yard, and I have much to do in the yard, but I don't feel like
doing anything.

Slept poorly, as usual, last night and feel very fatigued. Again,
the sleep apnea (which I assume I have) makes for a poor
night of sleep. Today, my nose is runny, but I don't feel sick.
Weird pains in my legs and hips (As is so often case at night),
but they feel ok now. I have to wonder if everyone feels odd
little things in their bodies every day, or if it's just me and my
focus on me. It's like the heart palpitations and the arrythmia.
I feel them, but there are other people I know who have them
who tell me they never really know they are having them.
They tell me the arrythmia or palpitation is discovered by their
doctor at a routine exam. I can't imagine not feeling it.

Creeps me out to be lying on my side and hear my heart
beating, drumming in my ears. Too much me thinking
about me.

Jon, Lauren, & I had this for breakfast this morning:

*cantalope, kiwi, and strawberry fruit salad with vanilla
yogurt as a dip
*ham
*scrambled eggs with hot sauce, scallions, and Monterey jack cheese
*O'Brien potatoes

Full, but not too full.

I think I'll go brush my teeth, wash my face, read for a little
while and then try to go work in the yard. I have lillies
and sedum to plant. I need to mow and weedeat. And I need
to weed.

My herb garden has just grown out of control. The oregano
has taken over everything. Maybe I'll work on it a little today.

Molly's pillow. Gotta wash it.

Now.

Crazy

Not that. What is that anyway? A good thing
at times. An all alive all over thing.

Tonight, during a conversation with B, I brought
up the matters of that day. The day they loaded
your body in the ambulance, headed for the morgue.
I had to go into the house and wrap my arms around
your husband to get him off your body, to get him
to the outside, to get him to a place where I could
ask the hard questions: where is her address book?
I need to call people.

I feel it's sacriledge, or something close, to write about
it, so I haven't written about it much. It's been ten
years. I don't think about you every day, but I do
very often. A month or so ago, Lauren & Wes were
going through the closet in the computer room.
They found a purse with many pairs of glasses, some
jewelry, and a social security card. I was called in
to answer some questions. It was an odd moment.
It was a hard moment. After it passed, I think
I put all the contents of the purse back together
and placed them back in the closet. It will be 10
years June 1.

I thought I would spend this evening preparing
and then eating my dinner, but I spent it drinking.
The food is in the kitchen,, but I am not hungry.

I need sleep. Good, deep sleep. Lots of days of
good deep sleep. Mornings I can wake up and know
I've slept well. I am going to keep hoping for that.
I don't want eternal sleep. I must not keep fearing
that each night I lie down to go to sleep.

Fight for your right to be here. Fight. It is a fight.
I will fight.

Thinking of Vincent

and other things and people this morning.
Finished reading Van Gogh's Women: His
Love Affairs and Journey Into Madness
recently. It was a Christmas gift from my mother.
As is so often the case, I am reluctant to like
anything my mother likes. I don't want to
engage in conversation with her about any topic
which may lead to an argument. It's best to stay
safe and stick to the relatively innocuous
things like how good fresh vegetables are, how
much work a yard and garden are, how many
storms we've had lately, etc. But, I am glad I read
the book and plan to order some other books
about Vincent. I am not a Vincent scholar but can
see where it would be easy to want to become one.

Vincent's tendency to self-mutilate when his relationships
did not go as planned makes me think of some of the
people I work with.

I meant to bracket info as I read that I knew I would
want to revisit, but for some reason I didn't. I'm not
sure why this one particular image from the book
struck me, but it did. The author was commenting
on Vincent's time in Arles or Montmarte. He said that
some days the wind was so strong, Vincent had a habit
of painting on his knees, canvas flat on the ground. Some
of the paintings have sand grains mixed in with the paint
I can just see Vincent dropping to his knees and making
love to that canvas.

I bracketed the hell outta Annie Dillard's For The Time
Being, and even though I grew a bit frustrated with her
at one point, I am glad I stayed with the book. I think
what bothered me most were all the god references.
Other than that, there was some fascinating information
in the book. I would see a word or phrase and compose
a poem in my head. But, as I no longer keep a notepad
by the bed to jot down thoughts, those poems were just
lost. They may come to me again, but it seems everything
is hard for me these days. My memory fails me, I can't
spell, I can't pronounce certain words that I feel certain
I probably could have in the past, I have no energy
for exploring the new.

This morning I have a little energy, but I don't plan
to invest it in anything other than reading, at least
for not the next hour or so. Lauren will be here this
afternoon. She and Jon are coming to town for her 10
year class reunion. Wes went to Lexington. He left
yesterday. He wanted to go scout things out since he
has chosen UK. It is so hard for me to let go. So hard.

A quote Dillard selected for her book For The Time Being:

"We move between two darknesses," E.M. Forster wrote.
"The two entities who might enlighten us, the baby and
the corpse, cannot do so."

Some things I underlined from the book (the word poem
written in the margin):

*the face of Jesus arose in a tortilla
*Kandy, Sri Lanka
*God's quondam target
*the black mute stone
*Mycenaean Greeks called the dead "the thirsty"
*The average river requires a million years to move
a grain of sand one hundred miles.
*Solutrean
*double-ogive
*circling the drain


And this passage really got to me:

"People burst like foam. If you walk a graveyard
in the heat of summer, I have read, you can sometimes
hear--right through coffins--bloated bellies pop.
Poor people everywhere still test a fresh corpse
for life by holding a flame to its big toe. If the corpse
is truly dead, gas fills the toe blister and explodes it.
If the body is alive, fluid, not gas, fills the blister;
the fluid boils, and also pops the skin."

Allergies are bothering me today. Lots of sneezes
and congestion. My sweet little baby Isaac is now
on a nebulizer. He has asthma. Oh my. Wes went
through a rough time with that until 2nd grade.
He hasn't struggled with it since that time but I
understand it can rear its ugly head again.

On to read The Last Days of the Romanovs.

Wheat Field with Crows
Vincent van Gogh, 1890

After Closing The Window

It's a bit hot in here, so I closed the window
and turned the air down. I think, in the night,
I may wake and open the window as I much
prefer the outside air and it's supposed to get
cooler.

I talked at length with a friend tonight about
where I am in all of this shennanigan shit.
We came up with a few theories, proofs,
speculations.

I was compelled to watch an MSN video about
Farrah Fawcett. In 1976, I was a senior in high
school. One of my coworkers told me I had
such beautiful hair and encouraged me to go
get a Farrah-do. She also encouraged me to have
my (Brooke Shields--who was not known at
that time) eyebrows plucked. I resisted,
as I always have, to be a frou-frou girly girl,
so I kept my hair long and straight and I never
have plucked one hair from my eyebrows.
I wonder if I made a mistake a long time ago.
Maybe I should have done more to enhance
the natural. But the natural has grown old and
saggy and grey. And there is Farrah, on her
deathbed, I assume, speaking about fighting.

I am just going to get in bed, open one of the
books that arrived today, and read until I can't
read any longer. I question why it's easier to
want to know about the death of a woman
who has lived a rather good life than to know
about the children, men, and women of war,
of poverty, of disfigurement, of destitution.

Which is not to say I don't feel there is every
reason to feel touched by the life of this well
known woman who decided to share with the
world her battle with cancer.

Life is too fucking weird.

Eating

It is nearing 11 and I am just now eating.
I had decided to forego food and just keep drinking.
Doesn't always work that way.

Call it self-medicating. I'm down with that.

I wonder how many years this can go on.
I can see a day when it no longer exists.

I miss some people. I embrace new people.
I am not sure how to navigate these waters.

If I heard a voice from the past, I am not sure
it would soothe me. If I heard a now familiar
voice, I am not sure it would be enough.

Enough tonight is to eat a taco. Not some
authentic ethnic recipe--a little bit of me
thrown into a lot of a box, but what the hell.

I am confused at times that those I feel the
closest connection with don't feel me. Or if
they do, they don't make their presence known.

Be present. Please.

Just Wondering

Why it is that loneliness wants to claim me.
Or aloneness. Or just not belongingness.
Or just wanting to stay fucked up.

I go and do and give and receive, but I still
end up feeling this same way. Alone.

I think, at 50, that perhaps I shall never
feel any differently.

I dreamed last night of an old friend. She
kept coming and going in the dream. She
lived in a huge house in a city. An upstairs
apartment deal with this lovely terrace
and patio and a walkway that led to another
part of the house. There had been a party
going on at her place for what seemed like
days. I saw her dancing in her room--me across
the walkway to the other part of her home.
Her body lithe, supple, beautifully-shaped.
I wondered how it was she looked that way
when I knew she didn't. There were people
from my past coming and going, eating and drinking,
laughing. I woke up feeling very sad. For 20
years or more, I had the same set of friends, and
then things changed. I went to school, I started
hanging out with different people, I started
drinking heavily. I lost so much. I lost so many
years. I lost so many friends. And I think I shall
never know them again. And I must miss them
terribly to dream of them so often.

I have new friends, and I have felt many of them
are closer to me than the friends I had over
those 20 some odd years, but something in my soul
is not right.

I am tired. I always think of things I want to write
here until I get here and then I think what in the hell
does it matter what I write or think, and so I just
don't write what I thought I would.

I wil write this. My peony has four blossoms this year.
That is one more than last year. I noticed from the porch
today that they were in full bloom but I did not walk
out to see the blooms. That is so not like me.

Undergrowth With Two Figures
Vincent van Gogh, 1890

I Don't Need Your Concerns, thank you

Hidden under the guise of wanting to share
a picture of a meteor or some such thing.
You have someone to share with these days
How extraordinarily lovely that must be for you.
I don't think I'm ever going to know what that
feels like. I resent you insinuating yourself in
my life. Please leave me be.

Every day is this preparation for battle. I feel it
as I lift my fork to eat leftover grilled chicken.
I feel it as I drop the towel from my wet head
and think of the next step--the practical one--
of getting the dryer out as I have waited too long
now to let it dry naturally. I feel it in the sinews,
the muscles, the bones. I feel it well up in my eyes.
I have been saying I grow weary for some time.
Perhaps what I have grown is complacent. I have
given up in the way the diseased rose budding on my
trellis, which leads the way into my father's garden,
has given up its leaves to an insidious and incredibly
intent mite or aphid. The leaves are but shells of what
they once were, but the buds remain untouched.
Without my help, the whole plant may succumb.
I want to help, and I want to let things go. I want the
backyard to reclaim all those flower and herb beds
I spent so much time cultivating. I spent so much
time planning and choosing the right plants for the right
spot. But I am complacent and unwilling to take care
of anything else at this point. I am doing well to take
care of me.

I have purposely not come here as often as I had planned.
I thought I needed to unload about the daily worries re:
weird health shit, but I think I have given up on that.
It was not leading me to any understanding. Things
continue to bother me. I am not saying I won't find myself
coming here again and blathering on about them.

8:20 now. I'm supposed to be at work by 8:30, but considering
I have not dried my hair, gotten dressed, brushed my teeth
nor put on my make-up, it's not likely I'll get there on time.
But what the hell. I rally am one of the few who ever manages
to get there right on time.