Brief Interlude (#25)

I made this! It is a candy cane column.
I made a pair for the the three wide doorways on my first floor.
It is a piece of dimensional lumber, sanded, shaped, and
painted white, with red ribbon wrapped around it.
I am proud of it.

Tonight's post will be brief. Christmas is arriving fast. For the third straight year, I have not had to deal with stage managing a Nutcracker season. It has helped to relieve some of the stress, not having all those obligations. Yet, it has been sad as well. At some point, I need to write more about these mixed feelings. However, not today. Nor next week. But, some day down the road.

In the meantime...

A Brief Interlude (#24)

Yes, I am recycling. I just don't have the energy
to search for a new one, and this one fits tonight's theme.

Well, after last week's post, I spent the next three days doing chores, returning to my daily routines after a week of vacation on a Caribbean island. It included extra laundry, grocery shopping, yard work, and a long list of phone calls. Oh, and a task I was not expecting: a trip to the vet in order to put down my nineteen-year-old cat. Do not worry about me, it was a great relief for both the pet and me.

Despite an unforeseen emotional event, I was busy and productive--a rare combination for me. But then I woke up Thursday morning and hit a brick wall. And whatever plans about writing I may have made in Sunday night's blog post, they came to an abrupt end. For three days, I drowned myself beneath blankets; for three nights I wrestled with the pillows and sheets. The whole time I desperately searched for sleep, and grasped at whatever tattered strands I discovered. They were few and far between. Indeed, last night I finally fell asleep around four-thirty in the morning. But woke up two hours later, famished, both in mind and body.

Then I began moving about, and consuming precious calories, but this time in satiating substances. Saltine crackers will only carry you so far. Man cannot live on bread alone, though whoever said that was talking about something beyond food. So, I moved on to other forms of sustenance. After skipping four days of journaling, I finally sat down and wrote a long entry, and transcribed a vivid dream. It felt good. I was returning to my proper form. 

 

But tonight's blog post was far from guaranteed. While my body was improving, my mind remained sleep deprived despite efforts to take naps throughout the day. Blogging did not seem appealing (unlike the egg roll I consumed this evening--clearly my appetite was returning). Then I found myself crying while watching the funeral scene from Four Weddings and a Funeral. That recitation of W.H. Auden's Funeral Blues gets me every time. I guess shedding some tears cleared my mind. The thought of blogging tonight revealed itself. So, I heeded the call, went to the basement, and typed up this post.

And that's all he wrote, folks, for now. With whatever energy remains, I am going to share this on Facebook, return to my family room, and watch an episode or two of another strange Japanese anime I found streaming on Prime. When I have had enough, I am going to bed. Hopefully I will find that elusive good night's sleep.

Sweet dreams...

A Brief Interlude (#23)

Not really sure why I picked this one.
I don't have the urge to find a new image.

For the past eight days, I have been sick. A steady fever of a hundred degrees. Aches and chills across the first few days. Sore throat and coughing fits throughout the nights. Until last night, I barely totaled four hours of sleep in any of those previous ones. Tests on Friday morning cleared me of COVID, Strep, and the flu. So, the doctor sent me home with a powerful antibiotic (I am so looking forward to some of the possible side effects), an inhaler (my first time with one, and it seems to have helped a lot with the coughing), and a steroid (I am going to pass on that one and its side effects). And I can say honestly, forty-eight hours later, and a complete night of sleep, I feel a lot better.

So much so, I spent the second half of the day at my eldest daughter's last dance competition of the season. Of course, what has not improved was my hearing and speech. Like the plastic bench beneath my butt, I am sure both were hard and grating. However, I coughed perhaps once or twice, and that was from walking outside in the cold air. Did not blow my nose once. Finally, I left the event tired, not exhausted. 

There is still enough energy in me to write this post. What I lack is something worthwhile to talk about. Since I skipped last week's blogging, I decided to make an attempt. 

A few posts back, I discussed my obsession with documentaries. One about a woman and her family's life in an area near the Arctic Circle inspired a marathon of viewing. I ended up trudging through a World War I series, and blitzing through one about World War II. Somewhere in there was a trilogy about wildlife in Scandinavia's Arctic regions. And now I am hiking through a program that follows several groups of people living remotely near Alaska's Arctic Circle.

Something about those cold, wilderness regions and how people and animals survive it, along with stories of wholesale slaughter and destruction, that has me watching more tv in the past few weeks then I have probably all of last year.

Time watching televisions shows is time I could be spending on reading. Something I spent so little of while I was sick. Yes, I find it difficult to read while I am ill. But, in the past, my symptoms rarely lasted more than two days. Three at the most. This round was rough. However, I am happy to say, at one point, I cracked open I book, and found myself reading at least three or four chapters in a sitting. And it was a work of fiction. That was in the middle of last week, and I have not returned to it since.

Yet, now that I am feeling much better, I hope to revisit it as early as tomorrow. If I can get through it, I can move on to other titles. Maybe I will even write about it. But one step at a time.

Speaking of writing, I cannot recall the last time I journaled. Perhaps two weeks ago? That would make it my longest drought. Not blogging, I can excuse. Writing fiction has been an ongoing struggle. But journaling was always my anchor connecting me to that elusive habit. Or a fall back position whenever I advanced two far into no-man's land. A way to keep sane.

And I severed the rope, and I am adrift, or crawling from one bombed-out crater to another. 

[Okay, so I cannot decide on which metaphor to follow. The first ties back to the Alaskan videos, the second to those trench warfare films. I should choose clarity over cleverness.] 

Yet... yet... writing this post has me thinking. Okay, not always a good thing, especially when I overthink. But this time it may pay off. A week of illness followed by a day in which I endured a public event without suffering exhaustion (physical, emotional, etc.), and here I am typing away a post I had no intention of producing. That is something.

In addition, the beginning of March starts in the middle of this upcoming week. That means spring is around the corner. A whole months of planning and starting gardening projects. There is a metaphor somewhere in there. One I can apply to writing. 

Not sure what it is.

And this post is getting long. 

So, I am going to wrap it up.

My goal tomorrow morning, is journal. And maybe read a chapter.

I just have to do it before I start the laundry, clean the kitchen, go grocery shopping, bake some brownies...

[Shit, I forgot about the brownies!]

A Brief Interlude (#22)

This is a painting done by J.R.R. Tolkien.
I have always enjoyed his paintings and drawings. 

Two weeks ago, I published a grim post. Then skipped a Sunday of blogging. Now I have returned. During that interlude, I spent three days in Disney World, hanging out with some close friends, watching our daughters perform in a national dance competition. That trip required me to step way out of my comfort zone. It was worth it. Even when I spent half a day without access to my phone.

As for not blogging, it was acceptable. I did not want to haul my laptop through security, onto the plane, and then have it sitting around in the hotel, worried I would leave it behind. I did not need to keep track of another item, and increase my anxiety. Also, it turns out that I never had enough time to myself, between all the walking, talking, eating, and introspection that happened. Except for the shower. I was alone in there. But it is not a place for a laptop.

No computer also meant no journaling. I have been struggling with that habit since the beginning of the year. To miss three full days of it was a major, but necessary set back. It is a good thing that I have so much free time waiting for my daughter at her dance studio. I spent the full two-and-a-half hours in the car typing away a journal entry that ran six full typed pages, single spaced. And I only wrote half of what was on my mind of my experiences from the trip. Really, it was an outline. At some point, I need to go back and expand on some of the content.   

Speaking of habits, I tried to improve another one, reading. The last time I wrote about my reading habit was more than a year ago. So, I decided to put some effort into it. I downloaded two pieces of fiction, and one non-fiction. The latter, Empire of the Summer Moon, covers the history of the Comanches. I read about two chapters, and realized I did not want to spend the trip catching up on our dark past. Especially when I spent the week before watching a documentary series on the First World Way. One of the fiction books is a favorite of a close friend, and I have been meaning to start it since hearing them mention it. That was three years ago. And now it will have to wait a bit longer. As I discovered on my plane ride to Orlando airport, I struggle to commit to new works of fiction.

Instead, I settled on the third book I downloaded. It would seem a part of me knew I would prefer something old and familiar. A book that I have read enough times so I could skip over various parts. But I one enjoy so thoroughly, that I could easily turn to it when I needed to escape, or found myself alone. It is the Lord of the Rings. The entire series. For three nights, right before bed, I delved into its pages. Then on the flight home. Reading it kept me grounded, and connected to a feeling I wish to experience more often.

The Lord of the Rings is the first book that I can vividly remember loving to read. I even inspired my best friend to give it a try. He ended up enjoying it, too. That all happened back in the seventh grade. Since then, I have returned to it at least ten times, cover to cover, and a dozen times just one or two sections. But in no way would I recommend it to anyone I know. While it is good literature, and an essential part of the fantasy genre, its style and content does not appeal to everyone. Even I grow weary of reading certain passages. Especially the long speeches. However, there are other parts, entire chapters, especially the first part of the story, that hooks me in every time I start it. 

And so, from time to time, I go back to it, in order to recapture the magic I felt the first time I experienced that book. It is ironic that it would be a book that explores the passing of golden ages, and heroic times; of one last grand adventure before a vast, fantastical world fades away. It is also no surprise that my ability to read it thoroughly wanes as well. Yet, my nostalgia keeps me going. 

I just hope that joy inspires me to explore more works of fiction.    

A Brief Interlude (#21)

Tonight's post is messy. Many apologies. But then my thoughts have been that way of late, and poetry, even the best of it, is a muddled affair for a slow-minded person like myself. And those are the two things I have for you today: my mind and poetry.

Don't worry, I will not have you experience second-hand embarrassment. There will be no sharing of my own poems, all of which were written in a short period of time, in middle school. 

You're not missing anything.

(Here is a small glimpse into that poetry portfolio of mine: one of my poems was a about a lighthouse. I like how the house stands separate from the lighthouse. There is an interesting relationship going on there.)

A Brief Interlude (#20)

I'm tired, bloated, and sweaty. The final load of wash--bed sheets--strangles itself, unbalancing the machine. I hear it, trek downstairs, and adjust things. Then the remaining dish, hidden from view while its companions were collected and stored away in the dishwasher, reveals itself. I spot it, get up, and return it to the kitchen. Finally, the last log in the fireplace desperately hangs on, its tenacity throwing off waves of heat and crackling moans that distract me from my current task. I hesitate, witness its tenacity, then walk over and stab it twice. The remains of that log, cut from a dying ash tree, seasoned for at least two years, snaps once at me and belches a puff of smoke, before collapsing into a pile of embers.

 

I'm also sitting on my couch in my pajamas. During the past few hours, I decided to accomplish everything prior to drafting tonight's blog post. That included the laundry, the dishes, and the fireplace. Also, preparing myself for bed. Unfortunately, running about and the log's death have made the room stuffy. Sweating in your pjs is not a good thing. No one wants to lay down in a freshly made bed sticky from perspiration. 

So, I sit as still as possible. Only my hands move, typing up these words. But now the thirty-two ounces of water I guzzled an hour ago requires my immediate attention. I don't want to get up. I want to finish my blogging.

Annoyed and uncomfortable, I now review what I have written, editing along the way. It's needs work.

Then I hear the dryer go off, remember I haven't brushed my teeth, and decide my bladder will not wait any longer.

I am calling this session over.

This blog post is complete.

Goodnight!    

A Brief Interlude (#19)

"It's only once a year, sir," pleaded Bob, appearing from the tank. "It shall not be repeated. I was making rather merry, yesterday, sir."

~ Bob Cratchit to Ebenezer Scrooge upon arriving late to work on the day after Christmas, from A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens.

(These people are making rather merry in this painting. I especially like the energy the female figure in the middle is giving off. IMHO, the painter captured her movement and emotion well. The Dance by Francesco Vinea)

A Brief Interlude (#18)

Currently, it is 9:19 on a bright, cold Sunday morning. Having avoided activity and exercise these past few days, I contemplated taking a walk. A bit of sunshine would have done me good, while the low temperatures would have invigorated my soul. With my daily chores completed--clearing the sink, feeding the cat, reading the news, medicating the cat--there is no urgent excuse to prevent me from taking that thirty minute journey through my neighborhood.

(A self portrait by an Ukrainian artist.)

A Brief Interlude (#17)

I did it! There was a moment when I considered putting it off. But, I pushed through the voice telling me to surrender. And now to do my chores.

(A Street in Venice by John Singer Sargent)

A Brief Interlude (#16)

For those who were not paying attention, I skipped last week's blog post (for those who were, thank you for noticing!). Something came up, but I cannot remember now. Maybe it was fatigue. Or perhaps disinterest. I know it was not anything serious. But, I am back. Not in full force. Not yet, at least. Christmas is only six days away, and I have a lot to accomplish.

Yet, I want to post something today, so I do not lose my way. So, here goes.

(This time it will be different. This time she won't take the ball away from me. This time I will actually get to kick it. And show the world what I can really achieve.) 

A Brief Interlude (#15)

Around eleven this morning, I began typing up a blog post. That is very early for me. It should have been a cause for celebration. However, I abandoned the project, partly because I had an errand scheduled thirty minutes later that I could not avoid. But mostly because my heart really was not in it. Well, my heart was there, just the darker part. 

(I know I have used this image before, because, for some reason, I am fond of it.)

A Brief Interlude (#14)

This is not going to be a pleasant read. But I have studied history. As a result, I hold out hope for a better world. I will strive to act, and do my best to play my part with kindness, intelligence, compassion, and humility.

However, for the moment, despite my optimism, I cannot help but weep.

Thus tonight's post.

(I struggled between three images for this post. The first was way too dark, even for what I had written about. The other two were Norman Rockwell works. I considered his illustration, The Problem We All Live With, for its historical context. However, I thought Ruby Bridges deserved a better placement than today's post. Instead, I went with Breakfast Table Political Arguments. I think it aptly reflects the state of current political discourse. I some times feel like I am the child.)

A Brief Interlude (#14)

"What has mood to do with it? You fight [write] when the necessity arises—no matter the mood! Mood's a thing for cattle or making love or playing the baliset. It's not for fighting [writing]."

  ~ Gurney Halleck, Dune

Apologies to Gurney Halleck and to my readers (all six of them). Yes, I used this quote before, and for the same purpose, but I cannot help myself. Certain quotes just pop into my head when I hear specific words, no matter the context. Mood is one of those words, and this is the corresponding quote (with the necessary insertions to shift its meaning for tonight's topic).

And, if you have been reading this blog carefully since the beginning, you will remember I used this quote to introduce a post that I had written on a night when I was not in the mood.

Well, this is another such night.

(I did not draw this picture. Explain the image in the post.)

A Brief Interlude (#13)

For those who were wondering, the middle of last week turned into a hot mess; therefore, I failed to make time for my Wednesday post. By Thursday afternoon, events occurred that inspired me to collect the pieces, and rearrange them into something better. Embracing the waves of relief, levity, and serenity, brought on by positive self-reflection and several conversations, I made the decision to pass on my regular Thursday weekly checkup. Not surprisingly, on the eve of a busy weekend, following several days of physical struggles and emotional stress, Friday became my new sabbath. I took time to recover: I ate my way to contentment and equilibrium.

Alas, when it rains, it pours. On Saturday afternoon, while two close friends and I were discussing the consequences Covid-19 has had on our lives, news came that would require us to rush out and have our children quarantined and tested. I am not concerned for our children’s health; indeed, I suspect they will all come up negative. However, just being placed in quarantine, and handed so much uncertainty, has thrown planning for the next two weeks beyond clarity and understanding.

But in moments like this, you learn things about yourself. And, while a resolution to a current crisis may not be laid out in front of you, you realize that “just okay” is not a bad position to be in.

For the moment...

(The artist is Elizabeth Sparhawk-Jones, and this work, The Dreamers, is a later painting. I found two articles about her: The Girl Behind the Counter: Elizabeth Sparhawk-Jones, and Elizabeth Sparhawk-Jones: An Overlooked Phenomenon. I have not read them, though I plan on it at some point. There were a few other of her paintings that I  found intriguing.)

A Brief Interlude (#11)

I began this past week being busy, and showing little for it--two consecutive days of repetitive, tedious, unchallenging work, mostly from someone else's list. Then I continued to be busy, but this time also productive--two consecutive days of reflective, creative, rewarding tasks, and from my list.  Finally, I ended the week working nonstop--a busy weekend with mixed results. Thanks to good conversations with good people, I survived.. 

But, tonight, I am exhausted. So, I apologize ahead of time for this post. It came to me this afternoon while getting things done at my daughters' dance studio. However, it is short and to the point, but not exactly what I had hoped to say.  

Well, maybe not to the point, because I have not written it out yet. So, it may fall short in another way.

But it will be short, because I have to go to bed by a certain time. Sleep is important to me, because I wish to dream; therefore, I refuse to allow anyone, or thing, including fear, to rob me of such opportunities. 

 

Good luck! 

(That last line was partially meant for me...)

A Brief Interlude (#11)

Four adults. A broken dryer. And a discussion about politics that did not end in disaster. All on a cool, clear September evening outside a dance studio in an American suburb.

(I was searching for a particular image--one I had found a week ago--involving revolutionaries discussing politics in a tavern setting, when I came across this image. It's definitely apropos of something, just what I don't know...)

A Brief Interlude (#10)

I apologize in advance. Trying to figure things out. While it is nothing serious, it can be frustrating, leaving me unproductive. I should really find a way to transform these particular struggles into creative endeavors. In the past, I would just run from them, retreat into countless daydreams. Instead, here I am sharing it. Because, maybe writing it out is a good first step... 

(Yet again I find myself drawn to an Edward Hopper painting. This one is Compartment C Car. I must confess, I wish hats would come back in style for both men and women. I would love to wear something besides a baseball cap. Also, click here to see a dozen other beautiful and fun paintings of people reading. There were quite a few I enjoyed seeing.)

A Brief Interlude (#9)

I feel a bit frustrated. Old habits die hard, even after better habits have taken root. But, it is in the struggle that we learn the most. Well, that is what I keep telling myself. With that said, I present this Monday's blog post.

(The image and artist below is not the painting I wanted to reference this week--I don't think people are ready to see that one, even though I think it's beautiful. However, this self portrait is incredible in its own right, so I decided to share it. Gustave Courbet painted is the painter. He has two others I found visually intriguing, one of which was banned from public exhibition until 1988--you'll have to scroll down his Wikipedia article in order to find it. The other painting is far less controversial, and more famous.)

      

A Brief Interlude (#8)

Tomorrow is a new day.

One day at a time.

It is what it is.

~ My closing mantra for my evening journal entries

Here are three works by a female painter, Artemisia Gentileschi. The first is her interpretation of a famous story, Judith's Beheading of Holofernes. I like her version a lot: it is powerful, passionate, and piercingly beautiful. The other two paintings below it are self portraits. Although I prefer the first one to the second, I find them both stunning. 

None of these paintings have anything to do with what I wrote today. They were included on a whim. At least, that was my initial thought. Perhaps on further review, I might find a connection...

A Brief Interlude (#7)

"Dude, sucking at something is the first step towards being sort of good at something."

~ Jake the Dog, Adventure Time 

I developed my own “serenity prayer” for my writing:

Grant me the humility to accept constructive criticism;
the self-confidence to ignore any insults;
and the ability to express myself clearly through it all.