Sparks of joy: Birthday coming. Inogen on Mark’s big sketch book page. Gratitude. Waxing crescent Moon. Cold and snow on the way. The possibility of vaccines.
isle of the dead, arnold brocklin
Rabbi Jamie asked us to take six words out of Psalm 23 then write 6 verses using them. I took words from his translation: Death’s door, solitude, fear, harmonies, valleys, and grace. Here is my psalm/poem using them:
Death’s door opens both ways
Into my solitude and back out
Erasing my fear
From its threshold cosmic harmonies spill out
Filling the valleys of our lives
With the grace of eternity.
Kollwitz
I’ve been thinking about radical aloneness coupled with necessary linkages. As humans, our skin bounds us, binds us. Only we know the inner life of our Self, our soul, our unique journey through this random gift of sentience. Yet. We have no language to know the journey without the necessary linkage to another, to others. We have no food to eat without the necessary linkage to the products of the soil. We have no learning without the quickening of our senses by necessary linkages to reality. (whatever that is.)
It’s a peculiar and often devastating truth, our radical aloneness. It’s both ironic and salvific that we cannot be radically alone without necessary linkages to others, to food, to the world beyond us. Covid has made the global scope of our linkages evident in spite of our radical aloneness.
I would say each one of us IS an island surrounded by an ocean of others. On our island are the structures we’ve built, the colors we’ve used to paint them, the roads that lead forward and backward through the story of our life. It is a mobile island. We have to take it with us wherever and whenever we go.
It has rickety bridges, poorly maintained causeways for the transport of food and air. There are several viewing platforms and from our island we can see other viewing platforms. Are they on other islands? A quirk of perception makes it impossible to know.
Even so we are often at our platforms, looking out, using flags to send signals. The others use flags too but we cannot be sure their flags mean the same as ours. They often look similar, but it’s impossible to know for sure.
I’m signaling right now. Arms flashing, plucking flags from their stanchions, returning others. Thinking of you, imagining you and your island. I hope things are ok there.
Monday gratefuls: Kate speaks her heart. Rigel starts eating again. The Monk Manual. Wind. And the weather it carries. Black Mountain. Maxwell Creek. Upper Bear Creek. Cub Creek. Shadow Brook. Waning crescent Moon. The stars of early morning. The heart that beats in my chest.
Points of joy: Kep eager for breakfast. Being with the Ancient Ones. Imagining more of Jennie’s Dead. Exhaustion after the new workout. Using the Monk Manual.
When I started on the post yesterday, it focused on art, religion, legend, mythology, fairy tales, folklore. Got distracted while writing and shifted away from my main idea. Back at it this morning.
My library has three full shelves of mythology and folklore, its historical context. Another two full shelves of books on art. Another two of religion and philosophy and poetry. The bookshelf immediately to my right has texts about the intersection of religion, philosophy, and the natural world. That represents an ongoing investigation for me, how to reconcile humanity to a sustainable presence on this earth.
Just to be complete my library also includes shelves of fiction, a full shelf of works on Lake Superior and its context, travel, gardening, the military, American and Western history, including a good deal on the American Civil War.
I used to think religion and folklore and legend and mythology and fairy tales occupied different terrain. Art, too. But the older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve stripped dogma from my approach to religion, the more the boundaries disappear. Of course religion is this generation’s mythology. To be studied later in the classics department of a long away in the future university. Fairy tales and folklore and legend were the work of scientists, humans seeking patterns in nature, explanations for the forces that influence, shape, and sometimes take our lives.
Perhaps my immersion, my lifelong immersion, in these fields means that I reject the Enlightenment, at least in its empiricist modality. It might. The question. How can I find knowledge and truth in physics, biology, astronomy, geology yet retain a naive faith in the possibility of something all those disciplines cannot explain?
The new atheists like Sam Harris, Christopher Hitchens, Richard Dawkins, and Daniel Dennett have a flat earth attitude toward wonder, mystery, delight, whimsy. In their mean and stolid world only that which can be seen, measured, replicated has meaning. They are descendants of the logical positivists and the language philosophers. Perhaps the best expression of this attitude is Wittgenstein’s famous quote: “Whereof we cannot speak, we must be silent.”
Whether or not he meant it that way, most thinkers who want to discard the mantel of dogma and its many obfuscations believe he meant, if it’s not empirical, we can know nothing and say nothing about it. This follows from Kant’s understanding of the ding an sich, the thing in itself. Kant believed there was a reality, he was no idealist, but he also believed that since we could only know what our senses brought us we could never know that reality itself, just the effects it had on our eyes, our hands, our ears, our nose, our taste.
There is a bald truth here. Our sensorium equips us to navigate a world delivered to us through our bodies. We can learn a lot about this world by being very careful about what we perceive. Yet at the end of theoretical physics, at the end of cosmology, at the end of life’s study of itself, at the end of consciousness, we have only an elaborate construction based on empirical data. As we know, any specific instance of that construction is often wrong, because science itself proceeds through revolutions in thought paradigms as much as it does through the empirical method.
In Celtic mythology the world of Faery, the world of pixies, faeries, goblins, the dead, and the divine is The Other World. What a world it is. I’ve recently imagined it, in my underway novel Jennie’s Dead, as a vast and open land where old gods go after their followers abandon them. Where characters of myth and legend still have adventures. Where travel between lands may take thousands of years or be finished in an instant.
What an impoverished, skinny world the new atheists and their philosophical forbearers inhabit. I prefer the company of Aladdin, of Shiva, of Lao Tze, of Herman Hesse, of Zeus and Lycaon, even of Jesus and Moses.
green knight
My sense of wonder awakens daily as I do. The Lodgepole pines out the bedroom window sway in the Wind. The Stars twinkle and shine above them in a black early morning Sky. A Mountain Lion coughs far away. In the fall the strangled call of a bugling Elk might make its way here. I’ve just come from the land of dreams, another non-empirical realm, and my Other World senses are on high alert, having spent a nighttime tuned to the flashes of neurons, the pulsing of brain cells switching on and off.
Poetry sweeps away the cobways of linear thought, carrying the reader into the realm of aha. Of, oh, I see. Of distant caverns unimaginable to man. The room of the Raven exists first in Poe’s mind, then on the page, then in ours. But how does it exist, ontologically? If you say only in ink on paper, my how little you know.
I’ve traveled Russian cart tracks holding hands with the staret of the Pilgrim. I swam the waters deeper than the Mariani’s Trench with the Megladon. I’ve walked on foreign worlds and spoken with aliens. Harry Seldon and I together pondered psychohistory. I’ve played the glass bead game, gotten into a Louisiana bar with a bottle of Trublood in my hand. The Caliph and I entertained Jinn. Huck Finn and I tossed a line in the waters of the Great Muddy.
These eternal inhabitants of the Other World are our guides. They know the ancientrails on which we humans travel and want us to use them to our utmost benefit.
You and I were a speck of ohr during the obliteration of the ayn sof. We’ve traveled together and apart for billions of years, been part of so many things, witnessed so many others. When God is repaired, we may join up again and sit with Rumi, a jug of wine at hand, blessed to be in that far off land beyond right and wrong.
Saturday gratefuls: Voted. Voting. Democracy under threat. Polls. Nate Silver: Democrat chances of winning Senate have increased. Kate’s really good day yesterday. Her reading the first half of Jennie’s Dead. Down to 2 drops of yellow stuff in my right eye. Can start resistance work again after next week. Vision. Clarity. Not going blind.
Close. Covid’s getting close. Jacquie, our hair stylist and friend, called on Friday. We had appointments at 10:30. I’ve got Covid. Oh, s***. Kate said, What if our appointments had been Thursday? Yikes. A wake-up slap in case our attention had drifted. It has not.
We have entered double jeopardy for the Covid pandemic. Now, coming to a sneezer and cougher hopefully not near you: the Flu! Until late next Spring there are two viruses that seek lodging in your lungs.
How we play this Jeopardy round will make history. My guess? On the down side of good. Are you ready to die?! The key: don’t move on to Final Jeopardy.
A day without appointments. Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow. And, the whole next week! Yes. New wheelchair comes Tuesday. Bought a good one. A taste of socialized medicine for us. We waited 5 weeks for a referral to a Medicare approved vendor. We called. We waited. We heard nothing. We called. Nothing. We were renting a wheelchair. Waiting. Hell with it.
We do have a choice, bureaucracy or capitalism. I still choose bureaucracy. If we all had to wait five weeks, well, that’d be ok. We’d know in advance. Expect it. This hybrid version those of us over 65 have has its merits, but it also has a lot of demerits. The biggest? The referral system.
Political observers, long time ones like myself, have a phobic response to polls this election cycle. Nate Silver, 538, whom I said before I trust, says that the polls in 2016 were not that far off. Within the margins of error. We ignore those margins at our peril. That’s the 2016 lesson. Not to ignore polls. Several polling companies made changes anyway to reduce complicating factors in 2016.
As I have reviewed what Silver says and read NYT and Washington Post articles about current polls, I believe not only is Trump headed for a loss, but the GOP, too. This could be their Whig moment.
Tuesday gratefuls: Cat scan today. A quiet day yesterday. Safeway grocery pickup. Salmon and Asparagus. A butter and brown sugar plus soy sauce topping. Yahrzeit candles for mom. Covid. Trump. Alt-Right. Climate change. Black Lives Matter. A shaken nation, forced to reconsider its purpose and future.
In the year of the rat Magawa lifts up rats and smashes our prejudices. A feel good story for a difficult time.
Had a quiet day yesterday. The only trip was to Safeway to get a pickup order. Read some more in Rage, almost done. Painted again for the first time in three or four months. Not my best nor my worst. Needed to pick up the brush again.
A while back I ordered an internet course on growing Sacred Mushrooms. The course emphasizes Mushroom culture. It seemed odd to the folks at Visa security. They put a hold on my credit card and gave me a call. Yes, I ordered that. Oh, ok, sir. Thank you.
Got started on it yesterday. Growing Mushrooms is something we can do without a greenhouse. We both like them, so I’ll give it a go. I’ve always been fascinated with decomposition, how necessary it is and how elegant the living things that make it happen. Took a UofM course on Lichens years ago.
Kate’s had a bad couple of weeks. Mostly in bed, though she does get up each day. The shortness of breath has made moving a challenge. We look forward to the cat scan today and the thoracentesis tomorrow, hoping together they will provide relief and better knowledge.
Got some feedback about Sunday that helped a lot. Thanks, Ancient Ones. My men.
Hard to know what’s affecting me these days. Stress from Kate’s struggles. Eye drops and adjustments in vision from the cataract surgery. Lingering Lupron. Two years of thc at night. Need for a vacation with no possibility of one. I do feel slower, tired. My mindset is strong though.
I’m healthy in my own way. Good heart rate, blood pressure. COPD controlled. Exercise, now aerobics only for a month, continuing. A PSA next month. Not depressed. A bit dysthymic at times. Referented, I believe.
Wednesday gratefuls: Six inches of snow, at least. Cold weather.Rigel’s most excellent visit to the doctors. The Rommertopf chicken as leftovers. Yum. Visit with the clan.
It got cold. Fast. Rained, drizzled ice. Dropped away from summer with the snap of an aspen twig. It Snowed starting around 3 p.m. yesterday and snowed into the night. About six inches, though it could be more since water since rain fell, too. The storm was a big one and its effect on our lives was immediate. Comforters came out, windows got closed, doors remained shut.
Rigel and I went into VRCC, the Veterinary Referral and Critical Care in Englewood, at 2:15 p.m. It had not started to snow much but the roads were wet from the Rain and the temperature was in the mid-20’s. I drove carefully down the mountain to Aspen Park, watching for those treacherous patches of ice that can come in shade.
I’d gotten up from a 2 hour nap and discovered I had just enough time to make it to the appointment on time. That meant I had to hurry cautiously, given the roads and Colorado drivers. We made it and the other drivers looked like Minnesota winter veterans. Unusual, but appreciated.
When I took Rigel into the VRCC three weeks ago, it was around the same time. And, 95 with a clear blue sky. I ran the air conditioning as I waited. Yesterday, down the hill, it was a steady, cold rain. A bald headed tech came out to get Rigel, put the blue and white leash over her neck and led her inside. This time I ran the heater. Colorado.
Rigel saw her internist and her cardiologist. Yes, she’s a dog, but, hey… She’s also Rigel.
About an hour later a gray headed, blue eyed, cheerful woman in a sturdy blue mask came out and talked to me through the car window. Like a car hop for those of you who remember. Pleased, her eyes wrinkled in a smile above the mask. Rigel has some insuffiencies in both the mitral and aortal valves, but it’s minimal. She’ll be able to handle it. The vegetative lesion is smaller today and as it organizes her chances of stroke shrink day by day. I’d like to see her again in six months.
Her internist wants us to continue her meds for 12 weeks. These are not cheap meds, but since the cardiologist thinks this was bacterial, it’s the smart choice.
On the way home Rigel stuck her head out the window and let her ears and facial hair stream backward. Happy to have the visits done? Don’t know. But, happy.
Nothing is over with. She’s still sick, though improving in a way that makes us all glad. The tech who brought her back out remembered her from her admission. She looks so much better now! And, she’s such a sweet girl. Yes, she is.
Our winter weather will continue only until Sunday when we’re at 69, then 71. Whiplash.
Sister Mary says Denver weather was on the English language Japan channel yesterday and today. Glad it’s for Snow and cold and not wildfire.
Friday gratefuls: Vampire Kate. Four new teeth for her. Rigel’s good appetite this morning. 2020, year of tragedy and transformation. Cooling down of our days. The blood red sun. Again. The zombie GOP, haunting itself. Annie. That very cute chocolate lab pup that Brenton White gets in 9 days.
The Pine Gulch Fire on the Western Slope has become the largest fire Colorado’s ever had. It surpassed the 2002 Hayman fire last night. A long drought, climate change, reduced snow pack = bad times for the Rockies and the rest of the West.
Wrapping himself in flags, multiple flags, Trump stood at the White House, the White House!, and spoke to the Republican virtual convention. Uncle Sam wept. Lady Liberty, too. Blind Justice. His carnival show of an administration has barkers, thrill rides, and rigged games, but only one ringmaster, a clown.
This is a dangerous moment. Between now and November 3rd the United States is in as much peril, more, than even war time. We may see more teenagers, or adults with teenage executive function, “deciding to keep order.” as Tucker Carlson said of Kyle Rittenhouse, the Kenosha shooter. We will see attacks on Kamala Harris, on BLM, on the very notion of national responsibility for the poor, the elderly, the immigrant.
Trump is right on this score. The nature of this country is in play. If you want to ignore climate change, eliminate any form of national health insurance, sanction racism, empower police to be even more violent, seal our borders, and go even further down the path of pariah nationhood, he’s your man.
Tuesday gratefuls: Kate and her 76th. Veterinarians. Their love of dogs. Rigel in their care. Still. Kate’s teeth. Emergency fund. Ruby. A fine car. Window cleaners coming today. Angelique. New house cleaner. Kep. Tears. Again. Sweet Corn. Cool morning. Cooling nights.
Getting this out before the meeting of the clan. Rigel has endocarditis, an infection of a heart valve. She’s being treated with IV antibiotics and fluids, still at VRCC. The cardiologist there says guarded prognosis. Hard to treat and it can slough off detritus that leads to a stroke. Wait and see as SeoAh says.
Meanwhile the birthday girl, Kate, discovered yesterday that she’s going to lose four teeth on the bottom of her jaw, the ones between the bicuspids. Sjogren’s. Old age. Impressive bill. This happens next Thursday. Happy birthday, Kate!
My beloved females. Please hold them in your hearts.
Not sure, but I think the security guard at the Happy Camper (marijuana dispensary) said, as I left, “Have a nice flight!” If he didn’t, I wish he had.
Been wandering around in the corridors of my mind, feeling a little lost. Not writing. Not taking a class. Not going to CBE. Not seeing the grandkids or Jon. Not gardening, which for some reason has risen in my heart as important. No bees. Two great dogs, but only two. No trips. No trips planned or likely. I know, defining myself by what’s not in my life. Not good. (lol)
Thinking like this does not bring me joy. Remember my simplicity practice: does this idea bring me joy? Well, these ideas don’t. And, yet, they are true.
What to do? Over the last couple of years especially this question has appeared here a lot. Even more. In my mind and heart. BTW: I increasingly think and feel, like the Hebrew word lev suggests, that these two are the same.
I set aside the question while I reorganized the loft, allowing that process to to cleanse me. Really, I allowed it to put off the reckoning. Now, after weeks of off and on work, I’m almost done. A few articles to file. A very few books to find shelves for. One black walnut shelf, beautiful still, handmade by Jon, to clear. Oh, and that back corner by the door. Well, ok. Not almost done. Let’s say, nearly. Expecting some sort of internal lift off when I walk in here and everything’s in its place. But, to what?
The last four and a half months, the time Seoah was here, saw a lot of lingering stress resolved. Murdoch and Kep separated. Gertie died. Kate’s life has become happier. I had a long break from cooking. Family bonds grew tighter. Over the same time I undertook this Augean stables task of cleaning up the loft. Nearly done.
What am I now? Not who am I. I’m comfortable with the guy rattling around in the walkways of his heart. But, what I am for, today?
Saturday gratefuls: Watermelon. Tomatoes. Bacon. Sourdough bread. Water. Coffee. Eggs. Hardboiling Eggs in a steamer. Natural Gas. Rain. Thunder. Lightning. Lodgepole Pines. Aspen. Yes, even the Pollen. Wind. The Sun. The Moon of Sorrow. The Coronavirus. The World Ocean. Lake Superior. Minnesota Lakes. The majestic White Pine. The Wolf. The Sled Dog. This Air I breathe.
Stump grinder guy coming on Monday for an estimate. Will James coming by next week, too, for an estimate on felling the Trees too close to our house. Derek’s removing logs. I’m going to mow the back today. Cut the fuel, the fines, so a Fire won’t jump from the Grass to the lower branches of a Pine. Slowly getting the yard work underway. Fire mitigation continues.
Another tack. Many compare this multi-crisis time with the Spanish Flu era. An obvious choice, given the Plagues. I realized the other day that another era with a similar feel was the ’60s. Remember? Civil rights. Martin Luther King. Riots. Malcolm. The Vietnam war killing Americans and Vietnamese. The anti-war movement. Feminism, a bit later. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll.
There was then, too, an overarching cultural sense that things were about to change. In a big way. Powerful forces led by college age kids roiled the country. Many fled the cities back to the Land. Many kept the protests moving. The establishment rocked on its heels. A small nation taught us a big lesson in humility.
I remember a moment, somewhere in the early ’70s, when we thought it was possible Minnesota could lead a radical political wave. Guaranteed work. Health care for everybody. Affordable housing available to those who needed it. An education system tuned to everybody’s needs. A mini-Norway. A Northern Way instead of the third way.
Real, lasting change felt within our grasp.
Then, the pushback. Kent State. Ronald Reagan. Boomers lives tending
toward married with children, quiet streets. Except in those
neighborhoods where the occupiers continued to put their boots on necks.
Flash forward 50 years. I have that feeling again, the possibility of radical change. Change policing. Surely health care for all will rise up from the ashes of lives burned away by the Coronavirus. The web of systemic racism: housing policies, discrimination in hiring, microaggressions, voting rights interference, murder by authorities, four hundred years of oppression might break.
Powerful energy pulses in the streets right now, feeding the fight. Political and corporate actors need to face forward, listen. Act.
This is just a note of reminder that pushback will come. Is already underway. It’s not bad, it’s a message that the work is succeeding. Rabbi Tarfon said: “Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief. Do justly, now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly, now. You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it.”
