.…Especially
Nothing quite as desolate as watching
That last good friend walk away, leave taking,
Leaving the room empty with nothing but
One’s self, desolate, lest he not return.
“Au contraire,” says the theologian, “God
Is always present, inside, around, there,
Hidden in the dark corners, and the bright,
Hidden in the intensity of light!.…”
“Hidden, especially, in the intensity of light.”
Our Old Grey Cat
Dusty, the cat, lives in our house, dying;
Unfortunately, no one hears crying.
For years we thought he was she, but who cares?
In this new age, gender is bendable;
I could be “they”; they is right proud to say!
But living, as I do, under the stairs,
I would prefer peaceful coexistence.
Dusty, the cat, eats only canned tuna;
Sleeps most of the day on the firm’s loveseat.
He eats very little, drinks hardly a drop,
Dusty, the dying cat, won’t take a treat;
Lives for his tuna, not steak tartare, though
Ignoring our dogs who eat his food dry, so
Walks past them unhurried, thin as that rail—
Old Dusty, our grey cat, beyond the pale.
[Coda
As are we all.
Going, going, gone.
Dusty, our grey cat!
Old and beyond.]
Dusty, Dusty, our old grey cat (photo by Mary). Still with us!
Dusty in Dreamland, asleep on the sofa.
My Little Dog Barks
No words convey my little dog’s value,
As he lies on the sofa, asleep, peace—
Fully dreaming with neck curved down, resting
His head on his fine short legs, soft black fur,
Streaked now with grey, daring the touch,
A loving touch amidst evening shadows.
Like new born child, Simon has soaked himself,
His wrap leaking, soaking his under-pad;
He barks, voice loud, letting me know something
Is missing: supper? self—real presence? soaked!
My ruined hands, his ruined back, wounded,
Both, perhaps, having lived too long, past love—
Obstacles now, burdens, crosses others
Must bear, grumbling, like Israel in the desert.
[Almost a sonnet; halfway there, maybe, maybe not. Almost iambic pentameter with an alexandrine worked in at the end. Ah well. It’s the thought that counts, maybe, maybe not.]
Simon, the wounded, the loved.
Most recent image of Simon, from Mary!
Thunderstorm
The wind rips the trees
Tearing off limbs and leaves;
Small creatures in dens
Quake like it’s the end;
Lightning and thunder
Are two of God’s wonders!
Who can tell tales
Of great frolicking whales?
The theme of the story:
God’s heavenly glory;
The restless human race
Must find its right place
In the midst of God’s grace.
As the thunderstorm passed
And terror diminished,
Only one knew, it is finished.
Nature’s Fury
Mine!
The Demon rides my coattails, desperate
To hang on; holding on to my life—
I have no coat with coattails; where then
Resides this Demon—where then, where then?
Of course, he’s got me by the short hairs,
Though all my hair is short? The dog barks,
The little dog—Trey, Blanch?—the storm speaks
Loudly, terrifying words in thunder,
Lightning; the room awakens, the dog hides,
Quietly; only the Demon turns
To face me, to face me, but I will
Not look, will not look, for the mirror
Is just now broken. Thank God for that
Small grace! I look for the little dog,
Instead. The lovely little dog, named—
Trey or Blanch?—I can’t remember, I
Don’t recall its name at all. All lost,
Off the shore of Bermuda, the shore.
Trey, Blanch?—I can’t remember. Cages—
Midnight, I’m reading all my blog comments, going back 6 years; I am also rereading 3 or 4 of my latest blog entries. Hmm!
12:15 a.m. Got up to pee for about the fourth or fifth time this evening. Hobbled with cane to the hall bathroom. Came back to the lift chair by way of the kitchen. Turned on a light and took my bedtime dose of lactulose. I’m not sure how to spell that name or urinal, for that matter. [Ah, the computer came to my rescue with the first word.].
Yesterday morning I fell down after opening the front window curtain. I stepped on one of Schuster’s many scattered dog toys; my foot rolled; I landed on my right shoulder, my right wrist, my right knee. I had been proud. I fell three times before going into the hospital last October; nothing broken. This fall was the first since I had gotten out of the hospital in March or April. Nothing hurt seriously until last night; then my shoulder and wrist began to hurt significantly. As the prophet Isaiah might have said, “Oh, woe is me!” [Had to stop and look up how to spell Isaiah’s name; found a series of images; oh joy]. I suspect the arthritis pain masked the new wrist pain for a while.
1:00 a.m. Took time to read some. I started Michael O’Brien’s Plague Journal: Children of the Last Days. I think it is book 3, but it was offered on Kindle Unlimited, so I took it. I read his The Lighthouse and really enjoyed it. I have read other novels by him, a Catholic Christian writer, and always find them interesting and frequently insightful. The Plague Journal is promising. I’m also reading Paul Kingnorth’s The Wake, written in a kind of shadow or ghost Old English. Since his language is a bit trying I am reading the easy one, Journal, along side the more challenging one, The Wake. I just finished Daniel Silva’s latest, The Cellist. Not bad. Silva is always dependable. The is the first time, as far as I remember, that he included the real president of the US (Trump) instead of a fictional character. Putin is there too and the novel more or less ends with Biden’s swearing in ceremony, more or less.
2:00 a.m.
Right hand hurts mightily; it’s time to put the iPad down and close my eyes for a bit.
2:10 a.m. It should be noted that apparently I slept through most of the early evening, only getting awake long enough to get up and go to the bathroom and return to the chair. In any case I closed my eyes and pain flooded into the darkness. [I sleep with my two wall lights on; I like to see where I am when I wake up, though when I close my eyes, it is dark, even with a light on above me; I made the nurses leave my light on in the hospital room too].
Besides the pain, Johnny Horton’s North to Alaska kept running through my head. I paid ten bucks for his Greatest Hits last week. Anyway, here I am again.
[Took the last of the day’s pain pills.]
I was just reminded by a character in O’Brien’s book, who was reading George MacDonald’s Lilith, that the narrator says at some point that it is the function of the universe to make fools of us, so that we can learn to be wise. In my case, consider that accomplished: The Fool achieved. Wisdom is understanding that you truly know nothing.
“So why do you keep writing?” says that damn, ever-present voice in my head?
At the moment, writing helps me “look away” from the damn pain in my hands; besides, I might write something that I really need to know! That was the way it worked in college and after when I was writing papers and essays about texts. The process of writing and rewriting led to greater insight into the text, the story. I am trying to get back to that process a little with this [insert ugly word here] blog. [I have found a text of Walker Percy’s Lancelot; so, there is hope in this area.]. When I say or write the ugly word, “blog,” I think of a mutated, small, stream or swamp or pond creature, as in, “I just stepped on a blog, and there is gooey green stuff all over my shoe! Ugh!
3:00 a.m.
Given the pain pills, I usually don’t have trouble falling asleep.
Time for another trip to the bathroom. I still have my shoes on, so all is well down below, so far.
3:25 a.m. Back from the bathroom. A slightly difficult trip! Shoes off!
Okay. I had trouble getting up. I had trouble standing! I had trouble walking! I was very stiff and inflexible! Agh! Plus, on the way to the bathroom, in the dim light, I kept seeing dark, slimy (?) wriggling things hurrying away from my feet, to avoid being crushed.
Then, when I got there, I had trouble “going.” I had to flush the toilet, running water, to get the water running, so to speak. It worked; I went. Several times. Again the trip back to the chair was through the kitchen. This time I stopped to eat 2 slices of Swirl’s rather wonderful raisin bread (Thomas Bakery somewhere) and to drink a Chobani, Mixed Berry, 7 oz, Smoothie. After that, I made it to the lift chair without further incident.
Well, when I sat down, I accidentally knocked down the Roku remote and turned on the TV when I picked up the remote. The TV was playing Professor T, season 1, episode 3 on KET, called, “Tiger, Tiger.” Mary and I had tried to watch episode 1 on Prime earlier that night and quit. Since there are no accidents, even when I am having one like tripping on Schuster’s toy and falling down, I pressed the record button for the hour episode. Well, I thought, the title of the episode suggests Blake. Wouldn’t hurt to try again, though, unfortunately, the Professor is like Monk, extremely obsessive-compulsive. We’ll see, no pun intended.
Then I took a 5 mg Diazepam, picked up the iPad, and arrived here. The Diazepam should have taken hold by now. I’ll put the iPad down, close my eyes to keep out the light, let in the dark, and try once more to sleep, hoping that Johnny Horton is also done for the night. Oh, haven’t done Monday’s Magnificat reading yet, so I will read that first, then close my eyes.
4:05 a.m.
6:30 a.m. Woke up long enough to take the pain pills!
8:00 a.m. Full bladder! Hurried (ha) to get my shoes on and to get to the bathroom before flood stage set in. Made it! Back to the chair, then to the kitchen to put the teakettle on the range top on low (#4) for coffee. Our regular Mr. Coffee is broken; it lasted a year and a half. Back to the chair to take my morning dose of 10 pills. With the stomach pill, omeprazole, I have to wait an hour to eat anything, so I took it quickly before rushing to the bathroom.
8:45 a.m. All pills taken; time for a nap.
The first of the 3 Isaiah images!
#1
Bernie Sanders
Often meanders
While making a point
With his thick finger joint!
#2
Donald J. Trump
A disgusting dim lump—
A thick waste of space
In the sad human race!
#3
Mitch McConnell,
Like old McDonnell,
Had a big farm,
Though Mitch did great harm.
#4
Buzz and Neil
Had real space appeal.
They walked on the moon
Humming Dean’s tune.
(July 20, 1969)
#5
Boris Johnson,
Like Charles Bronson,
The British Prime Minister
Often looks sinister.
#6
Harvey Weinstein,
Not really a finestein,
Made sex a condition.
For a female audition!
#7
Take NBC News
With a stiff shot of booze;
If you watch it dry,
You’ll believe every lie!
#8 (a)
Joe Namath,
Every night proclaimath,
As a Medicare shill,
To those over-the-hill!
#8 (b)
Now old Jimmy Walker,
The late night fast talker,
Has taken Joe’s place—
Dyn-O-Mite human race!
#9
Simon Cowell
Makes people howl;
As an AGT judge
He’s meaner than—fudge?
#10
Then there’s Howie Mandel,
The judge from—well,
He never makes sense
When he’s riding the fence!.
#11
Judge Heidi Klum
Spells Barbi’s doom;
For Heidi’s not plastic,
Just a trifle spastic.
#12
Nancy Pelosi, Head House Rep.
Approaches her role with a great deal of pep;
She stood up to Kevin,
Tossed two of his levin. Amen
#13
U.K. Coach Mark Stoops
Seldom poops;
He’s so tightly wound
That he’s seldom unbound.
#14
Climate Change
Is not home on the range;
It’s wind, flood, and fire
That will make us expire!
#15
Sofia Vergara—Colombian she,
New to the show, she might be
Though she’s always quite game
Her accented views to proclaim.
#16
That leaves Terry Crews,
With muscles to lose;
He’s large as a Plane,
Helicopter or Train.
#17
Miguel Almaguer,
Of the silver-streaked hair;
Some people panic
When they find he’s Hispanic.
#18
Hannah Einbinder,
Where might one now finder?
Not in the water;
She can’t swim like she otter!
[Or, so said her character on Hacks]
#19
First Lady Jill Biden
Might listen to Haydn;
But Her Ed degree
Is not worth its huge fee!
#20
God is the ground of all being,
As Moses discovered on seeing
The bush unconsumed
When by fire it seemed doomed!
#21
The trouble with names
Is finding a rhyme;
A good one takes up
A great deal of time.
Consider Tom Llamas,
Whose name lacks promise;
Yet clear as a bell,
I’ve matched it quite well;
Undermining my point
Knocks my nose out of joint!
He’s named for a beast
Upon which people feast.
[Not a question!]
His ABC News
Was a short weekend snooze,
[Causing me some indigestion!]
But now he’s jumped ships
Doing NBC clips,
Where each one ends with, “Lester!”
No more, I promise
Now that I’ve done Thomas!
Judge Heidi Klum wearing smile all the while, and something else
Buzz and Neil plant the flag on the moon, though not in June!
A fitting tribute?
Meditation
The Angel with a thousand eyes,
Watches us through evening skies,
Behind the stars with no surprise.
Though the Angel’s voice be strong,
It only speaks bright Angel song:
“Unseal! To Thee, must all belong!”
The Angel knows in direst night
The Forms that make things dazzling bright,
The Fires of Grace, how they ignite!
Angels camp around the house,
Disturbing not the slightest mouse;
With each Angelic verbal joust!
Seraphim with sword ablaze
Angelic forces all amaze,
And earn from Him eternal praise,
As sun now high in eastern sky
Cast out the night with loud wild cry
The Angel with the watching eye
Laughs mightily beside the Throne
To see order like slight trombone
Hit all the proper notes alone
And day new garden bring to life
With beauty cutting like the knife
Restored to splendid perfect strife
With Hollyhocks and Pansies prim
Rose of Sharon, Hibiscus trim,
All abloom because of Him—
Plants from the Angelic vendor!
Plants full of Angelic splendor.
Winter left, bright Spring appeared;
Our two pond turtles, how we feared,
Vanished, absolutely disappeared
Into the deepening green shade;
Into the garden Angel-made!
Amen!
A Clerihew Writing Hint:
If your Clerihew turns out a dud,
Pack it in dark, stinky mud.
Toss at a crowd!
If one hollers out loud,
You’ll know by the thud
That the dud-made-of-mud
Was a winner!
#1
Arthur Dimmesdale
Always looked pale.
For the Pearl of Great Price
He lost his dim life.
#2
Hester Prynne
Enjoyed her great Sin;
As we see in the woods
She has all the goods!
#3
The Scarlet Letter,
Who knows it better?
The real hero, I say,
Is the rich scarlet A.
[“The scarlet letter had not yet done its work.”]
#4
Scott Pelley
Does time on the Telly;
For 60 Minutes, a host,
Though he don’t like to boast!
#5
Dr. Carl Singleton, off to the races,
Knows how to make wry, cynical faces;
But when all’s said and done,
Where’s the fun?
#6
Senator Chuck Schumer
Was a very late bloomer;
Now he’s for pot!
As before he was not!
#7
Spokesperson Jen Psaki
Likes wine with her hockey;
Her government role:
Define Biden’s new goal.
[Whatever the Hell that might be!]
#8
82 Wally Funk
Has admirable spunk;
She’ll ride into space,
With a young woman’s grace!
#9
Pianist Jon Batiste
Plays like a great beast,
With a growl and a smile
That easily beguile!
#10
Late Night Seth Meyers
Often aspires
To his own Closer Look
At the new social crook.
#11
Angela Merkel
Could square a circle,
If circles could square,
Not simply despair.
#12
”A Variant”
COVID-19, the virus,
Ought to really inspire us
To live lives good and true
Lest we die and turn blue—
prematurely.
#13
Harrison Ford
Finds he gets bored
Having to play men
Who are good to the end.
Hester and Pearl on the scaffold. A marvelous book of sin and redemption; Hawthorne’s greatest achievement, The Scarlet Letter! Note how the letter reflects and controls situations until bringing about the final resolution.
Scott Pelley on the Telly, a very rich man!
No Love Lost…
Margie was fine as a woman could be;
I fell in love first, the whole world would see.
We worked side by side, hand by hand, she and I.
Margie was magic, when she was close by,
Heavenly dreaming, a young man might sigh.
Enchanting me quickly, casting a spell—
Once on a whimsy when I thought all well,
We made a sharp wager, her thoughts, who could tell?
For she bet five dollars, I bet a kiss!
The goal back then, sixty years, hit or miss,
To hold her, to touch her, nothing but bliss!
Though subject forgotten, the stakes not fair,
When I won the bet, we met on a stair.
Her brown curly tresses, her tan neck bare,
Margie before me, pink sweater undone!
What happened next, with the bet I had won?
Though she was engaged, betrayal’s no fun;
Yet we stepped up, came together, stepped down.
But he, my best friend, no longer in town;
We spoke not about it, uttered no sound.
Thus I collected the bet made in Hell,
For I loved her so deeply, I willingly fell,
Sure I’d found Heaven, where else would I dwell?
Into her arms, my desire all aflame!
Six months she loved me, our love never tame;
Sixty years passing like stars up above.
I’ve lost many things though never that love,
Or the joy that returns when I whisper her name.
The Kiss, New Yorker style. The place of business and labor, fun and frolic, betrayal: JCP! That about covers it! 🤔
Names:
#!
Kate Snow
Continues to grow,
As NBC’s Sunday voice;
For this News we rejoice.
#2
Sir Richard Branson,
With a billionaire’s ransom,
Humbly blasted into space,
For, he said, the good of the race!
#3
Dapper Lester Holt,
Tough as a bolt,
Tightened the screws,
On Vladimir’s views!
#4
Jose Diaz Belart
Always put horse before cart,
Thanking us, in Prime,
“For the privilege of our time.”
#5
Rosalynn Carter
Always proved smarter
Than government men
With whom she’d contend.
#6
President Joe Biden
Has trouble “deciden”
Which way to bend
When truth is the end.
#7
Dr. Rochelle Walensky—she
The perfect head for the CDC;
For no virus would dare
Infect her deathly glare!
#8
Stephen Colbert
Likes to fuss with his hair;
Too often his genital jokes
Crack-up the late night folks!
#9
Elon Musk,
Of a man, but a husk;
For he has the strong smell
Of singed money from Hell.
#10
Marjorie Taylor Greene,
Before TV cameras will preen,
And utter nonsense
As though truth were pretense!
#11
Senator Ted Cruz
Bears a cross—that’s not booze;
He bought the Big Lie,
For a piece of Trump’s pie.
#12
Rich man Jeff Bezos,
It’s true, has the pesos,
To buy all of space
Filled with nothing but waste!
Dr. Rochelle Walensky, CDC Director; with her the well-masked, now POTUS Joe Biden.
Hospital Patience
“Do not resuscitate! Please, Doctor, please!
Let me expire like the wind in the trees!
One moment it’s present; the next it’s gone,
Like wheat in the field or grass on the lawn.
”Life is like Purgatory, sometimes Hell,
DNR, Doctor, I’ll never get well;
Put down the paddles, reseal the cold jell!
DNR, Doctor, I’ll never get well!
”What can I argue? Old age is a trial;
Those you thought loved you are gone with a smile.
My sweet little dog, the only friend left,
Is all that keeps me from feeling bereft.
”Before me the void, I stand filled with fear;
God, silent as usual, brings up the rear!
Do not resuscitate, just let me die;
I’ve paid for my casket—no one need buy;
So do not resuscitate, even is nigh!
”Put down the paddles, reseal the cold jell;
DNR, Doctor, I‘ll never get well!”
Psalm 137: “By the waters of Babylon….” Exile is over, perhaps. DNR!
Hospital Visions
DNR says my shirt, my mind and mouth!
“Doc, please listen, for my body’s gone south.
The girl of my dreams still haunts me at night,
Though she died long past in my arms, so bright.
‘’There’s no one to hold, no soft lips to kiss,
Memories remain, once possible bliss,
Missed opportunities, cities in ruin,
Nothing but fragments, sunlight as a tune.
“Mystical moments when we felt as one,
Lips forming covenant, union undone,
Forgetting that time flows only one way,
A river, a full heart, longing to stay,
“In this moment forever—stop, think, pray,
Too stupid to stop; too sunny the day!
So now all seems lost, last kiss most of all!
DNR, Doc, lest there’s hope in the fall!”
(Discreet works in progress, Gentile with Jew;
Covenants broken, what more can one do?
Long works in progress, or short as a day,
May fly in June, what more might one say?
Cities in ruin, Jerusalem, Rome—
Nineveh still stands, no one calls it home.)
“Do Not Resuscitate!”
“The girl of my dreams still haunts me at night…”
La Vita Nuova
Abraham’s servant, oath not yet fulfilled,
Worried that Yahweh might take failure ill;
He knew for his part a Canaanite wife,
Would be an oath-breaker, nothing but strife!
The Negev was desert, camels and dung,
How find a good woman where there was none?
Isaac, however, had faith in God’s plan,
Toward evening walked like a purposeful man.
”You won’t find a good wife in fields at dusk,
And find a good wife you certainly must;
For God and your father made it quite clear,
Find an Israelite wife, no wife to fear!”
Isaac ignored the good servant’s sharp tongue,
Looked down from the sky, where stars had been flung,
Like a road through a field, coming to one
Who waited, alert, God’s will to be done.
Like Isaac, Rebekah, also alert
Saw the tall, handsome stranger, shifted her skirt,
Dismounted her camel, called Isaac’s servant,
“Who is that man who seems so observant,
Watching us carefully, eager to meet
An Israelite woman now veiled to greet
An Israelite man to marry as wife?”
”My master,” said the servant,
Thanking God for new life.
(Sorry! A work in progress, so to speak, like myself!)
(Feet are one of the many problems here too!)
Not Rebekah, but she might have been.
Call me Ishmael!
Lights dim, the music stops, I nearly collapse.
“Fine,” I shout. “I’m not Ishmael.” Melville already used that opening line. I suppose he thought it was true. Now that I think about it for a moment, I would have to agree. It was true. Ishmael was Ishmael, well, when he wasn’t Herman. (Her man? Maybe.) Or Hagar’s Ishmael, the desert child. The lights power up; the music resumes; I quickly regain my balance. So…
Call me Louis, then! Everything continues: lights, music, myself. Actually, my machine, my iPad, offers me “mystery,” not “myself.” But it’s myself that’s under consideration here, not the mystery, yet, so, Louis it is, at least for the moment.
I know I’m in a story, we all are, but I’m not certain what kind of story it is. A parable, perhaps? A parable is short and wouldn’t take too much out of me. Maybe an allegory? I like allegories, especially Spenser’s Faerie Queene. Sometimes allegories make me feel clever, when I understand the details. When I don’t, not so much. At least I knew who the Red Cross Knight was, more or less, and Pilgrim in Pilgrim’s Progress. I got that one right away too, more or less. I like the idea of being in an allegory, and going somewhere interesting.
It could, however, be a short story, a Flannery O’Connor short story, perhaps. Like Parker’s Back, sort of? Or Revelation? Scary! I like short stories, though I hardly ever really understand them; it could be a novella, like Daisy Miller, or even a novel. I hope it isn’t a novel. Novels are way too long. In any case, here I am, Louis, in a story the genre of which seems uncertain.
For the moment, though, in this story, I appear to be stuck in a very dry desert that is also a very lush garden. Go figure. That situation appears to be the given. It’s what I’ve been “given” to work with. I would roll my eyes if there were someone else here. Fine!
I decided I had better move before I dehydrated in the middle of this dry desert or got lost in the midst of the lush garden. Up ahead I saw what looked like an arch, a garden arch with green plants and gorgeous flowers growing up the sides of the arch and over the top. I was in a garden then; how lovely; perhaps there would be something to eat somewhere since I was both hungry and thirsty. I followed the gritty, gravelly, gnarly path to the arch, and passed through. Just beyond the arch was a fountain with clear, bubbling water shooting several feet into the air. At last, a thirst quencher! However, the closer I got to the fountain, the farther away it seemed. But I was desperate for a drink, so I struggled forward, without luck.
Okay. I was in a strange place where the ordinary laws of physics didn’t seem to apply. Thus, I stopped struggling and looked past the fountain into what I took to be the heart of the garden. That’s when I saw the beautiful young woman just off to the right of the path to the fountain. Goodness, she was gorgeous with long black hair cascading over her shoulders; her eyes were a sparkling bright green. She was wearing some kind of light green silky dress that matched her eyes and flowed down her body, accentuating her feminine curves. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, and she was looking right at me.
”Welcome to the Angelic heart of the garden,” she said. “I have been expecting you.”
I was stunned and rendered speechless. The Angelic heart of the garden? What did that even mean? I wondered if she had a name.
She must have read my mind, for she spoke again.
”I have many names,” she said. “I was Lilith, the first wife of Adam in a very old tale; I was Eve, flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone, whose fresh beauty betrayed him; I was Sarah, whose heart was filled with joy and laughter; I was Rachel, waiting for Jacob, lovely and sly. I am the truth within every woman, the beauty known clearly only to God and the Angels, sometimes glimpsed by the lover and poet (Dante, for instance), the saint and the scholar (Augustine, Aquinas, surely), and often the pilgrim seeking his shrine. Never forget, though, that I was also Hagar and Leah, sad women both, but lovely, each in her own way.”
When she stopped, I asked, uncertain, perplexed. “What then do you have to do with me?”
”Were you not listening, do you not see?” she replied. “Women in Springtime, leaves in the Fall; gardens are lovely, deserts are dry, stars may fall, and planets call, though she whom you seek can only be guide, and finally, most surely, must finally be denied. Neither is this Thou, after all.”
When she finished chastising me, like the Cheshire cat, she simply disappeared with the most haunting smile I had ever seen. She whom I sought was right there, I think. Truth be told! Just before me!
Then I woke up and saw that the sun was shining through the green leaves of the large maple trees outside my front window, and Alexa was playing the music of Pedro Infante.
Two maples, one variegated dogwood on the left, one magnolia with flower on the right, outside my window; note the unicorn on the wall.
Beautiful. The beginning and the end, with a small bug for good measure.
I have forgotten her almost completely, alas! But with good reason, I now know, I kept her image available.
Last Saturday, the nineteenth, my wife had the garden tour here, the advertisement for said tour appears down the line somewhere: on the dog poster. While I was sitting on our backyard deck talking to our northern Ohio relative, Kelley, and her husband Chris, I saw high up in our evergreen tree a pair of Pileated Woodpeckers. Wow! A pair! When I used to be able to walk on the subdivision street, I would frequently hear one hammering the dickens out of a tree on the ridge above the subdivision. The sound is unmistakable. “Wham wham wham!” Or, “Wham, rat-a-tat tat! Wham!” This pair moved from the evergreen tree to the Sweetgum tree, then disappeared. Alas. The birds are absolutely magnificent, as the Wikipedia photos below will show, and they live in our subdivision, somewhere. A real grace!
Yesterday, Mary found a dead robin on our sidewalk next to the house. The astonishing thing about the dead bird was that it was being eaten by American carrion scavenger beetles. She tried to take a picture of them with her iPhone, but only managed to snap her feet. So, she had me hobble outside to see the creatures. She thought they looked like vultures. Hmm! I thought about trying to catch one, but figured I would just fall on the dead bird and the consuming beetles. Instead I came in the house and fired up my iPad. After looking at about a thousand different beetles, I found the matching pictures, again a Wikipedia find. The beetles are very distinctive, with their yellow-gold back design. As I watched them outside, they would even attack one another on the sidewalk once they were away from the corpse. Odd, for their was certainly enough dead bird for the whole carnivorous nation to consume. Finally, however, Mary got a shovel and tossed bird and bugs into the deep weeds and jungle grass growing between our house and the Payne’s house. She said she had tried that the day before, but something out there dragged it back to the sidewalk. Creature features.
The carnivorous American carrion beetle, right outside our house, eating a dead robin. Who told them about the corpse? Where were they before they showed up here? Spooky.
A Pileated Woodpecker. A neighborhood dweller.
7/7/8/8:
Dr. Anthony Fauci
Sometimes appeared quite grouchy;
For often ex-POTUS D Trump,
Was a major COVID road bump!
Hee hee! I think I may have achieved a real literary Clerihew here, thanks again to the originator of the form, Edmund Clerihew Bentley, if I remember correctly. That’s not, unfortunately, Adelaide Crapsey, who invented the cinquain, a somewhat different verse form, I sometimes confuse with the clerihew, and a Crapsey who must certainly be distinguished from Algernon Sidney Crapsey. [Time out while I confer with Wikipedia.]. Ah, yes. Algernon Sidney Crapsey was a well known Episcopal clergyman, who in 1906, was defrocked for heresy. An Episcopal clergyman! Defrocked? Heresy? Wow! Times, they have changed. Nowadays, my impression is that Episcopal clergymen can disavow any major doctrine without any major consequence. I almost joined the Episcopal church, even attended for a while, for I loved the old prayerbook. However, when I came to the Episcopal/Catholic crossroad, I, with my family, chose Catholic because of the inherent truth and stability of its doctrinal Nicene Creed center. There are many things wrong with the Catholic Church, including the disgusting clergy child abuse, but as long as the credal center holds, so hold I. [Oh, ASC died in 1913, FYI.]
I am reading a delightful book by the Catholic author, Peter Kreeft, entitled 40 Reasons Why I Am a Catholic (or something close to that title); I found his reasons sound and good. I read the first three reasons completely, then read down the list of the 40 titles; then I bought his book, kindle edition. [He has written 80 or more religious texts; I heard him read a good essay on Tolkien long ago at a Christianity and Literature conference in either Wheaton or Chicago, Rosie would probably remember. She’s younger than I am.]
Back to FAUCI and these delightful photos I found on Wikipedia:
This image certainly validates the Clerihew. But: Did you hear that ex-POTUS DT wanted one of the government agencies, while he was POTUS, to go after Jimmy Kimmel and other late-night comedians? “Was there nothing the agency could do?”, he asked. OMG!
So far, an admirable man: Dr. Anthony FAUCI.
Feeder Follies
They fight at the feeders for food each day,
Blue jays and grackles and finches hooray!
Cowbirds and cardinals, turtle doves too.
I watch from my window the frenzy ensue;
Appetites drive them, squirrels in the scrum,
Flicking their tails for a seed and a crumb!
Turtle doves, boxers, light weights with wings,
Flipping off blue jays with lightning quick stings!
Sitting on branches, hopping through trees,
Birds of a feather flocking together,
Looking for substance with ease!
Well, who isn’t?
Back in the 1970’s we started with a pair of turtle doves sitting on a cable wire running across the back yard. We called them Sarah and Abraham; today they are a nation flocking to the various backyard feeders. One of the turtle doves is absolutely the dumbest bird I have ever seen.
Various feeders hang from our deck. Some seeds inevitably fall to the ground into a flower bed below that borders the deck. The flower bed is slightly fenced in with small wrought iron fences no more than two feet tall. Next to the fence is a fairly new concrete sidewalk. Some turtle doves fly over the fence into the flower bed to eat the fallen seeds. Last winter, however, one stupid turtle dove couldn’t figure out how to get inside the fence. He or she, okay probably he, would walk up and down the sidewalk, sticking his head through the fence, watching the other birds eat their fill. Back and forth he paced, just not able, apparently, to understand how the other turtle doves got in there. “Look,” we would yell at him from in the house, “You have wings! You can fly over the fence, you stupid bird!” Yet, he paced, back and forth, looking in, always yearning, never able to figure it out. I saw him again several days ago, doing the same thing. Walking up and down the sidewalk, still hungry, I suppose. I feel kind of sorry for him now. He reminds me of myself somewhat. Alas.
We also have a feeder next to our window. Birds are thus just a double sheet of glass from us. And, it turns out, so are the wretched squirrels. The other morning, sitting in my lift chair, facing out the front window, I heard a loud crash behind me. So loud that I struggled to my feet, turned around to look at the back window. A squirrel was trying to sit on the window feeder to gobble the remaining seed. The feeder and squirrel were both half off. Ha! I hobbled to the back with my iPad and managed to get both a head shot of the rodent and a butt shot as well. Feeder follies!
This is the butt shot, inside out!
This is the head shot with butt!
Athens, Ohio: 1966.
My Night Mare
”Make way the Bridge!” I shouted,
As we thundered toward the barn;
Myself, the horse, the bridge, of course,
Make up her favorite yarn.
Sitting on the horse’s back,
In her recurring dream,
She couldn’t make the monster move
From the middle of the stream!
Details call forth laughter,
Everyone enjoys the tale,
Of the husband then on horseback,
Looking grim and awfully pale,
As both approach the narrow bridge—
She humiliates the male.
No Pegasus in the wife’s retelling of the poor husband’s fate! Only a desperate nag eager to reach the barn and rid herself of the awful burden.
When Angels whisper in Heaven, In Eternity, they frequently recite the story of George, a 4th century soldier who slew a fierce dragon, saved a doomed Princess, and freed a small town from the ravages of the beast, a terribly ugly, formidable creature.
First, the reader may wonder why the Angels choose to whisper in Heaven. Is God a tyrant who forbids casual conversation? Of course not, for there is no such thing as casual conversation in Heaven, nor on Earth, for that matter, for all words spoken or thought count, even those that rend the hearer. Well then, Is there something about the story that needs to be kept hidden, as if something could be kept hidden from God in Heaven or on Earth? Foolish mortals. No, and know, The Angels whisper as they tell the story from the lowest rank of Angels, up the nine ranks of the hierarchical ladder to the highest, the Cherubim and Seraphim, and then back down the hierarchical ladder to the Archangels and Angels, because all Angels know that their voices spoken loudly and clearly, can shatter the Cosmos, an event whose time has not yet arrived, though all human and cosmic history is moving toward that glorious event.
Angelic telling is different from human story telling since Angels see substances and forms clearly, whereas humans see surfaces and that fairly dimly at the best of times. As a central instance, consider the Catholic Mass. At the heart of the Mass is the Eucharist, the consecration of the so-called simple substances of bread and wine transubstantiated into the body and blood of the Lord Jesus Christ. That is to say, When the human participant in the liturgy receives the wafer, the bread, from the priest, the pilgrim recipient sees in his hand the surface of the wafer, a simple thing subject to the conditions of humidity or drought or any other Earthly accident. What the invisible Angelic presence at the Mass sees, and there is always an Angelic presence at the Mass, is Christ himself, present in the wafer and in the wine. Poor humanity, how can it understand such a profound mystery, you ask? Only, the Scriptures tell us, and as the Heavenly choir chants it, by Faith and the presence of the Holy Spirit. Indeed.
Back to the Angelic telling then, the story of George is a story of many dimensions, all present to the Angelic eyes at once, for such is the Angelic seeing. On one level, George is the human soldier who, riding his perhaps not-so-magnificent horse through the Earthly countryside, spies a lovely maiden chained to a rock outside a darksome cave. George’s first thought is to rescue her, free her from such bondage, which he sets out to do. However, having snapped the first chain, George awakens the dragon in the cave who comes rushing forth, breathing smoke and fire, intent on devouring maiden and soldier as one.
Now, the Angelic delight and celebration, whispered up and down that Heavenly ladder: George, the ever courageous soldier and knight, raises his sharply pointed spear and pierces the creature’s throat, putting an end to the terrible threat. Once George makes certain the dragon is dead, he frees the maiden, and the timid towns folk come forth rejoicing.
A simple story, or not quite, for what the Angelic host celebrates is the mystery at the heart of the story. What the Angels see is into the heart of George, and as in the Eucharist, they see that the heart of George is also the heart of Christ present in the man, as the dragon is the presence of Sin that attacks all of humanity (especially storytellers); the maiden, in their vision, is the Bride of Christ, the Church in bondage that can only be rescued by the sacrifice of George, who is rightly seen as the lowly warrior, Heavenly knight, the Earthly saint, the Man born to be King. Therefore the story, whispered up and down the Heavenly ladder, celebrates the story of Christ, in another Earthly incarnation, an ancient story, perhaps first told in the Golden Legend, but superbly told in Book One of Edmund Spenser’s magnificent Faerie Queen. Thus the Angels, like Spenser, delight in ringing the changes on the story of Saint George and the terrible, destructive dragon, Sin. And so the Heavenly whispers filter down the Angelic hierarchy and into human hearts, human souls, and human minds, and bring forth in some blessed humans, divine love and desire.
I forget the name of the artist, but, obviously, an artistic telling of the story of Saint George.
