Sunday, June 26, 2011

Sunday in CinCity. The Evening Edition.

On our run-for-the-hills escape romantic one day getaway, Hubby and I saw The Tree of Life, which is lush in visuals and in music and is quite good, though non-linear in its storyline. I'd see it again, and actually, think we'll get the DVD when it comes out if only to hear the conversations better. We also went for dinner at our favorite neighborhood bistro and shared a Tonight's Special of two petit filets with red wine sauce and risotto with mushrooms, walnuts and spinach. Wish now we'd gotten two or twelve so there'd be left-overs. I could eat that for every single meal.

Our movie choice was simply and purely based on which movie time was the soonest. Having only seen the previews Bad Teacher might better have fit my warped humor state of mind:

I've seen Bridesmaids which is snort out loud funny. The kind of funny that you start to worry if you'll be able to stop laughing. HoneyHaired and I saw it together, but we'd like to do an experiment and take the Hubby and see if men think it's funny. If you do your own experiments, please let me know. Gotta love the research

but, since I began this talking about Tree of Life, let me leave you with its trailer and see what you think.

Hope you all have a happy week.

Saturday, June 25, 2011

Saturday in CinCity

Bed in Summer

by Robert Louis Stevenson

In winter I get up at night

And dress by yellow candle-light.

In summer, quite the other way,

I have to go to bed by day.

I have to go to bed and see

The birds still hopping on the tree,

Or hear the grown-up people’s feet

Still going past me in the street.

And does it not seem hard to you,

When all the sky is clear and blue,

And I should like so much to play,

To have to go to bed by day?

please note: photo by Amy Frazier

Friday, June 24, 2011


Gonna get Hubby out of town today. And by out of town, I mean not inside a hospital.

We might even be talking Waffle House.

Daily Life

by Susan Wood

A parrot of irritation sits

on my shoulder, pecks

at my head, ruffling his feathers

in my ear. He repeats

everything I say, like a child

trying to irritate the parent.

Too much to do today: the dracena

that's outgrown its pot, a mountain

of bills to pay and nothing in the house

to eat. Too many clothes need washing

and the dog needs his shots.

It just goes on and on, I say

to myself, no one around, and catch

myself saying it, a ball hit so straight

to your glove you'd have to be

blind not to catch it. And of course

I hope it does go on and on

forever, the little pain,

the little pleasure, the sun

a blood orange in the sky, the sky

parrot blue and the day

unfolding like a bird slowly

spreading its wings, though I know,

saying it, that it won't

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

"Private EarthQuake"


You know,  I was having a little trouble after having the surgical procedure to bust up this kidney stone and I really wasn't able to keep any fluids down for a couple of days, which you need to do to flush out the fragments of the aforementioned broken-up stone. I'd even gotten to the point of calling the charge nurse in our ER and getting dressed and promised to go if things did not pick up in exactly 1 hour after "pounding in some fluids", but they did, and I got a couple hours of sleep, and then my mother called to say she had and I went down to pick her up and dust her off, but she hadn't really just fallen. She had had a stroke.

Her "own private earthquake" as she described it as her chief complaint at the registration desk and I'm sure you all can imagine how extremely helpful that is in an emergency room while at the same time being impressed by the poetry of the sentiment.

We took her to her hospital of choice, TheHeartHospital, and what a fantastic education that's been. She will not be staying, but moving on to BigFatTeachingHospital for rehab. And that's all I'll say about that situation other than to someone at TheHeartHospital if they actually give a shit. That's right, they've driven me to curse. Okay, short road. Very. Short. But, geeeeeezzz, guys, could you not be freakin' idiots every damn time I have to step foot in your hospital? 

And, the adventure continues. Bring it.

My Mother Gives Me Her Recipe

by Marge Piercy

Take some flour. Oh, I don't know,

like two-three cups, and you cut

in the butter. Now some women

they make it with shortening,

but I say butter, even though

that means you had to have fish, see?

You cut up some apples. Not those

stupid sweet ones. Apples for the cake,

they have to have some bite, you know?

A little sour in the sweet, like love.

You slice them into little moons.

No, no! Like half or crescent

moons. You aren't listening.

You mix sugar and cinnamon and cloves,

some women use allspice, till it's dark

and you stir in the apples. You coat

every little moon. Did I say you add

milk? Oh, just till it feels right.

Use your hands. Milk in the cake part!

Then you pat it into a pan, I like

round ones, but who cares?

I forgot to say you add baking powder.

Did I forget a little lemon on the apples?

Then you just bake it. Well, till it's done

of course. Did I remember you place

the apples in rows? You can make

a pattern, like a weave. It's pretty

that way. I like things pretty.

It's just a simple cake.

Any fool can make it

except your aunt. I

gave her the recipe

but she never

got it right.

Monday, June 20, 2011

Monday, Monday...


I Remember Lost Things

by Ron Padgett

I remember getting letters addressed to me with my name and street address, followed on the next line by the word City. Which meant the same city in which they had been mailed. Could life have been that simple?

I remember the first time I heard Joe read from his I Remember. The shock of pleasure was quickly replaced by envy and the question, Why didn't I think of that? Aesthetic pleasure comes in many forms and degrees, but envy comes only when you wholeheartedly admire someone else's new work. Envying the talent of a person you love is particularly beautiful and envigorating. And you don't even have to answer the question.

I remember feeling miffed at García Lorca because he made me feel like crying about something that may never have happened. There is a 1929 photograph of him standing next to a large sphere on a granite pedestal that also bears a sundial, on the Columbia University campus. Passing by the sundial this morning, I suddenly realized that Lorca had stood on that very spot 70 years ago, a few years before he was shot to death. It was as if he had been there just moments ago. Such a brutal, stupid death! Tears came to my eyes. But on second thought, I found it hard to believe that someone would put such a large sphere on this spot: it would have come between the light and the sundial, no? Later, when I examined the photo again, I saw that it was taken there. But that sphere? I like it because it keeps distracting me from the idea of his death.

I remember the mill, a piece of currency that was used for a few years near the end of World War II and just after. A thick paper (and later a lightweight metal) coin with a round hole in the center, the mill was worth one-tenth of a cent. It was fun to press it hard enough between thumb and forefinger to create temporary bumps on those fingers. On price tags, it was written as if it were an exponent; for example, ten cents and four mills was written 104. I don't know if mills were used anywhere other than in my hometown, and since they went out of use I have heard references to them only once or twice. They have faded away, even more forgotten than the black pennies of the same period. But if you mention the mill to people old enough to remember them, their faces will take on a rising glow of recognition that turns into a deeper pleasure in your company.

I am trying to remember what it felt like to have never even heard of television, to be six years old with your toys and maybe a dog. You roll the wooden truck along the carpet and make a truck sound that turns into a honking horn as you approach the outstretched paw of the dog that jumps to her feet, just in case, and you say, "Aw, I wouldn't have hit you." Wagging her tail, she comes up to lick your face, which is fun at first, before the doggy breath becomes too strong. Then you wipe your face with your sleeve, turn back to the truck, and start up its engine again. The sound of dishes from the kitchen.

I remember when some cars, older ones, had running boards, and the fun of standing on one and gripping the window post as the car accelerated down the block to the corner, the wind in my ears. Gradually there were fewer and fewer of them, and then none. At least the new cars still had hood ornaments, the most memorable being the shiny chrome head of an Indian man, his profile knifing into the wind, headdress feathers blown back. And then he was gone too.

Friday, June 17, 2011


Yeah, it's kinda like that...Hubby and I went to BigFatTeaching Hospital yesterday bright and early at 6:30am to begin the registration and pre-op preparations. It's very busy and chatty there in the morning as all the events scheduled and unscheduled unwind themselves into the day. Interesting to watch for once  from the sidelines.

Made it into the OR at 8:30 and didn't get much of a look at the lithotripsy machine since my glasses were already off, and to be honest, I'd already had a little sedation while I was rolled into the room. 


  All I really remember was I felt compelled to share with the nurses next to me was that everyone should go see the movie, Bridesmaids. I still stand by that opinion. Discovered the anesthesiologist was the husband of one of my favorite neuro residents upstairs. That was a lovely and comforting surprise. I think he was surprised I knew he had been in the military and about his children, but, you know, that's what girls talk about at work. 
Woke up in Recovery by 10:30 and left for home around noon feeling super great. Did not know there was more anesthesia on board still to wear off, so I had big plans for the day, one of which was to see Company at a movie theater across town since it's only here for a few showings.

That. Did. Not. Happen.

It was a bit of a rough night with about an hour of sleep caught here and there during the night and early morning as the pulverized stones migrate their way down and out. I am happy to say that I've seen more than half the Season 2 episodes of Hot in Cleveland thanks to Don't know why, but I found Betty White to be very therapeutic late at night and that's how I finally fell asleep. Love you, Betty.

Now I'm ready for my fluid bender today where I drink everything I possibly can at every opportunity I can. I'd really like to get all the plumbing cleared out so that perhaps, just possibly, maybe we could drive up to the lake for a few days. Mama needs a road trip!  

Monday, June 13, 2011

from Sonnet XVII

by Pablo Neruda

  ...I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,

I love you simply, without problems or pride:

I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I or you,

so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,

so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

Sunday in CinCity. The Stars are All Aligned and Neurochemicals Balanced for Someone Edition.


by Walt Whitman

Why, who makes much of a miracle?

As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,

Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,

Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,

Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of

the water,

Or stand under trees in the woods,

Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night

with any one I love,

Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,

Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,

Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer


Or animals feeding in the fields,

Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,

Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so

quiet and bright,

Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;

These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,

The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,

Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,

Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with

the same,

Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

To me the sea is a continual miracle,

The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—

the ships with men in them,

What stranger miracles are there?

Walking the dog last evening, it was the perfect summer night. Moon half full. Quiet. Three bats flying overhead. A great night for a game of Ghost in the Graveyard if one were just a bit younger and there were about six more people around, preferably about 9 or10 years old, the age when what you're really concerned about is a great hiding spot and listening out for "Ollie, Ollie, in-come-free."

No other agendas.

Saturday, June 11, 2011

Saturday in CinCity. The Yes, Dammit, Still Here. The Grumpy Edition.

Not broken or fractured, but feeling a bit fragile and put-out. House arrest does not agree with me, though driving is really out of the question. My only exercise these days is walking the dog. But, 5 more days until the OR and baring my tush for my friends who work there. Whoopee.

It's been hot, hot, hot in CinCity, but as everyone knows, it's not the heat but the humidity, which is also quite oppressive. Big storms yesterday and last night have left us just slightly cooler and more like a perfect day in June. Everyone is out working, except me. My contribution these days are large bags of discards and piles to take to St. V de P and dinners. Hubby is loving this as does the dog since I like to walk him and give him treats of whatever. Last night fish tacos, tonight Cuban Chicken with Avocado Salsa. And I try to wash everything down in beer in my attempts to dissolve this kidney stone much too late in the game. I really don't like beer though, so have found that mixing it with rapsberry lemonade improves the taste of both.

Please don't judge me. It's all done for science.

Finally have seen the movie, Julie&Julia, about the adventures of a blogess and an American icon. Now I have the voice of Julia Childs ringing in my ears. Actually, more the voice of Dan Aykroyd playing Julia Childs which makes everything sound so much more ridiculous and enthusiastic. Tonight there's 3 more DVDs from the library to choose from and I've started Bleak House by Dickens because it's 989 pages and why the hell not. If I miss something along the way because of the pain medication who's to say? It's still Dickens with every well crafted sentence and the most beautiful collection of words ever put on paper. Love that man. Thinking though of trying Mastering the Art of French Cooking. It's a thought.


by April Lindner

Turn the knob. The burner ticks

then exhales flame in a swift up burst,

its dim roar like the surf. Your kitchen burns white,

lamplight on enamel, warm with the promise

of bread and soup. Outside the night rains ink.

To a stranger bracing his umbrella,

think how your lit window must seem

both warm and cold, a kiss withheld,

lights strung above a distant patio.

Think how your bare arm, glimpsed

as you chop celery or grate a carrot

glows like one link in a necklace.

How the clink of silverware on porcelain

carries to the street. As you unfold your napkin,

book spread beside your plate, consider

the ticking of rain against pavement,

the stoplight red and steady as a flame.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Can't Help Myself...

There once was a Congressman Weiner

At invective, nobody was meaner

But he lied about pics

That he tweeted to chicks

Now his prospects look quite a bit leaner....

                    --Scott Wojahn

Saturday, June 4, 2011

Saturday in CinCity. The Between a Rock and a Hard Place Edition.

Well...I'm still home. Still on house arrest medical leave until June 16 when I go to the OR to get this badboy stone out. It's very frustrating and I feel horribly guilty about not working. I feel okay most of the time; like I've been kicked in my right flank by a horse, but that's do-able. But, about once a day that stone must do something--I do not know what--and I'm down. I try very hard not to drive since that seems to aggravate the situation. If the potholes in your city are anything like here, you know exactly what I mean. The preview of lithotripsy.

So, I am home and bored though I have plenty to do here. HoneyHaired will be moving into a dorm come August and now's a good time to really get rid of childhood remnants. I didn't do all that well when CollegeGrrrl went away. I was hesitant to make the final decisions about what to toss and what to keep. I thought she might want some of her clothes, CD's, movies, books, makeup here at home and of course, she never does. Where before I didn't want to throw anything of her away, old papers and King's Island winnings are just stuff now. Stuff that's in the way.

I'll admit, looking at the bookshelves upstairs on the kids' floor hurts my heart when I see the books they loved and kept. Goodnight Moon, The Indian in the Cupboard  don't seem all that long ago. So when I feel like that I come down and work on my desk getting ready to be a fulltime student in the fall. I barely managed the piles of papers on the dining room table system with 2 classes. Not going to work for 4 classes and a research project.

I'm trying not to fritter my time away here. It's a blessing to have so much of it in one long stretch. I'd love to say I'm reading Dickens or Shakespeare, learning Italian, but I'm not. I'm reading The Senator's Wife by Sue Miller and catching up on Parenthood, Bones, The Good Wife. HoneyHaired and I, unfortunately, have discovered the Bravo channel with Million Dollar Listings and Million Dollar Designers. We've also met the Housewives. WTF is that about?? It might be the pain medicine but, I cannot tell one wife from another. That show will suck all the juice out of your brain cells. Really. It might be an alien plot to capture the brain juices of unsuspecting Americans. Don't do it.

Gonna walk the dog, though he is happily snoozing in front of the fan, and let this day roll on through to the next one...

Weather is Whether
by Harriet Zinnes

Feverish. Exultant.
Eyes closed,
There were blushes,
but they were of yesterday.

There are songs heard,
And there are poems on the pages
of closed books.

Here in the now
that is not yesterday
is the tomorrow
that will appear
more as a ghost than as a sunrise.

Spirit is a gossamer thread.
The ego lies on the sand near falling rocks.

Where the once was
is an isness gone into a bare wall.
There in the lap of the gods
are the wind, the rain, the snow.

Weather is whether,
And whether is the weakness of the turning earth.