Now I’m in rehab. Not a plan I had in mind. The surgery went well (on Friday, July 14, left knee replacement). Going home went well. That was on Saturday. On Sunday on the way to the morning relief I fell. It was not a good fall as falls go. It was rather ungraceful and painful. I pulled a room screen over onto me as I reached for it to stabilize myself—for which of course it was incredibly ill-suited as a sturdy component in the dance, but sharp enough amongst the edges to take my face into account for the many bruises which would ensue. I do believe I screamed. Perhaps more than once while emitting some weak “help” noises. And so the story changed dramatically. This is the unexpected turn in the novel where the hero is wounded by the Griffin rather than slaying anything herself.
As a result I’ve been from emergency to hospital to now in rehab. This is not always a fun place to be though it has its moments. I certainly went down the rabbit hole for a while. That was an interesting place to visit. I can see why people do not want to live there. It is a matter of a great deal of pain or some fine pain pills. Neither a normal state, but the train you must take to get there. Of course you cannot know that in advance. You get a ticket but no destination.
It strikes me that that is the same with life, is it not? We really don’t know.
This was posted by Beauty of Nature. I do believe it is quite appropriate for today’s sentiment.
Ernest Hemingway shot himself on July 2, 1961. Though bent he was still a tall man so the gun fit nicely underneath his neck. It would have felt cool. He could reach the trigger with his toe. He knew there was nothing to wait for—shock treatments had wiped out the important parts, the discussion in his mind that could be written down, the stories. What is a writer without his stories? His memory?
“Death is like an old whore in a bar—I’ll buy her a drink but I won’t go upstairs with her.” Ernest Hemingway, “To Have and Have Not” Finally though, the old whore has her way. Every story has an ending writ in the stars.
June 7, 2023 & making arrangements for my knee surgery. And I am hoping that is the last thing that I will remember.
I believe that everyone has a breaking point. Those who survive just haven’t met it yet. [I am not speaking of myself here. I’m not personally close to any sort of breaking point.]
When I am depression drunk and self-pitying I know the selected reality of things. What that means is that I hold onto the things that are true and meant to be the rocks that fill the backpack I carry or cause the heart-chest to be painful. I touch myself there without thought but feel nothing. That is strange of itself because I swear my heart actually hurts at times.
I thought we were a unit during the earlier days, that it was us together, my son and daughter and me. It was only much later that I learned that wasn’t true and I had been mistaken all those years.
I just heard a woman on TV say that heartache doesn’t last forever.
When my second ex-husband was a foreman at a car factory in Flint, Michigan, there was a killing on the factory floor. It involved drugs and passion and betrayal. Her lover or husband or secondary lover stabbed her 27 times. That’s a lot of anger, or desperation. The foreman went down to the floor and held her in his arms so that she would not die alone on that cold-cement factory floor. He also told the shift people to go home. He did not know what else to do but it was the wrong thing. The police said he had to get them all back as they were witnesses. The police then kept him there for hours, and until enough people confirmed what had happened. The confusion was due to all of the blood that was on the floor. And on him.
I wonder how many people from their families—the black man who did the stabbing, and the black woman who had 27 stab wounds but didn’t die alone on the factory floor—I wonder if they have gotten on to the part where their hearts no longer ache.
June 17, 2023 It’s a Saturday here in Broadview Heights, OH, sunny and lovely at 720
And Zeus has fixed himself in front of the patio door.
More on words I don’t like and will never use: eponymous. It’s one of those words that I have to translate to meaning every time I read it. It is never automatic, always requires thought. (You’ll never hear anyone use it in conversation, at least in the circles wherein I travel.)
June 20, 2023 Nearer to the knee surgery. July 11. The rent is paid as well as the charge cards. I feel a success.
It occurs to me that I don’t recall Glenn Gould ever playing Chopin. I wonder why. Did he consider him a light weight as some do? And yet he (Chopin) developed the use of the whole keyboard as no other player had before him. I looked it up and Gould is quoted as saying Chopin was “probably the greatest composer for the piano” even if his music did not have much appeal to him. Gould also refused to play Schumann and Liszt, considering them undeserving of their fame; of Mozart, Gould said that the Austrian composer “died too late”, judging his late work not so much worth of praise. Yet I know that Gould played a great deal of Mozart even though he considered him “repetitive.” And he is.
June 27, 2023 Just from my recall and responses I wish I had given. I don’t know why but I just thought of this last night. Apropos of nothing:
Me: John and I are going to get married!
Mo: Well I want to wish you good luck because you are certainly going to need it.
Me: I guess that means you’re a no for the ceremony. A maybe on the reception?
Should there be room here for a picture now? I don’t know, why not! Below a photo of Philip Glass. I wonder what Glenn Gould would have thought of him? Posted by History of Music.
Tonight used to be the night of bonfires and the toasting of ale and the singing of songs. I don’t recall any remnants of it from my childhood, maybe more of a British thing. It’s too bad that many of the customs derived from the Old Ones aren’t in play yet today. We’ve given up our community customs in favor of TV and video games. The children too, no “kick the can” or “hide and go seek” for their evening play. To go sit on the front porch after supper was one of the highlights of the day in the summertime. To watch the children play, to sip some lemonade, to see the fireflies—what simple joys.
As posted by Spirit of Old
“June 23rd, is St. John’s Eve, or as it is known in many parts of Ireland, Bonfire Night. It was traditionally marked by the construction of large fires throughout the countryside. These were lit at sundown and were the focal point of communal festivities. People gathered to dance and sing, while young men proved their bravery by leaping through the flames.
The night was also rich in folklore, much of it concerned with fertility. Prayers and rhymes were recited to ensure a plentiful harvest. Indeed, the fire itself was thought to have magical powers. Burning weeds in its flames would prevent arable fields from becoming overgrown, while scattering its ashes would guarantee the land’s fertility. Similarly parading through the fields with lighted branches from the bonfire would protect the crops from disease and pestilence. It was also deemed particularly lucky to bring the ashes home to light the kitchen hearth.
Although most of these customs are no longer practised, lighting St. John’s bonfires still takes places in many parts of Ireland (especially the west). It is hardly a coincidence that these fires are lit so close to the Summer Solstice and it suggests that the custom may have ancient roots.”
The Beauty Of Planet posted this poem. I thought it was worth posting. I also think it’s worth noting that it’s not death we’re dealing with, but loss. It isn’t that they’re dead, it’s that they stay dead.
YOU DON’T JUST LOSE SOMEONE ONCE You lose them over and over, sometimes in the same day. When the loss, momentarily forgotten, creeps up, and attacks you from behind. Fresh waves of grief as the realisation hits home, they are gone. Again. You don’t just lose someone once, you lose them every time you open your eyes to a new dawn, and as you awaken, so does your memory, so does the jolting bolt of lightning that rips into your heart, they are gone. Again. Losing someone is a journey, not a one-off. There is no end to the loss, there is only a learned skill on how to stay afloat, when it washes over. Be kind to those who are sailing this stormy sea, they have a journey ahead of them, and a daily shock to the system each time they realise, they are gone, Again. You don’t just lose someone once, you lose them every day, for a lifetime. Credit: Donna Ashworth
Writers Ink—Writing and Stuff 