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Archive for April 8th, 2019


From inside the parasol of petals


Bird watching

Dear friends,

What I remember best from last weekend were the traffic jams, the three hours on Saturday it took Izzy and I to get to and from the Folger, in order to attend (10 minutes late because we had a helluva time finding parking and finally getting into a tiny spot) the spring Folger concert. I am relieved to be able to say it was worth it once again: an oasis of Elizabeth song and instrumentals: they had a Renaissance Band, Piffaro, using all sorts of older instruments (including bagpipes), a soprano with a achingly beautiful voice (harmony itself, and projected many moods. It’s the lack of commercialism, of hoop-la, no microphones, the quietude that is so appealing. The exhibit was about food and chefs, and it was salutary to see the perspective was one centered on the people who worked hard to produce a variety of yummy foods, and got very little of what they grew, picked, cooked, preserved, wrote about in recipe books.

Izzy was not deterred, for on Sunday she braved the crowded Metro and walked herself and her trusty cell phone to the tidal basin, and above are two of her photos; below two more


From a distance


With people

I stayed home and fretted over my garden; after paying Rosemont too much and monthly payments, they still cannot be bothered to start coming again, so finally I fired them — and within a minute got an email of them thanking me for my business (relieved to be relieved of it), and phoned my faithful Mr Sotha. The next day his crew came, cleaned up the grounds, mowed, mulched. He must’ve been taken aback when after years of coming here, I began to hire someone new: that was only because I couldn’t figure out what plants to buy or where. The Rosemont people took my neighbor’s ridiculously expensive “plan” for me (meaning to put it into execution) and just bought the flowering bushes, and did make a start. Now Mr Sotha will be back to care for my garden bi-monthly once again, with the difference I am asking him to do the gardening too. He didn’t mind. After much effort (two trips, finding a young man who helped us skip a very long line in Home Depot and put the tree in the car for us), Izzy and I brought home a new tree, my gay neighbor had the strength to pull it out of said car and put it near where Mr Sotha had left the mulch, I phoned, and within a couple of hours, this is the result:


New baby tree

Nothing of course as yet to the pink magnolia tree which hangs from my other neighbor’s house into my garden near my workroom


I never knew what it was — I called it a pink tulip tree until someone told me there is no such thing

I was twice to the Folger, for on Thursday I went again, to a special event for members: at 6:30 pm, they screened Ralph Fiennes’ Coriolanus, and then we had a genuinely intelligent discussion of the play and how it was made into a movie, plus how it fits into Shakespeare’s other plays of violent politically ambitious men: it is unusual in not having a figure of integrity (or attempted integrity, say Brutus) or sanity and humor (say Hal against Hotspur) or wit and humanity (Anthony against Octavius) to match the man of blood and insane militarism. I did say one of the courses I’m attending is one on Lear and the Tempest (the AU OLLI).


Both of these for the colors on the waters and in the sky

From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April dress’d in all his trim
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laugh’d and leap’d with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue
Could make me any summer’s story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew;
Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play

I use Shakespeare’s deeply felt poetry as a widow’s poem … Another long-term scholarly friend’s husband died during these weeks, and I spent some time with her.

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I have had another of my desolating losses: this time a long-time Internet friend; again I was wholly unprepared for her decision to drop me, so did not pick up on her attempts to pick a quarrel nor read the subtext of her comments on how much she needed tranquillity after her trip (I had thought she wanted me to write to her) and solitude, but finally I did realize she had developed a granular dislike of me — or thinks I’m a kind of fool who wants to hear from her or others they are like me.  Nonsense nor do I want to be like her (she’s a religious person) or have what she has. I can’t and don’t recognize names of prestigious schools (nor care about them in my life as just beyond me) so when I showed I did not remember that she had gone to one as an undergraduate, she was annoyed. Maybe she thought “see I pay no attention  to her.” I am tired or her condescension to me (I’m now endlessly having to apologize when I have said nothing wrong or untrue or have been misunderstood quite quickly, with sudden hard slaps). Of her narrow definitions of various states of mind or conditions that don’t of course touch her. It may be she saw that she had no interest for real in a project towards publication I had proposed — very unlikely we’d get anyone to publish a book of essays by us. So there is nothing to be gained from me. She has no interest in these group readings together or the discussions, especially when no one appears to see her points. It was a bad sign that when she’d come to this part of the US she never tried to visit me, not so much as mentioned this as a possibility.

This kind of loss happens every couple of years for me. Recently I read an essay which suggested this kind of behavior is common, and in a book by Liz Pryor this is the way women typically end friendships! Maybe.  When the woman does write a frank good-bye it is often harsh, and the actuating motive seems often to be the one is tired of the other person or the other person is not optimistic enough for them or just does not realize she is an irritant. Gets the leaver down.

Yet oddly enough I am down to one friend locally (meaning someone to go out with and visit) and yet am not eager to spend time with her as I know we are not really suited. Nor a man I have now dated a few times — others might see the occasions as date-like.  I have yet to keep that promise to myself and live on myself, my books and writing and projects, and distant friends, continual rounds of pleasant acquaintances when the OLLIs are in session. You’d think I’d learn. I did feel rotten, and bleak, dark spirited for a few days, but growing inured by time, remind myself I am freer, no need to spend quality time writing real letters which I now know were unwanted. I talked with another much longer on-line friend (who I have met in person three times now) about this and that helped.  Let it go said he.  Carry on.  As time passes I find maybe I will now know the relief of silence and not being put in the position of misunderstanding while it’s she who is the narrow dogmatist (is that the word).

I ask myself, what would be the crushing blow? I’ve had one: Jim’s death, from which there is no genuine recovery as to have that I’d have had to live my life utterly differently. Another would be if Izzy were decide to move. I must not depend on anyone so will try to find an inexpensive time away for myself in August using Road Scholar.

So back to my Graham book project (which is coming along, as I’ve now hit on a better Dashiell Hammett kind of book by him, though with another creepy title: Fortune is a Woman). Here I watched for the first time with real interest the famous Maltese Falcon, and observed the sardonic humor of Bogart & weird hilarity over death in Peter Lorre, and was astonished at the way no one talks of how repeatedly the weepy sentimentally gushing women in these turn out to be cold-blooded promiscuous liars and how they are humiliated and punished.


Bogart as the sardonic witty Spade


That’s an imagined image of Louisa May Alcott

I’ll alternate my Anomaly project with other books by women, other studies, and just subjects that are taking my interest (Henry VII from Shadow of the Tower, I’ve gotten a superb book, Thomas Penn’s Winter King and watched his equally astute hour-long Prime video twice). I’m working up a blog on American women writers of the 19th century seeking to create serious art, live independently from another fine book Anne Boyd Rioux’s Writing for Immortality.


Penn and the death mask of the actual Henry VII


as performed with quiet brilliance by James Maxwell — here he talks to the young boy Lambert Simnel, relieved to be made a servant in the kitchen; he does not like being king “so very much” after all. “Like me perhaps?” the king inquires.

Mornings I’m joining in more with discussions of the Poldark and Outlander books on face-book pages. This summer I’ll take an excursion into two biographies of Vittoria Colonna and write a serious review and make a good blog of it. Another old friend, Italian, now living on the island of Ischia suddenly wrote to say how this had come about and remarked too: “the Castello Aragonese has undergone some extensive renovations and restorations in the last decade or so. It now hosts cinema viewings during the Ischia Film Festival, has two restaurants each with a spectacular view, a hotel converted from a monastery, two museums one of art work another of medeval torture devices, and new walkways and gardens. Many can be seen here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=16T6Do7XXsQ&t=130s. Had I world enough and time and could bear the loneliness, I’d stay home re-teach myself to read Italian and read all Ferrante in the original (I am near through her The Story of a New Name). I shall have to look at Road Scholar and see if they have a tour which includes Ischia.

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Perhaps worth remarking: my essay, “Teaching 18th century texts to retired adults in Oscher Institutes of Lifelong Learning” has been published in the latest Intelligencer (an 18th century newsletter periodical for EC/ASECS) and this morning as I prepared the first of two sets of notes/lectures to teach Can You Forgive Her? with, it has struck me I have 29 people in one class and 31 in the other. Most come, most do the reading. Many participate and talk about the book. At least a few do read the essays I occasionally send out by attachment (like Levine’s “‘Can You Forgive Him?’ & the myth of realism,” and Henry’s “Rushing into Eternity:” Finance, Suicide [and murder] in Victorian novels [especially Trollope’s]. I find this remarkable — people between ages 60 and 85 mostly. I doubt they are coming for me. Worth noting on behalf of Trollope?


Clarycat and Ian in my sunroom: I have decided I love this almost furniture-less room, just one comfortable chair for me, two tables and a rocking chair with pretty blankets and pillow for the kitties — otherwise an assortment of what counts and what is needed …

Izzy and I and our cats carry on our home lives together too. I like to watch them so alertly looking out the window. She works on a new song.

Ellen

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