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Aigas House, Inverness, Scotland

Dear friends,

I realized the other day that I had never linked in here my three travel blogs on my 8-9 days this summer at Aigas House, Inverness, Scotland, located at the southern faultline of the Scottish highlands. So here they are, together with yet another poem by a Scottish women writer.

Scottish Highlands Tour from Aigas House: the framework (1)

Scottish Highlands Tour from Aigas House: historical, archaeological, Caledonian Forest; town & country & women’s work (2)

Scottish Highlands Tour from Aigas House: the West Coast; Priories, Museums & Castles; Celtic folk music & women’s poetry


In Cawdor Castle Gardens

The Star-Reaper

In the city, it was cold, but dry,
Not wild and snow-laden like here.
Another world, of buses, noise,
Traffic-lights and passing people.
Grey skies and mists
But pavements dry,
And telling nothing of this world
Of snow, deep ice and freezing wind,
Waves of snow,
Drifting in the wind,
Across the roads;
Across the trees,
Deep, buried, sleeping trees,
Sleeping in the snow,
Their buried summer dreams.

I miss you now, wood-elf,
With your dreams of deer,
Your eyes of snow, and stars
And buried moonlight,
Leaping up the years and tears and fallen pines,
Star-leaping,
Buried in sky-forests,
Orion, sky-reaper,
Through the diamond fields, to meet me.
Your name sky-hunter
Echoes in the darkened side of Venus,
Through bright Saturn’s ring
And the scattered plains of Sirius,
The hunter’s friend.

Cold, the city,
With your sleeping sun bright in some other sky,
Your sun bright in a day of white earth, and white sky,
Tears from some ice-hearted god.
And you among the trees,
Deep in the frozen tracks of some elusive stag,
Heart of fire,
Spirit of earth,
It moves somewhere among the pines,
Somewhere in front of you,
Frozen footprints cast in the stone snow.
I see the star-reaper,
Moon-sister,
Sunfire in snow forest,
Earth-Iover and sun-born.
— Morelle Smith, Scottish, from The Star Reaper (1979)

Miss Drake

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St John the Divine, a vast beautiful church near Columbia University, NYC, photo taken from a bus by Izzy

From “To an old woman standing in the October light:” Better to just admit it, time has gotten away from you, and yet here you are again, out in your yard at sunset … You have been looking for a reason for your continued existence,/with faith so shaky it vibrates like a plucked wire … As you search them out again, again,/your disappearing holds off for a while. But see how, even in this present,/as you stand there, the past flies into the future,/the way, above you, the crows are winging home again, calling to each other,/vanishing above the trees into the night-gathering sky — a poem by Patricia Fargnoli (Hallowed: New and Selected Poems).

Dear friends and readers,

I’ve yet another time away to tell you about. Izzy’s trip to NYC last week, which she appears to have thorougly enjoyed. To know how to vacation is another of those skills gradually acquired. She has shown herself well on her way at last. She traveled to and fro on the comfortable Amtrak train. She has (using the Internet) gotten herself a good hotel room in midtown and for 2 days went by train to the US open in Queens (the borough); she became intensely involved each day, tweeted away with others on the Net, blogged and put pictures up when she got home. She emailed me going and coming (it’s a long trip from mid-town Manhattan), and roundly declared at the second afternoon’s closure (for her, she couldn’t stay until the sky went dark) she had “had a good day.” She ate there all meals both days. One evening she went to see Wicked at the Gershwin theater: she walked up from her hotel (28th Street), treated herself to an expensive Italian meal (at a trattoria) and was just charmed. She was once an avid reader of the Wizard of Oz books. That day she had explored Manhattan on foot, and especially Central Park.


Izzy remarks on twitter about this: even the ducks seemed unafraid in that area of Central Park

Early Friday morning she was up and out of the hotel because she bought on-line a ticket to ride an unlimited times a bus tour route going all around Manhattan. She meant to buy one which included an extension to Brooklyn and found she hadn’t nor would anyone cooperate to find her a replacement train ticket. She seems to have found this experience the most fun of all, quite exhilarating. She sat at the top of the bus, and enjoyed listening to two different truly knowledgeable African-American guides. Both had grown up in the area they now were a guide to and seemed to tell a bit of their childhoods (a white guide on a third bus was nowhere as communicative).


Schist: the embedded rock of the landscape, seen in Central Park, foundation for skyscrapers

She’d get off at points she wanted to walk in, take photos from and off the bus: she was just by the New York City museum where she saw the older subway trains had found a good home; she was sort of thrilled to stop and walk all around Columbia University because Jim went there. I told her that Jim was probably the only Ph.D. math student at Columbia in the last few years to take out books from the library which were mediocre romances printed first three centuries AD and then the long 18th century (1660-1815).


A wall mural Izzy’s bus passed by

And she’s been to NYC so many times now, much she passes is now familiar; she knows where what she wants is. She was delighted with new things: now the Strand bookstore has stands around the city for its books. You need not get down to 13th Street on Union Square. She came home to find the piano tuned and at first reacted strongly against the new sounds. It’s been more than 3 years since it was tuned.

For myself I’ve returned to being alone most of (for now just about all of) the time, for companionship dependent on Internet friends, interacting through conversations. ‘m not going to the gym regularly because I’ve taken on moe literary work, the two friends who would be there have stopped going (one is now unwell), and I’ve not seen the physical improvement I’d hoped for. Yoga doesn’t do for me what it does for others. The exercise is less and all the talk and gestures seem to me phony. Relationships are as shallow as any transient class. I haven’t a mystical bone in my body. I grant the music is quieting, low lights. I look forward to when fall events begin, aa tomorrow night, a HD Net live theater film of tony Kushner’s Angels in America, Part 1, at the Shakespeare Theater in DC (an Internet friend recommended it). I worked away on projects, read, wrote, watched mini-series late into the night (I’ll write separately about all three, Grantchester, Outlander, Poldark). My friend, Vivian, has gone for a week in Paris; Laura and I actually talked of doing a Road Scholar tour together in January or February 2018 to India, either 9 days of highlights or 16 (an extension, which would include a quieter stay at one place in Nepal)). India is one of the few places outside Europe I’ve dreamed of going to: again a result of reading, this time Anglo-Indian books.

Thus there was something appropriate in the one cinema movie I’ve been to see in the last month or so, Michael Winterbottom’s third “trip” movie, starring Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon: I could not get any friend to go with me, none found the idea compelling. None had seen the two previous. I had and did.


2007 — the Lake District

I saw the first, The Trip (to Yorkshire, the Lake District, and environs) as a 6 part BBC TV series on a DVD the first summer after Jim died. It was high-spirited humor, often centering on the gourmet dinners they were said to be eating on behalf of newspaper assignments, with them mimicking other stars, naturalistic conversation, and to me riveting because they went to precisely near and where Jim and I had lived two years together (including the West riding, York Minster Cathedral). The film presents exaggerated versions of themselves and there is some sense that they are choosing unconventional roles elsewhere too. There was real talk about the poets and the landscape; Coogan was the prickly one, dissatisfied with life, Brydon supposedly comfortable in his skin. The second, 3 summers later, The Trip to Italy, seemed to expand that into including wry satiric or melancholy-meditative conversations about the sites they were visiting, seemingly autobiographical events while on the trip (by phone, and from people turning up to accompany them). Stories of Byron and Shelley replace Wordsworth and Coleridge, a thoughtful conversation over tombs in Pompeiin the Lake District. Transient love or sexual encounters for both, grown children showing up for Coogan, their pregnant producer, and then their struggles with their own careers were now brought in. Still the overall impression was of high cheer.


2010, a cartoon

The third, and 4 years later, presumably the last, The Trip to Spain seemed sequel to the other two the way Before Midnight was a sequel to Richard Linklater’s Before Sunrise; and Before Sunset (all with Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy, each at least 5 years apart once again). The Linklater-Hawke, Delpy movies explored the nature and disillsionment of a romantic heterosexual encounter turned into a long-running marriage. Now we are exploring masculinity, middle age. (It is true that all three films marginalize women, they are treated as side objects at home in men’s lives, unless of course they are the producer of a film.) Steve and Rob tried for humor, gourmet dinners, people turning up — or not (Coogan is disappointed because this time his son via skype says he cannot come) — but it was not funny. No hiliarious routines. The audience around me grated on me as they persisted in got-up raucous laughter when the humor was obviously so thin. They had come to laugh; they had thought the two previous films were just laugh-ups, but neither had been, not even the first.


Beyond the pretend-story of Coogan writing restaurant reviews and Brydon coming along for the ride as a friend, the two are going to be on TV, dressed (pathetically) as Don Quixote and Sancho Panza

This time the principals talked of Spain, the failure of the republicans during the civil war, Picasso, and now career dead-ends, projects that seem to bring them down. Surprisingly at first, the trip seemed to end early, before the film was over, when Rob goes back home, and we see him enmeshed in a family life which includes two small children, renovations of apartment, kindergarten. But the movie had not ended. Coogan stays on alone to try to write, and loses his perspective because now his girlfriend is pregnant by someone else doesn’t want to join him either. He is being undermined by a script writer, and his agent was changed from a more prestigious man in an agency to a lesser one (played to perfection by Kyle Soller). Steve is last seen in a desert having run out of gas and water, his cell phone not charged, having a hallucination of young men in republican outfits (whom he had talked about as crucial to his writer-hero, Orwell’s life); they are riding up in jeeps with rifles, waving gaily to him. Or perhaps this is real, a group of Muslim males. And Coogan is on his own.

One viewer apparently took great offense at this “twisted” ending. I thought it appropriate for the trilogy. Finally Steve is alone as (in effect) he was when with others too. During holidays, we find ourselves with others for a time; others we may never see again; that’s part of the pact; the gaiety is precisely that we are not rooted in ordinary time and can imagine for a while. Trollope has a story that plays on this, “A Journey to Panama,” where he says this kind of companionship is part of the pleasure. For me it can go on for too long as it is also carefully restricted. The problem that emerged in Before Sunrise, Before Sunset and Before Midnight is the two people wanted to extend the magic of a temporary deep congeniality to a life’s basis. They are still struggling with this when we last see them.

Izzy’s time away was short, she had no time to be strained; her company was the city, the guides, herself. I’ve concluded that the Road Scholar type tour, with its necessary conformities, to keep to togetherness should not last more than 9-10 days and nights. Winterbottom’s movies are fictions whose underlying themes this time emerged as about the limitations of what a holiday can do for you, about how you cannot escape your past, but bring your “baggage” and immediate present with you, especially once you are again alone — as is no longer uncommon. Bear up as best we can to enjoy what is left seems to be what Winterbottom concludes. In order to keep your sanity.

I have too many books to read all at once: right now, Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, Virginia Woolf’s Flush: A Biography (for a collaborative paper with a friend on Woolf and Samuel Johnson); Paul Scott’s Staying On, and Winston Graham’s Groves of Eagles (historical novel set in Cornwall in the 16th century). I had to give up on Maria Edgeworth’s Belinda and the group reading, discussion on the Goodreads page I joined.

I know I have to learn to walk alone at night in Old Towne. Drive there, park, get out, walk to the Potomac and then back again. As Jim and I used to do regularly. Vivian is not well enough to walk with me even as infrequently as she once did. Old Town is vibrant with street life, musicians, people eating ice cream, people in couples, threes, a crowd, and people alone, with dogs. I have to get myself to find pleasure outside alone too. I can never begin to replace the companionship and understanding I once had.

Perhaps human beings have it harder than other species in other ways too. This photo of a feral cat swimming for its life in the oceans of (often now stinking) water and (polluted) air around Houston (where there is no public transportation) went viral (as they say) on twitter.

There is something suspicious here: the cat has an elongated body. But much talk ensued on whether human beings should “risk” saving it. The next day a photograph said to be of the same determined cat is saidto have showed the animal emerging from the waters. I did not see that but close-ups showing the same face beaten up, scars from wounds, ears bitten off, mangy fur. But he or she does not need to re-create a life in the way the poor people of Houston (hardest hit on the flood plain) out of what probably will be nothing. Few will have adequate insurance; many companies will not pay (nor FEMA). Unlike Scotland in the US in most places there seems to be only the barest social contract for immediate help. Not enough will vote for stronger together.

Miss Drake

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Faye Vanderveer — an idealized Alexandria City street

Dear friends,

One should not be astonished either at what people are willing to do to one another nor what they will accept as living conditions. Only a realization that conveniency and self-interest when it comes to economic circumstances conquer all objections can explain how Washington, D.C. has grown to this large metropolis when every summer we have weeks & weeks of weather that is hard to breath in. I’m told not that it’s just as hot in New York City, but that you can be miserable there too — indeed 89 degree with lower 70s humidity is not fun, but it’s still not as deadly as temperatures in high 90s with 81% humidity. That’s what it’s been for over a week now and we are promised temperatures in the 100s this weekend.

I dream of Maine, and look forward to my 10 days in Inverness, Scotland in August. I tell myself if I find I like the Road Scholar program truly, next summer not only will I go to the Lake District in August but if I don’t go on a Jane Austen tour in June (that’s when most of them are), I will find something for a widow with no friends to travel with for June to New England — one of the packages which include many plays. That’s what Jim used to concoct for him and me — with Izzy sometimes. Rent a Landmark house from the 19th century in Vermont, go to a lake for swimming when not on the road to a good play in the Berkshires (including one summer Lillian Hellman’s Summer Garden, other years Stoppard, Turgenev, Shakespeare, Shaw …)

Road, a feminist blog I follow included one of more perceptive essays on “ages of grief” I’ve read. It seemed to be my case: once surrounded by parents, with husband, two daughters, now alone with memories

These days when I read or hear about the death of anyone at any age and think about those who loved them, I have more than a glimmer as to how those left behind might be feeling. One of the many wonders of old age is what happens when your mind encounters sad, perhaps devastating, events. It sweeps over your knowledge of such things, whether personal or through friendships, like a strong breeze passing over a variety of prairie grasses: Big bluestem, salt grass, bottlebrush, porcupine, rice grass, foxtail, timothy, cupgrass, tufted lovegrass, wild rye. You ask, Which one is this? And then comes a moment when a known grief springs up green and fresh. Oh yes, this kind again.

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Here are the two extraordinary experiences I hope you can reach:

I’m writing to recommend daring the heat — enduring it — and going to the Richmond Museum of Fine Arts or wherever the next place the exhibit of Yves St Laurent’s extraordinary art in dresses, costumes, jewelry, accessories, shoes, hats, headdresses, capes, cloaks, just about everything you can dress a woman in, which art includes the cloth he himself makes a first version of, the weave of each material, the designs and colors of the objects. I am naturally inclined to be sceptical and see “fashion” and “high couture” as commercial art (which it is) aimed at making huge amounts of money from the super-rich. That would take attracting the lowest common denominator in that class’s taste. But that’s not what this man did. Over the course of a long life-time he invented deeply appealing costumes for women. He begins as a homosexual boy making cut-outs (yes dressing paper dolls), which his parents don’t discourage him from.

Quickly he learns to sew, make patterns and his first fashion costumes. His parents were upper middle class people with good connections in Algeria, and before Yves was in his twenties he had a central position in Christian Dior’s firm. He lived a highly unconventional life in Paris, traveling, partying with all the important people in the arts, and so his artistry, talent, and by this time intuitive ability to make costumes that mirrored the spirit of each decade or helped create it brought him within a few years management of the firm when Dior died early unexpectedly. I’d say the exhibit has at least 8 rooms of mannequins which take you through the phases of his career, the different emphases of fashion.

Along the walls one sees his drawings and designs; the items are numbered so you can follow along with a free slender catalogue. There are on-going films of famous fashion shows here and there — like when Laurent broke with the constructed clothing of the 50s


Not that these are not fashioning the self

Or the costume-like fashions of more recent decades..

Within each staged presentation of a kind of fashion, the costumes are arranged to reinforce and contrast with one another. Two huge staged presentations of earring, necklaces, chokers, bracelet jewelry, from the beautifully tasteful to gorgeously bizarre. I was with a friend and we discussed and talked as we went through: we could see he didn’t lived a troubled life (he succumbed to drug addiction for periods).
It was the poetry of fashion. I kept coming across a dress, or full outfit, or cloak I could see myself not only wearing but quietly reveling in.

It was a 2 hour trip by car there — in the broiling heat — we got lost at one point. The museum does have a good cafe (and better restaurant but by the time we got to lunch, well after 3:30 it was closed). Then 2 hours back by car. This museum (like the Brooklyn Academy of Arts), specializes in the unusual so that it draws people to come from all over. A few years ago Jim drove us down to the museum to see a huge exhibit of Picasso’s art. The collection is not big but what they have is well-culled — and this time smaller exhibits (Tiffany art glass).

Then two nights ago I saw at the Folger the RSC Live production of Antony & Cleopatra, from Stratford-upon-Avon. It started slow and in the middle of the first act seemed to drag, but as it move on (it was three full hours, with one brief intermission) the actors playing Antony (Antony Byrne), Cleopatra (Josette Simon), their entourages, her women, his men, Enobarbus were viscerally deeply affecting, engaged. I had read the play as erotic, imagined aging wildly adoring and playful lovers, who cut down, rise to heights of ecstatic poetry. Also that it was a political parable about the effectiveness of cold ambition, hypocrisy, ruthlessness, heartlessness (Caesar). But I had not taken into account how it explores the lives of women (Octavia is not a small part), their relationships with one another. More important I didn’t know it dramatizes defeat at length. Yes it’s about characters who make bad self-sabotaging decisions. As if they wanted to blow away public life. I was so moved by Antony’s speeches berating himself, Cleopatra’s turn to suicide, and all the other characters’ failed attempts to rescue this pair or themselves. It explores the inner anguish of tragedy spread out before us. An black English actress played Cleopatra, and dressed exotically; the older great male actor (I’ve seen him many times before) was self-ripped up loss in dignity. Their costumes terrific; doubtless what would draw S Laurent to go.

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My class at the OLLI at George Mason this summer ended Tuesday around 1:30. All those who stayed the course, and that included nearly 25, said how much they enjoyed the two contrasting historical fictions, DuMaurier’s King’s General and Susan Sontag’s Volcano Lover. They said they loved how I choose books slightly off beaten path. I had found on the Internet a YoutTube of a remarkable lecture on why Sontag wrote and lived the life of a radically activist public intellectual as well as writer, poet, film-maker. I summarized for them the content of this remarkable lecture on Sontag’s work by Savanna Illinger which I here share with you:

Brief high points: Sontag felt literature should advance our understanding of the real, and denounce things which conceal human misery under the cover of sentimentalism. What Mary Wollstonecraft said was the justification for literature (poetry) to extend the sympathetic imagination in Sontag’s words is we have a duty to reveal other people’s true reality, warts and all, and suffering. Very hard because we have a hard time taking the sufferng of another as real. We cannot understand what war or battle is unless we have lived in a war zone. Photographs often constitute a barrier because while they acknowledge what is seen, they offer no understanding of what they picture, no admission of how photos are artificially framed; they promote emotional detachment and thus inauthenticity. For the imaginative contemplating the art work to be a fully ethical experience, you should be moved to translate your empathy into action. Early on, she thought essays, discourse, verse were much better at conveying reality, reason, against sentimentalism; but around time of Volcano Lover and In America, she saw in stories an ability to lead readers to enter into, ponder the lives of others. In the 18th century the significant moment pictured occurred just before or after the trauma; nowadays the deeply traumatic, wildly violent without dignity is what we show to disturb our readers. There is a superb essay on Sontag by A. S. Byatt.

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One good enough experience, and one thrown-away opportunity

With Izzy this past Sunday night I went again to the Kennedy Center. This time to see Cabaret, in the Eisenhower theater in the 2nd balcony where we remembered sitting with Jim for Sondheim many a time, and our last New Year’s Eve together — a group of actors/singers imitated the rock stars of the 1950s, with “Elvis” the chief personality. The terrace was again beautiful, but now too warm to walk much. We’d never seen this famous musical: it is very much mainstream Broadway (or at least this production was), all gussied up and partly disguised by the imitation of German Weimar culture of the 1920s. It was a very humdrum production and I could see through to where its numbers resembled all sorts of others in other mainstream sweet and sentimental musicals. For example, “Money makes the world go round” is the equivalent of “Money doesn’t grow on trees in Oliver Twist. Now I know the context for the different songs: so “What good is sitting alone in your room” is sardonically ironic in context. I knew it was based on stories by Christopher Isherwood with an invented Bohemian heroine, Sally Bowles, who becomes involved with one of your white, blond virtuous American males (as appeared in this production). I had not realized there is a poignant story of an aging German landlady who is frightened out of marrying a deeply tenderly kind aging Jewish tenant. I now know why the musical appeals.’

Tonight I betook myself to the Smithsonian for what looked like a good lecture on George Orwell in the 21st century but most unusually the speaker was dull: Andrew Rubin was very cautious and all qualification, so I wondered who he was worried he was offending. He read his paper without attempting to reach the audience; he was disdainful of said audience too — not that their questions did not show utter misapprehensions, likening ISIS for example to the Republicans in Spain who were for a decent humane secular life — showed real obtuseness. As Rubin said, ISIS is pathological destruction. Read The New Yorker on the destruction of the Mosul library, or irrelevant an about their own identity, such as was Orwell anti-semitic?).


What’s left of the millions of wonderful books, ms’s, art, several heritages found together — now a site filled with landmines

I thought of a question I didn’t get to ask: on surveillance. Winston Smith is famously being watched, monitored, is in danger of being destroyed. Ruben didn’t broach this topic. I wondered what specifically in Orwell’s era was he worried about, and was he ever threatened. He broadcast for the BBC, and perhaps had had his fill of timid and political censorship. Despite this disappointment, I saw in the catalogue the institution has some good lectures on literary (one on a Sylvia Plath exhibit at the National Portrait Gallery in London) and film people coming up (Mingle with Marlene Dietrich), and I’ll try to go in the coming summer evenings.


Susan Herbert

And that’s the news from this Lake Woebegone, where my cats are my good companions and my younger daughter my beloved. Still listening to Gaskell’s Ruth read aloud: what a painful book. Next up: Woolf’s Night and Day.

Miss Drake

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The Potomac, photographed by me from the Kennedy Center terrace the night Izzy and I went to the Art Garfunkel concert


Land’s End, a lake in Vermont where in 2006 we came with Izzy and she would swim

Ghosts linger in one place because it contains somebody they love and can no longer have — Anthony Lane, on the just released movie, A Ghost Story

The question of all questions … the question which underlies all others and is more deeply interesting than any other – is the ascertainment of the place which man [and woman] occupy in nature — Thomas Huxley

Friends and readers,

It’s been about 2 weeks since I last wrote a diary entry. My word is how I feel now in this fourth summer without Jim. No one can have done more to root herself, to find and be with friends and acquaintances, to create some sort of meaning and usefulness for myself but I cannot find a replacement within myself or anything I do to make myself feel what before I didn’t have to think about, so much was he central to the very air that supports my body. I don’t know why I do what I do, none of it seems to connect me.

I can tell of a few more experiences snatched in air-conditioned places or brief strolls late in the evening. Izzy and I again went to a concert we both enjoyed, probably I more intensely than she. Last year with Vivian I heard Paul Simon make strikingly effective new and old music at Wolf Trap, so now his old partner (old is true too), Art Garfunkel sang movingly, old songs and rendered new versions of great favorites (from Sondheim, James Taylor, Gershwin), read some of his poetry (he’s publishing an autobiography it seems) for over two hours. He was not at Wolf Trap, but the Kennedy Center and in the concert hall, but the price was low for the Kennedy Center, and I couldn’t resist. I realized by the end he aspires to hymns. As it turned out, we seemed to be surrounded by the usual Wolf Trap crowd who had somehow decamped from Virginia and come to DC. Casually dressed, slightly bohemian, they just didn’t have their picnics and blankets with them.

I’ve gone to lunch with a new friend from the OLLI at Mason (where my class on 18th century historical fiction, old and new-fashioned, DuMaurier’s King’s General and Sontag’s Volcano Lover are going over very well — we are having a good time), seen with her a powerful wonderful film, Maudie, causing me to return to my women artists blogs (an acquire a touching fat biography telling all you could know about Maud Lewis, with her Heart on the Door), and this Friday Panorea and I are going for a one day trip to Richmond to explore the Richmond Art Gallery and have lunch together. I haven’t told her but if we get back in time, I may then betake myself alone to Wolf Trap to hear Tosca whose music Sontag makes brilliant use of in her novel. Last minute, what the hell.


A picture in the Richmond Art Gallery

I’m still planning to visit a friend in New York City, the last day of July, and first four of August, and may meet with a new friend in Gaskell in Pennsylvania Amish country — not yet concrete. I had long good sessions with last week, my therapist, and today (even better) my financial adviser who I spent two hours with today, being reassured and having some good talk. It was a relatively quiet empty day for him, and this is what he is partly paid for. The best — beloved friends on the Net, the correspondences with them —

I’ve not told you the worst of this summer: I’ve lost my last three teeth and have been suffering for three weeks with an ill-fitting denture on the bottom gum I can hardly keep in place to eat. The adhesive tastes awful, sour and hot at once. I wanted to spare myself writing out our “solution” of four implants and a new semi-permanent denture to be installed surgically July 26th, in time for some healing before my Scottish tour. And my visits to two other dentists (one super-expensive in DC) for second and third opinions. I have discovered the deliciousness of lasagna with cheese interwoven: cheese filling, goes down easy. What an old woman with her two loving cats clinging to her, playing by her side I am. My African-American woman dentist (bless her heart) is so excited at this new technology we are using, not just the implants but guided ways of putting them in, and the new easy kinds of wax to make impressions. Sigh. Surely something has gone askew here with medicine — though some would say it’s only old age, an old woman toothless with aging skin and gums and two cats.


To this am I reduced Lasagna with ricotta cheese …

For now what is being done to the US democracy, attempted here on the Internet (which may bring an end to these blogs) is unspeakable (deeply shaming, destructive of us all) if I am to maintain a personal tone of calm.

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Nothing much more to say unless you want to hear of my reading and preparing to write: three books I’m reading towards my Road Scholar tour in August to Inverness, Scotland, the Aigas Field Center:

I’m cheered because all three I picked are good. The first, a history of Scotland, very fat, by Magnus Magnusson: Scotland, the Story of a Nation, on my Irish friend, Rory’s advice, a long-time BBC personality (doing documentaries); he’s a gift for capturing in a familiar anecdote essential feels or truths about phases of history. It’s fast reading — not that I will be able to finish it, but it reminds me of the Cornwall book I read by begnning with geology, pre-history.
    The second is by the “leader” of the tour: John Lister-Kaye, Song of the Rolling Earth. At first I was put off by the flowery language and something too upbeat, but he’s won me over — he’s an interesting thoughtful enlightened serious environmentalist, lover of animals and plants and the earth too, naturalist and this book tells how slowly he came to create and now maintains the Aigas field center. It’s politically aware. This morning I was especially delighted to read his invocation of the earliest history of his Aigas field center — in neolithic and later ages but not into history quite. It’s the third chapter called “the Loftier Ash;’ the next is “the Iron Age Fort,” which it was before becoming a ruin in the 18th century and then a Victorian country house not very well disguised as a castle/fortress: he describes the landscape and especially the creatures and plants then (way back, theoretical projection) and now It ends on a description of two fearsome (poisonous) snakes copulating, which is so beautiful and poetic and yet grounded in scientific observation that I recalled for the first time in years a book I regularly assigned to my Adv Comp in the Natural Science and Tech classes: Loren Eiseley’s The Star-Thrower. I thought no one was writing this way any more: Eiseley combined a deep humanism of which his environmentalism was one arm (and animals rights) with science to produce inspirational passages that — probing meditations on the natural world we are not seeing any more because we won’t or there are only remnants where we live. It’s a measure of how far we’ve come away from deep adherence to true science for sheer commercialism and technology divorced from the natural world that I would have been laughed at and the book cancelled if I had.

    The third a genuine exposure of how the Highlands were emptied of people, the terrible treatment of the Scots by their own Scots leaders as well as the British and various corporations. John Prebble’s The Highland Clearances it’s called. I’ve been trying to find the old 1967 The Cheviot, the Stag and the Black Black Oil on Youtube — a 2 hour rousing interactive performance play which I watched not all that long ago, but alas cannot find it there any more.


An excerpt from Cheviot, Stag, and Black black oil

I believe I’ve spoken of our summer books on the three listservs I join in on. I am enjoying the three film adaptations of Far from the Madding Crowd more than Hardy’s book; I carry on with Virginia Woolf (I’m now thinking next spring at the OLLI at AU maybe I’ll “do” “The Later Woolf: Orlando, The Years, Between the Acts“); we are having themes on Janeites to carry us through the summer and I stay in touch so that I was able to upload on my blog Chris Brindle’s beautiful song for Jane on the 200th anniversary of her death. I have been trying to write the paper on Smith’s Ethelinde and The Emigrants that the conference people wanted from me, but I’ve given it up for now: I find I’m tedious, it just does not come natural to write in this narrow slant on two texts. I’ll try to go back to it, but for now I’ve been reading Winston Graham’s non-Poldark books and soon will try to make sense of them in a blog (thus far The Forgotten Story, The Little Walls, Marnie, The Walking Stick, Greek Fire) and actually forced myself through two Hitchcock (sickening misogynist, a maker of voyeuristic thrills).

But I’ve not yet said, did not tell you I’ve been reading (and now finished) Nick Holland’s new (and it is, an original outlook on her) portrait of Anne Bronte in his In Search of Anne Bronte (I’ve promised a review for the Victorian Web this summer). He has an individual thesis — or so I think — that Anne was hurt badly by Charlotte in a number of ways. Also about her personality — and her religious beliefs (as far more benign and liberal than her sisters). I don’t know enough about what is usually said about her life so I’m going to do a little sleuthing into the other biographies and find a review of a recent volume of essays on Anne Bronte. Then I’ll write it. I’ve known most peace and rejuvenation from this book (and before it Claire Harman’s Charlotte Bronte). It’s maybe when I’m immersed in one of the Scots books or this Bronte reading that I seem to regain some center to my existence and feel my old identity, raison d’etre for remaining alive come back to me.

Two poems by Anne Bronte: she did love someone, William Weightman his name, who predeceased her while yet young too:

Lines written at Thorp Green

O! I am very weary
Though tears no longer flow;
My eyes are tired of weeping,
My heart is sick of woe.
My life is very lonely,
My days pass heavily;
I’m weary of repining,
Wilt thou not come to me?
Oh didst thou know my longings
For thee from day to day,
My hopes so often blighted,
Thou wouldst not thus delay.

To —

I will not mourn thee, lovely one,
Though thou art torn away.
‘Tis said that if the morning sun
Arise with dazzling ray
And shed a bright and burning beam
Athwart the glittering main,
‘Ere noon shall fall that laughing gleam
Engulfed in clouds and rain …
And yet I cannot check my sighs,
Thou wert so young and fair,
More bright than summer morning skies,
But stern death would not spare;
He would not pass our darling by
Nor grant one hour’s delay,
But rudely closed his shining eye
And frowned his smile away.
That angel smile that late so much
Could my fond heart rejoice;
And he has silenced by his touch
The music of thy voice.
I’ll weep no more thine early doom.
But O! I still must mourn
The pleasures buried in thy tomb,
For they will not return …

****************************


Jim during a time in Vermont, the Amos Brown house, perhaps summer 2012 (or 2006)

I know Jim would never have renovated this house; he would not spend the money to make it respectable; he would not himself work hard for no money (maybe he’d take a course at an OLLI, or do an occasional hour); perhaps he would have long ago, sold this house, got rid of half the books, moved back to NYC and start going to older people’s single bars and found a new partner by now.

Some of the most painful moments for me during Jim’s brief mortal illness were when he’d say suddenly I’d find another man and in no time. Finally I said to him, please don’t say that; you have no idea how much it hurts me to hear you say because it could be you think that. How could you think you are replaceable. Don’t you know it’s your unique self I have stayed with, lived by, and loved all these years. And finally he stopped voicing this insecurity. But to tell the candid truth, yes I wish I could find a new partner, not just any one, any male, but someone like him, the dream of Stewart in My Brother Michael (thanks to Mirable Dictu). But I live in a world of women; the men I come across are all “taken,” good people long ago married, and now with children, grandchildren. Those widows, later divorcees who seem to find a partner (it happens) seem to meet someone they knew long ago, or a male who has hung around as a friend for years, a work colleague. Statistics tell me it’s rare for women to form relationship with a new male partner after she has passed 50; for men even common. And I’ve seen why in the eyes of men I do come across who I catch quietly looking at me or who in passing what’s called flirt (at which I’ve ever been very awkward) and rejecting me as too old very swiftly. Of course I’d love a loving genuine friend-partner once more.


Jim, aged 24, our apartment on Columbus Avenue, just off Central Park — how much I’d give to be able to re-live life with Llyr, I know I’d be so much better to her

It is dreadfully hot here, day after day in the high 90s into the 100s in the afternoon. There is an argument for selling up too, moving north, though I daresay the isolation would kill me. I am part of worlds here, have people who help me directly (courteous young males, my IT guy, a Trumpite, my financial adviser who voted for Clinton, even a mechanic who takes my car every time). But I loathe this heat and long for a beach 30 minutes away to escape to of a morning.

As Jim and I once did when we lived in upper Manhattan; Tuesdays and Thursdays early morning we and Llyr our dog (long long dead, and what a grief to me) off to Jones beach with coffee and croissants bought on the way, in 40 minutes there, hardly anyone around but us three. So what I sometimes think Jim would have done in my place is perhaps the selfish (=wise) smart thing. But I cannot do without Izzy nor desert her (she forgot to go to her once a summer pool party this past Sunday so I will return to keeping track of these occasions for and with her), nor Laura.

Dissolve this world away that’s around me? Unmoored already. Why live on? is the sweet air enough on the top of a mountain or in a city near a performing arts center? Maybe it’s my conviction that on the other side of silence is oblivion, endless nothingness and if anything of my body is left it will rot. I do like to read … and write … and watch movies … to be with a friend — and other such like reasons keep me here — as long as I’m safe in my house. Someone asked on face-book what was people’s idea of fun?

Gentle reader, is it any wonder I write few diary entries nowadays. Vedova parlando.

Miss Drake

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Summer flowers — I’ve not got many this year as I had no help and after all don’t know much about flowers … this is my prettiest

All this does & will so derange the nerves — and so empty the pocketbook (partly from Austen’s Sanditon)

Friends,

A few summer pleasures amid this dark bleak (indeed hopeless) time. (After Trump and his rump re-invigorated the horrible puppy mills, they attacked long-distance trains: isolate and strand’em — all in each long day’s harm.) Read Tracy K Smith’s Watershed.

Each Saturday morning I go to Farmer’s Market. I’ve decided we will buy and eat less meat, and what I do buy will come from farms where the animals are given decent lives (before slaughtering). I will no longer participate in the horrific cruelties visited on farm animals in the US. I can’t do much but I can refrain from supporting evil in my eating habits. In our local marketplace, there are three different farm animal farms represented and I’m finding what kinds of cuts of chicken, pork, beef, they sell which Izzy and I can cook successfully and eat. I buy fresh vegetables I’m trying to get myself to learn to cook, and (soft) fruit. It’s a bright way to start each Saturday: the market goes on from 7-11 a.m. Farmer’s Market carries on all year long and if I can I will carry on buying meat this way, but much of the rest of the square become emptier. The crafts people I’m told remain, perhaps the breakfast people, but all others vanish by later November, to return in mid-April.

Two outings this past weekend: at the last minute, I bought tickets for my friend, Vivian, and me, to attend the Friday night Classics Album Live performance this year: their choice, Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Heart club band. I was attracted partly because a couple of weeks before I had watched a sterling hour lecture/documentary on just this album on my BBC iplayer, revealing just how original and rooted in musical traditions from as far away as India, and as close as local folk songs in Liverpool, with lyrics autobiographical and contemporary was this music. Last year I attended a remarkable 6 hour set of lectures on the career, history, individuals (you name) and music of the Beatles. So we went. I bought a picnic supper for us, which I was not myself able to eat much of — I’ve lost three more teeth, gentle reader, and after another week’s misery, in two week I shall pay an outrageous sum for 4 implants and a semi-permanent denture in my lower gum. For now it’s deeply uncomfortable for me with an ill-fitting denture and aching, sore gums. We had decided to go to cheer ourselves. My friend has had cancer, and chemotherapy treatments for the past 6-7 months; she appears to be going into remission and will know for sure in about the same two weeks.


Wolf Trap stage — cell phone photo

I brought wine and a pretty new blanket which I’ve acquired as part of my “Yoga” apparatus (a lot of mystic silly language goes along with this form of exercise intended to relax and rejuvenate the body somehow or other). The evening was not too hot. We had good talk and the performance was rousing. About 16 young people on the stage, with all sorts of instruments, for the first hour did a straight imitation of the songs and comments in the order presented in the famous music-changing 1967 album. They were not as good as the original Beatles of course: mostly they couldn’t do the poignant, and stumbled on witticisms, but all those numbers rhythm, belting it out loud, and sheer energy could put across, with plenty of heart, they did superbly. The second hour was made up of various Beatle songs, from their earliest to latest recordings: I had forgotten how many really superb numbers they did and in such a relatively short. By the end much of the audience was standing, swaying, clapping. Many older people remembering. One must mourn their break-up.

Saturday the same kind of last minute deal. Different plans fell through. Vivian and I were to go to an Aspergers adult meeting, but she was not up to it after all. I decided it was far too hot to reach where I go to swim. I put off my plans for Maudie, and will go with another friend, a new one, Panorea, to see this film, this coming Saturday (Angelica Art Festival theater) with lunch before and a snack out afterwards. Izzy decided against her plan and came out with me for dinner and a walk in Old Town. Buggsby, a pizza place appeared to have several wedding parties reserving the place, and we were thrown back to the more expensive Il Porto. But how I love that place. Quiet, tasteful and I had a meal I could eat: Lasagna, with ricotta rice, and soft vegetables in a lovely tomato sauce, washed down by Riesling wine. It was sunny and we walked by the Potomac amind the crowd. Street musicians everywhere.


Over the years Jim and I have been there for celebrations (Laura and Izzy’s graduations from high school), taken special friends’ visits — rare treats — and just gone of an evening or for lunch — it’s been there for over 40 years now

The second of the monthly summer Cinema Arts film club: a very great movie: Afterimage, how to take away someone’s existence (so relevant to what is happening in US federal gov’t today).

This too is not only in summer, but rather this summer: Our book for this summer on Trollope19thCStudies is Thomas Hardy’s Far from the Madding Crowd (there are four film adaptations), for Wwtta by myself I’m reading Woolf’s Between the Acts and with a friend, Woolf’s Short Fiction. Well quite unexpected I’ve discovered that Woolf’s fiction also encompasses deep affection, empathy for animals. “The Shooting Party” is startling. It is a pro-animal story: we have the viewpoint of one of these stifled women, Miss Antonia, indeed several are in the squire’s household as outside he and others destroy birds. All the imagery of the story moves between poignant aware descriptions of the agonies of animals, including those about to be eaten Other women at the table include Miss Rashleigh (a name I’m familiar with from DuMaurier). A mare dies on the road — beaten too often doubtless. I wondered what Flush is like. Voyage Out is post-colonialism, this is aware animal rights. It does make an implicit parallel between the stifled lady sewing and then waiting for the squire who we hear outside howling, cursing, things are being destroyed by falling off shelves. Knick-knacks include mermaids. A whole lashed forest is there. Woolf’s strong gerund style serves her well. It puts unnamed suffering birds and animals at the center with the terrified nervous Miss Antonia and wry Miss Rashleigh. Gaskell also has a strong parallel between a subjugated woman and other helpless beings in the sense that she feels for both from their point of view (“Lizzie Leigh”,”The Well of Pen Morpha”).

Gentle reader, it is dreadfully hot in the Washington DC area and the truth is summer pleasures for most include long hours indoors where life is enabled by air-conditioning. I’m watching The Crown on Netflix: reactionary in the extreme, it’s well-done (the film-makers remind us continually how the rest of the UK or the world is living) and presents a characterization of the young Elizabeth I can identity with: it’s not her, but a female archetype found in these mini-series, the self-contained woman feeling deeply what she has to do that’s wrong carries on more alone and quiet (a la Anne Elliot) than is realized. Claire Foy manages to communicate intensities of nuance in a role where most of the time she behaves with exquisite self-control. She is seen again and again from a distance walking away on her own


Here she is separating her sister from Townsend after having promised she would not, about which no one but herself (and Margaret and Townsend) appears really to care (I stress this is an idealization, but an appealing one)

Miss Drake

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Laura and I — she often looked serene


Izzy and I – at her happiest laughing

To ache is human — not polite — Dickinson

I do like to be beside the seaside — Music Hall song

Friends,

Our holiday — me, Laura, Izzy — was not all we had hoped as after the first super-hot afternoon, the beach was chill, and subject to high winds, as were the central roads leading to said beach, but we managed to have a good time and even (stubbornly) sat there both days, the first near 2 hours in the morning, the second after noon. Izzy tried to go in as far as her knees, jeans pushed up, I tried to read a Daphne DuMaurier novel. We returned to walk along the boardwalk in the later afternoon the second day, and evening time, and in the darkness on the third where we said we wished we could believe Jim or Dad were looking down from somewhere.


Late twilight — the inscrutable sea

You should know we four had been to Rehoboth many years before: our first true family vacation probably in 1993 in a house rented inexpensively in Milton — the next year we went to Rome for 5 weeks. We did one year rent a cottage just off Lewes Beach and we remembered the ferry at Cape May; another year briefly a cottage in Duck, North Carolina (but a hurricane blew us away). So there were memories. This holiday was originally conceived as a mother’s day gift for me.

Luckily our hotel was filled with good service: a hot tub we sat in three times, two pools — we swam in one on the first day, a garden, and the third and last morning, a strong fire in the hearth in one of the two library-looking rooms. I sat by the fire two early mornings. There was an on-going huge puzzle on one table of that room where different people over the day sat and filled out the picture. Izzy did some for an hour. Each day a sumptuous breakfast (very good), all day coffee and snacks downstairs. We found outside much shopping (surprising amounts of clothing) — little side alleyways as malls, a splendid bookstore (really) with toys (one of which had a snoopy dog toy Laura and Izzy remembered from their childhood). We had some excellent meals for dinner, one unpretentious in a pizza place bar, the other rightly “awesome,” French, exquisitely well-cooked dishes (I had a rabbit dish, Laura lamb), a pile of ice cream for desert for all, lovely wine

I taste a liquor never brewed —
From Tankards scooped in Pearl —
Not all the Vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an alcohol!

all the while a pianist played familiar tunes. People could be heard making requests.

We talked at lot, confided, read: in the room, Izzy her fat Chernow biography of Hamilton, me Claire Harman’s Charlotte Bronte while Laura blogged — she is now free-lancing. We watched some TV together. Our room had three TVs and I watched on the computer with Laura chosen selections from the (to me) slightly astonishing amalgam fantasy, pseudo-cynical and amoral American Gods. There were a couple of prologues or interludes which were telling: one of a slave ship come to the US in the later 17th century, with the focus on the slaves’ anguish fast forwarding to today’s anguish over killing of black people with impunity in the streets; the other the death of a Muslim woman living somewhere in Queens, circa perhaps 2017. Ian McShane was very amusing as the central “God” (Odin in disguise as a crass businessman I’m afraid), and (in a minor role) Chloris Leachman (not much disguise), providing affection.

And so we escaped a little, had a time away.

We hope to repeat this again, perhaps next spring for a much longer time (2 weekends and a week) in Milan where there will be a World’s Ice-Skating Championship. Laura and I will not spend all our time at the ice-skating rink, but use the trains and buses to see a bit of northern Italy.

I admit the cats did not enjoy their time at the Pet Boarding place — though they had a penthouse sized cage (3 linking ones, next to a window they were said to have looked out at)


A reproachful Ian brought home — at first Clarycat stood off from me, but later she could not kiss (lick) and cuddle up and play enough

*******************

After great pain, a formal feeling comes –
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs …

There’s a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons –


Cynthia Nixon as the strained Emily

Just before going off, Izzy and I went to see the film about Emily Dickinson’s life, A Quiet Passion, written and directed by Terence Davies. The older I become the harder it is to understand how Dickinson could have chosen so to isolate herself from her later 20s on. I have some reservations about the movie. It begins way too slowly and solemnly. The actors are made to enunciate lines as if they were reciting memorized passages from in a school play, and it seems are trading witticisms done so slowly it’s tedious in feel if the puns are if thought about well-taken. For a while the pace of speech stays the same, as serious psychological and other kinds of immediate content are read into the growing story, and then the story line of betrayal and sexual pain, of power relationships gone awry take over, and the film became for me gripping, mesmerizing and especially towards the end when the family is in internecine bitter quarrels over Austin’s life with his mistress, Mabel Dodd (Noemie Schellens), right in front of them all, including his wife, Susan (Jodhi May as ever so plangent), who however we see hates heterosexual sex, is a closet lesbian, and it’s suggested built a close relationship with Emily (Cynthia Nixon deserves an Oscar). In life they exchanged letters and poems across the space of the houses: “open me carefully” says one.

Perhaps the father was not as much a tyrant as is shown, but the mother’s life as a dishrag conforms to the passive abject lives of such women (Henry James’s mother seems to have lived similarly). The civil war’s disastrous slaughter is not omitted, but it felt as an interlude in this life (however abolitionist the family’s sentiments might have been). We see the father refuse his son permission to join the fighting, lest he lose his life. The father uses his power of purse over children, then Austin uses it over his sisters. A few friends Emily made early on, marry and depart this brooding place. You will come away with a sufficiently historically accurate portrayal of this family whose stifling hypocritical ritual but also genuinely self-flagellating ways seems central to Emily’s decision to retreat from life.


Duncan Duff as Austin Dickenson, Jennifer Ehle as Lavinia, Keith Carradine as the father, Edward, a visiting pastor, and Joanna Baker as the mother

The trajectory is Emily rebels in school and then at home this way and that,, refuses to compromise, and gradually is ostracized and then ostracizes herself. Girlfriend after girlfriend marries. Lavinia (whom I felt for as I have before) is left with this difficult sister; Emily appears to have been all Lavinia had to aid her in having a some sort of social life. Jennifer Ehle is too sweet, too forgiving but she fit the role as envisioned by the film. Emily is hard, difficult, stubborn, will not see people, will be rude. She seethes at Mabel as an evil mistress — what would she have said had she foreseen that Mabel would be the person that first saved her poems, published them. Lavinia to Todd and Higginson: “But for Mrs Todd & yourself, ‘the poems’ would die in the box where they were found.” An irony the movie hoped we realized. But by the end when Emily dies and we hear the famous “Because I could not stop for death,” followed by “I wrote a letter to the world who never wrote back to me,” I became slightly hysterical and started to sob violently for this woman’s grief and loss and strangely thwarted existence as voiced through this poem.

This is my letter to the world,
That never wrote to me,–
The simple news that Nature told,
With tender majesty.
Her message is committed
To hands I cannot see;
For love of her, sweet countrymen,
Judge tenderly of me!

This prompted Izzy to cry too. Others around us as I got up I saw had been moved.

On the other hand, there was much too much suffering: did we have to have lengthy dramatizations of each person’s deathbed (father, mother) and then Emily’s slow decline, the excruciating pain of Wright’s Disease. The choice of poetry was too religious for my taste — everyone recites it as part of dialogues — but they included “wild nights” and some other striking subversive ones. Not enough beauty, gaiety, seasonal nature poems, the thoughtful questioning ones.


Nixon as questioning Emily again

I worry unsympathetic people if they sit through it will come out with prejudices reconfirmed: we see her refuse to talk to people except through a door at the top of the stairs — this to an admirer of her poetry of which only 7 were published with punctuation changed. Austin reads a cruel review of women poets writing of their misery, a mock, but I doubt it was aimed at Emily, but women’s protest poetry — they had a raw deal. They should have perhaps included the content of Susan and Emily’s poems and letters — it is slightly comic they should communicate this way. No comedy comes through, though the audience had people who persisted in laughing (the early puns, whatever could possibly be interpreted as meant to be funny. Anne Badlands as Aunt Elizabeth provides a few comic moments, worth a smile maybe. I didn’t detect anyone laughing at the film, but perhaps I was mistaken. I have read how Dickinson has been used as a conservative icon (apolitical, the solitary genius). I recommmend Anthony Lane’s review for the New Yorker.

At one time these two stanzas were among my most repeated Emily Dickinson lines:

Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple Host
Who took the Flag today
Can tell the definition
So clear of victory

So there was enough for me to identify with (yes I can bond with Emily beyond the poetry) or anyone who cares about art and wants to understand the peculiar circumstances from which an original artist has emerged.


Emily Dickinson’s letter from The Dinner Party

After we returned home, we did pull down my volume of The Complete Poems and looked at a few. I read the opening article in a recent Cambridge Companion and discovered people are still arguing over how to punctuate the poetry. Who knew Jerome McGann’s return to the holograph manuscripts is doubted by some. The earliest editions by Todd and Higginson sold very well and she was popular as a 19th century poet, but she was lost from view during modernism, held no interest for socialist writers of the 1930s; the first elevation of her was due to the ultra-conservative white poets of the 1950s (John Crowe Ransom) and she came to the attention of the “close-readers” and humane people like Randall Jarrell. So it was in the 1960s (the same era that saw the first “rise” to real fame of Virginia Woolf) that Dickinson began to achieve the stature of Whitman’s counterpart that she holds today. She was no feminist darling until the 1980s, the discovery of her life-long affair with Susan and the attempt to carve out a l’ecriture-femme. She did make the cut for Judy Chicago’s Dinner Party. Some of this may help account for the peculiarly neutral point of view of the film.


On the beach in the morning birds

Ellen

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Photo of my newly painted house — gentle reader imagine a much lighter, whiter cream color ….

Friends,

Eleven days since I last wrote, and I and Izzy and my older daughter, Laura, are off to Rehoboth Beach on Friday morning to stay in a hotel on the beach front, a suite of rooms where we hope to relax. Sun, wind, fresh air, sand, a boardwalk, I just hope it won’t be too hot — as it has been today.

I’ve had a new pleasant experience — I attended my first face-to-face book club where the people discussed the book for real, Ian McEwan’s Amsterdam, such that I wanted to go back and reread because I realized as we talked the book had more depth and varied rich passages and characters than I had given it credit for (Booker Prize winner or no). It’s organized by the OLLI at Mason: serious fiction, with a moderator, all in circle on plain chairs. It’s a bit far for me: Reston, but then I learned how to get there now and it felt worth it. I am listening to a reading of Winston Graham’s sixth Poldark novel, The Four Swans, a fully mature stage within this continuing cycle of novels, about to be dramatized this coming June on the BBC (the third season, which will begin with fifth, The Black Moon). So however tiring, the time in the car is not wasted at all. I look forward to going again; the club meets from September to May. I’m getting better at finding places by car (with my trusty garmin and printed out maps).

I’ve also — unhappy this one — been again astonished by the irresponsibility of doctors at Kaiser when it comes to prescribing drugs (pills). A doctor knowingly prescribed a sleeping pill he must’ve know was addictive and then showed no concern if I was addicted to it. Paid no mind to this aspect of what happened at all. And in true Trump-style manifested a shameless disregard, denial, of obvious truth. After three years and some months of taking a mild depressant each night to help me sleep sufficiently to be able to drive and live my days, I discovered the pill a doctor prescribed is no longer working. I’ve become inured; to make me sleep, I have to take say two pills and they don’t always do the trick — or as much heavier, addictive pill, Restoril, becomes necessary. As my widowhood and the contour of a life that will be mine (with my disabilities over travel, circumstances, placement &c), on my own (as they say) — a long, long road stretching out before me, years I must walk through, I was understanding Julian Barnes’s word for his wife’s “disappearance” as a death-time, since he didn’t and couldn’t forget her, shaping this aftermath; then growing so tired of coping with all sorts of things, deep angst.

So I tell a little of this to the psychiatrist and his reaction: prescribe a pill (new drug!) said to make the patient sleep and provide release from anxiety, Remeron it’s called. He seemed to care that I have a bleeding problem at first; was going to send me to hematology but when he contacted them, he recontacted asking me about bleeding episodes “so so we are on the same page.” Then behaved as if I had had no hemorrhages in my life (when I’ve probably had 4-5). In effect he refused to question an old diagnosis from the oncology and hematology people at Kaiser that I have no hemorrhage problem after I have experienced 4, twice coming near death. That’s not his area. I took one Remeron Tuesday night and found myself in the grip of a trauma, a kind of intense trance where my feelings were no different but at a distance, my body feeling sickened. It was harrowing. I came near a car accident! Not until Thursday noon, did it wear off. I tell this to the psychiatrist and what does he say, Oh, we’ll try another anti-depressant in a couple of days when this wears off. This should be astonishing. Is it? Well, in a mood of self-preservation (what happens when I grow old, I must maintain independence as long as I can), I instead for the next three nights I went “cold turkey,” and took no pills. I felt better physically, more alert than I had in a long time. But I am not sleeping enough — 2-3 hours is not enough.


Vanessa Bell (18791961), gorgeous (just look at that hat) Lady with a Book — from later in her career

I simply returned to segmented sleep, which is my natural pattern, sleep four hours (if I’m lucky), up for a couple where I read in bed, and then hope for another hour or so, from new tiredness. I won’t take any more of these drugs. So a new pattern of daily life is emerging. I’m reading good books at night, and then again just after the second awakening. I might not make it to the gym the way I had been this past winter.

I need a good doctor. Responsible. Looking after my health as an individual.

Leave Kaiser? If I did, I could never go back as I was not the federal employee, it would cost me so much more (I am grandmothered into an earlier deal), and I know from experience when I find myself facing lists of doctors from say an insurance hand-out I don’t know who to go and end up with no one. More than half the time before the HMO I had bad encounters, and no regular doctor. And was fleeced, often disrespected. I remember years ago being charged $37 for five minutes of man’s time – he laughed at me when I said I was suffering from headache. The American health care system is indeed a joke, even when they are not outright fleecing and bankrupting you. I did frighten the present Kaiser psychiatrist by my email to him on the Kaiser site; he phoned me (!) and talked of how he was so concerned, how much thought he had put into this, did I want to come and “chat” (that’s his word for what passes for serious talk with him), and I heard him typing, taking down every word I said lest I sue. That’s why he cares about: his career. (Addiction doesn’t concern him at all. Like some dentists’ attitude towards teeth: the real ones are not as good as the pretty crowns.)

Outside Kaiser I am told this prescribe-drugs and send the patient to a social-worker therapist is the protocol. I did have a good psychiatrist when I went to the Haven for a few months after Jim died — pure luck. She did talk of my past and deeply and helped me see things I had not before. But I lost her when the DMV removed my “driving privileges” and harassed me for months over it (invisible computer monitoring is the way they use the cops to stop people from driving — in the state of Virginia there is a class action suit against the DMV for egregious use of this technique, among other things impoverishing people who can’t get to their jobs) and I couldn’t reach her any more. American institutions, American lack of public transportation. Deep culture here? from many practices followed, isolation structured in.


An interesting mid-20th century painter, John Piper who I read about recently in the LRB: Chicester Cathedral from the Deanery

Just one small life — insignificant against the unfolding of the Trump regime (stop gentle reader and watch this two-part Dutch documentary). Today I spent some 5 hours altogether at the OLLI at AU anniversary party/luncheon (they have been going for 35 years) where Diane Reims spoke. While she is a decent woman I can see, intelligent I did discover why I never listened much: too schmaltzy, too mainstream, and they applauded her for her sentiments a couple of times. What a group these people are. Many went to private colleges, even Ivy League and this in the 1950s, or early 60s. Many of them slightly older than me, most just luckier than me. Many came from genuinely middle class families which led to their careers. So many were lawyers — the men of course. All with grown children, two to four, grandchildren, traveling as a pair to them in say Switzerland or Florida. Though I know there are some single women there (divorced, widowed).

I sat with the good intelligent woman who was the teacher of the Woolf class I attended, who herself used to teach at University of Maryland. It was good talk — of the Brontes, the neglected Anne, the greatness of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, Emily Bronte’s poetry, DuMaurier’s powerful Branwell Bronte (a biography) and Gaskell’s Life of Bronte. She and her husband used to go sailing down from Cape May to Bermuda (never did get caught by pirates); she described wonderful evenings after a day’s sail, friends where their crew. She travels regularly; rents apartments in Italy, there for art biennales (the Venice one), goes on hiking trips to Maine with him (at 80); he was a tenured professor of chemistry, Emeritus. I was again berating myself for when Jim suggested we learn to sail decades ago, somehow we never did it — he had found a flyer about lessons; maybe it was my fault; my nervousness; there was the problem of having a boat — we couldn’t afford to own one and Linda and her husband did own a boat.

Through it all I felt how lucky this woman has been. She attributed to her husband the sailing expeditions. He knew how. (Jim could have learned; it would have been good for him.) I was wishing too how I had bought some summer house when he suggested that — somehow we’d go out and look and not do it, not buy — they were another mortgage. He did love boats — or the idea of boats from his growing up in Southampton. I remember one year he said let’s go to this Renaissance conference in Italy and I demurred. Why? shy? in Florence it was. Had we done that would we have begun to go to Italy regularly? with what money? well, he was making enough to go to England and Landmark Trust houses. My fault he and I didn’t live the life we could have?

Others at this table and elsewhere were talking of their Road Scholar vacations and casual holiday in historical places, and I can’t do this — to go on a tour by myself I will have to get up immense courage, to the Lake District and just beyond, it’s 14 days and $5,000. The places to look at sound alluring. Do I want to go to this schedule, I’d have to buy some clothes, sit down with others to 3 meals a day and so on. Would I enjoy this? strangers. What would they be like? I’m told by people that you make acquaintances, even can get sort of close, but then the trip is over, the relationship ends.

But I long for a good life: it’s like I died just as I retired. Jim had been retired for 8 years or so and then I retired, but my life depended on his and his ways, so his dying within a year of my retiring is in effect the death of the life I would have had — it might not have been like these people probably, but in that direction. I had a sort of revulsion or came home from it exhausted. Nervous. I left a little early, had endured enough I felt — everyone talking of the courses we teach or take. Meaning well. It was relief to leave. I said to myself I am over 70 and I don’t want to be pressured — felt so just intensely reluctant at what profession I had had (the offer of that adjunct at the Georgetown place in an innovative BA program for older returning students, the first year I was widowed which I flubbed, couldn’t seem to cope with the dean). I’d have to learn Blackboard, or some other latest technology and cope seriously with students. Eagerness comes from youth, from hope. And my learning curves in tech are so deep.

What life would I gain this way? Tired after a lifetime of in my way trying hard, repeated perhaps making bad and wrong decisions but not because I didn’t care and didn’t mean to end up well — because at the time they were what seemed best, what I could do, what I was led to do, yes by Jim’s advice too; he would say why beat your head against a wall driving two hours to get to this job? I hoped I would somehow know some fulfillment and I did for a time, after I came onto the Net and for say 15 years. I did fear so, that he would die youngish, but turned away from the possibility this disaster would happen. Dreaded it too much. He did leave me solvent, in this comfortable house, with 10,000 books …. our lives history.

Julian Barnes’s phrase is deathtime — a person has a lifetime and then afterward a deathtime in the memory of the life left behind … and in the memory of others (in say books).


A dream picture: put on face-book for another FB friend, Harold Knight (1874-1961), Morning Sun

I finished Oliphant’s Kirsteen this week, in the end a flawed satisfying book, like others of hers (deserves a separate blog). I tell myself I’m still working towards a possible book on “The Anomaly,” and serious reading there has shown me there were very few women living alone until 1850 (in any kind of comfort or safety). Not possible. Not allowed an income to do it on, not allowed the security of knowing no one can break in. And I’m reading a delightful Portrait of Cornwall by Claude Berry. Wonderful black-and-white, grey, photos from all over Cornwall.

Teaching has come to an end for now. I did have a wonderful findal session with the class group at the OLLI at Mason over the profoundly moving Last Orders by Graham Swift. They loved it too. Since then I returned to Waterland, the book and film. Soon I’ll start preparing for this summer’s course: historical fiction, old fashioned first, DuMaurier’s King’s General, which I remember as so erotic, lyrical, so melancholy (the heroine crippled in a wheelchair), and then the post-colonial, post-modern, anti-foundational type, Sontag’s immensely brilliant The Volcano Lover. My review work includes Nick Holland’s In Search of Anne Bronte.


One of Laura’s four cats, either they cooperate more or she is better at capturing them in a photo ….

Since Nine O’Clock

Half past twelve. The time has passed quickly
since I first lit the lamp at nine o’clock,
and sat down here. I’ve sat without reading,
without speaking. With whom could I speak,
all alone in this house?

Since nine o’clock when I lit the lamp
a ghostly image of my adolescent body
came to me, reminding me
of closed and scented chambers,
and past pleasures – what brazen pleasures!
It brought before my eyes
streets now unrecognizable,
bars once filled with movement, now closed,
cafes and theatres that once existed.

The vision of my body in its youth
brought sorrowful memories also:
the grieving of my family, separations,
the feelings I had for my own kin, feelings
for the dead, whom I little acknowledged.

Half past twelve; how the time has passed.
Half past twelve; how the years have passed

— C. P. Cavafy — one of Jim’s favored poets — I have the book of his poetry in my house

Too late, too late, too late, turning to see too late.

Probably I ought to start signing Ellen

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