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Archive for the ‘women’s lives’ Category


My Macbook Pro apple laptop, bought as a present for me in February 2012, my friend since Jim died ….

There is no doubt in my mind I could not be living the life I do without constant recourse to some technology — says she as she types away on her PC computer into a wordpress blog screen. To say nothing of my car, which I could not begin to go to the places I do without, there’s still being alive in the first place. I’d have died at 27, or 32, or 37, or maybe facing a coming death now but for the technologies of 20th and now 21st century medicine.

Why this subject this week particularly? Attend.


Lady Monk’s ball (1974 Pallisers, scripted Simon Raven, Cora and Burgo Susan Hampshire and Barry Justice …)

I had a sort of success for me. Yesterday for the first time ever I did a mild form of power point presentation. I brought my MacBook pro laptop into class. That is rare for me: I hardly ever take this precious computer out of the house. It was bought for me by Jim; he was the one who operated it for the first couple of years; it is my fall-back computer for each time my PC dies or won’t work for whatever reason. A friend, the man I’ve gone out on a couple of sort of dates, offered to help me practice — the first time anyone ever practiced with me. People have shown me — quickly — how to use the word program for writing (the principle is the top is a ribbon you can change) or how to use a program to do real power-point with slides, but always very quickly, impatiently and then the person leaves. (Jim wouldn’t practice with me either. He’d do it for me but not practice and evolve a method where I could do it myself, which is what happened this past Saturday afternoon.) I practiced for 2 to 3 hours with this kind man offering advice.

And then yesterday I did it. The Tech guy of course made the image from my computer appear on a big screen. On my MacBook pro I have a DVD player which allows me to the screen full size and then small and when it’s small there is a line with a dot of dot I can move with my cursor to get to just the scene on a DVD set, which as a scene section as part of its top pages. So for the first time I talked for a while and then showed a scene, and then talked again. I had typed out my talk — as I cannot speak ex tempore with no written lecture.

It appeared to have been a great success. It was the old 1970s Pallisers I was showing and discussing about which I’ve written so much. The CYFH? class at the OLLI at AU. Took the whole hour.

Today I am exhausted from this experience because I had to go out too after the session to a mall, to meet Izzy, to go to an Apple store so one of the young adults could within less than a minute unfreeze my apple cell phone which had been frozen for two days, with me unable to un-freeze it. So I was gone from home many hours, which I usually find an experience I must calm down from anyway. And I had been a bit worried over the morning hours as I waited to try.

I don’t think I’ll be doing this in papers at conferences as I’d have to have the confidence the Tech people at the conference could transfer the image from my Macbook pro to the large screen the way the tech staff at OLLI at AU did. I won’t do it that often at the OLLI at AU. But I did do it and was able to present some of my understanding of films by using film in a public place for the first time for about an hour. Once more at the end of term for the second half of CYFH? as realized in the 1970s film adaptation.

I will have put it here in my diary blog this weekend to remember.

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Not all is so capable of clarification and improvement. This is a description of my PC computer set-up and that of my TV:


Some of wires on side of laptop and behind three comcast boxes which attach our computers and TV to internet

I know that on the left side of my (see picture above) Macbook pro apple laptop on what was Jim’s desk in my workroom or study are three (I think) rectangular holes and in one of them I put the wire that I use to connect the laptop to electricity. I don’t trust to wifi. I don’t know what the other two holes are for. On the right side is a slit into which I can put DVDs and CDs. I have great trouble using the CDs because I’ve done it so little so I am still not used to what to click on. Next to said laptop are two very essential Comcast boxes; these have a pattern of lights which must be on and tell what is working. When comcast comes, the men come first to these two boxes. They too have wires which go down in a maze to a strip. The laptop is most of the time attached to this strip.

The TV in my front or living room is so complicated in the sense that it has attached to it a multi-region DVD player and a cable box — both black. The cable box (a rectangle) sits on the DVD player and the DVD player sits on the stereo. The stereo sits on the piece of furniture — a sort of hutch affair, a kind of display case in which I can keep books. Just under the stereo is an area I have a record player in.


some of wires behind TV, multi-regional dvd player, cable box, stereo &c&c

Next to these is the TV, black, wide-ish. There are three thick wires leading from the TV (also black and with hardly any buttons on it, nothing you can push) down behind the piece of furniture the TV sits on to the socket in a single long strip of sockets; these are in a maze of wires I don’t understand, three of these wires come from the cable box and have different color plugs, green, red, yellow and there is a black wire too with flat black plug on the other side of the box; from the pioneer multi-region player there are three thick wires, one is white, another black, and there is a third. All these wires travel down to the socket, which is not quite on the ground. I live worrying lest anything upset all these wires.

Several times now since Jim died workman from Comcast (the TV and Internet Cable company I pay $225.00 a month to) have come and fixed or rearranged these wires. Laura was the person who originally set up the TV and put the multiplayer in. Just before Jim died. Jim and I had an old TV with a cable box with the most minimal service but he had succumbed to buying internet from Comcast by that time so there were plugs for the Internet there well before he died. Every once in a while the player or the cable box fall off the stereo. Thus far they have not become detached and they have not broken. the problem is the cats sit on top of the cable box to keep warm in winter and on cool days inside the house. They mostly walk off gingerly but when they leap they can upset the arrangement. They rarely leap as it’s a bit of a distance to the floor. Instead they walk on the furniture behind the TV and come out the other side where there is a piano and then they walk across the piano, jump down to the stool or pass through a now open window to my sunroom.

There are wires leading from the stereo. The stereo is attached to two standing speakers on either side of the furniture piece. One works and the other does. I have two phones which don’t work, one in the living room and one kitchen. I have two more, one in my room and one in Izzy’s which do work. They have all the same number and I pay Verizon for these landlines. They are plugged into strips. I have not yet gotten verizon to come here to check out the non-working ones. I think they are not responsible Laura set this up too.


Just one of the mazes of wires leading from PC screen, computer, printer, radio set up

There are mazes of wires attaching the PC I am typing it, to a printer and down to a strip on the ground. This is the desk I work at. The PC sits on my desk, next to it is a tower affair, thin wood with a few high shelvs. On one sides the computer box itself, on the second my printer, and on the third a large radio affair, with CD player. Very old fashioned, it has spaces for audiocasettes and is plugged in. It is fro these three boxes and from the computer screen that the mazes of wires come and are tied together to stretch down to the floor and said strip, with plugs leading to sockets in the wall.

I still have not unplugged Jim’s computer on his desk because I worry that the wires I think are for his computer are for something else.

It is nerve-wracking and anxiety-producing to have to live and depend on so much I have no understanding of. It is no wonder the cats are not allowed in my workroom unless I am there with them.

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


A still from Wiseman’s hospital: his films analyze the human processes behind and in institutions and show us how much our experience emerges from the context of social life shaped by these institutions, from hospitals to courts, to parks to libraries

Last: how many times have I been in hospital. Let me  account for some of the times.

Age 9 my tonsils and adenoids taken out, I hemorrhage and end up in hospital; I run like crazy up the stairs when I see they are going to put me out wit the horrible ether the doctor had used, but they catch me, force me down and I can’t struggle against them and am put out again. I wake and the hospital will not keep me overnight as my father has no insurance. They will not listen to his offers of $200 the next morning upon the banks opening up. So a cab is called and I am literally put on sidewalk in wheelchair and my father puts me in a cab and we go home. Now I wonder how he felt as this operation had happened because my moronic mother nagged him and insisted — you got a gold star on your record for this in school it was said (probably untrue).

Age 15 I try to kill myself by taking a bottle of aspirin with a bottle of coca-cola. Give myself a terrible headache, piercing ringing throughout my aching skull, and end up in hospital for the night. Father with me again. We leave next morning, having said very little. The hospital people leave me be.

Age 22 Jim takes me to Leeds City hospital (Yorkshire) because I sit on a chair and cry endlessly. They say I am having a nervous collapse or breakdown. I spend a week there.

Age 27 I end up in a Kendal hospital (Lake District, UK) with a miscarriage that turns into an abortion to save my life. I have a D&C and I don’t know what else to stop all persistent bleeding. I am in hospital for four days.

Age 31 I spend 6 days in Beth Israel hospital in NYC after giving birth to Laura by a C-section. I bled very heavily but  was found by an alert nurse before I began to hemorrhage. Transfused. Jim gives blood to pay for this: he is type O positive (typical of the UK, western Europe), I am type A positive (typical of eastern Europe, Slavish background).

Age 33 I have hernia in my colon, hemorrhage, come near death (go to hospital way late) but saved by nurse in Jefferson hospital; spend a month in Alexandria hospital. Have colonoscopy, benign tumor found and removed. Go home badly shaken.

Age 37 I spend a week in Fairfax hospital after giving birth to Isobel by a C-Section. Again a hemorrhage, very bad one, come near death, get some kind of substance they give nervous horses, and then completely transfused. Told never get pregnant again.

Age 43 I spend 6 days in Metropolitan Hospital in NYC after nearly being killed by car – woman under valium puts foot on gas instead of brake. My leg broken, put in cast. Miserable impoverished place with not enough of anything. I read Trollope’s Vicar of Bullhampton, brought me by my father who says Trollope is “very wise.” Most women around me deny speaking English. I like the book very much. Basically I take care of myself until deemed fit to leave.

Frederick Wiseman’s movie, Hospital, filmed in Metropolitan accurate and honest; doctors and nurses doing their best in a hospital criminally underfunded because most patients are indigent — have no insurance, no money. Mostly hispanic and black people.

Now a Kaiser patient from time to time I end up in Tysons Corner Kaiser emergency room but go in time (my faux heart attack 6 months after Jim died) and after a while the staff figures out how to help me (they have records about me) and I go home next day.

I could detail Jim’s times in hospital: age 15 with broken arm, in England, and then when he developed Cancer, an ordeal of an 11 hour operation, 5 days in hospital and then home but after that never well again and in and out of Tysons Corner or Virginia Medical Center until all hope lost and he dies slowly at home in bed with hospice staff visiting.

Izzy once in hospital age 2 when doctor built her a good finger and un-webbed her hand. Laura in hospital at age 33 to have one of her ovaries removed: she would not go to the doctor until she had hospital insurance and left a problem for months and months get much worse and this was the result.

There we are. All I can quickly recall tonight. Medicine not that limited after all. I am now through almost all 3 bottles of obscenely expensive pills to cure hepitatis C so ten years from now I will not die in hospital from an operation on my liver.

That I blog to have an imagined friend, myself, is not a new insight. Fanny Burney addresses herself in her earliest diaries (Dear Nobody ….). I loved to read her diary when I was 17.

Ellen

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Eva Smith/Daisy Renton/Mrs Birling/Alice Grey — the “vicious sick” heroines of Winston Graham’s suspense novels, often use several names too, but here we learn why

I watched Aisling Walsh’s rewrite of Priestley’s wonderful An Inspector Calls (2015) late one night week, and when I’ve renewed my attachment to underated because communist and no snob J.B. Priestley will write a separate blog on his Angel Pavement, Good Companions, and once again that the way to rescue thrillers is to turn them inside out and pay attention to the trauma and make of the central woman victim, the heroine

Back home again, and trying to resettle in ….

Dear Friends,

Ian pussycat was just having a good dream. He woke in his nearby cat bed, murmured and jumped over here, and came into my lap and then hurriedly pushed his body against mine, his face after my arms, chest, nudging away, his paws on either side of my neck. When I came home Saturday, Clarycat came trotting over, and back to lick me thoroughly. Glad I was back.

I arrived home late Saturday evening, and since then have been first working on my teaching Can You Forgive Her?, and now today begun to pick up my projects of study and towards books and/or papers and blogs amid my teaching and going to courses for the next few weeks.

On the trips to the ASECS hotel in Denver, Colorado and back: uneventful — one plane delayed going home, but my last so that I didn’t miss the next as there was no next. My bag made it with me to Denver and back. I want to report one new (or new to me) development on Southwest. A overt courtesy, an attempt at least to voice that these conditions in which we travel are dreadful, and even attempts to improve them where it didn’t cost Southwest anything.

So the airport space very small with not enough seats for everyone in the plane to sit near the hangar and plane while waiting; the chairs in the plane are as tiny (maybe tinier); the space between the two rows of seats so narrow only one person can walk through standing forwards at a time, the use even there of “business” seats — some seats in front not yet sold but on the spot for another hundred or so you could sit in one of them. Not that they looked bigger only you got to get on first. But questions answered politely and quickly and as if the person cared about your problem; when you got aboard, jokes like “sit anywhere folks it’s just like church;” free snacks (very small and little choice of snack, but plenty of juice, coffee, tea, sodas), wifi when it works. Instead of (as I’ve seen) jeering at people or doing whatever necessary to stop people lining up to go to the bathroom, cajoling remarks which took into account that this “made the aisles hard to pass,” or you can if you (see this) put your coat or jacket or whatever cloth thing under your feet, keep this with you because the overhead cabinets are needed for rolling baggage. As if we were all in this together folks and it was some mysterious power giving us these conditions, and they too (which is partly true) were “in it with us.”

I told a woman sitting next to me how in the African-American museum I noticed the chairs so much larger and two sets of seats facing one another and water-fountains and toilets made available to “coloureds” in railroad cars where they were segregated from people with European genetic heritage, and she produced a list of improvements for the conditions we were in and said how wonderful and inspiring it was to see how people were so polite and patient, but without ever acknowledging this was a choice on the part of southwest. I said you could take this quiescent behavior very differently; this was a choice and for profit and (as I now know this) that plane that killed 157 people in Ethiopia and the one in October was missing a “safety” feature made optional (costing $8000) and had in both cases, it been there the people would have lived. There was an acknowledgement in her face but all she said was she had not been to that museum as yet.

All four cab drivers immigrants: two Ethiopian men, one Mexican, with stories of their own hard-working lives, children, grandchildren, and countries.


What I could see from a high window —  I don’t go anywhere usually outside the hotel hardly when I go on trips to conferences unless there is a group tour or someone invites me along or says let’s go to X. Why? I fear getting lost. I become highly anxious when I don’t recognize where I am. New streets confuse me. I read signs wrongly, choose wrongly. I fear I won’t be able to get back. There is no getting round this. What’s why trips themselves are an ordeal. I must not step out of the planned rout.

Central downtown Denver where the hotel was cold and dreary, many impersonal buildings. A nearby public park filled with homeless people. I did twice get up to the 38th floor and could see the city from wide windows and the snow-covered mountain tops encircling. Wide flat beige-colored plains like those of New Mexico where Jim and I attended another ASECS, only these had factories and some industries. A big city with its own mid-west cultural life glimpsed from cab, hotel window, and talk I overheard. I am learning how to do these conferences at long last, becoming inured to the impersonal lonely room when I stay in one, as I managed this time, only to late at night, three at most. Food as usual very bad, scarce, expensive, but I stocked up at a Starbucks, and just ate very sparingly at the reception, luncheon, & dinner I attended. My ipad worked so I could reach friends on the Net, and I renewed a couple of friendships briefly and many acquaintanceships. I received a resounding applause when I finished reading my paper: I had worked hard on it, and the two sessions of “factual fictions” I was involved with (the other I was supposedly chairing) went over very well. Lots of good talk. On the conference sessions themselves, meaning their matter I mean to make a brief blog, but here I’ll say a wondrous keynote lecture on two unknown 18th century women painters did not get enough time! and I acquired a new good edition of Charlotte Smith’s poetry published by Broadview so it has excellent notes and contemporary and recent commentary

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Another OLLI: Vanderbilt

My essay on my experiences at the OLLIs at Mason and AU will be published soon in the 18th century newletter-journal, The Intelligencer

March into May provides much for me to go out for at both OLLIs, I have two lovely events at the Folger coming up (one evening, an HD screening of a magnificent production of Shakespeare and then a lecture, and one Saturday Folger concert), one Smithsonian lecture (on the Poldark serial drama) and the tasks of daily (tidy up, eating during the day, wash up after dinner, shopping, taking cleaning in) and monthly or yearly life (bills, coping with taxes and investments), the cats to keep company (sometimes I feel I am keeping them company, helping them to be active not the other way round), Izzy to be with for a time each evening. Once again the Trollope fiction (Can You Forgive Her?) just about teaches itself, the people in both classes have so much to say, and my proposal of Phineas Finn accepted for the fall in both places:

Anthony Trollope’s Phineas Finn, the Irish Member (Palliser 2)

We continue our journey through Trollope’s 6 Palliser novels over several terms. The 2nd Palliser differs from the first (CYFH?) in making central stories from how politics works from inside Parliamentary circles to outside in society & elsewhere. Phineas Finn dramatizes fights over crucial transformations in law & electorate politics that occurred in the mid-19th century UK, and also belongs to Trollope’s Anglo-Irish fiction because it adds to its recurring characters, & English landscapes, Ireland as a place, Irish characters & issues. Trollope again examines sexual and marital conflicts & produces extraordinary psychological portraiture in socially complex situations. We’ll watch clips from the segments of the 1970s film adaptation that realize this second book. There is no need to have read CYFH? Recommended edition: Trollope, Phineas Finn, ed S Dentieth. Oxford 2011. ISBN 978-0199581436

Teaching Can You Forgive Her? in two places, one class four sessions behind the other, reading two sets of 10 chapters and listening to Simon Vance reading it aloud wherever I’m getting to know the book by heart.

I’m taking a film noir course (have watched M for real for the first time, and next week we’ll have The Maltese Falcon and the man does provide insightful informative 20 minute lectures), a course on the American revolution from the British point of view, a Shakespeare Lear/Tempest pairing and August Wilson. The continual insecurity, you cannot know you will be alive two hours from now, the prison systems, the re-enslavement, until recently and once again the prevention of money-making, accumulation. The effect on a people of being treated as inferior. I wish I could convey how stunningly effective and to me utterly new riveting, instructive (I find I knew little of what black people have gone through) poetic these plays: a new desire, a new set of texts to somehow get to are Afro-ones, African-American, African-British, African-Carribean, these are all deeply linked by the way whites around the world have oppressed, victimized, rendered anguished these brave people who somehow come through (some of them) to develop and enjoy life as a gift. I have also at long last understood Toni Morrison in one of her essays on Wilson.

The latest has been The Piano Lesson, a filmed version of which I watched and listened to online at YouTube:

Gentle reader, take the time to watch it. I feel inadequate as a white to comment on it but found myself for the first time in a long time finding American literature deeply absorbing and expressing realities of life that matter. I love the soaring introspective passages all of his plays seem to be filled with. I want to read and see more of Baldwin, I’m into Caryl Phillips, and tell myself I’m going to read more Andrea Levy, Zadie Smith.

Rita Dove: Canary

Billie Holiday’s burned voice
had as many shadows as lights,
a mournful candelabra against a sleek piano,
the gardenia her signature under that ruined face.

(Now you’re cooking, drummer to bass,
magic spoon, magic needle.
Take all day if you have to
with your mirror and your bracelet of song.)

Fact is, the invention of women under siege
has been to sharpen love in the service of myth.

If you can’t be free, be a mystery.

Audre Lord: A litany for survival

For those of us who live at the shoreline
standing upon the constant edges of decision
crucial and alone
for those of us who cannot indulge
the passing dreams of choice
who love in doorways coming and going
in the hours between dawns
looking inward and outward
at once before and after
seeking a now that can breed
futures
like bread in our children’s mouths
so their dreams will not reflect
the death of ours:

For those of us
who were imprinted with fear
like a faint line in the center of our foreheads
learning to be afraid with our mother’s milk
for by this weapon
this illusion of some safety to be found
the heavy-footed hoped to silence us
For all of us
this instant and this triumph
We were never meant to survive.

And when the sun rises we are afraid
it might not remain
when the sun sets we are afraid
it might not rise in the morning
when our stomachs are full we are afraid
of indigestion
when our stomachs are empty we are afraid
we may never eat again
when we are loved we are afraid
love will vanish
when we are alone we are afraid
love will never return
and when we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
nor welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraid

So it is better to speak
remembering
we were never meant to survive

Recently as a result of my Anomaly project, I’ve been wanting to know far more than I do about American woman writers: they do seem to have lived independent lives earlier than their British counterparts. Also as a result of courses at OLLI more about American history in the 18th century than I do.  Often the lectures can be too simple (even for someone like me who knows a little but not much), but what’s implied fascinates me. I know so little of the realities on the ground in the era.

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Storia del nuovo cognome – a central sequence occurs on Ischia

For myself here now tonight, other nights, up in bed betimes, I think of another older woman alone moved in next door: this block has not changed that much after all; older women living alone in the smaller houses still common after 39 years. Of friends and acquaintances: a dear friend’s husband has died the same kind of grueling ordeal death Jim did and she suffered it alongside him; both in their early sixties, she now in the first throes of grief. I made a fourth highly intelligent male friend (I talk in those social space provided at OLLI), remarkable guy, but he told me he had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s three years ago; as yet it has not shown up much, but his wife also severely disabled, no children, what will they do when he weakens? My one friend, Panorea,  I sse regularly outside these group organizations, recovering from her dreadful operation, but still in pain and it’s very hard for her to move (no lifting, bending, twisting her body)

I made a date with David to go to his house where he has promised to help me learn to use laptop in front of others to play clips from DVDs; today I go to financial advisor in the intense hope he will help me change my withholding: show me how to do it, what to do, help me understand what sum I should withhold. My hepitatis C has disappeared from my blood so medicine working. At ASECS I told my story to a couple of people and they told me worse horror stories: a woman with a child with cancer, may be cut off from his medicine next week; people dying, going without medicine they need. The US society arrangements have become one of the worst in the so-called developed world. Roads just pitted with holes is a symbol of this.

I carry on my Andrew Davies marathon: I finished Little Dorrit, but Bleak House seemed to overwhelm me tonight so must try again. Midnight I read Outlander (Novel 1) and try to remember love-making. An article in The Women’s Review of Books on a recent anthology of erotic poems by women shows me that Gabaldon is far discreeter than these younger and older women poets today and I again prefer her: centrally a love story, by which gradually he makes her part of him, for me enough intimate sexual gestures, images, feelings to identify with. And I’m four-fifths through Elena Ferrante’s The Story of a New Name and Lila and Lenu continue to express not ideas analogous to those I’ve thought when younger, but those I actually had. Ellen in Italian.


Since Levy’s Small Island filmed one of my favorite black actresses, Naomie Harris OBE by Elizabeth II

So I’ve begun to blog again, I do this, gentle reader, so as to keep myself up until 1 o’clock. I can sleep at most 6 hours a night, more usually 4-5 and this guarantees I will not be up at 3-4 to have bad thoughts unless I take a sleeping pill …. And to talk to the world and put my thoughts together to remember them. It’s a form of being alive, of making my life more vivid to me, of living it, and reaching a few people.  And I so enjoy writing.

Ellen

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“Daffodils/That come before the swallow dares, and take/The winds of March with beauty” … aka spring. Shakespeare, The Winter’s Tale (Act 4), once my favorite of all Shakespeare’s plays: I once taught it.

Dear friends and readers,

I’ve rewritten, re-framed this blog so as to give it an adequate framework: recuperating the self:

Get leave to work/In this world — ’tis the best you get at all — Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Aurora Leigh (1853-56).

This morning I took this photograph of some of the daffodils in my front garden — under the miniature maple tree not yet in bloom …. There are other circles of tiny daffodils on both sides of the house (two circles of flowers and bushes are there), and there are some tiny white crocuses in another part of this circle under the tree, and tiny buds here and there in all the plants that survived and have now popped up green … To me they are living images of hope and each individually has delicate beauty.

I need to see them this way.


The British are not the only group of people being forced to leap into risk

For these past two weeks I would not be telling the truth if I did not say that the externals of life have hit me hard: I have been rightly terrified over the coming plane trip since I am flying Southwest: we now know that added to egregious abuse of passengers to wring the last dime out of them, planes are being rebuilt to hold more people and things and thus becoming unsafe.  Then I was reeling after coming home from the AARP having made out my tax forms and uncovered an unexpected and large tax bill such that I must change my withholding on my monthly annuity and social security checks so as to live on less from here on and pay it bit-by-bit over the year. I am floored by the online boilerplate and relieved my financial adviser has promised really to help me do this when I get back from my trip. The obscenely expensive pills for hepitatis C are working (no sign of the infection in the latest tests) but I’m tired, head-achy (have again scraped my car badly), but each night sleep more deeply than I’ve down for years, except when waked by anxiety-dreams stemming from the coming trip- and conference-ordeal, these renewed money fears.

Ian also has had a hard time recovering, in his case from the new cleaning team, with their loud machines and quick work, now here twice and left a truly clean house (for the first time in years my windows are clean); it won’t do to think about the sums this switch cost me. The business is run by women and only works the first 2/3s of each workday.


After a many hour disappearance, walking about so lightly that his bell did not tinkle: he hoped to escape notice and at first would not eat or drink.

So where to find that peace and trust I can live out what future I’ve left in my quiet ways in this house.

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


L. Scott Caldwell, left, and Shinelle Azoroh in Gem of the Ocean in Costa Mesa.

Well throwing myself into what I am capable of succeeding at doing, and thus enjoying. This past two weeks I have taught/led a class of some 23 retired adults reading (apparently with real enjoyment) Anthony Trollope’s Can You Forgive Her? and myself as a class member felt new interest in rereading the first three acts of King Lear and watching the 2008 Ian McKellen version (director Trevor Nunn, with outstanding performances by the actresses playing Goneril and Regan) and the 2016 Anthony Hopkins (director Richard Eyre, with outstanding performances by too many to mention). Despite the cutting, the Hopkins-Eyre one is the vastly superior by original direction and Hopkins’s performance). I’m stunned by Wilson’s Gem of the Ocean and Joe Turner Come & Gone, only beginning to realize the lack of fundamental safety, security, ability to accumulate, and radically de-stablized relationships and lives this causes — a journey through the century from an African-American perspective. With my two list communities, I’m reading EBB’s Aurora Leigh, which I know I ought to be more affected than I am, and Margaret Kennedy’s Together and Apart, which, by contrast, I’m having a visceral personal response to the point I find myself blaming the heroine for not caring enough about her children, for in effect abandoning them, while on what seems a sort of whim at first, she pursues a divorce.

Wednesday I leave for Denver, Colorado, to endure a three-day conference on the 18th century (ASECS) and have my paper, “After the Jump:” Winston Graham’s use of documented facts and silences,” down to 19 minutes. Winston Graham has taken up much of my time therefore, with intervals filled by absorption (when I can) with Elena Ferrante’s The Story of a New Name, Margaret Kennedy’s Together and Apart. I’ve added Somerset Maugham as an author who would shed light on Graham’s peculiar story of a blind man in internecine post-WW2 southern France (the hero stalks a heroine of the resistance), Night Without Stars, and am into Jeremy Poldark, a deeply melancholy troubled yet loving book once again. I now see that the murdered young woman in his Take My Life (I understand the title as a cry of the soul) and this heroine as seeking safety, the first women was destroyed by cruelty, meanness, the tunneled ambition of a schoolmaster; the second rescued as a fellow disabled person to return to quietude in a quiet corner of England. I came to this by watching a modern so-called “thriller:” In a Better World: To call it a thriller is so wrong, it’s hilarious: The film brings out the trauma underlying some thrillers which the thriller distorts in order to sell widely, and there are authors who appear not quite to understand the fundamental groundwork of such texts. I must write this up separately.

I’ve gone on to the intelligent Rebecca Traister’s All the Single Ladies (which begins in the 19th century and takes the story to the 21st) and Ann Rioux’s Writing for Immortality, on four American women writers whose determination to write well for the sake of their art will be explicated as a fight for self-esteem and creating works of integrity, so am now eager to include at least one 19th century American women writer amid my Anomaly women. When I read Traister, I realize I am somewhat compensating for the loss of Jim: in small ways I am learning to live the way she has, learning about a world outside my coupled life. It is as yet on the edges of my existence because I have not managed to hold onto friends or a group of friends locally. Throughout my life with Jim, though, if the truth be told I would have one girlfriend usually, a kind of best friend, and so this pattern is one I know, only now I see this in a different context. I know I am right to value my FB women friends (and men too). I understand Laura’s life choices better too.

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My solitude, my self … at night (when I write these blogs too, gentle reader)


Shadow of the Tower: Episode 4: The Serpent and the Comforter

I’m riveted nightly by yet another episode of the truly astonishing 1970 BBC multi-episode studio drama, The Shadow of the Tower, with James Maxwell — why is not this more famous? A blog will follow when I’ve gone through all 13 hours twice. I started it after it was recommended by an uneven Future Learn on the Tudors I’m following just now.

Episode 4 is a study of people about to burn alive a man who has a set of radical common sense beliefs — one guard becomes unwilling and realizes this is all wrong and so does the king but goes through with it — so it’s idealized but this allows for conversations between the man and guard and king. We don’t see the torture off stage as they attempt to make him recant — just hear it and it’s agonizing to hear and then see all the signs on the man’s body. The real thrust is to shove in our faces at length the deep inhumanity of man to man and also the fierce unreasoning religiosity of the era as a cover up for power plays and fierce demands for obedience to strict conformity. James Maxwell is brilliant as the king throughout the series: witty, somehow likable, warmly human in his closest relationships, subtly intelligent yet peevish, neurotic, but effective, slowly becoming a terrifying inexorable monster to others because he has been given such power

I am also nightly now making my way through all Andrew Davies’s films, beginning with deeply mourning from within as I sit up and feel with Claire Foy’s inch-by-inch agon as she copes with her half-mad neurotic father played by Tim Courtney. Half hour by hour I am her — as I am Lila and Lenu.

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On the Net, I’ve been stirred by the life and work of another woman artist, one I won’t write a blog for (as I would be wholly inadequate) but can here invite my readers to dwell in the Spitalfields bloggers’ essays: on Dorothy Rendell:


Dorothy Rendell, View from Standhead (1955)

http://spitalfieldslife.com/…/an-exhibition-of-dorothy-ren…/

Then Stephen Watts, described as a poet and novelist, wrote about her art, the legacy of what’s left:

http://spitalfieldslife.com/…/the-legacy-of-dorothy-rendell/


Rendell, Studio Parrot (1960)

Now the gentle author preparing for a lecture, shares with us the Rendell’s drawings and illustrations:

http://spitalfieldslife.com/…/03/12/dorothy-rendells-london/

Her first (posthumous) solo exhibit:

http://spitalfieldslife.com/…/16/dorothy-rendells-solo-show/

The gentle author is pseudonymous; I originally assumed the writer is a woman, but recently I’ve become aware the writer is a man — he has begun to use a pronoun for himself. Also that more than one person writes this blog (Gillian Tindall has written here) — it’s astonishing high quality, frequency and point of view are all outstanding, but also the amount of knowledge displayed. Probably it’s find-out-able if I tried or asked someone who knows people who are part of real art worlds in London.

One we learned in another blog that a pub that has been on the site since the 17th century, with one period of total obsolescene and desuetude (between 1970s and 2000) is now to be razed and replaced with a hideous mall that will look like a thousand others

http://spitalfieldslife.com/20…/…/13/so-long-the-water-poet/

This touches me because in one of my periods of being alive I spent all my time reading and writing about the early modern Renaissance and 17th century. Anne Finch was a later 17th century poet who lived into the 18th century. This blog is or should be of interest to anyone interested in the long 18th century.

Most recently, at and on the Whitechapel Bell Foundry:

http://spitalfieldslife.com/2019/03/17/dorothy-rendell-at-whitechapel-bell-foundry/


Camille Cottage, Castle Hedingham with red chair (1970)

W.S. Merwin has died, and an FB friend pointed me and others to a New York Review of Books essay-review by Ange Mlinko on Merwin’s life and poetry as that of an whole earth troubadour, who learned his art by the humble practice of learning other languages and translating wonderful poetry in them. I liked this (though I taught myself Italian enough to read and to translate it, and now need to return to it and to French

There is nothing for you to say. You must
Learn first to listen. Because it is dead
It will not come to you of itself, nor would you
Of yourself master it. You must therefore
Learn to be still when it is imparted,
And, though you may not yet understand, to remember.

What you remember is saved. To understand
The least thing fully you would have to perceive
The whole grammar in all its accidence
And all its system, in the perfect singleness
Of intention it has because it is dead.
You can only learn one part at a time.

The ghost of a sestina (invented, they say, by the troubadour Arnaut Daniel) haunts these six-line stanzas, with their repetitions of individual words (though they don’t repeat mechanically at the ends of the lines, as they do in the sestina). What is repeated? Learn, dead, remember, understand. As the poem goes on, it repeats saved, intention, order, passion. Here is the fifth and final stanza:

What you remember saves you. To remember
Is not to rehearse, but to hear what never
Has fallen silent. So your learning is,
From the dead, order, and what sense of yourself
Is memorable, what passion may be heard
When there is nothing for you to say.


Merwin in his last year of life

The question is, how to recuperate the self. Mlinko believes translation is the suppression of self and that in poetry at its finest we suppress the self, we make something from nothing tangible or new as I have done tonight: Guilhem IX’s “Farai un vers de dreit nien” (“Sheer nothing’s what I’m singing of”)

This reminds me of Virginia Woolf: she wanted Anne Finch to transcend herself. This is mistaken, or need to be put another way. We can never leave ourselves, but what we can do is throw off the attacks and pressures from all around us (the wolves of society) and recuperate by following our true bends with integrity. That is the work of a lifetime. Finding who we are, and as Pope said, following nature, our nature. Making what we can. Recuperating by flowering out. I can link August Wilson’s plays to Shakespeare’s this way too: although we do not know what was his private life, only that he is incarnate in his plays.


Dorothy Rendell, Jerena at Harry Gosling School (1960): recuperating the self — look how beautifully Rendell has caught the child’s hands, the textures of her jacket and skirt, her body inside them ….

I have taken to going to Evolution Home, a consignment shop for furniture where older things are rescued. I am making my home comfortable by buying appropriate (for my needs) tables, retro clocks, rugs, baskets for my library of DVDS (kindly sent by a friend so that I have such a collection of splendid wonderful movies, often BBC). Rearranging furniture, making corners for pretty things and where I do my work. All recuperating the self, having respect and concern for myself and what I see. I hope you don’t need photos of these, for there’s not much to see. It’s the inward experience behind such changes I’m trying to steady myself with.

Ellen

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She bought a new keyboard about three weeks ago now, and I hope you can hear the difference:

The song comes from a movie called Once, made a couple of musicians who made a movie about how they met and fell in love. John Carney, the film’s director built the movie around this song provided for him by Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova. The song won an Oscar the year of the movie. They made a second album about dealing with fame. The third is about how they broke up.

Here are the words of the lyrics for “Falling Slowly:”

I don’t know you
but I want you
All the more for that
Words fall through me and always fool me
And I can’t react
And games that never amount
To more than they’re meant
Will play themselves out

Take this sinking boat and point it home
We’ve still got time
Raise your hopeful voice, you have a choice
You’ll make it now

Falling slowly, eyes that know me
And I can’t go back
Moods that take me and erase me
And I’m painted black
You have suffered enough
And warred with yourself
It’s time that you won

Take this sinking boat and point it home
We’ve still got time
Raise your hopeful voice, you have a choice
You’ll make it now

Take this sinking boat and point it home
We’ve still got time
Raise your hopeful voice, you have a choice
You’ll make it now

Falling slowly sing your melody
I’ll sing along

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This morning I was thinking about earlier stretches of my life. The phrase “long ago” is so common to my imagined conversation in my mind. So long ago Jim and I did this, Izzy would do that. I saw a child walk by from my window, on his back a carry-pack, shouldering a musical instrument. That once was Izzy going to junior high, to high school.

Last night (not atypical day and evening), alerted to it by a book on British TV costume drama I’d been reading, Conflicting Masculinities (one I sent a proposal for on Wolf Hall but was rejected, because I’m not a Brit, have no title or position in a university and my thesis was too much about deeper humanity and attributing the way men are presented in costume drama to an era), I watched Banished, a serial drama which was cancelled but is powerfully about one group of men destroying the manliness and humanity of another group, treating them like enslaved beasts; also showing how one group of people can be so cruel to another when no wider public eyes are upon them. Banished is a parable about how people in our modern societies are now pulverizing the poorer, vulnerable, ethnicities that are not in the majority among them, and refugees from countries these same groups of people are busy destroying so they can steal their natural resources. Unlike Poldark there is no fundamental place, home, knowledge of one another and known community whose interest it is to support one another they can turn to.

Yesterday during the day I read one third of an immensely sad novel, Crossing the River, nominated for the Booker (when it still didn’t accept imitative crap, hadn’t become a sheer advertisement mechanism), by Caryl Phillips. Crossing the River a related book about a white man sending a beloved black man who was enslaved in the US to Liberia (both die of grief as the people they are surrounded by live these punitive lives) made me realize what a fantasy of escape Outlander becomes in this story of Jamie and Claire and Ian making a secure home so readily (he is a wanted ex-convict). I also thought of how I cling to this house as giving me some meaning and safety, not naked in the world among all these indifferent people. Phillips’s message is do anything but separate yourself from a beloved and send them somewhere where life is said to be better — all you are doing is breaking your two hearts. I’m drawn to Phillips: born in St Kitts, yet British, he grew up in Leeds, a place I did love.

Both together — serial drama and book — made me think of how I cling to this house as giving me some meaning and safety, not naked in the world among all these indifferent people, and a book about the Acadia diaspora when threatened by “ethic cleansing,”

“Falling slowly” is a song that cries out for help (as some tweets really do). In retrospect, its framing is a young couple who broke up.

It is March now, signs of spring — such a sweet moment from Emily Dickinson: No 1320, just the first stanza:

Dear March – Come in –
How glad I am –
I hoped for you before –
Put down your Hat –
You must have walked –
How out of Breath you are –
Dear March, how are you, and the Rest –
Did you leave Nature well –
Oh March, Come right upstairs with me –
I have so much to tell —

How I wish I could find a choir for Izzy to belong to. The only ones in my area are part of churches Izzy won’t go near — and she’s probably right not to, reactionary Catholicism she would be a very much outsider in all ways in. With that man I went out briefly with I saw an episcopal church, almost non-denominational, eucumenical, which had a poster looking for people to join their choir. A modern building, maybe enlightened people running the place. But it’s a 45 minute drive and would be at night so I can’t provide a way for her to get there, if I could get her to go. She did say yes when I showed her the place. Too far. But this is her home too.


Writing Last lines ….

Miss Drake

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Clara Brown, a statue I saw in the African-American museum this past Tuesday:

Born enslaved in Virginia, Clara Brown married at age 18, and had to endure all four children being taken from her and sold; after the Civil War she moved to Colorado and worked as a cook, laundress and midwife; she invested her money in mines and land, and used it to help support community organizations. All her life she searched for her four children, and when quite old was re-united with one daughter.

Dear Friends,

It becomes harder and harder to keep this blog up because I don’t change very much within, and I find that I’m driven to be more upbeat or cheerful than I usually feel in order to present something enjoyable, pleasant, instructive to my reader friends here. If I say that it is true I have grown a lot inwardly, had quite a number of strengthening and fun and comforting experiences in the five years since Jim died (I am now in my sixth year of widowhood), I suspect that congratulations would seem to me a grating response. If I say I have a lot of new enjoyable experiences I’d never have had, learnt I am more capable, am calmer, I still would not respond well to people saying that’s good. Because I don’t change: travel remains an ordeal.  Things don’t get easier. I didn’t ask for this new understanding of the world I didn’t have before. OTOH, if I say that occasionally now Jim’s dying and death seems a mad nightmare, and I can hardly believe he’s not around the corner, and how empty the world seems, how alone I am most of the time.  How I just don’t make or sustain friendships (as I understand these they including going out together and visiting). How can he have vanished so completely? only of course he’s not vanished completely at all: I am surrounded by all that is left by him of our lives together and I’m carrying on the play he and I began so many years ago, but by myself now.

I could repeat this paragraph as an entry endlessly.

I am probably not for as long as I live (smiling), headach-y and tired from these obscenely expensive pills to scotch this hepitatis C infection. I sleep more deeply with cats right by me, but I don’t wake rested. I am reading Outlander  (the first volume) just before going to bed each night — trying to dream of Jim. Came across excellent essay on Outlander and Poldark. Do read it; it’s not long or hard.


Is not Sam Heughan as Jamie Fraser made to resemble Aidan Turner as Ross Poldark working in the fields shirtless — it is after colder in Scotland (joke alert)

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The interior of an early log cabin that housed freed slaves, the photo by Jahi Chikwendiu makes the inside look a lot larger than it is

I could list books, movies, some things I’ve done: I did get to the African-American museum. I found it by going to the Smithsonian stop (so glad I had wit enough to chose that one of the three cited on the website), and with the help of a man who works in the Metro: he came up the escalator with me and walked into the Mall park and pointed to the building. I just had to walk in that direction and it took about 10 minutes. As part of my attempt to learn more about African-American life and culture, before going I watched Moonlight (two years too late) written by Alvin Tarrell McCraney, and while it showed truthfully aspects of African-American male lives, I found it misogynistic in its portrayal of the mother as a helpless hateful and then pitiful drug addict. I know why the brilliant Naomi Harris was at first unwilling to take on the role. An hour long Smithsonian documentary, Green Book, tells of how hard it was as a black person in the US throughout most of the 20th century to go anywhere safely. I’ve much to say about the museum, and when the Guide comes through the mail I shall: I am waiting to make sure I don’t make mistakes in what I describe and comment on.

The Slave Mother by Frances Ellen Walker Harper (1825-1911), born of African-American parents who were not enslaved and lived in Baltimore, Maryland; a chronology of her life and work

Heard you that shriek? It rose
So wildly on the air,
It seemed as if a burden’d heart
Was breaking in despair.

Saw you those hands so sadly clasped–
The bowed and feeble head–
The shuddering of that fragile form–
That look of grief and dread?

Saw you the sad, imploring eye?
Its every glance was pain,
As if a storm of agony
Were sweeping through the brain.

She is a mother pale with fear,
Her boy clings to her side,
And in her kirtle vainly tries
His trembling form to hide.

He is not hers, although she bore
For him a mother’s pains;
He is not hers, although her blood
Is coursing through his veins!

He is not hers, for cruel hands
May rudely tear apart
The only wreath of household love
That binds her breaking heart.

His love has been a joyous light
That o’er her pathway smiled,
A fountain gushing ever new,
Amid life’s desert wild.

His lightest word has been a tone
Of music round her heart,
Their lives a streamlet blent in one–
Oh, Father! must they part?

They tear him from her circling arms,
Her last and fond embrace.
Oh! never more may her sad eyes
Gaze on his mournful face.

No marvel, then, these bitter shrieks
Disturb the listening air:
She is a mother, and her heart
Is breaking in despair

I bought the Vintage Book of African American Poetry, edd by Michael S. Harper and Anthony Walton in the museum shop, and have promised myself to make my last poem for the day each night one from this volume so as to learn the history of black people through this poetical volume. All the poems in this blog are taken from this anthology.

I also saw an extraordinary film about the German Stasi, finely acted, written, filmed, The Lives of Others, and was much moved by the hero’s transformation and sacrifice, but could hardly believe thousands of people could spy on one another to such a nth degree and then turn around to stop when a wall was pulled down.

I am into some wonderful books again, a lucid inspiriting deeply researched “biography” of Hugo’s Les Miserables by David Bellos, a similarly intelligent account of Diderot’s life and “art of thinking” by Andrew Curran (he teaches me about Voltaire and Rousseau and other writers books as well as Diderot’s friends and life), the second volume of Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan Quartet, The Story of a New Name. On Trollope&Peers we are about to begin a 9 week reading of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Aurora Leigh, and on WomenWriters are reading Margaret Kennedy’s Together and Apart.


Virginia Nicholson

On my and my friend’s Anomaly book project: I’ve finished Liberty: A Better Husband: Single women in the US, 1780-1830 by Schiller-Chambery and hope to write a full blog-review on it in a couple of days. I know I must read and learn more about 19th century American women alone and as writers. Next up: Rebecca Traister’s All the Single Ladies: Unmarried Ladies and the rise of an Independent Nation, and then Anne Boyd Rioux’s Writing for Immortality: Women Writers and the Emergence of High Literary Culture in America and Virginia Nicolson’s Singled Out, a history of the real lives of single women in the UK for the 2 years after World War One — their generation of men had been killed in huge numbers — Nicolson has written on the books written in this era about single women. I still have not finalized my five candidates for five chapters: as of now they remain Anne Murray Halkett (very late marriage), Charlotte Smith (fit in uncomfortably as separated, an example of what happens when you are not permitted independence), Frances Power Cobbe, Constance Fennimore Woolson (both never married), and Margaret Oliphant (as widow).

Learning to Read by Frances E. W. Harper

Very soon the Yankee teachers
Came down and set up school;
But, oh! how the Rebs did hate it,—
It was agin’ their rule.

Our masters always tried to hide
Book learning from our eyes;
Knowledge did’nt agree with slavery—
’Twould make us all too wise.

But some of us would try to steal
A little from the book.
And put the words together,
And learn by hook or crook.

I remember Uncle Caldwell,
Who took pot liquor fat
And greased the pages of his book,
And hid it in his hat.

And had his master ever seen
The leaves upon his head,
He’d have thought them greasy papers,
But nothing to be read.

And there was Mr. Turner’s Ben,
Who heard the children spell,
And picked the words right up by heart,
And learned to read ’em well.

Well, the Northern folks kept sending
The Yankee teachers down;
And they stood right up and helped us,
Though Rebs did sneer and frown.

And I longed to read my Bible,
For precious words it said;
But when I begun to learn it,
Folks just shook their heads,

And said there is no use trying,
Oh! Chloe, you’re too late;
But as I was rising sixty,
I had no time to wait.

So I got a pair of glasses,
And straight to work I went,
And never stopped till I could read
The hymns and Testament.

Then I got a little cabin
A place to call my own—
And I felt independent
As the queen upon her throne.

Next week OLLI at AU starts and I will be this weekend watching King Lear (either the 2016 version with Anthony Hopkins once again, or the 2008 version with Ian McKellen (in the mode of the famous Macbeth he did with Judi Dench), for the Shakespeare, King Lear/Tempest course I am registered for on Monday, for next Friday, read my first August Wilson play, The Gem of the Ocean (I have seen Fences as a movie).

I also bought at the African-American Museum Henry Louis Gates, Jr’s edition of Classic Slave Narratives: The Life of Olaudah Equiano (which I’ve read in), The History of Mary Prince (which I’ve never read), Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglas (which I’ve taught) and Harriet Jacobs’s Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl (which I’ve never read but now hope to). Centrally important to Jacobs’s life was her friendship with Lydia Maria Child, who helped her to write and to publish her book, and her relationship with her grandmother (as Oliphant’s was with her mother). Gates quotes this:

Yet the retrospection [into my years of bondage] is not altogether without solace; for with those gloomy recollections come tender memories of my good old grandmother, like light fleecy clouds floating over a dark and troubled sea ….


Robin Damore: Carol Diane Brown — I thought this picture of a magnificently dressed African-American woman today appropriate for my blog this evening

I today finished another good draft of my paper for the coming ASECS at Denver: “After the Jump:’ Winston Graham’s Uses of Documentary Fact and Silences in his Poldark and other Cornish Fiction.”

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Said to be a photograph of cats waiting for fisherman to come to the pier in Greece

You see, gentle reader, this is turning into a list of “good things” and too upbeat, leaving out the true complexion of life. I had some not-so-petty troubles: the cleaning team who come every two weeks broke my study chair — they broke off one of the wheels and this happens to be a kind of chair where the wheel is not replaceable. Had the management told the truth I would have accepted this and tried to fix or buy another chair, but no, they lie and first say the chair was broken when they came in the room, and then another lie, and then offered to send one of their bully women here to look at my chair (I hope, gentle reader, you have read Barbara Ehrenreich’s Nickle and Dimed where she tells what it’s like to be on one of these cleaning teams and the bullies put in charge of working people), so I decided I must change my service. A happy ending: a new team came yesterday and they cleaned my house far more thoroughly than anyone ever did. They cost more, but the supervisor who came with them was not a bully but another nice Spanish woman.

The loss of the chair is no small thing. I am now using the second chair in this room, which was Jim’s, and under the fourth foot of my chair are two books. I can’t move the other chair easily and it will be for watching movies on Amazon prime on my laptop.

I could tell other things of this type. The class I am to teach Trollope’s Can You Forgive Her? in at OLLI at AU was brought down to 21, and we were put in a small room. I had chosen less popular topics for two terms so had less people? but it was interesting for me to delve the 18th century and the later Virginia Woolf — and those who stayed with me. The new director is after prestige people for lectures and is trying to push people into classes they may not want. My class was waitlisted for 8 and he is trying to make these people take other courses. But these are not undergraduates who can be pressured this way.

I got something through my email from the airline I am to go to Denver with and I couldn’t tell if I needed to do something, and if I did, couldn’t figure out what to click on. Finally I told myself this is meant as what’s to come or ahead of time, and ignored it. I didn’t need to be made anxious a full month before the trip comes.

Bad dreams and foolish good ones.

But I refrain, I’d rather offer something more meaningful, than human stupidities, venalities, petty false values, nagging advertisemens, which at the same time is something you might not find elsewhere, about a work you don’t know or is not fashionable, which you might pursue.

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The Oxford Bodley Head edition or Cordelia (Bodley Head reprinted 12 of Graham’s books, including the first four Poldarks)


A rare Henry James looking image

So, just before returning to the paper, I read Graham’s 1949 historical novel, Cordelia, set in the mid-19th century, and thought maybe a review of it might be useful — for this book is again available in paperback and is worth the reading: for a reader who has not read the Poldark books or seen the films, you will find I draw parallels.

Cordelia is his one novel set in Manchester: Graham was born and grew up there in a genteel Edwardian family whose roots were strongly chartist, union, liberal, and who made their money first in drugs, chemistry.

It has interesting self-reflexive opening. Graham’s narrator sees the name Cordelia with the date 1869 carved on an old once richly- made mantelpiece and this occasions now and again thoughts on how hard it is to know what happened in the past. There is a first wife in the novel who leaves a diary and only after Cordelia has lived in the house for some time can she decipher that diary. In reality Graham was moved to write the novel because he had come across a corroded 19th century gravestone with just the name Cordelia and 1869 legible. I discovered that I wrote about this book in 2011 but since I’ve written again, this time with more knowledge of Graham, I’ll still share what I wrote tonight


The first page

The story: the heroine, Cordelia, is gently coaxed into and agrees for herself and her family (whose father owns a clock-maker and repair establishment) to marry for the aggrandizement the gentle son, Brook Fergusson, of a wealthy dye manufacturer, Frederick Fergusson. Brook’s first wife has died (in somewhat mysterious or questioned circumstances). He does not create Manchester with the full power that Gaskell does in her contemporary fiction or other writers of the 1930s and 40s say of Ireland but he does have strong political themes that are progressive. He deals with controversies in religion, the spiritualist movement &c. There is a reference to Palmerston whose significance you can get if you are aware of Palmerston as cruel Metternich kind of figure. Graham attempts to recreate the music hall world of the mid-19th century.

Once living in the mansion, Cordelia discovers that she and her husband are utterly domineered by his father: the choice of a Victorian ethos and time brings forth a story about repression and how it can destroy and pervert personalities, but in one way Graham is anachronistic in ways he is not in fiction set earlier: Cordelia falls in love with and has a brief liaison with a passing theater entrepreneur, Stephen Crossley by name: she almost runs away with Stephen. As presented her inner life is not agonized as it would have been in 1869 — she stays because an accident prevents her from going, and then she thinks better of it plus (convenient plot) her husband, Brook, whom she does like and feels loyalty toward, contracts pneumonia. Brook is a poet, probably named after Rupert Brooke whom Graham read (and quotes in another text). Cordelia stays to nurse Brook back to health. While I think Trollope represses and won’t tell us the full truth about the thoughts and feelings of women who long to leave a husband or difficult situation, this refusal to realize the trauma does not persuade me. There is a “Trollope sighting” in the book: Cordelia reads aloud The Warden to Brook, and they both so like the book, they follow it up with Barchester Towers.

Cordelia finds she is pregnant and it is obviously Stephen’s son. So this is a parallel with the Graham’s Elizabeth-Ross-George paradigm in the Poldark novels (Elizabeth becomes pregnant by Ross Poldark just before marrying George and when she gives birth to Ross’s son, every attempt is made to hide from George Valentine’s problematic parentage. This boy is named Ian (a name I happen to like — Izzy named our boy cat Ian.

A second opportunity arises between Cordelia and Stephen to perhaps elope but this time she discovers what we are told early on: he already has a wife. And here is another group of parallels: Cordelia in outlook and type and looks anticipates Clowance and the man she falls in love with, Stephen Crossley, anticipates Stephen Carrington, introduced who in the Poldark novels turns out to be a truly bad man in many ways. Carrington probably commits bigamy when he marries Clowance — not clear. Carrington is much worse than Crossley as Crossley is robber, thief, continual liar — Crossley is merely an unscrupulous manager of music halls and spiritual seance mountebanks. but then we do not know much about Crossley, only that he does have a wife and Cordelia learning of this in time stops her elopement. Cordelia is named after Shakespeare’s heroine and there are explicit passages about how this Cordelia’s initial flaw is Pride and her real virtue loyalty. Really she stays with Brook out of loyalty. Names mean a lot to Graham. The name Valentine turns up in a novel early on, Dangerous Pawns; the character types anticipates the older Valentine in the last Poldark novels.

There’s a wonderfully eccentric uncle who everyone despises — especially the tyrannical old man — Uncle Pridey, who half-way through is discovered by the London scientific world. Graham satirizes the literary world through Uncle Pridey who is valued (he says) for the wrong things; his work on shews, which supports the Darwinian thesis of pangenesis. It’s his work on mice, and his love of small animals that matters. He has been studying this monk’s work on heredity and corresponding with him (Mendel), whom no one seems aware of. Graham’s little joke. There is a character very like Uncle Pridey in A Forgotten Story but not presented truly sympathetically.

Through Pridey’s contacts, Brook makes some literary friends and has an offer to become a sub-editor in a London periodical but he must bring with him 5,000£ pounds; the domineering tyrannical father informs Brook that his father wrote a will which will permit his part of the partnership only to withdraw 500£ at a time, so he is tragically thwarted. Brook dies, in a sense of a broken spirit and heart (not from Cordelia’s doing). Pridey has moved to London, and terrified for her individuality, her son’s character, her future, Cordelia flees with little Ian to London to live with Pridey.

There she again goes to the music theater world (though Pridey’s auspices) and once again meets Stephen. She finds he has another girlfriend; that is to be expected as four years have gone by, but he lies about this and she now understands how completely untrustworthy, shallow and selfishly ambitious he is. Graham’s Clowance never has a chance to speak to or look at Stephen after he learns that his life was a lie and thus hers false because based on his lies; she knew he was a murderer, but she never learns the extent to which Stephen’s thievery helped destroy Clowance’s brother Jeremy’s life. Cordelia too doesn’t get to tell Stephen of her decision or why; she assumes he would not understand or empathize. But she does get to decide freely.

She returns to Manchester and her father-in-law’s house but now the terms of their existence together have been altered. She will be a partner on her terms. I’m told that a doctor with integrity, knowledge and skill, who has shown a warm friendship for Cordelia and been helpful, was originally going to be set up to become Cordelia’s husband by the end. I am glad for once that Graham listened to advice and ended instead on Cordelia as an independent woman determined to bring up her son to be independent too. It is, as some of the other readers of the Poldark novels and watchers of the Poldark films I’ve grown to know who have read the book said “a very satisfying ending.” One woman agreed with me that Brook is a tragic figure. One gap in the book is a lack of women friends, relationships among women — to me that suggests the male author who doesn’t realize quite how important women’s friendships are to one another.


Here is an early Book-of-the-Month club cover

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Gentle reader, on Saturday Izzy and I go to the Folger Shakespeare Library to see the contemporary play about Nell Gwynn, now there. Fingers crossed for us it will be very good.

My Grandfather walks in the Woods — by Marilyn Nelson (1946 — present)

Somewhere
in the light above the womb,
black trees
and white trees
populate the world.

It is a March landscape,
the only birds around are small
and black.
What do they eat, sitting in the birches
like warnings?

The branches of the trees
are black and white.
Their race is winter.
They thrive in cold.

There is my grandfather
walking among the trees.
He does not notice
his fingers are cold.
His black felt hat
covers his eyes.

He is knocking on each tree,
listening to their voices
as they answer slowly
deep, deep from their roots.
I am John, he says,
are you my father?

They answer
with voices like wind
blowing away from him …


August Macke, Still Life with Cat (1910, Germany, found on the Net over this past week) — I couldn’t find a good picture of March trees in black and white

Ellen

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Snow-cat, made by Rob, Laura’s husband, just outside their backdoor

This morning I realized there was a sweetness about life, about existence, being alive somehow, a tone, a feel to the very air, which has vanished altogether since Jim died. My eye lighted on a house near my street, so familiar after 35 years that corner, and it came to me when I would see that corner and was driving home to where Jim often was, how the world was suffused with sweetness, a tone, a feel — gone forever, with vacuity in its place.

Friends,

The past two weeks have been cold, rain has poured on Alexandria, and now we’ve had a mild three day snow storm. Mild because only some 12 inches but enough to close down what parts of gov’t have been left open after Trump and his regime decided to make their right-wing dictatorship felt. A coup is underway to nullify the election of a democratic house. I am far from alone in being sick with worry and anxiety for my and Izzy’s comfortable existence, this house and my books supplying all that make my life worthwhile.

I’ve been thinking what can I do if Trump succeeds in keeping this up: can the money I have invested be turned around to produce some kind of income? I thought of Jane Austen’s line in Persuasion: Is there any one item on which we can retrench. I’ve been thinking of many items, including eating less and more cheaply. I’ve not bought a thing I didn’t have to since the gov’t shut down. I am already committed for two trips but after this stop. Apply for tax relief from the Alexandria property rates. I have been so proud of my garden: it would hurt not to have the gardeners work at it at least once a month (they came twice in the fall); it would break my heart, but I know nothing of gardening so need them. No more cleaning ladies. That’s easy. Izzy loves her four sports channels but we could go down on the phone somehow. Anything to stay here and keep my books. Night after night Judy Woodruff on PBS catalogues another set of individuals devastated by this.  Trump came on Fox  enjoying himself utterly. Remember he and his Republican loathe most of the agencies, like the FTC which is supposed to protect consumers, stop monopoly and exploitative practices. They are shutting all this down as a trial to see what they can destroy. They like the idea of federal workers forced to work for no pay.  Well these workers won’t keep it up for years.  My especial heart-break is the closing of the Library of Congress.


Saturday night from the windows of my enclosed porch


Sunday morning close up

I’ve been out minimally but not lonely because of the worlds of the Internet I have found so many friends and people who share some part of my taste to spend time with. I visited a friend where we had old-fashioned grilled-cheese sandwiches (on white bread no less, fried lightly in butter on a frying pan) with tea and then settled together to watch the wondrous French A Christmas Tale. She enjoyed it as deeply as I. She’s worried too: she lives on a much larger social security and annuity payments; she will rearrange her annuity payments for a start she says.

One night also I went on a date (the first in 52 years) — an old-fashioned date where the man picked me up by car, drove me to an elegant yet home-y Irish pub in Northwest Washington where we had a yummy meal and good talk; afterwards a drive through very pretty park-lined and riverside streets, and then home again home again, jiggedy-jig, where he walked me to my door. I even dressed up, complete high heels and an attempt at make-up (feeble, basically lip-stick).

I know my face looks awful but consider that the cell phone picked up harsh shadows in Izzy’s half-lit room.

We were in a neighborhood in Northwest Washington I knew existed, sort of, but had never been in. The OLLI at AU is there. Very wealthy, exclusive (he pointed to three clubs he belongs to along the river, one where no one else can come into that piece of land in that park), beautiful, forest-y. There’s a Great Falls I’d never heard of and he was even startled to hear I’d never heard of it. His big income comes from years of working in high positions in agencies Trump will destroy: environmental; he did “operations research” (mathematical finding of which is your best option to do; this is used to bomb things). He is by older heritage Jewish, but his family spent so many years in Arkansas and then Tennessee so he has no memories of any heritage but American — one of his clubs meets in a local very tasteful Episcopalian church.  An intelligent sports person, someone who knew how to and still does socialize and network, a widower, with 2 (!) guns in his house. I could see he was rightist — trained to be a fighter pilot in the later 1950s. He knew what an adjunct is, and said of Jim’s career, what a shame he didn’t make more money with such degrees. I think for us, given my expectations, & where we both came from, Jim did very well. I know mainstream people will comment (adversely) he retired so early. Yes, and I have much less because of this, but he lived for 9 years he would not have had he worked until 65, gotten that dreadful cancer, and been devoured.  So not a lot of common ground. The evening was though very pleasant. Both people kept up cordial conversation.  I think I’d actually never been on a date like this before — never treated that way in my teens. Perhaps it fit Christine Blasey Forde’s expectations when she found herself among thug upper class males for the first time. The evening was a sociological lesson for me.

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The facsimile edition


the beloved and loving dog, Hajjin

I read a new remarkable short novel where the central consciousness is a nearly kidnapped dog, the 19th century novella, The Confessions of a Lost Dog by Francis Power Cobbe — she anticipates Woolf’s Flush: deeply humane and somewhat convincing attempt to get inside a dog’s personality, not the physical self the way Woolf tried. She is one of the women I am hopeful about writing about for my projected part of a book, working title, The Anomaly (only single women trying to live apart from men have not been.) I  am now reading Elena Ferrante’s My Brilliant Friend as translated by Ann Goldstein: she describes a world I grew up in (Naples = southeast Bronx, circa 1950s). Lenu the reader, and Lila who learns to cast off ambition because thwarted hope is one of the most painful of experiences..

Still inching along in the helpful Cornwall: The Cultural Construction of Place, ed Ella Westland, have opened and begun more of my Cornwall travel-memoir meditative history-as-reverie books. I’m now reading the three Poldark novels I’ve chosen for the paper I’m supposed to give in Denver (if airplanes are flying — I don’t know why the TSA people just don’t go on strike — all terrorized they will lose their jobs; this is what employment in the US has come to). And I’ve had one of those delightful literary discoveries fit only for cherished re-telling in a diary.

All the years of watching the two different Poldark, and having read the twelve books I thought carefully through, I never realized both series had omitted Aunt Agatha, the 98 year old unmarried Poldark aunt’s kitten. In scenes where she appears in Black Moon we are told she has a kitten and then cat keeping her affectionate company. His name is Smollett and I suspect the name is reference to the popular 18th century novelist, Smollett who features an old unmarried woman and her beloved dog in an epistolary novel, Humphry Clinker (the hero is Methodist), and cats and offensive smells in a travel -tour book.


Agatha (Caroline Blakiston) saying goodbye to Verity (from Season 3, Black Moon)

When we first see Agatha, we are told

A black kitten moved on her lap. This was Smollett, which she had found somewhere a few months ago and made peculiarly her own. Now they were inseparable. Agatha never stirred without the kitten, and Smollett, all red tongue and yellow eye, could hardly be persuaded to leave her. Geoffrey Charles, with a small boy’s glee, always called her ‘Smell-it.’ [When George Warleggan intrudes.] The kitten, to Agatha’s pleasure, had arched its back and spat at the new arrival (Black Moon, Chapter 1).

Smollett is mentioned in passing, and when on the last page of this novel, Agatha lies dying:

The bed shook as Smollett jumped on it again. Her head was sinking sideways on the pillow. With great effort, she straightened it … then the light began to go, the warm, milk yellow sunlight of a summer day … She could not close her mouth. She tried to close her mouth and failed. Her tongue stopped. But one hand slowly moved. Smollett nudged up to it and licked it with his rough tongue. The sensation of that roughness made its way from her fingers to her brain. It was the last feeling left. The fingers moved a moment on the cat’s fur. Hold me, hold me, they said. Then quietly peacefully, at the last, submissively, beaten by a stronger will than her own, her eyes opened and she left the world behind (Black Moon, last chapter, last page, last paragraph)

Graham is very fond of animals, and especially a lover of cats throughout his novels. Ross Poldark meets Demelza because at the risk of her own severe body injury she was defending her dog, Garrick, from torturous abuse for the amusement of a mob and several boys. Here are Ian and Clarycat near a snow filled window with their toy mouse:

For snow days: I recommend the remarkable movie about Gertrude Bell narrated by Tilda Swinden, for its remarkably contemporary film footage, Bell’s letters, virtuoso performances of BBC actors as Bell’s family, friends, associates: Letters from Baghdad. I’m listening to Timothy West’s inimitable reading of Trollope’s The Way We Live Now, as prelude to Can You Forgive Her? and for a group discussion (Trollope&Peers); this is alternatively with Davina Porter reading Gabaldon’s Drums of Autumn. I shall buy no more of these but listen and re-listen to what I have. My kind Irish friend has sent me so many copies of DVDs of very good British BBC movies, I can go for years. My movies at home and nightly for now are both sets of Poldark serial dramas (back-to-back watching of equivalent episodes), Outlander Seasons 2 and 4. I was disappointed but not surprised when Caitriona Balfe, nominated for Golden Globe as best actress for four years in row, lost once again. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride ….

It is hard to find Balfe in a dress I can endure to look at at these ceremonies: a salutary reminder of the real woman (the first phase of her career was as a fashion model).. She is presented in the features as a cooperative team player . The blog where I found the image, repeatedly said of the dress it’s too “LV” — perhaps Louis Vuitton, but a sneering tone accompanied by scorn for those “who have trouble paying their rent,” so it’s probably a withering resentment of her outfit as not overtly extravagant, ritzy, expensive enough. I remember Jenny Bevan who has dressed hundreds of actors and actresses in the best movies for years, turning up for her award for costume in ordinary pants, top, her hair simply brushed was booed. So you see where the outrageous lengths this red carpet stupidity goes to comes from: the worst values of mean minds.

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As for keeping body as well as soul up, I walk for 20 minutes in the afternoons, and listen to country and folk music in the mornings as I exercise for 10 minutes and close this evening with Pete Seeger’s “There’s a river of my people:

There’s a river of my people
And its flow is swift and strong,
Flowing to some mighty ocean,
Though its course is deep and long.
Flowing to some mighty ocean,
Though its course is deep and long.

Many rocks and reefs and mountains
Seek to bar it from its way.
But relentlessly this river
Seeks its brothers in the sea.
But relentlessly this river
Seeks its brothers in the sea.

You will find us in the mainstream,
Steering surely through the foam,
Far beyond the raging waters
We can see our certain home.
Far beyond the raging waters
We can see our certain home.

For we have mapped this river
And we know its mighty force
And the courage that this gives us
Will hold us to our course.
And the courage that this gives us
Will hold us to our course.

Oh, river of my people,
Together we must go,
Hasten onward to that meeting
Where my brothers wait I know.
Hasten onward to that meeting
Where my sisters wait I know.

Songwriters: Peter Seeger

Miss Drake

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Photo taken by Izzy, December 31st, 2018, around 9pm, Kennedy Center Terrace, during the intermission of a two act new play, a parody of Love, Actually, performed by Second City in the Theater Lab:

Friends and readers,

We begin this imagined new time frame (if you pay attention to the calender) with Izzy’s truly remarkable rendition of David Grey’s Babylon. I’ve not got the words to capture the effect of this hoarse sweetness echoing out inward endurance:

Friday night I’m going nowhere
All the lights are changing green to red
Turning over TV stations
Situations running through my head
Looking back through time
You know it’s clear that I’ve been blind, I’ve been a fool
To open up my heart to all that jealousy
That bitterness, that ridicule

Saturday I’m running wild
And all the lights are changing red to green
Moving through the crowds I’m pushing
Chemicals are rushing in my bloodstream

Only wish that you were here
You know I’m seeing it so clear
I’ve been afraid
To show you how I really feel
Admit to some of those bad mistakes I’ve made

And if you want it
Come and get it
Crying out loud
The love that I was
Giving you was
Never in doubt
Let go of your heart
Let go of your head
And feel it now
Let go of your heart
Let go of your head
And feel it now

Babylon, Babylon, Babylon

Sunday all the lights of London shining
Sky is fading red to blue
Kicking through the autumn leaves
And wondering where it is you might be going to

Turning back for home
You know I’m feeling so alone
I can’t believe
Climbing on the stair
I turn around to see you smiling there
In front of me

And if you want it
Come and get it
Crying out loud
The love that I was
Giving you was
Never in doubt

Let go of your heart
Let go of your head
And feel it now
Let go of your heart
Let go of your head
And feel it now

Let go of your heart
Let go of your head
And feel it now
Let go of your heart
Let go of your head
And feel it now

Babylon, Babylon, Babylon, Babylon, ah

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I’ve reported on Mary Poppins Returns and our Christmas day meal at our usual local Chinese restaurant where we again shared a Peking Duke. A whole one this time, as the restaurant would not sell a half. We ate it all up with no trouble.

But said nothing of Boxing Day, where for a second year we went to the National Portrait Gallery. It was still open – tomorrow or the next day it will shut down — for how long no one knows and those with power to stop this are doing nothing.

From last years’ trip to this place and now this I have discovered it’s a schizophrenic museum. It does not advertise its good shows but only the reactionary or mainstream crap. Last year we came upon a remarkable exhibit, huge, intelligent of Marlene Dietrich’s life and art: just one poster downstairs;.

This time there were three different good exhibits — one of women’s art; one of fascinating worthwhile people across history:  “selfies” this was stupidly called, self portraits not idealized, remarkable artists, radical political people, interesting lives. Then a “The Struggle for Justice” — astonishing artifacts and pictures of and about slavery, mostly African American. A separate small exhibit: silhouettes of ordinary people — Russian art, 3 D silhouettes.

What was advertised was a massively ludicrous idealization of Bush I among troops; the usual presidents, Obama and his wife’s portrait. 80% of the people there were in this past of the museum.

Much of the place is empty of people — 19th century American art, mostly not masterpieces, of interest for culture – but the four were superb if not great art something else just as important. Half the people in the museum who work there appear not to know what’s there — like last year but some of them do know.

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During for the rest of the week I fell in love with Graham’s Ross Poldark all over again — not quite for the umpteenth time. As I reread it slowly, properly, that original surprising experience I had in about 1994 or so re-emerges. This is not exactly the same text as the one I read (and most people read) is cut version Graham (unfortunately) made in 1951; this original version is about 1/4 or more as long. What I did was go through the 1945 and 1951 making note of everything cut, and now this past week I read the 1945 version for the first time slowly with all my annotations on what was cut. In the margins and in a long file. I find a great loss in most of the material cut: Jinny and Jim’s story, Elizabeth and Francis scenes, here and there a surprising revelation of intensity in Ross about his love for Elizabeth, long depictions of Cornwall, weather, sudden axioms.

The experience was clinched for me with Verity’s story, the climax where she is apparently partly for life from Blamey and the chapter where she retires to her room (14 in the 1951 version, 19 in the 1945), as it were for life. I am equally moved by the depiction of Demelza growing up, the assault on Ginny (I had not realized Graham has some pity for the crazed moronic male monster who first stalks, then harasses and finally assaults her). I know the pilchards scene in the last third is visionary — they tried to capture it in the new version but didn’t come near. In the new version there is more attempt to show Demelza growing up, not much though, and somehow Angharad Rees seems to fit the part in ways Eleanor Tomlinson cannot.

Verity was a favorite character for me and I regretted how she was mostly dropped once she marries Blamey and moves away — she doesn’t appear at all in the trilogy (BM, FS, AT). In the 1970s the BBC seemed to have an uncanny ability to pick actors who fit the parts as imagined by the authors and original readership and decade the serial drama was done: Norma Streader is perfection — a wide strength and generosity of tone the new actress doesn’t have. (Actually since the 1990s the BBC will sometimes pick an actor or actress against the grain of the part deliberately — Mark Strong for Mr Knightley, Billie Pipe for Fanny Price).

Graham may have written as well in other of these Poldark books but he never wrote better than the central sequence of RP.


A Poldark Christmas card @Rosalynde Lemarchand

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On Love, Factually:


A senior couple: Mary Catherine Curran and Martin Garcia

Last year for the weeks preceding and New Year’s Eve Second City did a brilliant Twist your Dickens (complete with parody of It’s a Wonderful Life). This year their Love, Factually had the paradoxical quality that when it just imitated the movie, which is not easy to do (a number of the stories on stage would be impossible because of the nudity and invasions of bodies, a couple deep in anguish, e.g., over a young man in an asylum), then it was at its best. It vindicated the movie when it meant to critique it. It was at its best using stage props, improvisation, and its own ironic moments (mild). But one phrase that rang throughout as the “writer” (our narrator in effect, holding the thing together) “we are embracing the clichéd.” The performers were stunning: they seemed to become another character in such a way that you couldn’t recognize who they had been before.


A good review of this production

We then peeked in at the ball in the great hall — decorated in rich reds — and then home again, she to sleep, me to sit with the pussycats watching yet another Christmas movie (somehow flat, The Man Who Invented Christmas). For a second time this holiday I’ve been driving late at night on the highways and again we came near an accident, teaching me I must not drive at night. Year after year, decay follows decay …

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There are so many moments that photos can’t capture or trying to ruins the experience, cuts it short. The morning of New Year’s Eve day (December 31st around 11 am) when Izzy and I came home from shopping, we found both cats sat like breadloaves on the pillows on my bed. All still. A few minutes later I saw Izzy laying on the bed in front of one of them making eye contract. I can’t capture that; it would not last long enough, especially if I got my cell phone camera 🙂 The night we realized Trump had won the presidency around 10 she went out on the path in front of the house and grieved. She understood fully how horrible this was. Standing there, in her eyes one saw it. But one cannot get that picture. I suppose that’s what actors and actresses are for: all is set up for them, cameras at the ready, scripts in mind.

This morning, New Year’s Day morning, January 1st. 2019, as I came into the kitchen I looked at the sky, a dark pink, purplish against streaks of acqua blue in the sky, a patch of it. A winter dawn. It lasted but a few minutes and had I rushed to get a camera I’d have missed some of it.

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We have now completed this holiday time. For many like me it must be a strain to get through. Now the familial hegemonic order (with men in charge or having to be there finally) imposes itself.  And this is unreal when it comes to individual human needs. I hope all found something to enjoy — at least it’s a rest, a time out, away for us who don’t fit in.

I close by thanking all my friends here who have responded with comments or postings at the end of this fifth year without Jim for making my days more cheerful and therefore endurable by extending to me moments in your lives and your thoughts and support. No matter how hard I’ve tried, I realize sometimes that I am at least concretely literally alone most of the time and that for me it cannot be otherwise after the lifetime I had with Jim. So it is so good to be in contact with you all and have our various relationships here. It is this communication that I sustain this blog for.

Izzy too is in need of recognition, community support as she sings out her heart to the cyberspace world. I wish I could find a secular choir for her to join as a non-professional.

Ellen

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