5/30/09:
Happy weekend! The picture to the left is one I took a couple of days ago, showing a nice, large purplish columbine standing in front of one of our bleeding-hearts— click on it to see the full glory of these beauties.
I have a habit of reading the New York Times almost daily. Whenever I see an obituary of a poet or artist or writer that I am not familiar with or not that familiar with I will usually head out on a search of the internet to try to find out more about all that I do not know. Back in March Jane Mayhall passed away and, because I found a wonderful poem of hers about the loss of her husband, I went ahead and ordered her latest poetry book, Sleeping Late On Judgment Day. I am now about half way through the poems and find most of them not real accessible, appearing to my mind to be poems written for other poets or writers, but some are nice. Here are a couple I liked:
SUN ON THE KITCHEN WALL
A bloom of light widening, grown as
from a corm, a lopped trunk of yellow. Not of
a crocus or gladiola, but close—new life,
an interior sunshine. And spreading to across the table
at a tomato in a wooden bowl.
The wafting intensity of every hue is bisected
into a double-red. And like shearing to
the very heart of the tomato, where ripped off the vine
is its dark leaf, soldier-suit green.
How far does the mind go swimming? why itemize?
except to steal virtue from the experience.
The sun fills the kitchen, succinct
as windowpanes, the mystery and hypothesis
come streaming from the sky into
the room. Not to be analyzed too much,
or purged into sainthood.
TO "EVEN"
To "even" is evening, putting it
straight. Also evening, a time between
dark and pale imbalance. And shards of
pink clouds, a star on its anti-gun holster,
ready to shoot beneficence to
everyone. And the light, fluffy
sundown going down with so much, I don't
want to even "even it up" (mountains
prying the vernacular) and don't want
to "get even." References to only
the vaguely discernible, as from the porch
of the avenue I lived on in a Southern
industrial town, and it "evened out" to
black. The faulty streetlight
ebb, like
honeysuckle.
I'll include Jane Mayhall's poem that drew me to buy her book later on, maybe in June. Ciao!
5/28/09:
It's funny how regular and predictable many things in this world are. May is once again winding down and the combination of rain, sun and warmth have made the outdoor greens greener and caused explosions of color to erupt. Yes, predictable and exciting all at the same time, like many things in life.
I took the picture to the left of some chives in our backyard this evening after watering the front yard plants– if you click on it you can see the bigger, lovelier version.
Right now the yard is blooming with bleeding hearts, some little flowers that come up off some succulents, violets, lilacs, a rhododendron, primroses, just a couple poppies so far, huge columbines, and more, with more to come. It always blooms a riot of color at the end of May to celebrate my sister's birthday May 29th. Happy Birthday Linda!
Linda continues to be dedicated to the wonderful program she runs (which you can feel free to donate to), providing free social activities that include bowling and the Special Olympics. Linda has always been a supportive sister over these many years, now stretching into many more I hope. It is always great to see Linda and her really nice husband Jerry when I am back in Michigan. I think the picture to the right is of them when they were younger and friskier, and if you click on it you can see a photo of the two of them taken by me just a couple of weeks ago. Time flies and now they are celebrating another year past while looking forward to the adventures ahead in the next. Best wishes Linda, Jerry too.
So long as I can breathe or I can see, so long lives your love which gives life to me.— William Shakespeare
5/25/09:
Memorial Day 2009
Memorial Day is a somber holiday for those who think about what the holiday is for. There have been many "wars" the US has been involved in during my lifetime, all with questionable validity. Are there "just" wars? The answer is always, "what about WWII"? Always. What about WWII? The world was fatigued by WWI, allowing Hitler's plans to unfold unheeded for years. The French have been much maligned for easily allowing Germany to invade, they were not the first— by far. What actions did the US and others take before Hitler's troops reached into France? Were there actions that could have been taken? Maybe not, although we will never know.
The cartoon sort of picture up to the left is a bubble gum card from 1938, click on it for more of the story. The picture to the right is of Nazi troops marching in to Austria, early easy pickings for Hitler, easier than is believable. Click on the picture to read more.
War is hell, and it is wise to remember that as we remember those fallen. Ciao.
The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner
From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
and I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.
— Randall Jarrell (1914-1965)
5/23/09:
Happy Weekend!
What beautiful sunny weather we are having. I was able to do some more of my never-ending yard work (replanted my porch pot with summer plants, planted some nicotiana, divided a bleeding heart, and more), henna my hair, and head over to Rexville for a wine tasting and cheese event— brought home some incredibly yummy blue cheese.
We also went to the movies this evening, seeing the new Star Trek movie, which I really enjoyed. I thought the young versions of our heroes were well-chosen and enjoyed seeing Leonard Nimoy— these days a real treat. A great outing for a nice day.
We arrived on time to the movie and saw a few previews, it seemed like a lot of them were war-themed. Yes, love that war stuff... aggrandizing man's primitive urges. It may well be that mankind will never get beyond its primitive stages. The Rexville picture links to a waterboarding video. Initially I was going to link to something on President Obama's graduation commencement speech at Notre Dame, that story of the week for about a week and a half— the outrage of the high-and-mighty Catholics who condemn birth control and abortion, condoning non-procreative sex only when it is with male children. Who should know more about such things than the Catholic world's expert on sexual intercourse, the Pope? Some sanity has returned to the US, now we can be safe in our national parks. What can be more safe than the drunken camper next to you carrying a loaded gun? Damn, I feel safer already. All of these good things, so much to be thankful for. Truly. Ciao.
The danger is not that a particular class is unfit to govern. Every class is unfit to govern.— Lord Acton
5/21/09:
My father's older brother Bernard passed away this week. Bernard Jardot will be missed by his many family and friends. Uncle Bernie was two years older than my dad Donald. The picture to the left is of my dad and Bernie in his Army uniform from WWII.
Bern and his wife Betty had three children, seen in the picture to the right: Mike, Judy, and Dick. When we were young and they lived in Indiana I spent a week at their house at least twice, enjoying playing, swimming in the community pool, and seeing a monster movie matinee (quite a treat for the country girl). We also enjoyed many holidays and Sundays at Grandma and Grandpa's farm together outside Eaton Rapids in Michigan. Lot's of good memories.
If you click on either picture you will be directed to the funeral home's web obituary. Our thoughts are with Betty and the kids.
Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.— Lao Tzu
5/19/09:
Hot sauce. I like spicy food— Thai, Indian, Vietnamese, Chinese, Korean, American, any kind. The picture is of a popular hot sauce that was written about today in the NY Times. There is a bottle in my refrigerator... It is often found on the tables in Vietnamese and Thai restaurants and people think of it as belonging to those cultures— it is American, made in the USA. Who would have thought? It is sriracha sauce (properly pronounced SIR-rotch-ah), great on Vietnamese noodles, teriyaki, lentil soup, or anything with rice. It is yummy and astoundingly hot.
Red hot. I have colored my hair on and off over the years. For several years I used the temporary coloring that disappeared over the course of 20 shampooings. Once my friend Carol went with me to the store and helped pick out a box. That time it turned out a rather bright red and people did not seem to know what to say so I would point it out to them and laugh. It is only hair, why not have fun? I started regularly getting foil coloring at the beauty parlor late in 2003 and enjoyed the look, but not only is it expensive it contains lots of toxic chemicals. I toyed with not coloring my hair, but not only is there a fair amount of grey now but the dark hair seems duller in color. I searched around and found there really are few safe options besides henna. I dove in, trying a couple kinds and following complex, convoluted preparations. I have put henna on my hair at least a half dozen times now, and like it. I have found using a very fine henna, fine like what is used for body art, and keeping it simple by only mixing the powder with orange juice to activate it works best. I also keep it on only 30-45 minutes, not the couple of hours they talk about. The color is pretty bright the first few days, then settles down but turns the grey strands pretty bright, almost orange. I like it. My hair is left very healthy by the henna and a light reddish is left on the brown, of which there is less and less of. The picture of hot sauce links to the site where I order my henna— I get the finest one, called henna for African hair. If you are interested in trying it yourself you can email me for more info... some like it hot. Ciao
I don't own a cell phone or a pager. I just hang around everyone I know, all the time. If someone wants to get a hold of me, they just say 'Mitch,' and I say 'what?' and turn my head slightly.— Mitch Hedberg (1968 - 2005)
5/18/09:
I did not win the Lotto in the last week, so I returned to work today. Just when is that Lotto thing ever going to work out? And here I had my heart set...
I like David Horsey's editorial cartoons, as you probably have noticed since I put one on here every once in a while. I couldn't resist this one. Like most people who work in health care, I am a big supporter of universal health care. At least finally people are seeing what a drag on the economy our for-profit health system is, plus what an awful risk we place ourselves in having health insurance tied to our jobs. There are lots of ways to structure a new, universal health care system— lots of other countries, actually almost all other countries, have models we could borrow from. It can be government run "socialized" medicine, like we have in this country for veterans, or it can be a private health providers system. The options are numerous, our own being about the most inefficient possible. Click on the cartoon for more of Horsey's work.
The keenest sorrow is to recognize ourselves as the sole cause of all our adversities.— Sophocles
5/16/09:
Hi. We got back from our visit to Michigan late Thursday afternoon. Jay and I had a wonderful time but are glad to be home to our own bed and our routines. We were able to see many family and friends, getting out and about every day. The weather in Michigan was cooperative enough and we were able to enjoy looking out the huge picture window in my parents' living room, seeing turkeys, deer and birds. That's TV we like.
My dad keeps a beautiful yard, his lawn was thriving green and he had tons of tulips blooming— made us feel like we were back in Skagit County!
Apparently it rained some while we were gone, making everything grow and grow— Jay is out getting the lawn mower started as I write. I will work on getting some pictures posted soon, but in the meantime I will head out to do some yard work myself. This was my first vacation in a year, a needed break. Ah, but work is looming on the horizon, with Monday almost in sight. I am thrilled to note I have a 3 day weekend coming up! What a slacker...
monkeys, who very sensibly refrain from speech, lest they should be set to earn their livings— Kenneth Grahame, The Golden Age
5/6/09:
John Updike, American poet, writer and critic, winner of the Pulitzer Prize, died this past January of lung cancer at the age of 76. He wrote up until the end of his life, leaving us many gifts. The New Yorker published some of John's last poems, which are included in a new volume published in April, I think it is called Endpoint. I copied some and include them here for longer reading while I am away in Michigan, see what you think...
Spirit of '76
Cypresses have one direction, up,
but sometimes desert zephyrs tousle one
so that a branch or tow will stick straight out--
a hatchling fallen from the nest,
a broken leg a limp will not forget,
a lock of cowlicked hair that spurns the comb.
Aspiring like steeples inky green,
they spear the sun-bleached view with nodding tips.
How not to think of death? Its ghastly blank
lies underneath your dreams, that once gave rise
to horn-hard, conscienceless erections.
Just so, your waking brain no longer stiffens
with careless inspirations-- urgent news
spilled in clenching spasms on the virgin sheets.
-----------
Here in this place of arid clarity,
two thousand miles from where my souvenirs
collect a cozy dust, the piled produce
of bald ambition pulling ignorance,
I see clear through to the ultimate page,
the silence I dared break for my small time.
No piece was easy, but each fell finished,
in its shroud of print, into a book-shaped hole.
Be with me, words, a little longer; you
have given me my quitclaim in the sun,
sealed shut my adolescent wounds, made light
of grownup troubles, turned to my advantage
what in most lives would be pure deficit,
and formed, of those I loved, more solid ghosts.
-----------
HOSPITAL
Mass. General, Boston, November 23-27, 2008
Benign big blond machine beyond all price,
it swallows us up and slowly spits us out
half-deafened and our blood still dyed: all this
to mask the simple dismal fact that we
decay and find our term of life is fixed.
This giant governance, a mammoth toy,
distracts us for the daytime, but the night
brings back the quiet, and the solemn dark.
God save us from ever ending, though billions have.
The world is blanketed by foregone deaths,
small beads of ego, bright with appetite,
whose pin-sized prick of light winked out,
bequeathing Earth a jagged coral shelf
unseen beneath the black unheeding waves.
-----------
I think of those I loved and saw to die:
my Grampop in his nightshirt on the floor;
my first wife's mother, unable to take a bite
of Easter dinner, smiling with regret;
my mother in her blue knit cap, alone
on eighty acres, stuck with forty cats,
too weak to walk out to collect the mail,
waving brave goodbye from her wind-chimed porch.
And friends, both male and female, on the phone,
their voices dry and firm, their ends in sight.
My old piano teacher joking, of her latest
diagnosis, "Curtains." I brushed them off,
these valorous, in my unseemly haste
of greedy living, and now must learn from them.
-----------
Endpoint, I thought, would end a chapter in
a book beyond imaging, that got reset
in crisp exotic type a future I
--a miracle!--could read. My hope was vague
but kept me going, amiable and swift.
A clergyman--those comical purveyors
of what makes sense to just the terrified--
has phoned me, and I loved him, bless his hide.
My wife of thirty years is on the phone.
I get a busy signal, and I know
she's in her grief and needs to organize
consulting friends. But me, I need her voice;
her body is the only locus where
my desolation bumps against its end.
-----------
THE CITY OUTSIDE
December 11, 2008
Strontium, 90--is that a so-called
heavy element? I've been injected,
and yet the same light imbecile stuff--
the babble on TV, newspaper fluff,
the drone of magazines, banality's
kind banter--plows ahead, admixed
with world collapse, atrocities, default,
and fraud. Get off, get off the rotten world!
The sky is turning that pellucid blue
seen in enamel behind a girlish Virgin--
the doeskin lids downcast, the smile demure.
Indigo cloud-shreds dot a band of tan;
the Hancock Tower bares a slice of night.
So whence the world's beauty? Was I deceived?
-----------
NEEDLE BIOPSY
December 22, 2008
All praise be Valium in Jesus' name:
a CAT-scan needle biopsy sent me
up a happy cul-de-sa, a detour not
detached from consciousness but sweetly part--
I heard the machines and expert murmuring about me--
a dulcet tube in which I lay secure and warm
and thought creative thoughts, intensely so,
as in my fading prime. Plans Flowered, dreams.
All would be well, I felt, all manner of thing.
The needle, carefully worked, was in me, beyond pain,
to find, in this bright place, so solvent a peace.
Days later, the results came casually through:
the gland, biopsied, showed metastasis.
-----------
FINE POINT
December 22, 2008
Why go to Sunday school, though surlily,
and not believe a bit of what was taught?
The desert shepherds in their scratchy robes
undoubtedly existed, and Israel's defeats--
the Temple in its sacredness destroyed
by Babylon and Rome. Yet Jews kept faith
and passed the prayers, the crabbed rites,
from table to table as christians mocked.
We mocked, but took. The timbrel creed of praise
gives spirit to the daily; blood tinges lips.
The tongue reposes in papyrus pleas,
saying, Surely--magnificent, that "surely"--
goodness and mercy shall follow me all
the days of my life, my life, forever.
— John Updike
I finished another good book last night, Under the Eye of the Clock by Christopher Nolan. I mentioned Christopher back toward the end of February because I had read his obituary in the NY Times, the underlined book title in the last sentence links to that obituary. Mr. Nolan died in February at the age of 43, an accomplished poet and novelist— it is a fascinating obit, go ahead and click.
Here are some excerpts from the third person autobiography I read:
"Wasting no time, he breathed his bona-fide belief; poetry was his vehicle of expression and truth his hallmark. Best assessed messages lighted his writing, trying as he was to solve the mystery surrounding spoilt manhood, birthed brain-damaged, but curiously, though seldom recognized, intellectually normal. Leaning on his family he cast down the gauntlet– accept me for what I am and I'll accept you for what you're accepted as... And so the battle was staged between a crippled, sane boy and a hostile, sane, secretly savage though sometimes merciful world." page 4
"Sensing his heinous horribleness of hope he cried once, once only... He was only three years old but he cried the tears of a sad man... Looking through his tears he saw her as she bent low in order to look into his eyes. 'I never prayed for you to be born cripple,' she said. 'I wanted you to be full of life, able to run and jump and talk just like Yvonne. But you are you, you hear, you can think, you can understand everything you hear, you like your food, you like nice clothes, you are loved by me and Dad. We love you just as you are.' Pussing still, sniveling still, he was listening to his mother's voice. She spoke sort of matter-of-factly but he blubbered moaning sounds. His mother said her say and that was that. She got on with her work while he got on with his crying... The decision arrived at that day was burnt forever in his mind. He was only three years of age but he was now fanning the only spark he saw, his being alive and more immediate, his being wanted just as he was." pages 37 & 38
"Now where will I look wondered the musing boy, but he desperately wished to avoid looking into those lovely eyes. He had only one wall left but on glancing over at that he banged right up against the rush-plaited cross... Snared, he too questioned young questioning. What am I going to do when I leave here, he voiced out loud. He reckoned that God would understand his mouthed words... What will happen when I go to Dublin's Center Remedial School? What will become of me when I have nobody to understand my talkstyle?... I'll be on my own, my head falling back and forward, not able to talk, not able to hug myself when I get afraid. God, would you be afraid if you were me?" page 49
Quite a writer. The NY Times obit indicates some of Christopher's school chums ended up in a band called U2. Click here to read some song lyrics Bono wrote about Christopher Nolan.
Who needs a quote after all that quoting? Keep on reading man...
5/2/09:
I stopped wearing my aircast boot last Friday and re-visited my Orthopedic MD yesterday. I no longer have the hard pain running through my ankle sideways but do have a dull pain jabbing up into my arch often when I sit or when I lie in bed. I reported this fact, wondering if this was just a new twist on my pain, a creative variant my ankle had come up with on its own. Alas, given the location of the pain, this new manifestation is simply a result, now, of wearing the aircast. The boot had kept my foot rigid to minimize movement and allow the ankle to rest and heal, and had kept my arch on a flat, rigid surface– yes, now I have Plantar fasciitis as a result of my treatment. Now I am to wear an orthotic in my shoes to address this, with the ultimate hope that it will resolve and I will be whole.
I am not supposed to return to using the elliptical machine for exercise, or using any machines with repetitive ankle movement. I have returned to swimming, but cannot do the crawl stroke as it hurts my right shoulder, so I limit myself to the breast and back strokes, along with the side stroke on each side. It is good exercise but limited in terms of a good cardio workout. I have worked myself out of a number of exercise workouts now as my body disintegrates sooner than anticipated...
We continue to work on the yard, bending over and yanking up weed after weed, moving perennials, putting flowers where we can see them nicely. Today we bought a small rhododendron and azalea, acid soil-loving flowering bushes, to plant in the front corner of the yard along with our blueberry bushes. It has been dry here and this evening much needed rain has come to water and refresh the plants we have been man-handling. My body and back get stiff and sore with all the manual labor, but getting flowers situated is gratifying, in the end. I cannot abide all the weeds and other disarray...
How dull an occupation, not at all the sort of thing for an ambitious young man. There's no future in abiding.— Dudley Moore/Peter Cooke skit, reporter for the "Bethlehem Star" interviewing shepherds in a field.
5/1/09:
All hail May, the only month of the year beginning on a Friday and the only month celebrating Mothers— a coincidence? I think not. Fridays, mothers and May, all good. Jay and I will both be in Michigan for Mother's Day this year; we are looking forward to it.
If you click on the flower picture to the right you will go to a website with old pictures of various downtowns in Michigan. If you click on me waving at the top of the page you will go to a youtube video of one of my favorite comedy routines, for your amusement. HAPPY MAY DAY...
For years I've practiced ritual,
It's dead now.
For years, I've practiced meditation,
It's dull now.
Finally, there is only soaring
Like a ribbon
Floating over the sea.
Like a dragon, soaring in the air.
— Ming-Dao Deng, TAO: Daily Meditations
Jardot's World: May Edition, 2009
All pictures on my page link to
somewhere... go ahead, click!
  |
 Donate to Linda's |
