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Archive for November, 2011

introspection  spectacles

ticks  fleas

scabies  itchmites  black poodle

your dog has zee mange

German  French

romance

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language

tongue

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don’t tell  whisper

ear  sing

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schlong-dong

Okay, maybe it’s time to end this little game. That was real, yo!

How about this: things we don’t need:

organic massage*

weight-loss hot pants

Dancing with the Stars

“news” about Dancing with the Stars

TV

Reality TV

celebrity haircuts

celebrity dresses

celebrity suits

pantsuits

It is Wednesday, November 16, 10:24 pm in Singapore.

In less than a month it will start getting dark at about 3:30. The sun will set at around quarter after four.

It is already too dark at 4:15 every afternoon. It’s not even afternoon, it’s a bad joke. I am shocked by the darkness. I should be asleep like a farmer, every night at 5:30 pm, 6 at the latest.

*as a massage therapist extraordinaire, I take offense to the Groupon which advertises services for “organic massage.” AHEM and WTF? I want it stopped

[insert curlicue pause here to indicate change of subject]

or maybe use these: ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Tom Waits + youtube= falling down the rabbit hole

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Remember how prickly I can be about details? Well, I got the geography wrong yesterday–some names and some finer points. Burma is Myanmar. So when I wrote Burma, it should simply have been Myanmar. And I think I meant the Malay Peninsula, because Myanmar doesn’t really have one (a peninsula, don’t get any ideas).

The things in my head are curries. And beautiful, vulvar orchids (even though you know what the Latin word orchis means, right?). And pythons (Burmese python, right?). And cats (a Burmese is a kind of cat, right?) and dogs (same thing, only in dog form). Nope, scratch that. That’s a Bernese Mountain dog. I used to massage a couple who had one of those. Large, neurotic dog, originally bred in the Swiss mountains and related to the better-known St. Bernard. At least that’s what I remember from my clients….I’d best shut up before I get any more facts wrong….

So for any fellow sticklers, you’ve now seen that I, too, can make mistakes of a geographical nature. Not like I don’t know my ass from a hole in the ground or anything, but you get the idea.

Sigh.

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Hubby is far away. Really far. To exotic places: Burma, the Myanmar Penninsula, Phuket, but really only in the vicinity. He’s in Singapore, though maybe hasn’t landed yet.

I picture food cooked with limes and hot peppers; purple orchids; turquoise water. I’m shut down and I’m busy and I’m tired. So that got me thinking about Tom Waits and “Shore Leave.”

But then, something else happened, something wonderful. I found Cowboylands, the blog of an old pal. And on that blog, I found Glenna Bell.

I’m not sure how all of this works as far as the technology goes and as far as copyrights are concerned. But I think if you click through on these links and then click on each of these songs, it will work and it’s hunky dory. It is her own myspace page after all, right? I sure like her music and I don’t even speak Spanish or know anything about Cowboys and Texas.

la-casa-que-yo-amo-40169726

can-t-get-my-mind-off-you-40169721

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If I could hand you something, it would be yesterday’s weather. Perfect temperature, perfect sunshine, perfect air. I would like to give you that, but I can’t.

What else? I went into the bathroom one evening, last Thursday or Friday, and I saw on the wall next to the little mounted metal-and-glass shelving unit and towel bar (that’s one, singular, towel bar, room only enough for one neatly hung hand towel and one folded and hung washcloth) and saw 2 beautiful polished chrome towel hooks installed on the wall. That was love from my Hubby and I am grateful for it. It may seem cheap, I know, to mention it here. These things are sacred to me and it would be unseemly to broadcast them all over the place. But once in a while, in my need and quest to stay mindful of the good in the world, I must share them here, for you, but mostly for myself. So there. Newly installed towel hooks in my bathroom installed by Hubby. That is good enough proof of good in the world.

That’s not all folks: I, for the first time, submitted a poem to a poetry website/blog a few months ago (this is different from Poetry Jam in which poems are not read or approved by an editor). In case you never noticed, on my blogroll over there to the right, there is a website called voxpoetica. I submitted a poem and it was taken and has been published for today. It stays up for one day and then is moved to an archive of past daily poems. So I am thrilled and excited, it is true. It’s sort of fun and strange and amazing to see it there with my little bio. I love, too, that a daily poem is posted and then moved along to make room for the next day’s poem. I am learning to let go and to not get too attached, so it’s perfect and I am grateful.

And a shout out to Ray Sharp at Bard of Liminga who gave me a nod in the direction of voxpoetica. I would not likely have tried to submit without the little nudge. Thanks, Ray.

That’s all and it’s enough.

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Yes, it’s true that without the Google doodle of yesterday, I wouldn’t have known it was Marie Curie’s birthday. This poem still gives me chills. One of my favorites. I don’t really know much about Marie Curie, but I do think of all the women who research alongside men and don’t get credit, though perhaps this has nothing to do with Marie Curie.

Power

Living in the earth-deposits of our history

Today a backhoe divulged out of a crumbling flank of earth
one bottle amber perfect a hundred-year-old
cure for fever or melancholy a tonic
for living on this earth in the winters of this climate.

Today I was reading about Marie Curie:
she must have known she suffered from radiation sickness
her body bombarded for years by the element
she had purified
It seems she denied to the end
the source of the cataracts on her eyes
the cracked and suppurating skin of her finger-ends
till she could no longer hold a test-tube or a pencil

She died a famous woman denying
her wounds
denying
her wounds came from the same source as her power.

Adrienne Rich

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Here and here are the previous entries.

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I am not going to say that I am grateful for electricity, okay?

Oh, who am I kidding? I’ll say it. I’m grateful for electricity.

I am more grateful for a heated house and hot water and light in the darkness, which is to say that for the 3 days and 4 nights we just spent without electricity, I would liked to have had a better ability to create a source of heat and light that is not dependent on power lines. We did use a camping stove for heating up soup and noodles and water a few times. That was nice.

But I would like to have a gas stove, a wood-burning fireplace, and more surfaces in my house that could be safely used with candlelight. My house is small-ish (to me who grew up in much larger houses) and cluttered-ish. I would have liked to read or do my crossword puzzles by candlelight in my bedroom on those nights without electricity, but there isn’t a safe place to put a candle–too much clutter or too many fabric-y things all over the place.

I am grateful for HEAT and LIGHT and FIRE which is to say, from within.

You may not believe it, but I, twinklysparkles, was getting very pissy and whiny after just ONE NIGHT without heat. It was cold, I tell you. By Monday night, I was too cold to sleep and I had a super-shitty night. But on Tuesday evening, I went to my regular yoga class. My teacher, too, had been without heat at her house. She taught a very heat-producing class. Like strip-off-your clothes yoga workout. Not hot yoga, just bringing up the inner heat, the heat you can create by moving your own muscles, breath, chi, prana.

I came home ready to conquer. Full of fire. Remembering who I am and remembering that before external power, I have the spark of life inside.

Hubby heated water on the camping stove. I did a whole dang load of dishes. (Have I ever told you about my champion dish-stacking skills? I am the best dish-stacker I have ever met. My drying rack is a thing of beauty. Balanced, poised, sensible. I love stacking clean dishes almost as much as making sure the dishes are clean).

Warm toilet seats. Oh my God.

Warm floors.

Warm bed.

You know, in the winter, those 3 things aren’t terribly warm all the time anyway, but 48-ish degrees was going too far.

What I learned: I would be able to adjust if we had no electricity. I would figure it out. I would need help, yes, but I would not die or fester or crumble or disintegrate. We all would figure it out. We would have another way of heating, of lighting. We would have root cellars and canned foods and jerky. Yes. We have not lived with electricity for much of human history; we would get it together.

I actually liked the pace while we had no electricity. Slower. Boring and depressing, but I liked the slow. I liked the candlelight. I liked having a little pot of hot water from the camping stove that I could put a wash cloth to and wash in the candle-lit bathroom, so cold to be uncovered, but my body craving the heat. Steam. I like steam.

I really missed my vacuum cleaner (I think it has made Thankful Thursday before). My German-made SEBO. It is the best vacuum cleaner I have ever owned. Love my SEBO.

Love my kids. Love my Hubby. Love my mom.

I love shopping. I love when we are out of food and can’t cook but can go eat somewhere else.

Love my blender with which I can make my own coffee blended (I know you know that, but I really missed it).

Love my granola (ran out and couldn’t bake more)

Thankful for friends who open up their homes to us when we have no heat, electric, shower.

Thankful that I have an old-fashioned land-line (not cordless) that never went out so I could stay connected.

Love my internet. Love my blog.

Love my car. Love having a car. Love being able to drive when I need to.

Love being able to help my mom.

Silk long johns–bottoms, tops, undershirts, especially if they are pink or black

non-itchy, but warm, socks

polarfleece

Oh I hate this post, but it being Thankful Thursday, I’m not supposed to say that. Just this one time, I’m going to allow it. Then it will be forgotten and I won’t remember the cold and the lack and the dependence and it will happen again and no one will remember and it will be okay and I’ll let you know, just once in over 10 months, that I don’t like my writing sometimes. So deep and rich for me to practice not hating my writing. So deep and rich to not hate anything at all, really.

It’s hot, it’s cool, it’s the bomb, this practice of not hating. I recommend it. I am learning to love it, but it may be the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Is it simple acceptance, then, not hating? Is it detachment? Is it love?

Start of new poem, or fragment of new poem, not sure which:

Fragment

The dead cornstalks flutter like prayers

Why try to measure my immeasurable love?

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Electricity was restored to our house last night at 1 am. Such relief I feel, oy! Can I get an “AMEN?”

Going commando update:

I realize that my attempt at fitting things into the category of going commando was fraught with false turns. It began to sound more like a Thankful Thursday than a post about underwear and nakedness. But it reminded me of a great story my mother tells from her childhood.

My mother grew up in Germany during the war. Her father had some relative–an aunt, a grandmother, a sister–I don’t really know and have never gotten the detail right on this–who had a farm away from the little Medieval town where my mother lived with her parents. They would send my mother to get fattened up because they had no food during the war. Rationing and what not.

My mother was particularly impressed with the woman at the farm. This woman, my mother says, was the hardest-working person she has ever met or seen. My mother has a memory of the woman working in the fields and lifting her skirt, squatting to pee and going back to her work. Lifting her skirt, no pulling down of any undergarments, squatting, peeing, and moving on. Almost like the women who work in the fields, squat to birth a baby, wrap it up, and keep working, the rhythm uninterrupted. How do they cut the cord? Where does the placenta go? Probably just hack it with a scythe and let it fall to fertilize the soil. Totally commando. Wow.

Two Peasant Women in the Peat Fields, Vincent Van Gogh, 1883

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