Dandelion Day Diary

Dandelion Day Diary

090404 J Saturday, April 4, 2009, 4:30 PM:  I have parked my car at North because I am supposed to pick up Graham at 5:00 from his Dolly rehearsal because K is busy painting the garage door panels.  As I was arriving, someone in a white Jeep Cherokee going the other way honked loudly.  I hope it wasn't Graham getting a ride with someone else.  I didn't see other kids, leaving though.
    I parked in the very first parking place but I ought to have parked facing out rather than facing in because when I get back there will be zillions of people coming and going and kids walking all over and it will be difficult to get out.
     My day has not been going as planned.  :-(
    The reason I am walking now is because I did not get to walk earlier.  Things tend to take longer than I expect.  I worked on a poem, which used to be called "Underrated" but I renamed "A Can of worms."  It was written in 1999, ten years ago, after a letter from Peter Schuschni, my first husband brought up a bunch of old business.
    I worked on an art piece to take to Brian Powers in our next session.
    I wanted to work on an art piece called "Talisman" but could not locate the images I wanted so saved some others.  I also have a digital smudge painting I started like a week ago of Donna that I wanted to make for4 the celebration, but have done almost nothing on it.  The only reason I bring it up now is because I saved it to a thumb drive thinking (ha ha) that when I took a break from planting the pansies I bought to plant at bother Moran and Rolandale, I might work on one or both of those images on Tabitha which I thought I'd take with me over to Rolandale.  Ha ha.  Never did, never planted the pansies either.
    I did buy bird food, we were all out, and filled the bird food container at Moran and put out food for the birds and brought some over to Rolandale and put some out there as well.  And I got a little watering pot for Moran but did not have time to water the plants.
    At least I am outside and it is sunny and the birds are singing quite volubly.  Mourning doves, cardinals, robins (there are robins everywhere), blackbirds, etc.  I'm in a very nice neighborhood I may never have been in before.  Actually, looking around, I think I've been here before.  One time, Keith and I went to Sam and Joan's and walked here from there, or if not exactly here, near here.
    I'm on Sunningdale.  There are houses that look like castles.  And yes I have been here--there's a country club and I remember it. 
    Various people from Dawn's poetry class are participating in NaPoMo-something or other, I've already forgotten.  It's a National Poetry moth challenge to write a poem a day for 30 days and they give you a prompt a day.  Yesterday I wrote a new poem based on a dream and today I worked on that poem, a heavy revision, "A Can of worms."  I don't seem to have all that much writing time and for me, writing a poem that pleases me takes a lot of time.  And I do not remember all the challenges (there are four now, since it's the fourth.)  One was to create a metaphor from two of five disparate things in front of you and another was "three in a row."  I wrote down 5 things on my desk, and none of them appealed to me and was busy with all sorts of other things.
    And Dawn wrote such a nice three in-a-row poem that I felt stymied. I kept thinking of her poem.  Three in a row sounds like a good topic for a Geraldine poem.  I brought the Geraldine Ms to Rolandale but never got to work on it.  Connie, Keith's old Compaq, wouldn't read the files I put on the thumb drive.  I put Frog Haven and Counting Fingers on a 4 gig thumb drive, the same thumb drive that also has the painting of Donna and the images for the painting Talisman.  I am ready to work, but I don't have a computer over there that I can work on.  I could work on Connie IF I was doing new work or if I could figure out a way to transfer the files to Connie--save them to CDs? For example?
    I just got a phone call and Graham is out and wondering where I am.  So now I'm on the double.
    Monday, April 6, 2009, 12:53 PM in seven minutes, I'm supposed to be getting my breast biopsy.  I am in the first waiting room and the receptionist at Ultrasound doesn't seem to know what do with me, in spite of the fact that I am on their schedule.  They gave me a wristband, which is a little scary, as they did NOT do that for my mammograms and ultrasounds.
    It is snowing outside.  There was snow on the ground this morning and it has been snowing all day, but rather than accumulating, it is shrinking and melting away at the edges.  I had to clean the car--several inches--when I drove Graham to school, but just needed the wipers when I left for Beaumont.
    I've been sad and depressed this morning.  All morning.  I worked on the summer calendar, drawing the lines for the days and months on a 22 x 28 piece of graph paper.  But the lines were so faint I would hardly see them and it all seemed like a bit of an ordeal.  Got as far as marking down by painting with deep cadmium yellow (or something) the GM shutdown days and putting a sticky note for June 20, the day of Donna's celebration, that is, the celebration of her life.
    It's 1:00 and I am still waiting in the waiting room.
    I wasted some time this morning looking for a book to read while I was waiting.  I had planned on reading Jill Murphy's The Worst Witch.  But I already finished that and am planning to write a quick review of it and give it to Rachel on Easter.  I could not find a book that I wanted (I do have a couple with me in my backpack, but I'm not in the mood for them.)
    I was VERY sad when I couldn't find a book--most of my books now are over at Rolandale and by the time I realized that, it was too late to go look there.  But I'm not sure how well I could concentrate anyway.  I'm a little bit nervous about this whole business.
    I was really upset with Graham last night.  When I'd been talking with Aunt Sandy on-line, Graham came in and said yes he's like to go see Aunt Sandy and no he didn't have any other plans.  But last night he told me he "already" had plans with Chloe and Emily--but he'd just made them.  Aunt Sandy was rearranging her whole schedule for him.  What an @$$!  :-(   I told him he needed to talk to her and my guess is he hasn't done that yet.  And won't until things are in crisis and it's too late to fix them.  He has no empathy or understanding of how his callousness affects other people and has a tendency to simply ignore dealing with problems he's created with his thoughtlessness.
    I have some of those flaws myself, though I can swing the other way and be overly empathetic.  It's hard in life to achieve a genuine balance.
    1:11 PM No Keith anywhere nearby (do you know where your sweetie is?  It's 1:11.)
    Tuesday, April 7, 2009, 11:42 AM:  I am in the waiting room of Brian Powers, psychotherapist where I have come on a referral from Muna Beeai for insomnia.  It's very dark in the waiting room; I can hardly see the screen of the Psion.
    I feel better today.  I was really out of it yesterday after the biopsy.  I felt a little dizzy, slightly disoriented, a little queasy, and very tired, and spent most of the rest of the afternoon in bed.  Today I feel almost normal.  The hole in my breast is much larger than the prick of a sewing needle--more like the prick of a fairly large knitting needle.  But it doesn't hurt much.  No more than a scratch or thorn hole, just a little burning and/or stinging sometimes, and or occasionally a bit more pain, but hardly anything to write home about.  On the one hand, it wasn't all that bad and on the other hand, it was all a bit traumatic.  A little of each.
    I start worrying when a doctor is late or someone that I am in the wrong place at the wrong time or it's the wrong day or something.  It's past 11:45 and no Brian Powers.
    He had mail under his door and I picked it up and then didn't know what to do with it.
    There is a heater running and a white noise generator (I guess so you can't hear what's going on in the next room.)
    OK, is something, wrong?  He's still not appearing.
    3:43 PM He appeared a little late, guess he was running late with the previous client/patient.  I was worried I'd get shorted, but we ran appropriately late, too.  Which means HE got shorted.
    I am now walking down Moran toward Mack on my way to Rolandale.  K is in the garage organizing to drive over there.  It's cold.  There is snow on the ground.  Not a complete snow cover, but big patches, and the air is cold enough that it's chilling my fingers when I try to write.  Not only is it cold and windy with on the ground, but also it is actively snowing now.
    4:05 PM:  The snow has dwindled at least temporarily to a few flakes coming down here and there.  Keith went by and oooo-ooohed me when I was more than halfway to Rolandale.  I'm a block and a half from Rolandale St. or Road, then about 2, 2.5 blocks down Rolandale to the house.  Depending on how you couldn't the blocks, as they are different on each side and Moross almost counts as a block by itself.
    I was thinking about the NaPoWriMo challenges, which I have done none of, too busy, and haven't even looked them all up yet.  One of them was "Three in a row."
*   *   *   *
Third's a Charm ("Three in a Row")
The first one beat her.  She was bad, because he beat her, because,
a dragon struggled to press his scales out through her
slimy skin.  Her breath was hot with dragon fire.  His beatings
squeezed the flames into a black hole of dynamite.
or maybe a neutron bomb.  Some heavy antimatter,
ready when she escaped the first to blow acid and fire
in the face of the second.  He hit once, and the rest of the time,
shrank her with words until she was smaller than the point
of a needle with the mass of the universe crammed in.
The third one's a charm.  If he can pry her out of her shells
of darkness, and get past the land mines, he might find
a beating heart held exposed in a soft palm, eyes green
with forest light, a swallow, swooping through the trees,
carrying like his cousin, an olive branch, a breath of air,
a hand to hold in his.
Mary Stebbins Taitt
for Keith and BP
090407-1630-1st
    *    *    *    *
*   *   *   *
Third's a Charm ("Three in a Row")

The first one beat her.  She was bad, because he beat her, because,
a dragon struggled to press his scales out through her
slimy skin.  Her breath was hot with dragon fire.  His beatings
squeezed the flames into a black hole crammed with dynamite
or maybe a neutron bomb.  Antimatter, heavy with shame and pain
prepared itself when she escaped the first to blow acid and fire
in the face of the second.  He hit once, hard, then shrank
her with seething words until she was smaller than the point
of a needle with the mass of the universe crammed in.
The third one's a charm.  If he can pry her out of her shells
of darkness, and get past the land mines and fire-breathing dragon,
he might find a beating heart held exposed in a soft palm, eyes green
with forest light, a swallow, swooping through the trees,
carrying like his cousin, an olive branch, a breath of roselight,
a hand to hold in his.
Mary Stebbins Taitt, 090407-1639-1b, for Keith and BP
*    *    *    *    *
Yay, I wrote a NaPoWriMo poem!  Woopeee, yahoo.  Three cheers.  And I revised it.  I won't know if it's "worthy" or "ambititious" for a while.
*   *   *   *
Third's a Charm ("Three in a Row")

The frst one beat her.  She was bad, because he beat her, because,
a dragon, born from an egg of flame incubated
in her heart in that pocket of inherited midnight, struggled
to press his scales out through her slimy skin. 
Her breath was hot with dragon fire.  His beatings
squeezed the flames into a crevice crammed with dynamite
or maybe a neutron bomb.  A bit of antimatter, heavy
with shame and pain prepared itself to blow acid and fire
in the face of the second when she finally escaped the first. 
The second hit once, hard, then shrank
her with seething words until she was smaller than the point
of a needle crammed with the mass of the universe.
The third one's a charm.  If he can pry her out of her shells
of darkness and fat, and get past the land mines and fire-breathing dragon,
he might find a beating heart held exposed in a soft palm, eyes green
with forest light, a swallow, swooping through the trees,
carrying like his cousin, an olive branch, a memory of roselight
and rainbows, a hand to hold in his.
Mary Stebbins Taitt, 090407-1651-1c, for Keith and BP
*    *    *    *    *
    The water meter reader and sewer people came and left us a note that we were supposed to have been here and that there will be a fee since we weren't and that we have to schedule a new reading.
    If we'd been here, it wouldn't have been free.
    Wahn.  I think they may have told us at the closing. (?)
    7:14:  I am out on my forced march, my 15-minute walk.  It took me 32 minutes to walk to Rolandle so I still had 15 more.
    Wednesday, April 8, 2009, 6:40 PM, I am out walking to Rolandale.  Earlier, I walked to the village market.  I spent a lot of time on the phone trying to reach the water and sewer department to straighten out the meter reading business for house transfer and as far as I am concerned, it's not straightened out yet.
    I never downloaded my new poem from yesterday.
    Today, at least, it is sunny, though not exactly warm, and not bitter either.
    My breast was hurting some this morning.
*   *   *   *
Third's a Charm ("Three in a Row")

The first one beat her.  She was bad, because he beat her, because,
a dragon, hatched from an egg of flame incubated
in her heart in that pocket of inherited midnight, struggled
to press his scales out through her slimy skin. 
Her breath was hot with dragon fire.  His beatings
squeezed the flames into a crevice crammed with dynamite
or maybe a neutron bomb.  A bit of antimatter, heavy
with shame and pain prepared itself to blow acid and fire
in the face of the second when she finally escaped the first. 
The second hit once, hard, then shrank
her with words and venom  until she was smaller than the point
of a needle and crammed with the impossible mass of the universe.
The third one's a charm.  If he can pry her out of her shells
of darkness and protective fat, and get past the land mines
and fire-breathing dragon, he might find a beating heart
held exposed in a soft palm, eyes green
with forest light, a swallow, swooping through the trees,
carrying like his cousin, an olive branch, a promise of roselight
and rainbows, kisses, a hand to hold in his.
Mary Stebbins Taitt, 090408-1850-2a, 090407-1651-1c, for PIUS, Keith and BP
*    *    *    *    *
    OK, well I did revise it walking along but had to stop multiple times to copy it etc.
    I am walking past the green house that I wanted to buy.  Much closer, but in worse condition and not for sale.
    Dandelion Day Diary!  I just saw my first dandelion.  Chris Burnett, 1970. He told me that you could really tell when spring has arrived when you see your first dandelion.
    At least it's a sunny day, and has been, all day, in spite of the hassles that leave me feeling overwhelmed.
    I'm approaching Canyon Bob's and after that, Balduck Park and Copper Canyon.  The road I am walking on is Canyon, and down by Balduck Park used to be where the police and firemen lived when they were required to live in Detroit.
    Canyon Bob is not in his yard.  OH, there he is, he came running out to tell me he saw our new house yesterday.  He kept scratching himself the whole time he was talking; hope he doesn't have lice cause he always comes out to shake my hand.  He wished me a happy Easter and to say hi to Keith--once he called him "Curtis" I think.
    I just passed the halfway tree.  15 more minutes to go.  I've been walking slowly, trying to work.
    I think today's challenge is to write "charming" haiku." Lottie wrote one that was really good.  When I see someone else's work that's really good, it has a dampening effect on my creativity, like, I can't do that.  Aiee.
    Speaking of really good, I'd posted my last two pieces in Jessie's mole which I did last night, stayed up late doing them and the G woke me up early for a ride to school, I posted them to The Moleskine Exchange site and Steve waxed exuberant about how much he liked them, amazingly so, and here I was thinking they were fairly mediocre.
    Aiee.  Well, I am certainly pleased that he liked them.  It brings into focus the whole issue of what is good art.  What IS good art and who makes that call?  The artist?  The critic, the curator, the buying public, other artists?  What is good art? I have the same problem with poetry.
    There is a dead animal on the sidewalk, curled on its side, grey and rat-sized and at first I think it's a rat, but I see it's a squirrel and I repeat the Zen mantra "I too will like that sometime." which always gives me a lurch.  I am not eager to die.
    The two new pieces I did were both done with gouache.  The painting is uneven and sort of messy.  I never was good at staying in the lines.
    I don't know why I keep trying to be an artist.  I need to go back to working on Sissy, Geraldine and my other books.  I need to get a computer over to Rolandale.  I could theoretically move Blue but first I need to get word for the Mac.  I need to make THAT a priority, assuming my biopsy results are OK.  If they are not Ok, I will have other things to worry about.

--
I am certain of nothing but the Heart's affections and the truth of the Imagination- John Keats
Mary