Thursday, November 07, 2024

Poem for Wednesday and Even My Cats Are Disgusted

Vote Your Way to Hell 
By Janet Wong 

It’s a long and arduous journey.
Starving with numbness.
Tired of mixing kindness and sabotage.
You can’t trust instinct.
After the election, you can’t believe the weather is wrong again.
The sky cheats on your speech.
The process is complicated and precarious.
Disappointed, there’s no word of a sad sneer.
Nothing has changed.

What else do you expect?
This is already a hell, paved by your blood and passion.
You’d rather go back to the womb, it’s warmer.
May other reckless souls be consumed.

Even so, I want everyone to vote.
Vote your way to an alternative hell.
Congratulations!
You’re part of the construction of our living inferno.

Here, keep cracking and burning bones as fuel.
The walls scream for mercy, sounding like your singing voice.
Many innocent young souls are recognized.
Vote! You deserve limbo, not war.
We need to keep walking in the dark, searching for hellfire and passing offspring an improbable spring and a maybe sunrise.

-------- 

I'm waiting for Paul to get home from the airport -- his flight was delayed several hours because the plane was late arriving -- and watching Argylle again because that's what my brain can handle at the moment, after The Masked Singer because Jenny McCarthy and Robin Thicke are the least of America's problems at the moment. 

Some parts of my Wednesday were nice -- chatting with all my high school friends, watching two episodes of Ms. Marvel with Kristen, and I managed to converse with my college roommate and other friends -- but I can't cope with social media, or the news. Maybe I'll have more to say tomorrow but I am so fucking done with today.

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Wednesday, November 06, 2024

Greetings for Election Day

Quickie because I'm exhausted, though I had a quiet early day: with out of town, the cats demanded food early, and I did a bunch of computer work and chores like emptying the dishwasher and folding laundry, then took a walk to the beach (a five eagle day). My Voyager group was too distracted to sit through the show or even a movie, though we'd discussed and decided maybe we should watch Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day, so we talked for an hour and a half. 

Then Daniel and Cahaya picked me up and we went to Kanishka for dinner, where I ate paneer makhni and veggie samosas. We came back to the awful news about the Senate, though I'm delighted that Alsobrooks won in Maryland, that McBride won in Delaware, and that Ferguson won the gubernatorial race here. I'm watching Christmas in Notting Hill because that's what I'm capable of paying attention to now. Whatever else happens, I'm so disappointed with half of Americans.

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Tuesday, November 05, 2024

Poem for Monday and Holycross Abbey

Seed Speech 
By Janet Wong 

If you think
of words
as tiny seeds
that take root
and hold
this earth together

then you see
why it matters for us
to scatter even our smallest
thoughts out there,
to make our voices
heard --

There are no stupid questions.
And, yes:
there might be simple answers.

The birds are chirping:
more seeds,
more seeds!

-------- 

Paul is on the redeye overnight because he has a work thing -- he'll be back here Wednesday night, assuming the election doesn't mess up flights. So we had a fairly quiet day doing work and chores, then we walked to the beach and saw the ducks closer to evening now that the clocks have gone back. We ate leftovers for dinner and started watching the Chiefs-Buccaneers game together before he left, then chatted while he was at the airport about the stupid overtime rules that let KC win. Now I'm watching The Fall Guy, something distracting from the news. 

Speaking of the election, since it seems like a good night for prayer -- my Jewish women's support group for Kamala on Facebook called it Poll Nidre -- here is Holycross Abbey, founded as a Cistercian monastery by the King of Limerick in 1182, possessing a relic of the True Cross brought to Ireland by King John's wife Isabella of Angouleme in the 1200s, a chalice from the 1600s, a fresco of Irish hunters from the 1400s, the Stations of the Cross both within and without, the ruins of the infirmary and guest house, and partially intact cloisters:

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Monday, November 04, 2024

Lyrics for Sunday and Green Lake

Backstreets 
By Bruce Springsteen 

One soft infested summer, me and Terry became friends
Trying in vain to breathe the fire we was born in
Catching rides to the outskirts, tying faith between our teeth
Sleeping in that old abandoned beach house, getting wasted in the heat
And hiding on the backstreets
Hiding on the backstreets
With a love so hard and filled with defeat
Running for our lives at night on them backstreets

Slow dancing in the dark on the beach at Stockton's Wing
Where desperate lovers park, we sat with the last of the Duke Street Kings
Huddled in our cars, waiting for the bells that ring
In the deep heart of the night they set us loose of everything
To go running on the backstreets
Running on the backstreets
Terry, you swore we'd live forever
Taking it on them backstreets together

Endless juke joints and Valentino drag
Where famous dancers scraped the tears up off the street, dressed down in rags
Running into the darkness, some hurt bad, some really dying
At night sometimes it seemed you could hear the whole damn city crying
Blame it on the lies that killed us, blame it on the truth that ran us down
You can blame it all on me, Terry, it don't matter to me now
When the breakdown hit at midnight, there was nothing to say
But I hated him, and I hated you when you went away

Laying here in the dark, you're like an angel on my chest
Just another tramp of hearts crying tears of faithlessness
Remember all the movies, Terry, we'd go see
Trying to learn to walk like the heroes we thought we had to be
And after all this time, to find we're just like all the rest
Stranded in the park and forced to confess
To hiding on the backstreets
Hiding on the backstreets
Where we swore forever friends
On the backstreets until the end

Hiding on the backstreets
Hiding on the backstreets
Was all right, we're all
Hiding on the backstreets tonight
Hiding on the backstreets

-------- 

Sunday was a beautiful day, on the cool side and breezy. We went to Green Lake, met Daniel at his house, and took him to lunch at the Greenlake Grill while Cahaya, who's working on an MBA, stayed home with the dogs to study. Then we took the dogs for a walk around the lake; they were fairly rambunctious and chased squirrels, geese, and other dogs as much as they can on leashes, but they calmed down by the time we stopped for boba on the way back to Daniel's house.

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We came home as it was getting dark -- too early, since the clocks went back last night -- and had a small dinner since we were still full from the Beecher's grilled cheese and tomato soup (me) and various breakfast meats (them) from lunch. We caught up on the end of the day's football, watched the episode of Ghosts we missed on Thursday, and now we're watching Blinded by the Light because we were in the mood for it and haven't seen it since it came out five years ago.

Sunday, November 03, 2024

Poem for Saturday and Afternoon Around Redmond

Chickens 
By Kate Gale 

I come from hay and barns, raising 
chickens. In spring, lambs come. 

You got to get up, fly early, do the orphan run 
sleep till dawn, start the feeding. 

When the electricity shuts off, you boil water, you crack ice. 
You keep the animals watered. 

You walk through the barn, through the hay smell,
your hair brittle where you chopped it with scissors 

same ones you use for everything. Your sweater has holes. 
When you feed the ram lambs, you say goodbye. 

Summer, choke cherries; your mouth’s dry. Apples, cider. 
Corn picking. Canning for weeks that feel like years. 

Chopping heads off quail, rabbits, chickens. 
You can pluck a chicken, gut it fast. 

You find unformed eggs, unformed chicks. 
They start chirping day nineteen. 

You make biscuits and gravy for hundred kids 
serve them up good. You’re the chick 

who never got past day nineteen, never found your chick voice. 
You make iced tea. They say, you’re a soldier in the king’s army. 

At night, you say to yourself, Kathy, someday. 
We go walking. We go talking. We find a big story. 

A cracking egg story. A walking girl story. 
A walking out of the woods story. A not slapped silly story. 

A not Jesus story. Hush, Kathy you say, we get out of here. 
We find out where chicks go when they learn to fly.

-------- 

It rained all morning Saturday while we watched college football and I fought my ten battles in the Pokemon Go Battle Weekend Max Out event. By the time we ate lunch, the rain was subsiding, and the sun had come out by the time we went out, so instead of the indoor Diwali festival at the mall, we went to Farrel-McWhirter Park, which has both a farm with barnyard animals and trails in the woods along Mackey Creek. We also dropped off our ballots in the drop box and stopped in Whole Foods, World Market, and Safeway for various foodstuffs.

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We got home in time for most of the UW-USC game which was close until the Huskies pulled away at the end, then spent most of the evening watching the second season of The Diplomat, which has some elements that are fairly preposterous, but Keri Russell and [spoiler] are so good together, and having Allison Janney on the show makes it even more fun than last season. It's so enjoyable watching women who make plenty of mistakes and selfish decisions but are resilient and confident and honestly trying to work for the greater good.

Saturday, November 02, 2024

Poem for Friday and Burren Stones

Postscript 
By Seamus Heaney 

And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightning of a flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
Their fully grown headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you’ll park and capture it
More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.

-------- 

We had a rainy Friday, which was fine because we both had dentist appointments in the morning. Paul was getting a crown, I was getting scanned for a retainer guard, and since his appointment took a lot longer than mine, I walked over to Ross and tried on a bunch of dresses; I ended up buying all three of the ones I liked because they were all in the $20 range with discounts and I will have lots of occasions to wear them next year. The rain let up enough after lunch for a walk to the park and three eagles were in the trees. 

We caught up on the season finale of Only Murders in the Building in the late afternoon, a good end for the season, though it seemed slower than last season. We also watched Disclaimer, which I would quit watching if next week weren't the finale; it revels in misogyny and the plot has ridiculous gaps in order to maximize Cate Blanchett's suffering. Now, after mole for dinner and a chocolate pumpkin muffin for dessert, we're watching Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2. Poulnabrone dolmen and the limestone pavement of the Burren:

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Friday, November 01, 2024

Lyrics for Thursday and Halloween

Mr. Macklin’s Jack O'Lantern 
By David McCord 

Mr. Macklin takes his knife 
And carves the yellow pumpkin face: 
Three holes bring eyes and nose to life, 
The mouth has thirteen teeth in place. 
Then Mr. Macklin just for fun 
Transfers the corn-cob pipe from his 
Wry mouth to Jack’s, and everyone 
Dies laughing! O what fun it is 
Till Mr. Macklin draws the shade 
And lights the candle in Jack’s skull. 
Then all the inside dark is made 
As spooky and as horrorful 
As Halloween, and creepy crawl 
The shadows on the tool-house floor, 
With Jack’s face dancing on the wall. 
O Mr. Macklin! where's the door?

-------- 

Happy Halloween (and Happy Diwali if you're celebrating)! Mine was fairly low-key compared to when I had kids at home, though I did wear my Star Trek uniform all day, when we went out to get food at lunchtime (Blazing Bagels was decorated for the holiday and was giving out bagel "eyeballs") and when we walked to the park (a neighbor asked me if I was supposed to be "Mrs. Captain Picard" and had never watched Voyager, bah). 

It was raining by evening, so we only had a few trick-or-treaters and now we have lots of leftover candy, heh. Only two other people from my Thursday night chat group came but we had a nice long conversation, after which I chatted with my Trekkie neighbors a bit while Thursday Night Football ended. Now we're watching Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 1 which is grand for Halloween night. Our day and our kids' elsewhere:

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Thursday, October 31, 2024

Poem for Wednesday and Rock of Dunamase

Transplanted 
By William O'Neill 

But vain I wait and listen for Rory Og is dead, 
And in the halls of Dunamase a Saxon rules instead, 
And o'er his fruitful acres the stranger now is lord 
Where since the days of Cuchorb a proud O'Moore kept ward. 

-------- 

I had a fun Wednesday despite rainy weather, starting with chat with two of my high school friends, then bagels for lunch. Afterward, Kristen and I resumed our MCU watch with the first two episodes of Ms. Marvel, which remain excellent, and by then the rain had let up enough that Paul and I could walk to the lake, which we pretty much had to ourselves apart from lots of ducks, some coots, and an eagle.

We got home in time for the start of the World Series game, which it looked like the Yankees were going to win easily, but then they made piles of mistakes and the Dodgers won the whole thing. Cheryl and I watched the finale of Agatha All Along together, which was superb despite not resolving one of the key issues of the show. Now we're watching Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

Here are the ruins of Dunamase Castle on the Rock of Dunamase, once the seat of the Kings of Laois, first settled in the 800s and promptly pillaged by the Vikings, though this castle was built in the 1100s and inhabited by the Norman Irish, then the O'Moores as they resisted the English, until it was slighted to keep it from Cromwell's forces and eventually fell into disrepair.

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Wednesday, October 30, 2024

Poem for Tuesday and Rock of Cashel

The Rock of Cashel 
By Aubrey De Vere 

Royal and saintly Cashel! I would gaze
Upon the wreck of thy departed powers,
Not in the dewy light of matin hours,
Nor the meridian pomp of summer's blaze,
But at the close of dim autumnal days,
When the sun's parting glance, through slanting showers,
Sheds o'er thy rock-throned battlements and towers
Such awful gleams as brighten o'er Decay's
Prophetic cheek. At such a time, methinks,
There breathes from thy lone courts and voiceless aisles
A melancholy moral, such as sinks
On the lone traveller's heart, amid the piles
Of vast Persepolis on her mountain stand,
Or Thebes half buried in the desert sand.

-------- 

Tuesday was a lovely cool day without rain, so after a quiet morning getting computer work done, we walked to the beach and discovered that the coot commotion has moved back for the winter into the lake behind our apartment. Then my Voyager group and I watched "The Void"; I really hated it when I first saw it and wrote a scathing review, but this time I just thought it was kind of boring and highly derivative and made most of the crew look bad. 

We ate dinner while watching the World Series, which did not go the Dodgers' way tonight, but that won't matter if they win tomorrow. Now we're watching Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, which may objectively be the best of the movies, though POA is my favorite. Here is the Rock of Cashel, ancient home of the kings of Munster, where St. Patrick converted King Aenghus to Christianity in 450 and Brian Boru was crowned High King in 978:

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