Hoarding

No, I'm not a hoarder, but I frequently watch old reruns of the program on Netflix lest I become absent-minded and allow clutter to take over. 

I have true hoarders on both sides of my family -- my father's side seems to be the worst.  When he died I had to go through his old pick-up truck and an old trailer that was too cluttered to live in any longer.  Frequently he would buy huge lots of items at flea markets and bring them to me -- offerings, gifts.  Items I had no use for, couldn't sell, couldn't give away except to Goodwill.  Occasionally he would bring in some ancient rusted farm implement, despite the fact that I am a city girl, and insist it was useful and that "they" didn't make them any more.

I fight clutter in my life every day.  My dining room table is piled with books and bags of parrot treats, letters and pens.  My laptop is full of unorganized web bookmarks and unfiled e-mail, drafts of poems I'll never finish, drafts of articles and idea I mean to get to soon. My office right now is piled with items I'm putting in a big yard sale I'm having with three other friends later this month -- books, my old tiny refrigerator from my job, housewares I'll never use.

It isn't just physical either.  Emotional clutter is always happy to pop up from time to time -- old beliefs, old patterns of behavior, just waiting to bring havoc in my life.  But I have learned to practice good mental hygiene and can recognize when I need to slow down, get more rest, stand up to whatever belittling belief is threatening to overtake me.

I suppose everyone has a picture of their ideal life -- mine is a clean, clear, peaceful place to write, with everything in my life nice and organized.  For a variety of reasons it's taken me decades to finally have that place, so I don't worry too much if I have to move aside an errant notepad today or some coupons tomorrow. 

But I guess it will continue to be an everyday thing -- this eternal vigilance to keep all my spaces clear.  I'm glad I can do it.

Overcoming Inertia

Forgive me, readers.  It's been several months since I updated my blog.  In that time I've had the living/dining/kitchen area and bedroom repainted, done major decluttering of closets, had a harmless growth removed from my leg, and am currently recovering from the annual round of springtime allergies that end up being sinus infections requiring lots of antibiotics and extra naps.

This picture is Nicholas, looking out from behind a sort of woven net of bagel bites and some kind of coarse fibers.  I took it a few days ago; I forgot to reset the date on the camera when I changed the battery.

The birds are wonderful.  They like me being home, except that I don't let them out as frequently and for as long as they think they should be out.  It's not really a problem with the Bobbsey Twins since they rarely stray from the open cage door, but Charli's another matter.

There are books in dire need of chewing, she has decided.  And it's so convenient to climb from my shoulder to the book case when I'm sitting on the couch.  We then go through several rounds of her climbing to the bookcase and me bringing her back to my shoulder.  Then she gets mad; her little eyes narrow and she becomes even more determined to get to the bookcase.  I bring her back to the coffee table and show her that her favorite sudoku book is available for chewing, but no . . . . it's the cookbooks in the bookcase she wants.

It's taken me several months, but I think I've finally gotten a healthy routine set out, which means I can get back to some serious writing.  I bought myself a Kindle and I've been reading a lot of books rather than listening to them from audible.com.  Writing an update is my way of starting to kick some inertia butt!

Derby Day 2010

Yes, I know it's been awhile.  Work, life, friends, family, strangers, and so on.

Today I finished the first draft of a book I've been working on.  A very bad draft, but finished all the same.  Now all I have to do is fill in details, get the style straightened out, polish the prose, make sure things flow in a logical order, and so on.  Another two or three drafts and I might actually have a real book worth reading.  No sweat!

In other areas, things are fine.  Work is quiet, for the most part.  I have a new therapist I like a lot who seems to know what he's doing, and that's helped a lot.

I received my first royalty check a few weeks ago.  A laughably small amount, but the amount doesn't matter.  I took a couple of pictures of it, in case I ever needed to remember.

James Baker Hall

We all knew this was coming, but when Charlie casually mentioned he'd heard hospice had been called it was still too much for me to hear.

I called his wife and left a short message but they both already know how much I love them. There's nothing left to say.

What I will remember is his laugh and the clear way he always pronounced my name, each syllable crisp, his long discourses on poetry and literature and ego and ego-lessness. If you're not risking anything, he would tell us in those late afternoons, don't bother to write. He wanted us to come to the page naked and honest, perhaps for the first time in our lives. If you're not risking anything . . .

Too easy, I guess, to say that he made it safe for me to finally risk in my work. During our first conference he said he took me seriously as a writer -- the first person who ever had.

Over the years I took everything he had to give me, greedy for more without much idea of ever being able to pay back. My first and probably only book of poems is dedicated to him, but it probably won't be published in time for him to see it.

That night so long ago at Tolly Ho's, Carole and Tina and Jim and I sitting around, on our fourth or fifth pitcher, talking about rock 'n roll, and Jim turning to me to ask, "You've been awfully quiet. What do you think?"

And I said, "I was just thinking that I love you." I saw the tears in his eyes and flustered I went on, "I don't mean, you know, . . . " I got up to go to the jukebox to play some Fleetwood Mac song to cover up our embarrassment.

Safe journey, my friend. Safe journey.

April 1935 - June 25, 2009

Wind

Jim BH called me this morning; he's my writing teacher/mentor. He seemed out of breath and when I asked he said he thought he'd told me -- he has rheumatoid arthritis-associated pulmonary fibrosis. I knew about the arthritis, but not this. No treatment, no cure. And yes, it's fatal if it progresses. He said he's been pretty stable but really about all he can do is sit. He said he does walk around the house, very slowly, a few times a day.

He's breaking my heart.

I still think of him as that man who'd bring in a jug of wine to class, and we'd all sit around drinking and smoking and talking about one another's poems. Then after class we'd all go over to Tolly Ho's to eat greasy cheeseburgers and drink pitchers of beer and talk about poetry and writing. I took his poetry classes for years, two semesters a year. He changed my life.

Now of course, a teacher would be fired for bringing alcohol to class, and I guess if the administration knew then they would have fired him. But we never told anyone. And smoking is prohibited damn near everywhere these days.

He won teacher of the year once, and he was our state poet laureate for a year. His work was published in numerous magazines, and one of his books was nominated for some high-level prize that I've forgotten the name of. He and wife had a big party, invitation only, to celebrate the nomination. One year he brought his own work to class, not only for feedback, but to show us that he struggled with the same poetry and language things we did. The few people who didn't love him respected him highly, and still do. But the number of people who loved him and love him still far outnumber the others.

He lives far out in the country, beyond the interstates and state roads, with his wife, who has published three novels herself. He used to have his special students out for dinner, including me, where we ate wonderful meals and drank too much wine and talked about writing and writers. He was friends with a lot of writers, many of whom would visit for a day or so, but who are dead now.

The wind is howling outside this afternoon, and the leaves of the trees are showing their undersides -- precursors to a huge storm, though the tail end of Ike isn't supposed to reach us at all. Romantic that I am, I assume it's the universe's way of sympathizing with my pain at his illness. Sometimes the wind can howl far better than I.