Peg Duthie's Blog, page 17

Off Calendar

I'd hoped to stay in bed, but duty called,
but had I not been out I wouldn't have stopped
for the slow treat of a tall peppermint mocha.

Although I had the pew-bench all to myself,
the shop seemed full of congregants --
a grizzled gentleman holding forth on Churchill,
younger creatures conferring on clothes for clubbing,

and who-knows-what-fresh-hell-now unspooling
across the phone and laptop screens. I'm too far away
to see what's being said, and I am fine with that,

for right now all I want is to steep in the sweetness
of sitting still, of studying glass
being both filter and mirror, night-edged research
sharing its margins with daybreak, the sky

the pink of the Christmas cactus blooms at my house,
the plants flowering on, beyond the carols and candles.

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tattooing the darkness

[The subject line is from Bei Dao's New Year, translated by David Hinton.]

Culling unloved photos from the drives --
blurry loaves, a squinting ex,
streaks alluding to nights that no one
else this side of the afterworld can recall,
much less light up with the lived-through-it --

my husband peers at my screen, asking
about my codes while knowing
I'm not going to make any sense.
On cue, he groans. I kiss his neck,
advise him just to call our advisor
should I get hit by a pedal tavern.

"I will," he says, "after I burn
all the pedal taverns down." "I'll do
my best not to get nailed by one." He nods
with feeling. I've seen him throw
whole albums into bins, and
t-shirts into rag-piles. I myself flung
his aunt's old clippings and ledgers
into the dumpster -- records I would
have loved to pore over, some other lifetime,
but there was no time to spare and no room
and even what I hauled back's since been further
"curated" down to what I can swear
I'll probably wear, and even then
I still have to tell myself, "Get real!
No one's going to study your dozens of drafts,
let alone save them, and that's not even
how you'd want them to spend their days, not
when the world will still need defending
from despots, not to mention
friskier frolics--" I want to be
the kind of ghost that kicks their butts
into dancing alone at the disco
should they want to dance when no one else is game
and the strength in their no when they know
they're overdue for tea with just the trees.

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by the seat of my broom

Hanging onto my hourglass-sand-scoured ride
as it swerves and dips, wrenches and screeches
its way through the jagged turn of this year
onto the fog-wreathed bridge of the next --

the first of many gauntlets waiting ahead.
Some may well dissolve with huffing and puffing
but I have seen what straw can devour --

like plague, like lava -- as it fans out within flames,
rippling, ripping everything near the fury
into indiscernable ruins. Ninety years hence --

or just nineteen, or hell, even nine --
this story will be ancient, all too possibly buried
beneath triumphant lies. But meantime, meanwhile -- time notwithstanding --

meanness must be countered, rugs rolled away
for air to meet rot, hearths unwalled
to hands trained in mending and measuring what's true.




==

For another stare-and-riff inspired by this site, see Frames at Vary the Line.

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Excuse me for flying, and for denying...

The subject line comes from "The Crafty Mistriss's Resolution, which appears in Wit and Mirth; or, Pills to Purge Melancholy, which is quoted by Graham Christian in his presentation of the 17th-century dance "Excuse Me."

These videos chronicle some of the English country dances enjoyed in Atlanta a couple of weekends ago. The list was originally compiled by Barb Katz (I added two vids and dropped the photo album). I'm wearing my gray Girls to the Moon / Ladies of Space tee and a long gray skirt in the workshop dances, and a teal cocktail dress at the ball; my favorites among these are "Noisette," "Horseplay," "Mr. Isaac's Maggot," and the two Blue Heron Waltzes. ("Wa' Is Me, What Mun I Do?" is my heart's tune, and I greatly enjoyed dancing it with Barb, but the sound/band do better in other iterations.)

The Fandango
https://youtu.be/MUxaIaOA04E

Noisette
https://youtu.be/FVEeTvqMo7c

Horseplay
https://youtu.be/oIwI7Jj33Ng

Mad Robin
https://youtu.be/MhBv7l8cFdo

The Bishop
https://youtu.be/jSQDt18wwYQ

Apollo's Hunt
https://youtu.be/5w05tYrUQi4

Blue Heron Waltz (workshop)
https://youtu.be/SZFgPuEYO6s

Blue Heron Waltz (at the ball)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XAliw1Umulg

Corelli's Maggot
https://youtu.be/7247oNnDvj4

Mr. Isaac's Maggot
https://youtu.be/eYp0bryJsVc

Trip to Tunbridge
https://youtu.be/Axr9MMdrqH0

Wa' is Me, What Mun I Do?
https://youtu.be/vkrUbXWl0Lo

Alice
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Is3DsgzZ_Q0

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gonna keep on a-walkin', gonna keep on a-talkin'

A local radio station has been playing an ad with Mavis Staples the past couple of weeks. Which in turn reminds me of the Ysaye Barnwell workshop I participated in a couple of Junes ago, which included improvising verses to "Ain't Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me 'Round."

==

From Bill Penzey's latest e-blast:

One of the things I admire most about conservatives is their sincerity in their belief that they take responsibility for their actions. As Lincoln said, we can all be fooled some of the time; there is no shame in that. The trick is to not fall into the crowd that can be fooled all the time. What matters is what you do next; you can dig your heels in and become what you've stood up against your whole life. Or you can simply make amends and move on.

==

Resources:
https://5calls.org/
https://jenniferhofmann.com/home/weekly-action-checklist-democrats-independents-republicans-conscience/
https://calvinslist.org/

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now I assemble things that resemble whatever used to be

Today's subject line is from "Fanfare in D Major (Come, Come)," by Grant Hart, who died of cancer a few days ago. I'm listening to a bunch of his songs as I prepare dinner, and damn if his voice doesn't take me back to being 17, to one of the few aspects I care to remember. Warehouse: Songs and Stories holds a special place in my heart as one of the two record reviews I published (and earned checks for!) that summer. (The Replacements' Pleased to Meet Me was the other.)

Depeche Mode performs less than 3 miles from my house in about 24 hours, and 15 years ago I would have been raring to go, deadlines and sleep deprivation and budget notwithstanding. Instead, I'll go to a dance lesson if I can wrap up work in time, and hope to hit the hay before the concert's even over, and if those things don't happen, maybe I'll crank up "Where's the Revolution?" to an unseemly volume while I crunch through whatever needs to be catapulted through its hoops.

But, grumpy as I feel about not feeling up for things (this !@#%@ cough: !@#@!#!% it!), small pleasures abound. I spent part of my afternoon writing to the childhood friend who introduced me to Depeche Mode, and I had a baseball stamp to use on the envelope. I have a new batch of bread dough rising, and snipped thyme from my yard for fried rice. It is far simpler to contact public servants now that my phone plan has unlimited long distance. (The calls themselves don't rate as a pleasure, but it is nice not having to faff with Skype and other workarounds, or -- going further back -- constantly calculating how much each call was going to cost.) The rosebush is still blooming, as are the zinnias. There is a huge pile of ironing, and there is Italian wine in my glass. :)

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we are billions of beautiful hearts

The subject line is from P!nk's "What About Us":

]

September 17 is Constitution Day in the United States.

My friend Katy boosted the signal on the "We the People" jewelry by Slow Factory (proceeds to the ACLU, hoop earrings become available this Monday): https://slowfactory.com/

A certain medal pin collector tried to drag Kaep for not mentoring guys in the hood. That sound you hear is New York and Tampa clapping back:

I’ve literally seen Kaepernick do this. In Oakland. Teaching the Constitution to young black men. Even got a pic as evidence. https://t.co/CzEWNBCAoT

— jelani cobb (@jelani9) September 16, 2017

A brother who's degree is about to be revoked for plagiarizism is questioning someone else's authenticity?

— Christina Jefferson (@tampagirl19655) September 17, 2017

I've given the NYT pieces of my mind at least twice this year, and link to them probably less than 1/8 of what I used to, because [profane rant redacted here], but the wedding section remains a guilty pleasure, in part to glimpse how other connections are made:

"Melissa you’re going to like this guy," she recalled Amanda Lynch, a former Harvard roommate, telling her. "He has the preamble to the Constitution tattooed on his back."

At the New York Public Library (which will star in a documentary that comes to my town next month), there are people meeting monthly to write out the Constitution by hand. [NYT]




Tennessee's Andrew Johnson was a very, very, very flawed man, but when I first learned about him (in my US Presidents coloring book), what the one-page biography stressed was his profound love of the Constitution, and how he was buried with a copy of it under his head.



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getting the whirlwind settled

There is a mental metric ton of paperwork I must plow through tonight, and I don't wanna, plus the US Open women's singles final was this afternoon, which means the garbage bins are significantly cleaner (and I even went at some of the grodier corners with q-tips), some ancient dog shmutz has been scrubbed off a kitchen window, some recent hackberry shmutz has been wiped off the car windows and handles, leftover tiles from our 2009 bathroom renovation delivered to Turnip Green, and assorted leftovers incorporated into tastier hodgepodges (the last of the white wine from the freak bottle that sent glass into my cleavage has been blended with bargain-bin oranges and fruit salad dregs; the asparagus I defrosted and then forgot about has been scrambled into some eggs), and while I shall desist from dealing with the nearly-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-compost-bowl potatoes until tomorrow (possibly putting them into a lazy woman's version of potato nik), there is bread dough rising on the other end of the kitchen counter.

This morning I volunteered for the dragon boat festival, a fundraiser for the Cumberland River Compact. I ended up helping one of the Buddhist temples set up their tent, distributing oars, helping rowers in and out of boats and (un)tying said boats from the docks, and ferrying lifejackets to and fro. It was a good fit for what my brain and body needed after this week (which included one editing push that went past 4 a.m. and another work-thru-lunch-and-dinner haul yesterday), especially since I'm still coughing too much to dance or go to shows. After my shift, I played cornhole with one of the "Best Little Oarhouse in Tennessee" paddlers and a mother-daughter pair, and watched some of the dance-offs. One emcee was beside himself when a temple team busted into a rehearsed version of The Wobble. Next year I'll try to plan the day so that I have time to fly a kite.

It was likewise tempting to continue avoiding the paperwork put in much more time on the yard, but I confined myself to adding water where needed and clearing enough of a bed to plant the "whirlwind" anemone into its new spot (as well as putting the rosemary and thyme into proper pots):



When I checked on planting distance and depth, I had to look up the word "friable." Which was enough to get a new poem going as well.

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fermenting in a barrel

Today's subject line comes from a letter Elizabeth Bishop wrote to Robert Lowell on July 18, 1950:

Just had a visit from the Dutchman who works here & writes poetry incessantly. I hope he wasn't one of your problems too. One poem this time is about his soul fermenting in a barrel of sauerkraut. He's so grateful to God for sending him such marvelous ideas, but personally I'm afraid God is playing tricks on him.

My head cold is now a chest cold, so no ASL-interpreted Winter's Tale for me tonight. Also, deadlines. But there are happy and spirit-lifting things as well:

* My 86-year-old neighbor blowing a kiss back to me as I unloaded groceries.

* Crabcakes.

* Jaime Anderson's My Body, My Choice, which appears on page 26 of Teen Vogue (Volume III 2017) as background to a Mad Libs-style poem by Nadia Spiegelman.

* Speaking of artists, check out the turtles, kitties, etc. at You're Awesome Design Machine (full disclosure: the artist is my big brother's partner).

* A friend from Brooklyn replied to a text with a galloping unicorn. I would normally block that sort of thing faster than you can say "Roy G. Biv," but I am in fact LMAO.

* Progress on divesting from three problematic companies.

* Vary the Line is ramping up again. New posts by Sherry Chandler, Dawn McDuffie, and Lisa Dordal, as well as my first draft of Aubade.

* The sun tattoo in the photo with the poem is still on my arm, as are the moon and stars.

* The ACCURATE Nashville Statement, y'all. And Downtown Presbyterian doing its thing (among its many other fine doings).

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whirlwinds in and out of pots

On my way home from this morning's workout, I stopped at Bates Nursery, mainly because I have a large Christmas cactus frond, one tomato cutting, and one geranium-from-Desire offshoot waiting to be established in fresh soil. I was not planning to acquire any plants, since I could easily occupy myself for several years with the weeding and trimming that needs to be done, but their English thyme looked great and as long as I was buying herbs, why not some golden lemon thyme and rosemary as well? But it was the "Whirlwind" Japanese anemone that I picked up, put down, walked past, and then came back to claim:





[I am out of practice with both blogging and taking photographs, not to mention a great many other things. Please to bear with me...]

[ETA: FFS, the images looked fine in preview mode. I'll get the hang of the sizing specs someday...]

What is growing again or anew with/for you?

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