Front part of my garden — standing close to photograph — muted nature of colors are part of beauty.
Red berry bush — standing to the side of house– recalls to my mind Sir Gawain and the Green Knight
Dear friends and readers,
Late this afternoon, Laura and I picked up from the Vet Ian’s ashes in his urn, the imprint of one of his paws, and you see them up on my mantelpiece (just below) next to the urn with Clary’s ashes, an imprint of two of her paws, in the back a photo of Jim, to the right side, a small stuffed sheep that we (all four of us, summer 2005) bought at the Stonehenge gift shop, and (unseen) to the right of that Jim’s urn. On the left his Anglican Book of Common Prayer as a boy, his reading glasses, with mementos of Clary and Ian – their collars, name tags, a favorite toy of hers. I can’t print a small enough picture of him to put in with his paw print, so I’ve placed this one of him as a kitten or small cat, on this commemorative blog, so poignant do I find his longing body and face.
A visual closure. They all three once lived, and I miss all three. Closer to Christmas if we (Laura and I) can, I’ll adopt two new kittens. Again a boy and a girl, again perhaps from the same litter. I also want a The World of Jane Austen jigsaw puzzle to begin to do in evenings.
I am beginning to realize this stroke may have left me disabled for the rest of my life. My left side is not coming back fully. I walk very lamely—like Jenny Wren in Our Mutual Friend. My mis-swallowing continues. I can’t wear the removable upper denture because I am continuously having the glue go down my trachea. I have brought back as much of my typing as I can, and the program no longer works.
It’s very sobering. Annus horribilus. Death has visited my house 3 times. He took my two cats; he tried to take me. Once there were 4 in my bed; I’m down to just me, with books, ipad, and radio nearby.
I’m strongly risk adverse so will probably stay mostly at home. I risk serious hurt if I fall. I love the zoom experience—teaching, in a class, at a lecture, reading clubs. Letters I love to write and receive. But it’s a limited form of socializing. A partial existence. Being autistic makes it feel better since I used so often to “do” something wrong, then come home a nervous wreck, badly in need of a drink, to calm me down. I had very good times too — once in a while. I love live theater, eating a lovely lunch out with a friend who has rich conversation or is long-time enough, walks in parks.
So, I’m teaching (I just never tire of The Warden), still doing reviews for select periodicals (to be part of their worlds — actually asked to as a favor), joining in on group reads in 3 places here, doing a talk now and again, a blog to join in with others, I subscribe to substack communities (feminist writers, retired reporters left of center, and am still going into new areas to explore. I’ve done my best to register for enjoyable courses, virtual conferences, lectures, clubs — to come in via zoom, as I cannot get to any of these places in a reasonable amount of time, with an affordable price without myself driving. I am rightly scared of falling– on the Metro — I’m crippled enough — stairs are beyond me.
Some good teachers I’ve had before I’m retaking, in some there is wonderful content — from OLLI at York [England!] a course in Winifred Holtby’s novels (e.g. South Riding), to which I’ll add as I can 1930s Northern English women writers (e.g Vera Britain, Storm Jamesen, Phyllis Bottome). From Politics and Prose, Tolstoy’s War and Peace, 1950s American women writers memoirs from and about Paris (e.g. Susan Sontag); of two courses on present Supreme court, onewill be from P&P. One will be from OLLI at AU (done by Constitutional law that came up, I’ll watch recordings), online Nightlife in Manhattan 1950s, Gaskell’s North and South and Wives and Daughters (recordings in evening), online Bach. From OLLI at Mason, 3 club-conversation sessions, one intelligent people chatting, one reading novels (Paul Lynch’s Prophet Song, and James McBride’s The Heaven and Earth Grocery Store, and a third reading poetry. We choose individual poems ourselves and then come together to read and discuss them.
This Monday, my choice was Judith Wright’s Extinct Birds, I wrote my very first foremother poet about her.
Charles Harpur in his journals long ago
(written in hope and love, and never printed)
recorded the birds of his time’s forest —
birds long vanished with the fallen forest —
described in copperplate on unread pages.
The scarlet satin-bird, swung like a lamp in berries,
he watched in love, and then in hope described it,
There was a bird, blue, small, spangled like dew.
All now are vanished with the fallen forest.
And he, unloved, past hope, was buried,
who helped with proud stained hands to fell the forest,
and set those birds in love on unread pages;
yet thought himself immortal, being a poet.
And is he not immortal, where I found him,
in love and hope along his careful pages? —
the poet vanished, in the vanished forest,
among his brightly tincted extinct birds?
Charles Harpur was a 19th c Australian poet who remained unable to get into print until the 20th century. She published a volume of poetry just about birds, also essays. Charles Harpur was a 19th c Australian poet who remained unable to get into print until the 20th century. I sent along two links where her daughter and people who knew her poetry describe her and her poems. She has a volume of poetry just about birds, also essays. She was also a socialist, fiercely anti-war, anti-colonialist. I found myself quoting her on the the suffering of animals
https://www.wsws.org/en/articles/2000/08/wrig-a31.html
I just love her love of the Austrailian landscape, and birds.
From Vermont I join in on a similar poetry reading group: the difference is the woman leading us herself picks a poet, and then brings in a sheaf of poems she’s carefully culled. This past Saturday we read Derek Walcott.
I try to be glad for all I do have, but dependency and vulnerability and a literal isolation are hard to live with. People have stopped visiting me. I understand. I miss my cats whom I used to talk to all the livelong day, at night too. I know the value of friends here now more than ever.
I walk like Jenny Wren in Dickens’s Our Mutual Friend. For an online FB group I’m reading Our Mutual Friend and watching the great Sandy Welch’s 1998 serial — I try to stay away from twitter as most acquaintances now gone and I post on Blue Sky instead; there is no friendship on Mastodon platforms that I observe; I’m still drawn to pictures of Catriona Balfe as Claire Beechan Randall Fraser but the grred of the producers has made it very dicult for me to access the material so I’ve lost that sense of imagined connection now. I look so old myself. But I take heart from Jenny and Lizzie’s courage just now. Bonding with them. I’ve bought for myself in online shops pretty new clothes appropriate for our warmer climate, have 3 canes, 2 walkers. Use it all.
Katy Murphy in the role (1998 serial, scripted Sandy Welch)
One of the original illustrations
How beautiful Jenny’s friendship with Lizzie Hexam (played by Keeley Hawes) who does at least set boundaries and will not be erased, abused.
Ellen