Curiosity 93: Leap Day

It's been a week.

Back issues, starting last Thursday—an entire week. (I am just this evening coming out from under the blanket of discomfort, if not outright pain. I do not suffer well.)

Cataract surgery, yesterday. And today: it's a miracle! I can see! I've shoved my old red- and blue-framed prescription spectacles (one for reading, the other for distance) aside for a brand-new CVS-purchased pair of +1.50 readers. Turquoise framed. For the price of the old glasses I can probably buy six or eight new pair, all manner of styles, to scatter about the house and even the car.

The cataract surgery itself left several impressions (I was a little drugged):

• surfing, and my doctor commenting that a lot more time is spent paddling than actually on the wave
• the wheezy, not entirely in-tune, rising melody repeated over and over by the ultrasound machine...
• ...that was used to "disperse the cloudiness" of the cataract, before the new lens was inserted
• and throughout much of it (it was a short procedure: 15 minutes) Jim Croce in the background, singing "Time in a Bottle"

(Though I'm beginning to wonder if the back issues weren't due to the surgery. A little nervous, a little tense, perhaps? And now that it's all over, everything back to normal?)

This morning, still with the post-operative eye shield in place (Aaarrrrgggghhhh), to avoid sitting—which my back did not appreciate—I went for an early walk, with the dog, to the Frog Pond. I met a young man near our little redwood grove, shooting a video with an anamorphic lens, which allowed a 16x9 ratio; he said he had an interview that afternoon. I wished him luck. I do hope he had a good interview It was a sweet encounter.

Just a couple of blocks from my house, I ran into another fellow, who was turning up a nearby street to the staircase that leads to the highway and, across that, to the other side of our little town. (It's a funny little town.) He admired Milo—as everyone does—and we chatted. I asked his name, and he said it was Mark, but everyone calls him Voodoo—at which he pulled up his sweatshirt to reveal the tattoo: Voodoo Chile, emblazoned up his left side. He got it in the army. He asked if my eye was okay, and I told him my story, said the shield was coming off in an hour. He was wearing superhero red shoes. Another sweet encounter.

That hour later, after seeing my darling doctor (he really is: he's funny and kind), while waiting to present my paperwork and schedule another appointment, I felt drawn to the woman before me, doing her own scheduling—some cancer treatment of her own, her husband's colonoscopy, sticking points.

We all have stuff that we have to deal with. Some of it's serious. I've felt annoyed this week by my back, and anxious because of the surgery, but really? I'm fine. I'm lucky. If anything, this week taught me to feel more for all the people who are dealing with serious stuff: illness, poverty, fears and needs of all sorts.

I don't have an image to go with all this. So I'll end with one of a surfer. Why not? We're all surfing our own waves. And yet, all those waves are part of the same ocean.

Curiosity 92: Health matters

On Wednesday, I'm having cataract surgery—which will remove the lens of my right eye and replace it with an artificial lens. After that, I'll have pretty good distance vision, and I'll need glasses for reading. Okay. Better than now, when I have pretty good distance vision in my left eye only, and I still need glasses for reading. At the moment, my left eye is doing all the work.

Over twenty years ago, I had Lasik surgery, which changed the shape of my corneas to give me 20/40 vision after four decades of extreme myopia—corrected for much of that time (as an adult) by hard contact lenses. One day atop the three-pitch Monkey Face climb at Smith Rock in Oregon, the wind was up and whipping the straps on my backpack around and into my face, when whoop, out popped a contact. We still had a long rappel and then a many-mile hike back to our vehicle, and I was basically one-eyed. At that moment, I knew I was willing to submit myself to the gods of ophthalmology.

Well, the Lasik worked just fine until a couple of years ago, but now my right eye is blurry like it used to be. And so: I'm off to surgery again. Everyone I know who's had the procedure blesses science: the glory of sight! I hope I'll be lucky as well. Though of course, I'm a little nervous. It's my vision we're talking about. I rely on my vision for, well, everything I know about making my way in the world. Editing and proofreading, for starters. Photography. Parsing the colors of my immediate landscape. Reading—though I know so many books are recorded; but I can't listen to books-on-tape: my attention wanders. The green and blue and brown of my cats' and dog's and husband's eyes.

So yeah, I'm hoping all goes well. Naturally. 

Meanwhile, I visited my GP this morning to go over some recent bloodwork (high cholesterol, so what else is new), and we got to chatting—because he asked how I was doing—about the knot in my shoulder blade. Which led to a lovely hour with a massage therapist this afternoon.

And I've now got an appointment for late May to see if there's calcium buildup around my heart (thanks to that high cholesterol).

And two new bottles of Vitamin D (for the price of 1).

As a rule, I try to stay away from doctors. But today I can say: I am so taking care of myself.

And as a reward: a pint of Ben & Jerry's Vanilla Caramel Fudge. I also believe in rewarding myself. Absolutely!

Curiosity 91: Armed conflict worldwide

Today in the New York Times there was a piece about a right-wing "nerve center" in Washington DC, the Conservative Partnership Institute, a "breeding ground for the next generation of Trump's loyalists and the policies he might pursue." As usual, I checked out the comments, and although most (it being the New York Times) were ones I could agree with (like, scoffing at the very idea that the "conservatives" have any "policies" other than slaying the "woke"), one woman mentioned how good it was under Trump vis-à-vis Biden because prices were lower and there were no wars.

Ah, well. Prices: there was that little crisis called Covid, which debilitated the supply chains, raising prices. Plus, the president has nothing to do with the cost of toothpaste.

But then: wars. Today while driving I was listening to NPR (you can no doubt tell what political persuasion I am just by those two media mentions) and the reports were all about Ukraine and Gaza. Which caused me to wonder what other conflicts are ongoing in this world right now. And of course—this should surprise no one, except possibly Trump supporters—there are many:

The source for this map is Wikipedia's "List of Ongoing Armed Conflicts," with chart after chart of major wars, wars, minor conflicts, and skirmishes and clashes (as shown on the map in varying shades of red), by country, by year. In 2023, for example, the five major ongoing wars (10,000 or more combat or related deaths in current or past year) were:

• Myanmar (start of conflict, 1948; deaths 2023, 15,773)
• the Arab-Israeli conflict (1948, involving 9 nations; deaths 2023, 24,550–33,103)
• insurgency in the Maghreb (2002, involving 15 nations; deaths 2023, 14,728)
• Russo-Ukrainian war (2014; deaths 2023, 30,915–95,088+)
• war in Sudan (2023; deaths 2023, 13,225)

I'd wager the woman touting Trump hasn't even heard of the Maghreb or Myanmar. Though perhaps I am ungenerous.

Wars seem to be what people do. We are such a ridiculous species. Not only are we willfully destroying the planet, but we willfully destroy one another.

Tonight we watched The West Wing on TV—it's our regular go-to lately; we're in season 4—and there was a crisis in a made-up country in Africa where genocide was being waged. President Bartlet decided to care, and the episode (which was organized around his second inauguration) ended with him sending troops to that country to stop the killing.

Can we imagine Trump doing the same? Not if it doesn't give him any personal benefit. (I'm sorry. I try to stay away from politics, but I am beginning to feel alarmed about this next election. And I don't care if Biden is old and feeble—well, actually, I do, but there's nothing I can do about it, if he's the candidate; but I do know that he is surrounded by people I trust. And I cannot begin to say the same thing about Comrade Trump.)

Here is a chart of deaths related to armed conflict, by country, for the past several years. The players change position, but there tends to be an ongoing top ten.

Never mind the woman touting Trump: I wonder if Trump has even heard of these countries, or cares that they exist. Or that people are killing one another. I sure haven't seen him say much about Ukraine, except "Yay Putin, my buddy," or, really, anything about Israel and Palestine. (Okay: he has heard of Mexico, because it shares a border with us. But I'm not going to that particular issue just now.)

Anyway. There: a rare political rant. Though they may well become less rare as this year goes on. Not that my ranting will change anything. But maybe you didn't know about all the killing going on. And now you do. I'm sorry. We are an awful species. But enough of us are also generous and caring, and that continues to give me hope. I don't know who reads this blog, but I happen to believe that you are among the generous and caring. Thank you.

Book Report: The Cuckoo's Calling

5. Robert Galbraith (aka J. K. Rowling), The Cuckoo's Calling ( 2013) (2/12/ 24)

I was searching through my (many) (stacks of) books for a particular title, which I never did find, but I did find—variously: thricely, in fact—this book. I figured if I had it in triplicate, I should probably actually read it.

Never mind that I'd already seen the story played out on the TV series Strike. Of course I didn't remember who the perpetrator was. This is not an old-age thing. I've never remembered who dunnit. It makes rereadings so pleasurable.

In any case: I enjoyed the protagonist, Cormoran Strike, an Afghan war vet with a destroyed leg, down on his luck, turned PI; and his temp secretary, Robin, whose upcoming marriage may not be precisely what she seeks but who is very good at investigation. Good conflict right there, without a death. But the death, and its solution too: well done. The writing—which involves a lot of dialogue—is great. 

I'm not sure what more to say really. I very much enjoyed this book. I think I'll read the next one in the series, The Silkworm. And apparently the series is up to eight now, so I've got a lot to look forward to.

Curiosity 90: Poetry (Deer)

This weekend I gave myself the gift of a poetry workshop with a poet I admire, Mark Doty (whom I've written about many times here), and his guest, Marie Howe, whom I've also quoted, twice: once here, with a poem about her brother John, who died of AIDS (a poem I first encountered, I now realize, in another workshop with Mark); and again here. For the second one, called "One Day"—as in "one day, all this will be over"—she described its inception, at a poetry reading by Stanley Kunitz. And so yet another coincidence: it was at that event that he read for the very first time his beautiful poem "Touch Me"—which I presented here, too, just a couple of months ago, with its own little story. It all keeps swirling around in one big beautiful isness, this poetry stuff.

Anyway, here are a few poems (the first two came up at the workshop), all featuring, in one way or another, deer:

Psalm

by George Oppen

Veritas sequitur...  

In the small beauty of the forest
The wild deer bedding down—

That they are there!

       Their eyes
Effortless, the soft lips
Nuzzle and the alien small teeth
Tear at the grass

       The roots of it
Dangle from their mouths
Scattering earth in the strange woods.
They who are there.

       Their paths
Nibbled thru the fields, the leaves that shade them
Hang in the distances
Of sun

       The small nouns
Crying faith
In this in which the wild deer
Startle, and stare out. 

 

Rooms

by Nancy Willard

All winter the rooms of the forest stand empty.
Now light lives there, and comes and goes as she likes.
She has sold her furniture, which no one remembers.
The dogwoods rearrange their ivory bowls on the air,
and clouds of leaves return to nest in the rafters.
The deer follow the stream from one room to the next.
The stream talks, and its talking scours the stones.
The skin of the river is cut into many small hills,
blond needles fall thick as hair under the pines,
where the comet that so many saw hang over the city
sailed each night in the still pond on the farm
yet left not a single track on its heavenly shore.
The mountains grow brighter and brighter – what can
        be in them?

Why do you knock, when you yourself are the door?

 

The Deer

by Mary Oliver

You never know.
The body of night opens
like a river, it drifts upward like white smoke,

like so many wrappings of mist.
And on the hillside two deer are walking along
just as though this wasn’t

the owned, tilled earth of today
but the past.
I did not see them the next day, or the next,

but in my mind’s eye –
there they are, in the long grass,
like two sisters.

This is the earnest work. Each of us is given
only so many mornings to do it –
to look around and love

the oily fur of our lives,
the hoof and the grass-stained muzzle.
Days I don’t do this

I feel the terror of idleness,
like a red thirst.
Death isn’t just an idea.

When we die the body breaks open
like a river;
the old body goes on, climbing the hill. 

 

And yes, I do still intend to get to 100, meaningless though that number is at this point!

Curiosity 89: The Grammys

I was enjoying a sweet power outage this evening, reading The Cookoo's Call by headlamp. But my phone still worked. And I heard about two performances at tonight's Grammys in particular: Tracy Chapman's "Fast Car," which was awarded a Grammy for best song in 1989 (or maybe it was Chapman herself who won the Grammy for best new artist?) and tonight was performed as a duet by Tracy and the song's recent interpreter, Luke Combs; and Joni Mitchell's "Both Sides Now." Both of which I immediately sought out when the confoundedly wonderful and magical electricity reappeared. Here they are—the first, in its original version (I found the duet fine, but her own iteration is, well, better):

And the second, via a link to the Grammy performance (because the YouTube video I first found got taken down) and in its original version from 1969:

It's so good. The sweet forthrightness of her voice.

I always count myself lucky to have lived when I did, music-wise. But I suppose anyone would do that. I don't follow music, and so don't recognize most of the winners this evening. Maybe I'll try to give a listen. Or... maybe I'll just stick to the 60s, 70s, 80s, which feed my soul.

Which reminds me of a podcast I recently heard recommended by Rick Rubin: The History of Rock and Roll in 500 Songs (which was covered in a New Yorker article by Bill McKibben last July). I have added it to my queue of shows to listen to on my daily walk. It sounds fabulous.

Book Report: The Library Book

4. Susan Orlean, The Library Book (2018) (2/4/24)

Another case of a book I've had for ages (as witness its hardbound status) and finally pulled off the shelf and settled in to read. And I'm glad I did. It's a wonderful book, kicked off by the raging fire at Los Angeles's Central Library on April 28, 1986—which burned for more than seven hours and destroyed or damaged more than a million books—but really about so much more: the early history of LA, the changing nature of libraries as enduring civic institutions, the fraught business of arson investigation, and so many personalities, from early pioneers up through the individuals safeguarding free access to knowledge and literature worldwide today. Orlean clearly had a ball infusing herself into the realm of librarians, sleuthing the mystery of the fire, and considering the very meaning of books in our lives.

It's impossible to summarize the book any further: it is jam-packed with fascinating information and people, and veers now one way, now another. It's almost like being in a library, surrounded by an entire universe of facts and fancies. So I'll just quote a couple of passages that I flagged. First, from early on:

In the physics of fire, there is a chemical phenomenon known as a stoichiometric condition, in which a fire achieves the perfect burning ratio of oxygen to fuel—in other words,, there is exactly enough air available for the fire to consume all of what it is burning. Such a ratio creates an ideal fire situation, which results in perfect combustion... [It] is almost impossible to create outside of a laboratory... [I]n a sense, it is more theoretical than actual. Many firefighters have never seen such a blaze and never will. Not long ago, I had coffee with a man named Ron Hamel. He is now an arson investigator, but at the time of the library fire, Hamel was a captain in the fire department. Although over thirty years have passed, he remains awed by what he saw that day at the library. He talked about it like someone might talk about seeing a UFO. In his decades with the department, Hamel fought thousands of fires, but he said he never experienced another that was as exceptional as the fire at Central Library. Usually, a fire is red and orange and yellow and black. The fire in the library was colorless. You could look right through it, as if it were a sheet of glass. Where the flame had any color, it was pale blue. It was so hot tht it appeared icy. Hamel said he felt like he was standing inside a blacksmith's forge. "We though we were looking at the bowels of hell," he said, tapping his coffee mug. "Combustion that complete is almost impossible to achieve, but in this case, it was achieved. It was surreal. Frank Borden, who now runs the Los Angeles Fire Department Museum, once said to me, "In every firefighter's career, there are those fires that are extraordinary and unforgettable. This was one of those."

You see: interesting information, beautiful description, the human touch. Every topic Orlean approaches has this breadth. She's a wonderful writer.

And from the very end, where she describes a late-afternoon visit to the now-rebuilt library, after the crowds had thinned out:

The silence was more soothing than solemn. A library is a good place to soften solitude; a place where you feel part of a conversation that has gone on for hundreds and hundreds of years even when you're all alone. The library is a whispering post. You don't need to take a book off a shelf to know there is a voice inside that is speaking to you, and behind that was someone who truly believed that if he or she spoke, someone would listen. It was that affirmation that always amazed me. Even the oddest, most particular book was written with that kind of crazy courage—the writer's believe that someone would find his or her book important to read. I was struck by how precious and foolish and brave that belief is, and how necessary, and how full of hope it is to collect these books and manuscripts and preserve them. It declares that all these stories matter, and so does every effort to create something that connects us to one another, and to our past and to what is still to come. 

And yes, Orlean's own curiosity and sensibilities and storytelling passion shines through consistently as well. She feels like a friend. (She feels that way on FB as well: a little quirky, approachable. The only other book of hers I've read is The Orchid Thief, which is similarly engaging. I may have to seek her out more.)

Curiosity 88: Photos

I have fallen completely out of a daily post, but I'm still numbering!!! Up to 100!!!!! Dammit!!!!!!!

Mostly because I haven't been looking for something to write about. And that includes today, but I'm feeling negligent. So I'll post a few photos.

When I searched Flickr for "February 2," it spit back 90 images—February 20 etc. also qualifying, apparently. And so I randomly selected a few of those. I'm not including captions this time. Let the images speak for themselves. 

The final one, of three-month-old Milo, actually was taken on February 2, 2011. The rest: who knows?

The first one is a rare selfie. I was so much younger once...