83. February 19ths past

A few photos from my Flickr archive (long since abandoned, though I've recently reemerged there with a new Project 365, my fifth). Just some memories, from February 19ths long ago (2008–2011). I was hoping Milo would show up, and there he was! I want to keep remembering him here. 

I've linked the years to the associated Flickr page, for description and comments.

2008

2009

2010

2011

82. Fear: a lexicon

I'm taking a six-session writing class with the effervescent Priscilla Long (author of The Writer's Portable Mentor, Dancing with the Muse in Old Age [Priscilla is 83, and happily so], and others, including her just-out collection of poems, Cartographies of Home). Our task is to write three essays/short stories, do daily writing-in-place (practicing observation), imitate certain sentence types, compile a scrapbook, and create a lexicon based on one of our pieces. 

This time I am going to try to finish an abecedarian I started ages ago, but gaps remain. I will fill the gaps! Plus, the essay is about fear, and my whole attitude toward fear has shifted since I began the essay—what with my husband's cancer diagnosis, what with the second coming of Trump. Fear has more of a presence now in my life than when I first tackled this ABC . . .

I just now sat down and came up with 100 entries related to the notion of fear. I present it here. If I missed anything (how could I not?), please let me know! (Can you match this image with its listing below?)

1. Dread
2. Terror
3. Panic
4. Trepidation
5. Anxiety
6. Alarm
7. Worry
8. Horror
9. Dismay
10. Apprehension
11. Phobia
12. Snakes (ophidiophobia)
13. Bees (apiphobia, melissophobia)
14. Clowns (coulrophobia)
15. Thunder and lightning (astraphobia)
16. Dogs (cynophobia)
17. Fight
18. Flight
19. Fear of failure
20. Dementia
21. Insects (entomophobia)
21. Sharks (galeophobia)
22. The dark (nyctophobia)
23. Becoming old and infirm
24. Debilitation
25. Abandonment
26. Rejection
27. Water (aquaphobia)
28. Loud sounds (ligyrophobia, phonophobia)
29. Amygdala
30. Hypothalamus
31. Prefrontal cortex
32. Chemistry
33. Hippocampus
34. Periaqueductal gray (PAG)
35. Glutamate
36. Gamma-aminobutyric acid (GABA)
37. Endocannabinoids
38. PTSD
39. Neurotransmitters
40. Dopamine
41. Neuroscience
42. Treatment
43. Psychotherapy
44. Unpleasant subjective emotional state
55. Pain
56. Agitation
57. Spiders (arachnophobia)
58. Enclosed spaces (claustrophobia)
59. Heights (acrophobia)
60. Injections and needles (trypanophobia)
61. Germs and dirt (mysophobia)
62. Crowds (agoraphobia)
63. Flying (aerophobia)
64. Deep breathing
65. Mindfulness
66. Visualization
67. Anatidaephobia (fear of a duck or goose watching you)
68. Meavehiclutintinnabulaphobia (fear of car alarm)
69. Derivatiapostcalvinaphobia (fear of someone using your idea first)
70. Arachibutyrophobia (fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth
71. Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia (fear of long words)
72. No fear, no death (Thich Nhat Hanh)
73. No mud, no lotus (TNH)
74. Forget Everything And Run
75. Face Everything And Rise
76. “Life is a daring adventure or nothing” (Helen Keller)
77. “Fear is a reaction. Courage is a decision.” (Winston Churchill)
78. Half Dome
79. Perfection
80. Madness
81. Bankruptcy
82. Debt
83. Pennilessness
84. Being without love
85. Being alone/lonely (monophobia)
86. Megalohydrothalassophobia (fear of large underwater creatures, rather than of the water itself)
87. Airports
88. Ballpoint/fountain pens (stylophobia)
89. Hedgehogs (skatzochoirophobia)
90. Trauma
91. Injury
92. Dragonflies (dragoferophobia)
93. Yellow (xanthophobia)
94. Fish (ichthyophobia)
95. Nature (thalassophobia)
96. Falling (basophobia)
97. Snow (chionophobia)
98. Heat (thermophobia)
99. The number 8 (octophobia)
100. Death (thanatophobia)

You know this list could go on and on and on. Besides xanthophobia, for instance, there's erythrophobia, melanophobia, chrysophobia, cyanophobia, rhodophobia, kastanophobia, prasinophobia, leukophobia, and porphyrophobia—fear of red, black, gold, blue, pink, brown, green, white, and purple—never mind general chrom(at)ophobia, fear of colors altogether. What? I can see being afraid of snakes and sharks, but colors? What did they ever do to a person? But, mine is not to reason why these irrational fears exist. Mine is just to explore them. From my own point of view, limited as it is. That's what essays are all about.

81. Octavio Paz, poet

I decided to kick off today's Wordle post in my little FB group, and so I went in search of a poem. I thought, in the spirit of Bad Bunny's halftime show the other day, what about something in Spanish? So I googled Octavio Paz, and found this (notated as "for Roger Caillois"; translated by Eliot Weinberger):

Wind, Water, Stone

Water hollows stone,
wind scatters water,
stone stops the wind.
Water, wind, stone.

Wind carves stone,
stone's a cup of water,
water escapes and is wind.
Stone, wind, water.

Wind sings in its whirling,
water murmurs going by,
unmoving stone keeps still.
Wind, water, stone.

Each is another and no other:
crossing and vanishing
through their empty names:
water, stone, wind.

As for the Spanish, a little more searching, and it came:

Viento, Agua, Piedra

El agua horada la piedra,
el viento dispersa el agua,
la piedra detiene al viento.
Agua, viento, piedra.

El viento esculpe la piedra,
la piedra es copa del agua,
el agua escapa y es viento.
Piedra, viento, agua.

El viento en sus giros canta,
el agua al andar murmura,
la piedra inmóvil se calla.
Viento, agua, piedra.

Uno es otro y es ninguno:
entre sus nombres vacíos
pasan y se desvanecen
agua, piedra, viento.

How beautiful. A reminder of how everything, always, is moving, changing, vanishing, becoming.

Book Report: Rubbernecker

4. Belinda Bauer, Rubbernecker (2013) (2/9/26)

My sister-in-law recommended this book to me, and since I failed at my N book (a brief comment on that below), I decided this time it was okay to break protocol and read a random letter of the alphabet, to wit, R. 

The book, set in Cardiff, Wales, is a mystery—there are murders—but it's much more than that, as it delves into what's in our hearts, what we want to understand about life, and possibilities for connection. It follows several threads, beginning with a car crash whose driver (we soon learn) ends up on the "coma ward" of the local hospital. As traffic inches past the scene of the crash, a young man leaves the car his mother is driving to get a closer look. This is Patrick, who has Asperger's syndrome. Ten years before, he lost his father in a hit-and-run accident, caused in part by Patrick refusing to hold his hand while crossing the road (he can't stand to be touched, and his father knew it). Now, Patrick wants to understand what happened when his father died, where he went, and he thinks the key may be learning about human anatomy—so he enrolls in the anatomy lab of the nearby medical school. Here, he and four fellow students spend 22 weeks disassembling a cadaver, Number 19. Meanwhile, we sometimes flash to the coma ward, where we are made privy to the thoughts and feelings of one of the patients—who as things progress begins to "emerge" from his disability.  

In the course of the cadaver disarticulation, Patrick finds evidence (in 19's throat) that suggests he might have been murdered. By now Patrick has abandoned the notion that he might understand death, but he figures he can solve this mystery. He also finds out (through a bit of B&E) who 19 was (you will probably not be surprised to learn that he's the original crash victim, also the patient whose thoughts we've been privy to on the ward). Why would someone murder him? Patrick finds accomplices of sorts in one of his fellow students and in 19's daughter, whom he seeks out. And yes, he does figure out who is culpable—and almost gets killed himself as a result.

What makes the story so compelling is Patrick's condition—his awkwardness with other people but also the clarity of his thinking. He doesn't get bogged down in sentimentality and unreality. In this, Bauer combines various material and behavioral quirks to give Patrick substance. He makes for an interesting mirror to the ways in which those around him interact. In the course of the book, Patrick makes some progress in learning how to get along with others. Which makes it a story about relationship as well.

I enjoyed the book, though it took me a while to understand how the various plot elements wove together. One, about an unserious nurse, never quite did, except (I decided) to illustrate how blind "normal" people can be to what's right in front of them—something you can't accuse Patrick of. 

As for the abandoned N book—it was Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere, which I know people love, but I guess I just wasn't in the mood for a flight of magical fantasy into below-parts regions of London. Or I wasn't in the mood for Gaiman's cleverness: his writing felt a little (or a lot) too self-satisfied, and far too two-dimensional. I only got a quarter of the way in, but it just wasn't picking up. So: another abandoned book. It's getting to be a habit. But better to realize I just don't care for a book than suffer through it. Right?

Now, I'll scan my shelves for another N book. Back to the alphabet

80. Ashley M. Jones and Mary Szybist, poets

We howlers met today, as we do more or less weekly, to discuss a poem from the anthology You Are Here: Poetry in the Natural World (Milkweed Editions, 2024). The poem that rose up for discussion was this one, by Ashley M. Jones.

Lullaby for the Grieving

at the Sipsey River

make small steps.
in this wild place
there are signs of life
everywhere.
sharp spaces, too:
the slip of a rain-glazed rock
against my searching feet.
small steps, like prayers—
each one a hope exhaled
into the trees. please,
let me enter. please, let me
leave whole.
there are, too, the tiny sounds
of faraway birds. the safety
in their promise of song.
the puddle forming, finally,
after summer rain.
the golden butterfly
against the cave-dark.
maybe there are angels here, too—
what else can i call the crown of light
atop the leaves?
what else can i call
my footsteps forward,
small, small, sure?

Jones is the poet laureate of Alabama, 35 years old, author of three poetry collections. Two poems of hers are featured on the Poetry Foundation website, including this one:

Hymn of Our Jesus & the Holy Tow Truck

after Mary Szybist

And yes, of course, I next had to investigate Mary Szybist. This poem of hers delighted me, partly because it's an abecedarian, partly because it's about jigsaw puzzles, partly because it's about girls chatting.

Girls Overheard While Assembling a Puzzle

Are you sure this blue is the same as the
blue over there? This wall’s like the
bottom of a pool, its
color I mean. I need a
darker two-piece this summer, the kind with
elastic at the waist so it actually
fits. I can’t
find her hands. Where does this gold
go? It’s like the angel’s giving
her a little piece of honeycomb to eat.
I don’t see why God doesn’t
just come down and
kiss her himself. This is the red of that
lipstick we saw at the
mall. This piece of her
neck could fit into the light part
of the sky. I think this is a
piece of water. What kind of
queen? You mean
right here? And are we supposed to believe
she can suddenly
talk angel? Who thought this stuff
up? I wish I had a
velvet bikini. That flower’s the color of the
veins in my grandmother’s hands. I
wish we could
walk into that garden and pick an
X-ray to float on.
Yeah. I do too. I’d say a
zillion yeses to anyone for that.

Finally, Ashley M. Jones had this to say about her "Lullaby": "I wrote this poem at the Sipsey Wilderness near that same river in Alabama. I didn’t expect to write about my grief process, but it seemed the Wilderness was showing me that my grief for my father was very similar to the difficult hiking path to the river. I’m not an experienced hiker. I was afraid of ticks and injury. This large, all-encompassing grief is new to me, too. I’m afraid, constantly, of its prick and haunt. But there are angels and carriers of light, and I know my dad is one of them now."

I love discovering new writers, whether of poetry or prose. These two please me no end.

79. Goodbye Milo

And so this evening we bade farewell to our beautiful boy Milo. A mobile vet, Carrie Nagel, came at half past six, and we sat on the floor next to him and talked for quite a while about what might be going on, about potential options, but slowly we circled into the clear fact that he's just not thriving. And so David and I gave her the go-ahead.

Here are a few last photos (all from today) of our sweet sweet boy. We will miss him so so so very much.

Thanks to Carrie for taking such good caring care of all of us.

And I will finish with Ted Kooser, a poem I've posted here before, but this time it's real.

Death of a Dog

The next morning I felt that our house

had been lifted away from its foundation

during the night, and was now adrift,

though so heavy it drew a foot or more

of whatever was buoying it up, not water

but something cold and thin and clear,

silence riffling its surface as the house

began to turn on a strengthening current,

leaving, taking my wife and me with it,

and though it had never occurred

to me until that moment, for fifteen years

our dog had held down what we had

by pressing his belly to the floors,

his front paws, too, and with him gone

the house had begun to float out onto

emptiness, no solid ground in sight.

We'll always love you, Milo. Always and forever.

Not really a book report: Land of the Blind

I won't number this, because it's (as I say in the heading) not really a book report—because I didn't finish it. Heck, I barely started it.

I love Jess Walter. The various books of his that I've read—most recently the 2025 So Far Gone—have been 100 percent enjoyable. I ordered this book with great anticipation.

So yeah, I was disappointed to start this one and, early on, find myself completely uninterested. 

It's the story of a man who's arrested after he's climbed high on a landmark hotel in Spokane, Washington. As he talks with the interrogating detective, he says he wishes to confess. A murder, it seems.

The book (as far as I can tell) then switches between his confession as he writes it out and the detective's detectiving.

I fell out of the story at the start of his confession, which is (a) written in a tediously formal legalese (he fancies himself a lawyer) and (b) harks back to childhood in excrutiating detail. Excrutiating.

I fell out, and then skipped forward, finally, to the end of the book, where the confessor and the detective find themselves again high on the originating hotel. Both alive. Both, apparently, with stuff to consider. 

I guess I'm patting myself on the back for abandoning a book that just doesn't grab me. So many books, so little time! But I'm sorry this one didn't draw me in.