How I'm Spending My Day--So Far

It's only about 9:30 a.m. right now, but I thought it would be fun (for me--but not for you probably!) to form a little list of what I've been doing.

BTW: As I was typing "a little list" I suddenly thought about the Hiram High School production of Gilbert and Sullivan's The Mikado, my freshman year (1958-59), directed by Mrs. Dreisbach. I got one of the minor roles (Pish-Tush) only because the guy who'd originally won the role mysteriously quit after a rehearsal or two. It changed my life. I became interested in play productions--would go on to direct more than 30 of them in the Aurora City Schools (all but two at the middle school)--would obsessively read and go to plays, etc.

Anyway, the "little list" ... it appears in the song "I've Got a Little List," sung by Koko, the Lord High Executioner, played wonderfully by the late David Underwood in our production. In it, he sings about the sorts of people he'd love to execute. There are many versions of the song on YouTube, but most of them have "updated" lyrics that deal with people we'd like to execute now.

I should add--if we're being frank here--that my voice in 1958 had only recently been changing from its brilliant, Vienna-Boys-Choir soprano (!) to its current ordinary baritone. (I praise myself with "ordinary.") So, back then about every sound that came out of me was a surprise.

Okay, back to my little list for today ...

I got up about 6 a.m., checked on Joyce (who, in recent years has had some trouble sleeping and so moves to the back bedroom later in the night after I've leapt into the arms of Morpheus), went downstairs (as is my wont) to unload the dishwasher and put the dishes away.

Upstairs I came to discover (as always) that Joyce had made our bed--and then returned to the back. I took my shower, dressed. And in the mirror, of course, I noticed that my hair and beard are having a good time. When (If?) all this is all over, I'm going to look like Rip Van Winkle--after he wakes up.

Downstairs again where I went to my study and did some catching up on my journal and Quicken; I wrote for our family a wee doggerel using today's word-of-the-day on our tear-off calendar. (I do this every day--or have done so since January 2019). Here's today's ...

VERNAL = OF, RELATING TO, OR OCCURRING IN THE SPIRNG; FRESH OR NEW LIKE SPRING

In these early VERNAL days

The weather changes—all the time.

One day it’s cold—with cloudy haze—

And next the weather’s really prime!

I also posted on my 2nd blog, Daily Doggerel, today's lines about one of the Seven Deadly Sins (pride).

Then I headed to the kitchen, microwave-zapped one of my homemade scones, made some coffee in the Keurig, and settled into an easy chair to do my morning's work.

• I read the New York Times on my Kindle.
• I read my email and Facebook updates.
• I reviewed and texted the vocab doggerel to our family.
• I wrote another pride-related doggerel (for tomorrow's posting).
• I read/took notes on fifty pages of the Ian McEwan novel I'm reading right now (Enduring Love, 1997). I'm about halfway through--and, oh, is he good! And, oh, is the story troubling!
• About 9 I finished all of this, and I fed my sourdough starter for tomorrow's baking. The starter will bubble away in its covered bowl until about suppertime, at which time I will put a couple of cups back into its storage container in the fridge, put the bowl in the fridge and remove it tomorrow morning to warm up before I commence the prep and baking process.
• I returned to my study, where I balanced our checking account (via Quicken), checked email and Facebook again, then launched into this blog post.

It's now about 10 a.m., and in a few minutes I will head up to have Joyce read through this, and she will find several typos, and I will rage, rage against the dying of the light--my mental and visual light!

After blog-time with Joyce, I'll probably go again in search of Morpheus, who, I believe, is in our bedroom. Waiting.

Venturing Out—A Little, A Very, VERY Little

10 a.m.

Right now I am sitting in our car outside a doctor’s office in West Akron. Joyce is inside for a routine visit with a physician. Joyce had called the office earlier about a possible cancellation, but the doctor wants to see her. So here we are.

We were told that when we arrived, we should sit in the car and call the office. Then someone would get us when all was ready inside. So we did.

And, as I said, Joyce is inside now. I’m waiting. Nervously so.

We’re both a bit hyper about all of this. (“Paranoia strikes deep”—remember that old Buffalo Springfield song, "For What It's Worth"? Link to song.) We’re both in vulnerable demographics, and we’d like to emerge from all of this somewhat ... alive.

We haven’t really been out at all in a week—until yesterday. Early in the afternoon we took a walk around our neighborhood (about a mile, I guess), moving far, far away when we encountered other walkers. We all smiled and waved.

Then, after supper, we drove to McD’s to get some Diet Cokes—and were alarmed that both the young woman who took our money and the young man who delivered our drinks wore no sanitary gloves.

Back home, we scrub-a-dub-dubbed and sanitized our hands. Joyce wiped the cups with those sanitary wipes.

We’ve ordered our groceries this week via Acme online. We’ll pick them up late Saturday afternoon.

We’ll see how that goes.

And I’ve ordered from other sources some of my bread-making staples—things I usually went to Marc’s to find—or to Mustard Seed Market. (Marc’s, by the way, has a very good variety of flour and other related products.)

Our son offered to come up the other day, but we declined. I would never forgive myself if he acquired the virus that way. NEVER.

And so I sit and wait in the parking lot—thinking about this “new normal”—thinking about how much I miss my old routines—and freedom.

I smile when I remember that sometimes--in my pre-COVID-19 life--I used to think my routines were boring. Oh, what I would give to have such boredom back again!

*BTW: You probably noticed that the pic atop this post is a little ... delusional?

That Rock-up-the-Hill Guy

I woke up last night thinking about Sisyphus--that guy perpetually doomed to shoving a huge rock up a hill, only to have it roll back down again just before he reaches the top.

Nice fate.

What did he do to deserve that? And who condemned him?

He was the King of Corinth--and indeed had been its founder. And a gnarly knave. A liar, deceiver. (He even tricked Hades once--the guy, not the place.)

But it all caught up with him, and Zeus condemned him to this eternal struggle. (Here's a link to a pretty good summary of the story.)

Anyway, I lay in bed last night thinking about that story. I'd been feeling sorry for myself, having to stay somewhat cooped up for ... weeks? months?

But it didn't take much thought for me to realize that, compared with other folks, I've got it pretty damn easy. A house. A loving companion. A zillion books I've never gotten around to reading. Friends who check up on me. And on and on.

And so I fell back asleep, resolving to write today about Sisyphus and his Sisyphean labors.

But then I snapped awake about 5:30, remembered my blog topic--but could not for the life of me remember Sisyphus' name!

I, of course, could have fired up my phone and checked. But I was stubborn! I would find that damn name in my head!

About a half-hour later, I did.

I'd also been thinking about how ubiquitous that image of Sisyphus is--especially in cartoons and comic strips. Whenever I see one, which is pretty often, I post it. Below is a recent one that appeared the week of Presidents Day (I think), and if you Google "Sisyphus," you'll find a gazillion more.

Sisyphus remains one of the cultural figures that cartoonists can safely employ. (You want to entertain your audience, not puzzle them!) You know the others: Frankenstein's creature, Dracula, Noah and the ark, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Medusa (she with snakes for hair), King Arthur, Hamlet-with-the-skull-of-Yorick, Romeo and Juliet (in a Bugs Bunny cartoon is a version of the story), Rapunzel, Hansel & Gretel, Sherlock Holmes, Little Red Riding Hood, and on and on.

In that story of Sisyphus we all can see our own daily efforts, can't we? We struggle all day--then start over the next day.

Which is what all of us are doing right now--whatever our situation. As I've indicated above, many, many people are having profound battles now--loss of business, of job, of health, of the enduring stability that so many of us had felt was our American birthright.

And all we can do in the morning is find our rock, place our hands on it, brace ourselves. And push!

Your Check's in the Mail

About those government relief checks that will soon, I've read, be winging our way ...

I've already seen some harsh memes on Facebook, ones that say (not exact words), something like this:

Dear Never-Trumpers, I assume you'll not be cashing the check that is coming your way.

Others could reply, of course:

Dear Trumpers: I assume you'll not be cashing the check that is coming your way--government handout, you know? Bad thing.

I guess all of this means that even in our current hours of darkness, we're going to try to score political points against one another.

Why?

I pretty much avoid political posts on Facebook--and here--for reasons that I've written about before:

• It does no good. No meme ever changed anyone's mind. Those who agree with it will Like and Share. Those who don't will ignore--or Unfriend. Or block. Or scroll faster. Or whatever.
• The vast majority of my Facebook friends are former students--and they lie all over the political map--reside on both ends of the Left-Right continuum. And I've realized that I don't have to agree with them; I just have so many fond memories of (most of) them--in class, onstage, elsewhere--that I just can't dismiss them. Erase them.
• I've unfriended only one person during my eight years or so on FB--and it had nothing to do with politics. It was a personal issue that went back decades, and I just decided I didn't want to deal with it. So ... now ... every day I see on FB any number of posts that I enthusiastically agree or disagree with. I don't respond to them--even if they refer to me. As I said, it's pointless. Okay, I will sometimes Like something political--but I never dive into the ensuing stream, a stream that often begins coolly enough--but can end up a flaming river that consumes all.

In these viral times, especially, I'm thinking we need to draw together more closely, not look for reasons to shove one another away, to assign one another categories (and thus ease the dismissal of those in the "wrong" category)--social distancing, yes, but only in a physical sense.

It's a sad reality that there are those who have always profited--politically, financially, whatever--from dividing us. Us-vs.-Them kind of stuff. This human trait is an ancient, prehistoric one, and it might have once had some kind of tribal survival benefit. But in our day? It's horribly destructive.

And if we don't rein it in, we will be witnesses to the implosion of a very remarkable way of life that my father was fighting in Europe to protect about the time I was born. 1944.

So my hope is this--that we will realize as these days and weeks of virtual (or actual) isolation go on--as we realize that we are all vulnerable, all suffering (some far more than others)--as we come to understand the fragility of life, of our way of life--that we will close our ears to the divisive demagogues and open them to the healers, the unifiers, the most wholly human among us.

I had a dream ...

... and it was a weird one last night. Not that many of my dreams are "normal," mind you. It's in dreams, you know, that we learn that chronology is a lie--at least in my dreams. People and places from all over my life congregate and do weird stuff. And I (usually just standing there, observing) see nothing amiss.

My "teacher" dreams are a little different. They generally feature a very inept me in a classroom packed with students from 1966 to 2011 (the span of my career)--mixed together with people I've never seen before. All misbehaving--sometimes egregiously. While I fail to control them.

Okay ... last night ...

I was in a classroom (I was not the teacher--whew!). I seemed to be the age I am now. I was observing. I recognized no one--though they all appeared to be high school--or even college--students.

The class was working on novels and stories about Sherlock Holmes--pieces written after Arthur Conan Doyle's death. (You Holmes fans know that there are countless tales about him in other people's work--novels, stories, screenplays, etc.)

Anyway, I was looking at a list of modern Holmes novels (one of the students showed it to me--not sure why), and I noticed that it did not include ...? did not include ...? did not include ...?

But I could remember neither the title of the novel nor the author I wanted to tell them about.

I knew that it was the woman who'd written Ahab's Wife; or, The Star-Gazer, a 1999 novel I'd read back when it came out (hey, Melville fans had to read it, right?), and I'd subsequently read her earlier books, and a few afterwards. Though I no longer read her.

In 2001 I’d taught a little class about her and her book at our local library.

In 2003 Joyce and I had driven up to a Cleveland bookstore (its name is escaping me) for a reading and signing. I took all of her books, which she graciously signed. (In my dream I could see those books on our shelf—but could not make out the titles—or the author’s name.)

Now here’s the weird part. My conscious brain intruded a moment into my unconsciousness. And it said this to the students in the classroom I was in: “I’m going to wake up soon, and when I do, I will get the name and tell you.”

They all looked at me as if they thought all this made perfect sense!

And I woke up. Remembered the writer’s name: Sena Jeter Naslund.

But could not remember the name of her Sherlock Holmes book.

All of this occurred about, oh, 2:30 a.m.

I was afraid I was going to forget it all, but I was too whacked out to turn on a light, find a pencil, write it down. So ... I trusted my memory.

Which is usually a grievous error.

But, miracle of miracles, I did remember, and checked it all out this morning.

The name of the novel was Sherlock in Love (1993), and in our stuffed filing cabinets I found a fat folder of Naslund material, including a bunch of 35mm slides I’d used that day at the old Hudson Library—and my notes for the session that occurred on April 21, 2001, 10:00 a.m.

A lot of the slides were of Nantucket Island (setting for much of the Ahab novel), which Joyce and I had visited in March 2001 so that I could see what she was writing about. (We had a beautiful couple of days there, by the way.)

I also found the notes I’d taken on her Sherlock novel. The first sentence is this: “Sherlock was dead, to begin with” (3). (Is Dickens smiling or preparing a lawsuit?) Watson tells us he’s working on a bio of his departed friend and colleague. We learn about his love interest, which turns out to be a sister he didn’t know about. (Yikes!)

It’s a lot more complicated, but I don’t feel like explaining it all. Read the book. It’s fun.

So ... what does all of this mean? Not a lot. But here’s a few ideas.

• I keep a lot of old stuff around the house.
• My memory is betraying me.
• Some of my dreams are fun—and frustrating at the same time.

And I’ll depart with this—and try to keep it out of your mind the rest of the day! You won’t succeed if you try.

At the end of Ahab’s Wife, Ishmael, the sole survivor of Moby-Dick’s attack, shows up in Nantucket, and he and Ahab’s wife/widow ... do it.

The New Normal

As of today--I've changed my beloved daily routines.

I most certainly don't want to do this--I love my routines. I'm so regular about many of them that I used to joke that a hit-man would have no trouble whatsoever locating me. Finishing me off.

Well, unfortunately, there is a hit-man on the loose, and you know perfectly well what it is.

I am in a particularly vulnerable group: I'm seventy-five years old, and I've been dealing with cancer for fifteen years--an up-and-down battle. So ... I don't want to make it easy for Mr. COVID-19. There is, of course, a possibility that I'm already infected but just have not yet manifested any symptoms. We'll see. But I do not want to go out anymore--do not want to take the chance that I will pass it on to someone else (if I have it)--or receive it.

It's a tough time for everyone--a horrible time for many.

And so ... no coffee shop in the morning, no glorious sunrises to see through the window in front of me, no friendly encounters with the gracious, generous owner and with her wonderful baristas, no meet-and-greet with other regulars there, no sessions with former colleagues, former students, no brisk walks to and fro (about the only exercise I've been getting in my current state of dizziness), no reading-taking-notes-writing at "my" table, no return visits after lunch, no conversations then with my good friend Chris (we save chairs for each other--a debate rages about which of us is the more ...effective ... at this!), no more reading-note-taking-writing-laughing-grieving-about-politics-with-Chris).

And no leisurely trips to the grocery stores on Sunday morning--our custom of many years. (If we have to go, and we surely will, it will be at a speed that even the Flash would have to admire.)

No visits to see our son and his family in Green--no visits here from them. Awful.

No impulsive trips to the restaurants we love: Dontino's, Zeppe's, Aladdin's, Parasson's, Thai Gourmet, Cafe Tandoor.

No Friday/Saturday Night at the Movies.

No Great Lakes Theater Festival (we're season ticket holders).

No bi-weekly visits from the wonderful young women who do some housecleaning for us (Clean & Simple--they're great)--though we will continue to pay them even though they're not here.

No ...

... Well, you know. You're going through versions of the same things.

We may occasionally do a drive-thru somewhere--but cautiously, cautiously so. We may go for short walks outside on decent days--got to let my body do something besides sit and read and stream and sleep--got to let my mind do something other than worry and construct doomsday scenarios...

And here's another (minor, minor) annoyance: Trips to and from the coffee shop--and my time at the coffee shop--have long been occasions for me to (silently) rehearse the 200+ poems I've memorized. I do not want to lose them: It took Too Damn Long for my wobbly memory to accept them in the first place.

So ... this morning ... I did my Monday Morning Set right here at home. Not fun. Not at all.

Here at home, I also did my reading. Did my note-taking. (It's Arthur Phillips' 1st novel, Prague.) Later, I'll write some stupid doggerel and upload it to Facebook for the "enjoyment" of my FB friends.

And I'm going to keep pounding away at this blog (Dawn Reader) and my other one (Daily Doggerel).

But today? I missed the sunrise, missed the coffee shop, missed those who work there, missed my friends ...

But ... Joyce is in the house. We are somewhat safe here. And so ... deep gratitude is a phrase far too frail for what I feel.

Sunday Sundries, 268

1. HBsOTW [Human Beings of the Week]: Those who are helping others--financially or otherwise--those who are not hoarding, those who are keeping a safe distance, those who behave in a concerned way, not a panicky one.

2. I finished one book this week, Ian McEwan's fifth (fairly short) novel, Black Dogs (1992).

It's written in the form of a memoir by one of the characters, who begins with quite a stunning sentence:

Ever since I lost mine in a road accident when I was eight, I have had my eye on other people's parents (xi).

This is a classic example of what stylists call a "periodic sentence"--saving the explosion for the end. The loss, early in the sentence, could have been anything--and your uncertainty remains until the final word. Way to go, Ian!

The narrator--Jeremy--focuses on his story--and on his marriage to Jenny, whose parents (Bernard and June) become his principal concern as the story goes on.

He is purportedly writing, with June's cooperation, her memoir, a memoir that includes as a most significant experience her encounter with some large, wild dogs when she was hiking, early in her relationship, with Bernard in the aftermath of WW II.

Well, the story moves here and there, but we are moving relentlessly toward an account of her encounter with those two wild dogs. (Oddly, one scene takes place in Lerici, Italy, not far from where Percy Bysshe Shelley drowned in 1822.) And so we arrive in France, where Bernard lingers behind while she hikes down into a gorge, where the two dogs confront her. The scene gets violent (won't give you the details!), and lives go on, the dogs becoming ever more important in June's memory--and story.

A story which Bernard believes she has embellished and exaggerated.

Near the end, the narrator (the son-in-law, recall) says:

But it is the black dogs I return to most often. They trouble me when I consider what happiness I owe them, especially when I allow myself to think of them not as animals but as spirit hounds, incarnations (148).

3. No trips to the movies this week--being prudent. But we have been streaming merrily away for about an hour each night (after our eyes have wearied from reading and writing).

We're especially enjoying a BBC series that our friend Chris told us about--Detectorists--about a couple of odd, middle-aged men who are "into" using metal detectors, looking, of course, for the Big One. Among the glories of the show (along with its odd humor and overall wryness) is the performance of Toby Jones as one of the principals. You possibly remember him as the actor who plays a scummy guy in one season of the Sherlock Holmes series with Benedict Cumberbatch.

His buddy is Mackenzie Crook (recognizable from Pirates of the Caribbean and Finding Neverland), who writes and directs the nineteen episodes.

It's lighthearted in many ways, deeply affecting in others.

Streaming on Amazon Prime. Or Hulu.

4. We made two very quick store trips today for perishables, mostly (fruit, veggies). When we got there about the time Acme opened (7) and Heinen's (8), it was not all that crowded. I saw no one with a cart stuffed with toilet paper. Many had only a hand-basket. People kept their distance.

Lots of bread products were gone, but we had no trouble getting eggs, yogurt, noodles, fruit, nuts, and the few other things we dashed around buying.

The flour I use to mix my starter each week (King Arthur's unbleached bread flour) was not available at either place--nor, I discovered later, on the King A website.

So ... found some on Amazon and pulled the trigger.

Among the flours I've tried for the starter, it yields the best texture.

5. We've not see our son, daughter-in-law, and two grandsons since this started. Just seems too risky--especially since you can feel perfectly all right for a bit after you've been infected. I would not forgive myself if I gave it to them, and I'm sure they feel the same way about bringing it into our house.

Grandson Carson will be eleven on April 5, and I hope things will be calmer then so that we can see him. But if not? We understand.

6. Final Word--A word I liked this week from one of my online word-of-the-day providers:

     - from wordsmith.org (not that wordsmith provides the form of the opposite meaning: breviloquence)

pleniloquence  (ple-NIL-uh-kwens)

noun: Excessive talking.

ETYMOLOGY: From Latin pleni- (full) + -loquence (speaking). Earliest documented use: 1838. The opposite is breviloquence.

USAGE: “Their debate has become increasingly embroiled in pleniloquence over minutiae, as they dispute the actual number of lawyers in Germany, Korea, etc.”

Frank B. Cross; Lawyers, the Economy, and Society; American Business Law Journal (Oxford, Ohio); Summer 1998.