Speaking of offspring, here’s a lament written during the summer writing retreat.* I can’t remember what the prompt was — maybe something about emptying your mind?
Golden rod tug slightly in a breeze. Higher up, the rustle of maples. And everywhere: insects. Bees and flies and stinging pests. How sweet it’d be to merely lament the season coming to a close and not the earth herself melting, collapsing, churning, with the Ring of Fire activating quakes up and down the coasts on either side of the Pacific. Which one will open up under Brentwood, Pasadena, Korea Town, and Studio City and gobble up great edifices of society not to mention, people: Brother, Son? I could never have been the mother who said, ‘No. Do not go.’ And even if I had been, he’d not have listened which is how it should be, but still — a bigger worry added to the usual worries.
And then there’s the plains of Nebraska, the river banks along the Mississippi, the lower reaches of Missouri — should so much land be under water?
And how can the potential destruction of, say, one American Western city compare to all of Greenland’s ice melting, Paris and London frying under a merciless sun? Or colony collapse, the bees giving up the ghost, along with whole caveloads of bats, unable to fight the poisonous fight any longer, tongues and nails, slab and tourniquet. What place, then after?
When we look at the data, we also look away, preferring to note how a grasshopper landing not five feet away says something about summer ending and the memory of other summers ending — times when bikes, hoses, pools, bare feet were the signifiers. Our poor brood when little watched nature show after nature show offering up news of habitat decline and species extinction and people wonder why millennials are anxious?
We wonder why the young refuse heirlooms of any kind, but especially have no interest in the Rosenthal china, the Royal Doulton, the Strawberry Wedgewood. ‘Will we have a home or air?’ they wonder — the inability to afford the former a trifling but inescapable concern compared to the latter.
‘We have ten years,’ they keep saying, trying and failing to sound the alarm. ‘Ten years’ means something different to the young than it does to my aging ears. Gone are the days when insects present as cute and annoying pests. Not when closer scrutiny might reveal how numbered their days are. How connected they are to everything else.
Even if we all rowed in the same direction, what a monumental challenge! But with lies the prevalent currency and corporations granted all ascendancy, we first have to clean house and by then — I’m sorry, the thought is there — mightn’t it be too late?
How many monarchs migrated to the milkweeds, those perennials standing proud and erect, proper in their heliotropic course, casting lozenge-shaped shadows, offering praise to sun and nourishment to caterpillars? How many? Less than last year? A tenth of the year before?
It’s easy to shrug at the extinction of some two-toed sloth or a miniature lizard with nocturnal habits literally never seeing the light of day, but what about ALL of the passerines? Polar bears and reindeer? What about us? If we’d cared more about the two-toed sloth all those years ago, would we be better situated today — able to enter the “Wild Kingdom” programming, sponsored by Mutual of Omaha and hosted by some hokey and corny know-nothing, instead of learning about floating islands of plastic the size of Delaware and about Colorado burning for half a season?
* It turns out that the response to the prompt mentioned yesterday became a chapter in the book (working title: •Blood and Indigo•). That means I’m precluded from ‘publishing’ here (seriously, with 100 hits a day?) What would happen if I ‘published’ it, left it up for ten days, and then tagged it private? SShhh
Sharon Olds poem, published in Atlantic Magazine.
It’s amazing what a dampening effect weather and disappointing news can have. Parts of Colorado got nine inches of snow! Don McGahn didn’t show up to testify and he’s not in jail!
A delicious homemade broth with ramen was a definite perk last night. We could walk there too, which was nice.
It’s a maxi skirt, so it’s a decent bit of yardage.
Also, I’m a sucker for stripes, so this beautiful cotton skirt grabbed my eye.
I photographed it on a quilt made for D (13 years ago?) to show the consistency of palette.
This quilt represents probably as much success as I’ll get with choosing more subdued colors. It’s almost finished, PS.
This dress, while a 100% polyester, has just the kind of patterning that I love. Also, because it’s nearly sheer, it can easily be stitched on top of other fabrics. And check out the buttons!
So, what to do while Rome burns? Have a decent meal and indulge in colors that please you. Is that what I’m saying?
Forty-five degrees but not raining — we’ll take it! Looks like the down vests might be staying out until Memorial Day this year.
The handsome man in the tan suit might be Bryan Ferry (my sister and I saw Roxy Music together once), but I’m not sure.
This Global Warming quilt is probably four feet long and exhibits the most surface work of all of them.
I have a total of eight finished quilts in the series. There are at least two more unfinished pieced tops — one is flapping on the line outside right now (what a cold windy day it’s been here!) and the other is in the studio, I think.
These last shots are of the back of the four footer.
Sometimes my capacity for bitterness amazes even me. So let this be a gratitude post. Here’s to rocks that spell love out of ancient debris and planetary pressure.
Here’s to the animal companions who model joy and devotion and health without even being asked.
Here’s to the creative impulse which follows seasons and rhythms all its own, thankfully exhibiting an immunity to doubt and self-posturing.
Here’s to the birds that sing, to cleared off sidewalks, to the bobbing red head of the woodpecker out front, and to spring bulbs that continue their flourishing growth long after the flowers are gone.
And lastly, to all sources of wisdom, both unseen and seen, as well as to the tiny window of the personality willing to be cranked open and let them in (at least sometimes), I give Thanks.