Thankful (The Juicebox Jukebox)

A bazillion years ago, when my then-boyfriend-now-husband and I were at West Georgia College, he went on a road trip to Florida with his two roommates and one of the roommates' girlfriend Jana (pronounced Yanna; she was Scandanivian, of course).  On the way home, the guys were tired, it was 3 a.m., there were very few cars on the highway, and they decided to let Jana drive.  A short while later, they felt a series of jolting bumps, and woke up to find that she had driven them off the road, narrowly missing a culvert, which could have meant damage to the car, not to mention injuries to its occupants.  When questioned as to what happened, Jana replied:  "I lost my concentration".  What?!?... 👀

Whenever I use the above excuse/justification, not often but sometimes, I conjure the backstory, which I am doing right now, envisioning Jana's beautiful face, her eyes wide and unapologetic.  Hey, it happens.  And that's how I feel about the last eleven days; all is fine here and there are no undercurrents nor real reasons I haven't posted.  I just lost my concentration... 😥

Back in focus now, mainly because Thanksgiving is tomorrow and, despite the crazy pandemic times we are in, we do have much to be thankful for.  For the last several years, I have participated in the 30-Day Gratitude Challenge but, since I'm not on Facebook (nor Instagram) anymore, it's fallen by the proverbial wayside, at least on social media, although not in my head and heart.  Counting my blessings remains a coping mechanism, and not just for the month of November... 💞

We normally have a houseful of people for the always-my-favorite-since-there-is-no-actual-*agenda* holiday, and we'll be missing our usual cast of characters immensely... but this year it's just the MossFam6.  Our family has brainstormed an all-vegan, finger-food brunch:  vegan cheese ball rolled in nuts and parsley with crackers; sliders with Gardein stuffed turk'y on mini-rolls with cranberry mayo (vegan); stuffin' muffins; phyllo cups with vegan sausage, pears, and walnuts; spinach/cheeZe/"egg" bites; roast potatoes; green bean casserole and, for dessert: avocado chocolate mousse, apple palm pies, pumpkin pie bites, homemade vegan cookies mailed across county lines from Melanie and Nick... plus champagne with cider... served outdoor picnic-style in our grassy area downstairs.  

In the meantime, I have issued the following challenge, discussed in last Friday's New York Times Daily Briefing, to my family and friends and hoping some of you might chime in below with your own.  Happy Thanksgiving, already looking forward to when we can have a face-to-face again, and here's my six-word gratitude contribution: 

"Around the table in spirit.  Cheers!"

"At a Thanksgiving dinner more than a decade ago, a magazine editor named Larry Smith made a suggestion to his relatives seated at the table: They should each tell a story about themselves — in only six words. It was a twist on a challenge that somebody apparently once issued to Ernest Hemingway.

For Thanksgiving, I want to invite the readers of this newsletter to do a version of the exercise. In this year of pandemic, politics and so much else, tell us what makes you grateful, in just six words.

“The constraint of the six-word form helps us get to the essence of what matters most,” Smith says, “and I can’t think of a time when expressing gratitude has been more important.” 

P.S.  I love Love LOVE the poem below, written by one of my favorite poets and people.  When I was still working, I kept my car radio on WLRN, the local NPR station, where I received my news as well as my culture (book and music reviews).  On the way home one afternoon, an interview with Ross Gay aired (about his just-published volume of essays, The Book of Delights) and I could not wait to get home and order it.  Imagine my pleasure when he was on a panel at the 2019 Miami Book Fair, and my validation that he was just as delightful in person.  I brought my book from home, which he autographed for me:  "To Susan - In Joy Together!".  I will never forget his open face, and his warm demeanor.  

" and you, again you, for hanging tight, dear friend.

I know I can be long-winded sometimes.

I want so badly to rub the sponge of gratitude

over every last thing"... 💓

NR:  The Girl with the Louding Voice by Abi Dare'

SONG:  Thankful by The Juicebox Jukebox

BOOK:  Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude by Ross Gay

POEM:  Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude by Ross Gay

Friends, will you bear with me today,

for I have awakened

from a dream in which a robin

made with its shabby wings a kind of veil

behind which it shimmied and stomped something from the south

of Spain, its breast aflare,

looking me dead in the eye

from the branch that grew into my window,

coochie-cooing my chin,

the bird shuffling its little talons left, then right,

while the leaves bristled

against the plaster wall, two of them drifting

onto my blanket while the bird

opened and closed its wings like a matador

giving up on murder,

jutting its beak, turning a circle,

and flashing, again,

the ruddy bombast of its breast 

by which I knew upon waking

it was telling me

in no uncertain terms

to bellow forth the tubas and sousaphones,

the whole rusty brass band of gratitude

not quite dormant in my belly—

it said so in a human voice,

“Bellow forth”—

and who among us could ignore such odd

and precise counsel?

Hear ye! hear ye! I am here

to holler that I have hauled tons—by which I don’t mean lots,

I mean tons — of cowshit

and stood ankle deep in swales of maggots

swirling the spent beer grains

the brewery man was good enough to dump off

holding his nose, for they smell very bad,

but make the compost writhe giddy and lick its lips,

twirling dung with my pitchfork

again and again

with hundreds and hundreds of other people,

we dreamt an orchard this way,

furrowing our brows,

and hauling our wheelbarrows,

and sweating through our shirts,

and two years later there was a party

at which trees were sunk into the well-fed earth,

one of which, a liberty apple, after being watered in

was tamped by a baby barefoot

with a bow hanging in her hair

biting her lip in her joyous work

and friends this is the realest place I know,

it makes me squirm like a worm I am so grateful,

you could ride your bike there

or roller skate or catch the bus

there is a fence and a gate twisted by hand,

there is a fig tree taller than you in Indiana,

it will make you gasp.

It might make you want to stay alive even, thank you;

and thank you

for not taking my pal when the engine

of his mind dragged him

to swig fistfuls of Xanax and a bottle or two of booze,

and thank you for taking my father

a few years after his own father went down thank you

mercy, mercy, thank you

for not smoking meth with your mother

oh thank you thank you

for leaving and for coming back,

and thank you for what inside my friends’

love bursts like a throng of roadside goldenrod

gleaming into the world,

likely hauling a shovel with her

like one named Aralee ought,

with hands big as a horse’s,

and who, like one named Aralee ought,

will laugh time to time til the juice

runs from her nose; oh

thank you

for the way a small thing’s wail makes

the milk or what once was milk

in us gather into horses

huckle-buckling across a field;

and thank you, friends, when last spring

the hyacinth bells rang

and the crocuses flaunted

their upturned skirts, and a quiet roved

the beehive which when I entered

were snugged two or three dead

fist-sized clutches of bees between the frames,

almost clinging to one another,

this one’s tiny head pushed

into another’s tiny wing,

one’s forelegs resting on another’s face,

the translucent paper of their wings fluttering

beneath my breath and when

a few dropped to the frames beneath:

honey; and after falling down to cry,

everything’s glacial shine.

And thank you, too. And thanks

for the corduroy couch I have put you on.

Put your feet up. Here’s a light blanket,

a pillow, dear one,

for I can feel this is going to be long.

I can’t stop

my gratitude, which includes, dear reader,

you, for staying here with me,

for moving your lips just so as I speak.

Here is a cup of tea. I have spooned honey into it.

And thank you the tiny bee’s shadow

perusing these words as I write them.

And the way my love talks quietly

when in the hive,

so quietly, in fact, you cannot hear her

but only notice barely her lips moving

in conversation. Thank you what does not scare her

in me, but makes her reach my way. Thank you the love

she is which hurts sometimes. And the time

she misremembered elephants

in one of my poems which, oh, here

they come, garlanded with morning glory and wisteria

blooms, trombones all the way down to the river.

Thank you the quiet

in which the river bends around the elephant’s

solemn trunk, polishing stones, floating

on its gentle back

the flock of geese flying overhead.

And to the quick and gentle flocking

of men to the old lady falling down

on the corner of Fairmount and 18th, holding patiently

with the softest parts of their hands

her cane and purple hat,

gathering for her the contents of her purse

and touching her shoulder and elbow;

thank you the cockeyed court

on which in a half-court 3 vs. 3 we oldheads

made of some runny-nosed kids

a shambles, and the 61-year-old

after flipping a reverse lay-up off a back door cut

from my no-look pass to seal the game

ripped off his shirt and threw punches at the gods

and hollered at the kids to admire the pacemaker’s scar

grinning across his chest; thank you

the glad accordion’s wheeze

in the chest; thank you the bagpipes.

Thank you to the woman barefoot in a gaudy dress

for stopping her car in the middle of the road

and the tractor trailer behind her, and the van behind it,

whisking a turtle off the road.

Thank you god of gaudy.

Thank you paisley panties.

Thank you the organ up my dress.

Thank you the sheer dress you wore kneeling in my dream

at the creek’s edge and the light

swimming through it. The koi kissing

halos into the glassy air.

The room in my mind with the blinds drawn

where we nearly injure each other

crawling into the shawl of the other’s body.

Thank you for saying it plain:

fuck each other dumb.

And you, again, you, for the true kindness

it has been for you to remain awake

with me like this, nodding time to time

and making that noise which I take to mean

yes, or, I understand, or, please go on

but not too long, or, why are you spitting

so much, or, easy Tiger

hands to yourself. I am excitable.

I am sorry. I am grateful.

I just want us to be friends now, forever.

Take this bowl of blackberries from the garden.

The sun has made them warm.

I picked them just for you. I promise

I will try to stay on my side of the couch.

And thank you the baggie of dreadlocks I found in a drawer

while washing and folding the clothes of our murdered friend;

the photo in which his arm slung

around the sign to “the trail of silences”; thank you

the way before he died he held

his hands open to us; for coming back

in a waft of incense or in the shape of a boy

in another city looking

from between his mother’s legs,

or disappearing into the stacks after brushing by;

for moseying back in dreams where,

seeing us lost and scared

he put his hand on our shoulders

and pointed us to the temple across town;

and thank you to the man all night long

hosing a mist on his early-bloomed

peach tree so that the hard frost

not waste the crop, the ice

in his beard and the ghosts

lifting from him when the warming sun

told him sleep now; thank you

the ancestor who loved you

before she knew you

by smuggling seeds into her braid for the long

journey, who loved you

before he knew you by putting

a walnut tree in the ground, who loved you

before she knew you by not slaughtering

the land; thank you

who did not bulldoze the ancient grove

of dates and olives,

who sailed his keys into the ocean

and walked softly home; who did not fire, who did not

plunge the head into the toilet, who said stop,

don’t do that; who lifted some broken

someone up; who volunteered

the way a plant birthed of the reseeding plant

is called a volunteer, like the plum tree

that marched beside the raised bed

in my garden, like the arugula that marched

itself between the blueberries,

nary a bayonet, nary an army, nary a nation,

which usage of the word volunteer

familiar to gardeners the wide world

made my pal shout “Oh!” and dance

and plunge his knuckles

into the lush soil before gobbling two strawberries

and digging a song from his guitar

made of wood from a tree someone planted, thank you;

thank you zinnia, and gooseberry, rudbeckia

and pawpaw, Ashmead’s kernel, cockscomb

and scarlet runner, feverfew and lemonbalm;

thank you knitbone and sweetgrass and sunchoke

and false indigo whose petals stammered apart

by bumblebees good lord please give me a minute...

and moonglow and catkin and crookneck

and painted tongue and seedpod and johnny jump-up;

thank you what in us rackets glad

what gladrackets us;

and thank you, too, this knuckleheaded heart, this pelican heart,

this gap-toothed heart flinging open its gaudy maw

to the sky, oh clumsy, oh bumblefucked,

oh giddy, oh dumbstruck,

oh rickshaw, oh goat twisting

its head at me from my peach tree’s highest branch,

balanced impossibly gobbling the last fruit,

its tongue working like an engine,

a lone sweet drop tumbling by some miracle

into my mouth like the smell of someone I’ve loved;

heart like an elephant screaming

at the bones of its dead;

heart like the lady on the bus

dressed head to toe in gold, the sun

shivering her shiny boots, singing

Erykah Badu to herself

leaning her head against the window;

and thank you the way my father one time came back in a dream

by plucking the two cables beneath my chin

like a bass fiddle’s strings

and played me until I woke singing,

no kidding, singing, smiling,

thank you, thank you,

stumbling into the garden where

the Juneberry’s flowers had burst open

like the bells of French horns, the lily

my mother and I planted oozed into the air,

the bazillion ants labored in their earthen workshops

below, the collard greens waved in the wind

like the sails of ships, and the wasps

swam in the mint bloom’s viscous swill;

and you, again you, for hanging tight, dear friend.

I know I can be long-winded sometimes.

I want so badly to rub the sponge of gratitude

over every last thing, including you, which, yes, awkward,

the suds in your ear and armpit, the little sparkling gems

slipping into your eye. Soon it will be over,

which is precisely what the child in my dream said,

holding my hand, pointing at the roiling sea and the sky

hurtling our way like so many buffalo,

who said it’s much worse than we think,

and sooner; to whom I said

no duh child in my dreams, what do you think

this singing and shuddering is,

what this screaming and reaching and dancing

and crying is, other than loving

what every second goes away?

Goodbye, I mean to say.

And thank you. Every day.

QUOTE:  "Make the invisible dark force beautiful. Create a song out of your moans.  Brag about your wounds. Dance reverently on the graves of your enemies.  Sneak a gift to your bad self. Dissolve the ties that bind you to hollow intelligence.  Train yourself in the art of unpredictability. Play forever in time's blessing. Lift up your heart unto the wild sun. Distribute your favors to the little ones who can never pay you back. Fall out of love with fear. Make beautiful messes in the midst of ugly messes." ~ Rob Brezsny

My Friends (Dar Williams, cover by Kirsten Maxwell)

Checking in, and surprised myself that I haven't posted since Sunday, November 8.  So much (still!) going on in the world, which I will address next week (Trump refusing to accept election results, Biden's coronavirus task force, Supreme Court kept Obamacare in place, etc.).  In the meantime, I needed a bit of a palate cleanser, a feel-good factor, a smile-inducer... not that I don't (still!) have a sh*t-eating grin on my face with the presidential election results, even bigger now that they called Arizona for Biden last night... 😁 )

Above are my local ride-or-die peeps (from L-R:  Eileen, Nancy, Melanie, me, SusanP, Judi, Laurie).  There are a handful of others who live across state lines, and were not in attendance at this event, my Heart's Desire Last Hurrah, the final house concert in a long line of performers gracing my living room since January 2001.  Jennings & Keller (Laurie and Dana) and Nick Annis agreed to sing us out in April 2018, before we moved from the house we had lived in for 26 years (since March 1992) to the condo we currently occupy (and still!) love.  The encore was Our House, and we of course all sang along, not a dry eye in evidence... 😍

Which segues to...

There were a few years in a row the powers-that-be of the South Florida Folk Festival asked me to be one of three final judges of the Singer-Songwriter Competition.  I had served as a preliminary judge a good many years back (multiple times), which entailed listening to over 200 songs and narrowing the artists down to a Top Twelve; final judge is much more fun and less stressful, because it means choosing three winners from the aforementioned dozen.  January 2016 found me sharing the duties with Aaron Stang and Louise Baker (an honor and a privilege).

When Kirsten Maxwell (you may already be aware of her), one of the twelve, stepped up to perform her two songs, there was no doubt she would be one of the winners; upon deliberation with Aaron and Louise later, we all looked at each other and said something to the effect that Kirsten was a slam dunk... now, who were the other two?

I chatted with her after she won; such a lovely, articulate, talented *young* (maybe 27 now?) woman, and we connected immediately.  I asked her, John John Brown, and Larry Mangum (the other two winners) to kick off our next Labyrinth Cafe season (September 2017).

I saw Kirsten at Falcon Ridge in August 2016, and she made a few other trips to South Florida over the next few years (another festival, another concert series, and a Heart's Desire house concert with two other guy friends), staying with me every time (always leading to wine and vegan food on my patio!), and I am now lucky and grateful to call her friend.

A year or so later, Kirsten did a Kickstarter campaign to raise money for her next CD, and one of the levels was $100, whereupon she would record a cover of any song the donor chose.  I gave her the choice of Arrival, The Blessings, or My Friends (all Dar Williams tunes, of course)... and told her to surprise me.  My intention was/is that she keep the song in her proverbial back pocket and incorporate it into her setlist every once in a while.  It's definitely a deep track that will be well-regarded in the folk community, along with her stunning originals.  I have her permission to share it... 💖

NR:  Brown Girl Dreaming by Jacqueline Woodson

SONG:  My Friends by Dar Williams (cover by Kirsten Maxwell)

BOOK:  Humans by Brandon Stanton

POEM:  Still by Marc Alan Di Martino

There are still birds, still things coming to life

in unexpected ways. Still nights and days.

Nocturnal, diurnal. Circadian rhythms

scratching an itch at the back of the throat.

Still family, still friends. Still love

slapping you silly with its rubber tongue,

salt that makes your stomach sing a psalm,

palettes of rusted foliage, stray bees

in November, still buzzing in the lavender.

[Marc Alan Di Martino, 11/10/20: “For four years our attention has been kidnapped by the fiasco of this administration. For several days and nights, the world has done little else but watch as each vote is tallied in a handful of states that will determine the course of the next four years, maybe longer. This morning I opened the windows. The world is still, somehow, there.”]

QUOTE:  "What though youth gave love and roses, age still leaves us friends and wine." ~ Thomas Moore

The Room Where It Happens (Original Hamilton Cast Reunion - VOTE!)

[thanks to MegHS (again) for always keeping me apprised of The Mallard Family in Boston Public Garden... 💗]

From Team Biden-Harris:

"Former Vice President Joe Biden [ran] for president (and won!) to restore the soul of the nation. He believes it's time to remember who we are. We're Americans: tough and resilient. We choose hope over fear. Science over fiction. Truth over lies. And unity over division. We are the United States of America. And together, there is not a single thing we can't do."

Also, as we now know, Georgia, with 16 electoral votes and 99% reporting (Biden:  49.5%, 2,465,500 and Trump:  49.3%, 2,455,305) will be going to a recount.  We owe a huge debt of gratitude to Stacey Abrams, who has worked tirelessly for years to further the cause of the Democratic Party in this fair state.  Get out those thank you cards now and drop one in her direction!

Abrams also spoke of the two Senate run-off races which are happening on January 5 (thanks to Nance for the link!).  We should do everything in our power to ensure that votes goes Blue, and I (and many people I know) will be contributing to the campaigns of Ossoff and Warnock.  Both wins would get the Senate to 50/50, with Vice President Kamala Harris being the tie-breaker.  Oh, what a lovely thought... 💖

"We dream of a brand new start, but we dream in the dark for the most part" indeed.  Click-boom!

SONG:  The Room Where It Happens (Original Hamilton Cast Reunion - VOTE!)

BOOK:  Biden: The Obama Years and the Battle for the Soul of America by David Lienemann, Jill Biden (Foreword)

POEM:  November by Heather Altfeld

It’s strange, here, waiting for the last of them to be counted,

surreal to think of them shoveled into piles like old snow,

cast out into the world over land and sea to seek, as it were,

their fortunes. I imagine them in the late terrible light

of those rooms, lingering in the stink of yesterday’s lunch

and the air tepid with breath held back by masks,

talking amongst themselves about the ludicrous folly

of humans, who should be tallying the tadpoles

who grew into frogs this year and the number who died

of fungi blotched on the nose, how we ought to jam

the phone lines demanding a raise in the minimum age

for kindness, a cut in the statutory limitations on human cruelty,

a referendum to mortar our cities

from the endless migration of sadness and despair.

Where is the measure in favor of clouds

not yet dreamed or stolen by the sun?

Who will root for the tulips we’ve planted so dumbly

in the dry crud of the earth?

Call it now, for the rivers and the trees and the rocks,

Call it now for the rain, who knows far better than we

How to become one fierce or gentle thing.

[Heather Altfeld: “I think this poem is a collision of two kinds of waiting—both are temporally communal, which makes them particularly interesting to me–the counting of the vote, and here in California, the rain, which we are all desperate for. Both portend our immediate and distant future. And despite the critics of personification, there is something about the convergence of such energies that each ballot carries, beyond its bubbled-in dots—each arrives (hopefully) from the homes of smokers or drinkers, chewed by dogs or babies, spat on by rain or dissent, and in this way, they seem to harbor a strange sort of essence of their own.”]

QUOTE(S):  Joe Biden's acceptance speech for President / Kamala Harris' acceptance speech for Vice-President

Can You Understand My Joy? (John Gorka)

An e-mail statement from Joe Biden today, Saturday, November 7, 2020 12:46 pm

"I am honored and humbled by the trust the American people have placed in me and in Vice President-elect Harris.

In the face of unprecedented obstacles, a record number of Americans voted. Proving once again, that democracy beats deep in the heart of America.

With the campaign over, it’s time to put the anger and the harsh rhetoric behind us and come together as a nation.

It’s time for America to unite. And to heal.

We are the United States of America. And there’s nothing we can’t do, if we do it together.

I’m going to speak to the nation tonight and I’d love for you to watch."

I (and most of my circle of friends) have been watching television (mainly MSNBC and CNN) around the clock since Tuesday night at 7 p.m.  Admittedly, election returns looked glum at first, because Trump had been decrying mail-in ballots and encouraging his supporters to vote the day of, but it soon became evident that mail-in ballots were primarily Democratic... and the vote count, albeit glacial, continued to skew blue.

Went to bed early last night because I was feeling, as we say in the South, "puny" (due to exhaustion and stress) and slept 11 hours.  Woke up this morning still not feeling up-to-speed (the gloomy weather didn't help), curled up on the chaise in my living room, swaddled in fleece and sipping jasmine hot tea, and turned on MSNBC (my default channel).  Still the same numbers.  Ack.

Decided to find something compelling on Netflix settled on the remake of Rebecca, and my friend/college roomie Linda texted at 11:30 a.m.:  "Election called.  Thank God!!!!!!" (Pennsylvania... 💓), at which point I shrieked and then shared the news with the handful of text threads that have sustained me this week.  I taught my grandson Colin last night to say Joe Biden, and asked Sarah to video it this morning, which makes me smile every time I watch it... 😍

My friend Judi said she saw a meme that keeps making her laugh:  "My three-year-old asked me when I was going to stop watching "The Map Show"... 😄

As some have speculated (and I have no doubt that most of us have been, and will continue to, Go High), I don't want to "watch him burn", but I acknowledge in my mind, heart, and soul that Trump treated the citizens of this country (and the world) with severe disrespect and dishonesty (not to mention contributing to the deaths of a quarter-million people through his inadequate handling of the coronavirus).  He will exit this presidency as he has inhabited it:  "a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing" (Shakespeare, of course).

And now Nevada has been called in Biden's favor as well, bringing the numbers to Joe Biden 279, Donald Trump 214.  Arizona is looking good to stay Blue as well and, although Georgia will go to a recount, the numbers should stay in Biden's favor.  I won't do the math just yet, but let's just say 300+.  Zippity!

Van Jones (of CNN), upon hearing the news of Biden's win... 

I am still watching MSNBC.  Look at all those women, people of color, LGBTQ flags, kids... all of them wearing masks.  This is my America... 💖

SONG:  Can You Understand My Joy? by John Gorka (can't find a video, but here are the lyrics; thanks to MegHS for the heads-up to this song!)

BOOK:  The Book of Joy: Lasting Happiness in a Changing World by Dalai Lama, Desmond Tutu, Douglas Carlton Abrams

POEM(S):  Monkey Mind by Denise Duhamel (written and posted 

I know the worth of each state’s electoral votes by heart. My neck pain

has stopped but has traveled to my elbow and wrist. “Three consecutive

deep breaths” written on post-its, one beside the coffee pot and another

on my bathroom mirror. How many times this fall have I been told

“remember to breathe”? Yoga instructor, therapy group, strength-training

teacher, all on Zoom. When I was a kid I watched “Zoom” (Who are you?

What do you do? … Come on and Zoom Zoom went the theme song.) The kids

featured on Boston’s WGBH were local celebrities and my monkey mind

wonders what happened to them as I jump from tree to tree. I recently started

the Netflix series Ratched, the origin story of Nurse Mildred Ratched

(before One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest). On her job interview, the titular character

says she’s not worried about patients throwing their own feces,

that nothing throws her, which reminds me of monkeys who also throw

their own feces when they are defensive, angry, or bored. I only made it through

the first episode of Ratched. I wanted to like it because I like Sarah Paulson

and am glad she is getting work, but I found the show trying too hard, too stylized,

like Mad Men but without as strong a narrative. Then I tried The Queen’s

Gambit but I know almost nothing about chess which the boys I grew up with

called “chest” to see if we girls would blush. And even now, whenever I read

or write or say “titular” I feel self-conscious because the word contains “tit.”

I remember at a writers’ conference many years ago, a famous poet wanted us all

to go to a “titty bar” (her words). And I said something like,

“I just checked in with my feminist principles and the answer is no.”

But now strippers are seen as empowered by some in the third wave and I guess

I’d need a more nuanced answer if she ever asked again. Not that “titty bars”

are even open in this time of COVID-19. That famous poet couldn’t have been

third wave all those years ago, could she? She’s a few years older than I am.

Maybe she was more revolutionary, better read. I can’t believe two grandpas

are running for the president, the election less than 48 hours away.

You know who I voted for (early) since no poet could be a Trump supporter,

could she? Remember in 2016 when there was a fake story that Trump

was going to invite an American poet of Scottish ancestry (who also played

the bag pipes) to his inauguration? I fell for it for a few minutes, but I don’t fall

for much anymore. I believe Trump’s imaginary inaugural poet was known

for his limericks. When I was a kid I loved Lime Rickeys and Del’s Lemonade,

a slushy concoction that lost fans because occasionally they’d slurp a seed

or piece of rind up through the straw. That only made me love Del’s more—

its authenticity, its real lemons. I bought a lemon but it was red, a Kia

which my then-husband said was inferior to our dying Honda Civic

which he was used to. But the Kia is so much cheaper, I argued, and won.

Then for two years we kept returning to the dealer because the interior smelled

like gas and the workers would reattach some hose that kept coming loose.

One time, when we were traveling, we almost passed out from the fumes.

We stopped at a garage and a mechanic said, This car could catch fire at any minute,

so we looked up the lemon laws but had stuck it out with the Kia too long.

We traded the car in and got the Civic my husband wanted in the first place

and I’m not sure if I said I’m sorry or you were right because by then

we were always fighting and I may have been stubborn like the time

we were in a crowded hotel, waiting to check in, and he insisted we were

in the wrong line. He walked away and sat defiantly on a lobby couch.

I had to move our two giant suitcases by myself each time the line crept forward.

It turned out I was right, but shortly thereafter, a therapist asked

Do you want to be right or do you want to be happy? Now I am in group therapy

and the facilitator finally last week let us talk about politics as she said

it was the elephant in the room. We all hated the big fat elephant in office

and wanted him out. What if he wipes out Social Security in three years?

What about the climate? Two of us in the Zoom group had been already hit

by hurricanes this fall. After each rain, Julie’s Florida street is flooded

to such an extent that ducks congregate and think it’s a lake. Only an October snow

stopped the fires from spreading to Maureen’s house in Colorado.

And what about the overrun hospitals? It’s too late to contract trace now,

says The New York Times—the virus is everywhere. And what about my mother

in the nursing home? No visitors, no activities, twenty-two of her neighbors

dead from the virus. She survived the spring, but will she survive the fall?

When will I be able to see her again? My mother has type O blood,

I keep telling myself, and though the low rates of infection are anecdotal,

I’ll take it. I’ve forgotten my own blood type—I think it’s A or B,

as I’m quite sure I was never a universal donor. And I never had to worry

about an Rh factor since I didn’t have kids. I remember pricking my own finger

in junior high and then testing for my blood type along with all the other students,

though I don’t remember the outcome. I bet now kids can’t perform this test

because of COVID-19, because of AIDS. For so many years my friends

and I were afraid to get HIV just the way we are afraid of COVID now.

Condoms then. Now masks. No dinner parties now, no parties at all.

I teach my Zoom classes and miss driving to and from school in my reliable Honda

though it’s not the Honda I mentioned earlier. That one finally died,

shortly after my marriage did. I thought my then-husband stole it

though I soon learned that you can’t steal communal property.

He simply drove it to the Miami airport and parked it in the closest,

most expensive lot, then hopped a plane to Madrid. It took me a week

before he’d let me know where he was, where he’d parked, then another

month before he was ready to come home. By then it was too late.

Some situations can’t be saved. I hope democracy can, even our half-assed version.

I hope the seas can be saved. Scientists just found a reef as tall as the Empire State

Building. I remember how my mom had a panic attack when she took us there.

Before we could look through the view finders we had to cut the line

to get back to the elevator and down to the street. I was five that trip

to New York and, though it wasn’t the worst part of my childhood, I wonder

what it did to me, to see my mom come undone in front of strangers.

I love heights and rarely get dizzy, even on the scariest amusement park rides

or parasailing. As I welcome the rush, I wonder if I am compensating for something.

I wonder if I am getting compensated fairly. When I was hired, I should have asked

for more money, but I accepted the offer immediately. The chair

of the English Department seemed shocked and then said, “Okay. I’ll send over

the paperwork.” I didn’t think I was entitled. Not like our entitled president.

Though he won the election without the popular vote, he acted like Mr. Popularity—

cutting regulations, nominating nutjob judges and justices, lining his own pockets

like the world owed him. I would have been a tentative president, my feelings

of illegitimacy on display. I would have worked with the other side, trying

to get my enemies to like me. Even now I leap from branch to branch

by my monkey tail, quite certain I’ll never be able to calm my monkey mind

until all the votes are in. I surrender my brain, my body, my own white flag.

[From the poet, written and shared yesterday:  “Forty-eight hours after the presidential election, I am still filled with anxiety, hope, and dread. Monkey Mind tries to capture a slice of where my mind travels to these days.”]

Joy by Donna Henderson

I was so hungry!

& my hunger longed for the bite-sized Joy

in my pocket, its luscious

crush in my teeth,

almond soul from the brown glaze

sweetly releasing.

But my plans! – To hike the length of the Spit,

then have my Joy when I've earned it –

But my Joy wouldn't let me

loose from the lot unpartaken.

Whispered, my hunger,

          Have it now, let it sustain you.

Joy's not the end, Joy's

the way.

Believe This by Richard Levine

All morning, doing the hard, root-wrestling

work of turning a yard from the wild

to a gardener’s will, I heard a bird singing

from a hidden, though not distant, perch;

a song of swift, syncopated syllables sounding

like, Can you believe this, believe this, believe?

Can you believe this, believe this, believe?

And all morning, I did believe. All morning,

between break-even bouts with the unwanted,

I wanted to see that bird, and looked up so

I might later recognize it in a guide, and know

and call its name, but even more, I wanted

to join its church. For all morning, and many

a time in my life, I have wondered who, beyond

this plot I work, has called the order of being,

that givers of food are deemed lesser

than are the receivers. All morning,

muscling my will against that of the wild,

to claim a place in the bounty of earth,

seed, root, sun and rain, I offered my labor

as a kind of grace, and gave thanks even

for the aching in my body, which reached

beyond this work and this gift of struggle.

QUOTE:  “Joy is spontaneously breaking out all over America right now. I predict that you’re going to see large crowds all over the country celebrating what has just happened.  It’s okay for us to wallow in that for awhile.” ~ former senator Claire McCaskill

Counting Stars (OneRepublic)

Today is Thursday, November 5, and we are on Day 3 of election results.  Current electoral vote count is Joe Biden 264, Donald Trump 214.  Still too early/close to call are Georgia, Nevada, North Carolina, Pennsylvania.  So many memes (huge thanks to Melanie, Nicole, and Rob), so little time! But let's go back 48 hours...

I went to bed at midnight Tuesday (when they were clear it would taken another few days to count the Michigan and Wisconsin votes)...

...and woke at 6:45 a.m.  To quote Dorothy Parker:  "What fresh hell is this?".  Polls were crazy unreliable, seemed there would be a Republican Senate, and Trump thinks he won this election.

I would have usually been on the balcony sipping coffee, but stayed inside in front of the TV, gulping my Morning Joe, the beverage as well as the MSNBC show... and Steve Kornacki was still rockin' the big board.  This was not the resounding rebuke I expected for the Worst. President. Ever!

Went out walking and couldn't go fast nor far enough to get out of my own head.  Added a new 15-minute loop to get me up to an hour, which I will keep in.  Passed a car in my condo complex that had a Rambo-like Trump flag, and it was all I could do to keep my suburban-housewife-self from clambering on the hood and ripping it off.  Then I eventually wound up home (because I had a library pick-up at 11), called on The Women (above) to get us to 270.  Tuned in to Rachel and Company a few more times; she used the word "grok" on Election Night, and my heart skipped a beat.

It is ridiculous that Trump is filing lawsuits already when the election results are not even final yet.  That is the action/reaction of a man who knows he has lost, grasping at straws.  Also, Twitter and Facebook flagged his recent posts as untrue.

I remain confident, and will not be swayed from my Pollyanna ways.  I understand the reality of the situation, but I refuse to live in fear; I choose to visualize peace and justice.  You can do this, Nevada... and Georgia... and maybe even Pennsylvania!

Went out walking again today and got thoroughly rained on, did a few hours of housecleaning, will start a new book (below), and look forward to a Zoom call at 4:30 with Nancy and Judi.  

Joe Biden gave a speech on November 4 to address the ongoing election counts. He said: “It’s clear that we’re winning enough states to reach 270 electoral votes needed to win the presidency.” Read the transcript of his remarks here.  I will continue to wait patiently, hope for the best, Keep the Faith, and remain an Eternal Optimist... 😍

NR:  Pretty Things by Janelle Brown

SONG:  Counting Stars by OneRepublic

BOOK:  Undaunted Optimist: Essays on Life, Laughter and Cheerful Perseverance by Chris Rodell

POEM:  The Last Thing by Ada Limón

First there was the blue wing

of a scraggly loud jay tucked

into the shrubs. Then the bluish-

black moth drunkenly tripping

from blade to blade. Then

the quiet that came roaring

in like the R. J. Corman over

Broadway near the RV shop.

These are the last three things

that happened. Not in the universe,

but here, in the basin of my mind,

where I’m always making a list

for you, recording the day’s minor

urchins: silvery dust mote, pistachio

shell, the dog eating a sugar

snap pea. It’s going to rain soon,

close clouds bloated above us,

the air like a net about to release

all the caught fishes, a storm

siren in the distance. I know

you don’t always understand,

but let me point to the first

wet drops landing on the stones,

the noise like fingers drumming

the skin. I can’t help it. I will

never get over making everything

such a big deal.

QUOTE:  "Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I'll meet you there.  When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about.  Ideas, language, even the phrase each other doesn't make any sense." ~ Rumi

Talkin' Bout a Revolution (Tracy Chapman)

[thanks to Judi for this amazing graphic!]

Today is Tuesday, November 3:  Election Day!  I was awakened this morning at 7 a.m. by a series of enthusiastic dings from a political text thread my daughter created, so I just got out of bed, poured a cup of coffee, and joined in the fun... 😍

I managed not to post at all last week... mostly due to stress and anxiety about today's results.  I've not been able to watch much news during this Trump administration.  Just hearing his voice and/or his lies throw me into an emotional tailspin.  Tuned into MSNBC for ten minutes the other night, Steve Kornacki was walking through a What If of what it would take for Trump to get to 270, and my stomach began roiling, and hasn't stopped since.  I am trying so hard to visualize an election where the people have spoken resoundingly on the side of Justice and Equality.  Optimism is my default mechanism.

Even if we win the election (and I firmly believe we will!), there will be repercussions and the potential for violence.  When even Walmart stops selling guns and ammunition for a few weeks, you know there is a problem.  And the incident with the Biden-Harris tour bus in Texas is horrifying.  These people (and you know how I mean that) will stop at nothing over the next few months to continue their agenda of hate and deception, which will lead to more deaths, coronavirus and otherwise.  I ask myself:  "why aren't they looking out for their own children's and grandchildren's futures?".  I love that Obama is out there stumping for Biden; I truly think it will help, but it does make me melancholy for what we had and what we lost.  

Things You Never Thought You'd See in Your Own Country for $500 please, Alex.  So many improprieties (bots and hacking and gerrymandering) in 2016, and we acceded and regrouped and tried to move forward, and it's only gotten worse.  I believe in Fairness, and I have been consistently proven wrong these last four years.  Hey, I know it can't be Camelot, but I am weary of Hadestown.

Hitting Publish, going out walking, attending my weekly Tuesday 11 a.m. Zoom call with Nancy and Judi, then headed to vote (actually here in my own condo complex).  As the old protest song goes:  "one and one and fifty make a million".  There *will* be cause for celebration tonight.  May it be so.  Ooooommmm... ॐ

Penzeys Spices does it again... 

What if Today's the Day You Admitted to Yourself You're No Longer a Republican

 

It’s been four years now. You know this is not going to get any better. Last election you could still believe the Republican Party was your father’s Republican Party. A party of financial responsibility, small government, defending democracy, supporting our troops, respecting others, family values and even telling the truth. You now know these values are long gone. Up until now there’s been nothing you could do about it. Today that changes.

It’s been said elections have their consequences. A big part of this is who gets elected, but with each vote we also define who we are and what we stand for. Are you a serial liar? Are you a cheat? Do you really want gay friends and family members to fear for their marriages? Are you a racist? I’m pretty sure you want the answer to all of these to be a resounding no, but when your votes inflict all those things on your fellow Americans your actions speak louder than your denials. Why not have your actions match your actual values?

And it’s not just the president, it’s the party. Seriously, who's worse, the out of control leader or those elective legislators who took an oath to the Constitution and then broke it out of fear, corruption, or possibly both? At least Utah has Mitt Romney they can re-elect without shame, the rest not so much.

What to do? If you are in a spot where you feel safe to do it, I hear from customers, making the leap and telling the world the Republican Party is no longer for you can be quite exhilarating. But for those of you living more complex lives, I can see where that might be hard. If need be, maybe borrowing a page from the gay rural teen handbook and living a double life for a while is your best bet. In many ways this election is about your soul. Today who you vote for is far more important than who people think you voted for.

As of today we’ve needlessly lost over two hundred thousand Americans to the failed Republican handling of the Coronavirus. Without a change in leadership in both the White House and the Senate that number will be more than a million by this time next year. Today your vote can actually save lives. Please use it wisely.

Once we get past today’s vote, going forward your spirit is needed every bit as much as your vote. America and the world have serious issues to deal with and for many of these issues time is of the essence. You being among kindred spirits where you no longer have to hide your empathy and compassion just to fit in could lead to real difference. Come join in. Being on the good guys' side is a whole lot more fun.

NR:  The Wonder by Emma Donoghue

SONG:  Talkin' Bout a Revolution by Tracy Chapman

BOOK:  Resistencia: Poems of Protest and Revolution by Mark Eisner and Tina Escaja (Editors), Julia Alvarez (Introduction)

POEM:  Kindness by Nikita Gill

And maybe this is how we learn the value of kindness.

When the whole world is like a small child with a fever,

trying her very best to make herself feel better.

Maybe we find our unity in the near-losing of everything.

Where we have no choice but to depend upon each other.

This is what it takes to realize we are in this together.

A man helps someone he dislikes because they are in danger.

A neighbor delivers groceries to everyone ill on her street.

Old friends forgive each other, stop acting like they are strangers.

Maybe this time, the revolution arrives dressed as kindness.

People helping each other despite their differences.

Understanding truly, that without the aid of others,

we would be all alone in this.

QUOTE:  “The best way to describe how I’m feeling right now — it’s somewhere between Christmas Eve and the night before a liver transplant.” ~ Jimmy Kimmel