My Little Golden Book of Phobias

I continue to wonder at the fuckery that is our current reality while living here on this little island called my house and garden. Daily walks with a mask, making masks, meditating virtually, dancing virtually, face timing my children, having new relationships with my neighbors, etc etc. And feeling lucky that I don't have to go to work, I can stay here and work from home which is, in itself, a weirdness as a health care provider.

Teresa and I are starting a mindfulness childbirth class in a few weeks. A few hours on Thursday night. On Zoom.

Nancy's birthday is on the 8th so I'm thinking to do a drive-by and blast Stevie Wonder's birthday song on my car speakers. She's getting NY city bagels FEDX to her and she says my name is on one.

Going to take the living room apart and paint it. Even the fireplace. Spending so much time here, it's just too damn dark in there. Dark beamed ceiling and ugly fireplace brick. Gonna switch it up. My buddy Beth has been here working with me in the garden. She's a house painter and I may get her to do the ceiling cuz it will be a bear. I can do the walls and trim.

I haven't said so here but for the last four weeks I've been taking a poetry class with a guy who is not what he claims. Each week he laid out a theme and then told stories about himself which were, frankly, unbelievable. He has claimed to be friends with the Dalai Lama, Thich Nhat Hanh, John Updike, Alan Ginsberg (!), Gwendolyn Brooks, Ted Hughes and so on. Conveniently, most authors he cited were dead. In addition, he claims NA heritage which  was refuted on Google by several NA authors. He even had an award rescinded for a YA novel after it was discovered that he DID NOT have a  PhD from Cambridge  or whatever he claimed. I even wrote to the organization that promotes his class and they sent a nice email back saying that he had written a blog for them for many years and don't believe everything you read, even if it is in the New Yorker and The Guardian. They offered me my money back. But I decided to stick it out for the community of other participants. And here's where I get snarky. His poetry is shite, the folks who participated were also shite writers. Having been in a few writing groups with serious critique and good writers, this was not it. I applaud anyone who wants to do art, we all have that impulse. We all have something we're good at. Could be bread or our garden or our friendliness...

Anyway, I did not get what I was looking for in a writing community.  Fakers are everywhere and people seem to get away with anything these days. Next time I'll be less trusting and do my research first.

Sheesh.

Speaking of poetry,  I ca't write for shit right now and I'm ok with it. I remember writing a poem about Abu Ghraib after seeing those horrifying photos. I had to give myself several weeks before I could write anything about it. And what we're experiencing now collectively and the enormity of it, the disproportionate way it is affecting the poor, POC communities is, of course, business as usual but I am mute.

I have picked up my book or whatever it is. After transcribing many interviews, which is awful btw if you don't type very fast, I am now writing from each voice. Because it is about trauma, I have to stop and take breaks, which is why it's taken me so long to get to it. But the moment is now, trauma is our current reality.

Spring is helping; each day new flowers open, new seeds germinate in the veggie garden. It's warm enough to sit outside and watch the birds and the clouds in the sky and contemplate mortality.

May all of you be well and safe and maybe having blueberry pancakes.