Newsletter 1 2024_0906

I’ve been reading a ton, folklore, labor history, and sex stuff, a little poetry, about Berenice Abbot and NYC back in the days of Deco. Maybe it’s the reading so much that’s exhausting me — all those brain cells, but truthfully, I think it’s because my September allergies have blossomed fully once again for another year.*


I wanted to send you guys something for the weekend, links you might enjoy checking out — to essays, movies, and so on. I’ve been into the art of the essay lately just as I’ve been into revisiting some of the foreign and cult flicks I started watching in my late teens — so many good ones, some with my biggest heartthrob at the time, the Italian actor, Giancarlo Giannini. L-O-V-E-D LOVED him, and some of his steamier sex scenes just about did me in sometimes — talk about desire. I may pop “Swept Away” into the DVD player when I’m done with this, get a little stoned, and just relax and rewatch it since it’s about all I have the energy for at the moment.


https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0073817/
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tieta
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Zln78CcFkA
https://www.filmlinc.org/films/dona-flor-and-her-two-husbands/

https://intimatedistance.substack.com/?utm_campaign=pub&utm_medium=web

https://wvminewars.org

http://emilyehilliard.com

And fall approaching has me thinking about them:
https://www.theroyalfrogballet.com

In closing, while I do have a couple of new series available, I haven’t been much in the mood for soliciting just yet (see allergies above*); however, if you’re interested in the meantime, let me know and I’ll shoot you an invoice. I’m going away on Sunday otherwise, and won’t be sending invoices until sometime the end of next week or so. If you don’t receive one after I return, and you’d like one, let me know.

Okay, off to somewhere in the Mediterranean to be swept away. Maybe you’ll join me.
šŸ˜‰

Newsletter 2 from 2024_0914

Iā€™m settling down after todayā€™s photo shoot which I think turned out pretty good. When I really put in the effort, they can take a lot out of me. A cup of chai and half a whole-grain sourdough English muffin with PB & honey, Iā€™m feeling sufficiently restored to focus on another note to you guys ā€” two weeks in a row! Not a bad consistency for me. Letā€™s see if I can manage another one next week. And by the way, before I forget, after rewatching ā€œSwept Awayā€ last week I started thinking to myself, ā€œif any of these guys watch it, hope they donā€™t start getting ideas about me,ā€ because I was only about 19 the first time I saw it, and may have rewatched it since, but I totally forgot just how abusive thef chauvinism got. There was a lot of stereotyping, generally not okay, but it helps in telling a story about class struggles, sex, and power, and how different it looks when the playing field shifts. At any rate, depending on when we get back from a restaurant on the harbor (tomorrowā€™s my birthday), I might just have to push for a rewatch of ā€œThe Seduction of Mimi,ā€ another Wertmuller-Giannini film.
https://www.siskelfilmcenter.org/seduction-mimi

My latest book of essays is ā€œAppalachian Reckoningā€ and itā€™s been excellent so far.
https://wvupressonline.com/appalachian-reckoning

This weekā€™s Intimate Distance newsletter:
https://intimatedistance.substack.com/p/sex-ed-book-club-recap

Tomorrow, besides being my birthday, is the start of National Hispanic Heritage month, and SPLC has some great literary classics on their list.
https://www.splcenter.org/hopewatch/2024/09/13/books-national-hispanic-heritage-month

A short essay from the author of another book, ā€œThe Language of Climate Politics,ā€
here:
https://mailchi.mp/endclimatesilence/the-end-climate-silence-newsletter-climate-in-the-presidential-debate?e=98d13e804f

And one I havenā€™t read yet, but am looking forward to; I love reading anything positive and encouraging, and the headline grabbed me. (And not by the pussy either.)
https://www.policylink.org/resources-tools/renters-rise-cities-thrive

Now, gotta get ready for a dinner out on the harbor, and eek, I still havenā€™t managed to get more invoices out today, but they are coming, theyā€™re coming. Promise. I do, I do, I doā€¦

Pizza Night

Making pizza tonight. Sometimes I use the no-knead pizza dough recipe, but lately Iā€™ve been using the conventā€™s recipe that Iā€™ve had for 40+ years now. I think Iā€™ve mentioned I used to cook for a convent once upon a time, about a decade after Iā€™d lost all enthusiasm for a cloistered life (puberty hit, and that was the end of my religious vocational aspiration); cooking for the Sisters of Mercy was the closest Iā€™d ever get to becoming a nun. The convent was their motherhouse in Burlington, Vermont, long gone now, although I imagine, many of the nunā€™s spirits still linger there, flesh and bone wrapped in shrouds, resting in simple pine boxes among tall pines and evergreens in the verdant glade behind what remains of their former home. And there you have it, food stirs up memories, and before you know it, those memories become the stories we share.

My Day

Now that I have your undivided attention, Iā€™d like to tell you about my day. Iā€™m fussy about books that make it into my home library reference collection, and always borrow from a library first before anything makes the cut. ā€œMaking Thingsā€Ā @_making_thingsĀ is one such book with the kind of making we can do to resist the demands (where we can) of the capitalist society we live in. Making useful everyday items that are also beautiful in their utility and simplicity, doubly so, considering many of the tools and materials needed we tend to already have handy or can improvise or repurpose with basic camp-craft skills and supplies, many we can make ourselves or find at the local hardware store, thrift shop or craft store. WithĀ @bookshop_orgĀ offering free shipping this week, itā€™s a great way to support independent bookstores, and do an activity/craft that is fun to do and can revive flagging spirits. Itā€™s called craftivism.
After reading in print, I turned to my iPad and whoops, slipped right into social media. Thank goodness forĀ @thecurvycapsuleĀ post on history and current events, in which she mentions the Reichstag Fire. Iā€™d heard of the Reichtag Fire, and the post prompted me to do my own reading and research because it echoes so much of what my coterie and I have been discussing on the daily for years now. I began with the US Holocaust Memorial Museumā€™s account of the Reichstag Fire, followed by a Harperā€™s MagazineĀ @harpersmagazineĀ essay from 2017 by journalist Marsha Gessen entitled ā€œThe Reichstag Fire Next Timeā€ (prompting me to add James Baldwinā€™s ā€œThe Fire Next Time,ā€ to my book queue). I continued with a Smithsonian MagazineĀ @smithsonianmagĀ piece from the same year by Lorraine Boissoneault sharing more on the story of the fire.
I love having deeper, more thoughtful and meaningful discussions about these topics and while it can happen here on Instagram, many times itā€™s happening so fast, I canā€™t process it as well as I can by actually reading well-written works of interest. Hence, I engage; I disengage. I love history, both learning it and living it, but reliving it? Especially another Reich. No thank you.

What to Write About?

What to write about? Itā€™s hard for me to continue to post sentiments here that appear oblivious to whatā€™s happening in the world around me. One thing I decided on my latest break is that while I donā€™t care to perpetuate trauma drama as a regular thing here (Iā€™d much rather shoot my mouth off in my local community, within my family and so on, where I might actually have more impact), I do want to remember the suffering that continues around the world, sanctioned historically by my own government as well as those of other countries. How will we atone? Our latest atrocity being the rampant ā€œlegalā€ slaughter of human rights here on our own turf, as our flawed democracy continues to decline. Still, the sun rises, the sweet peas are blooming with mad abandon, and my dog comes in from the garden, with much of its detritus, seed pods, twigs, leaves, and the like clinging to her fur, and she makes me laugh. Itā€™s these little things that provide momentary solace. That, and my knowing that there ARE others out there paying attention too, trying to keep their hope afloat, sometimes sharing their moments of joy, other times speaking to despair. The wabi-sabi, ying-yang of our human existence here on Earth. Sometimes we just need to know we are not alone, and let others like us know they are not alone. When we no longer know that, that is the time for true despair. Yet weā€™ll still cling to our tattered hopes, wonā€™t we?

 

Il Dolce Far Niente

Itā€™s been such a glorious holiday week of doing absolutely nothing remarkable other than just enjoying the unfolding of the hours in each day, and I want to linger suspended in the spaciousness of that kind of time for just a wee while longer, please.

Pouring

Itā€™s pouring out today and tomorrow my son turns 40. Weā€™ve had a complicated relationship for years now, something I feel a lot of sadness about, but I have no idea how to reconcile with him anymore. Reconciliation between two people is an exchange, isnā€™t it? And how do you do that when mental health issues also come into play? Without the process feeling like someoneā€™s getting beaten up, and experiencing a lot of pain? How do we find a better way ā€¦ of being, of relating? Without a long, gentle conversation, perhaps while doing enjoyable activities together, Iā€™m not sure that is something that will ever be possible with him again. Playing a board game, or cards, doing a jigsaw puzzle, maybe someday camping again? Itā€™s been difficult to accept, it may always feel that way, but as his mother, it is so very hard remembering who he once was on his way to becoming ā€” just a sweet, kind, gentle boy who loved nature, music, and make-believe play ā€” yep, hope is not something itā€™s easy for me to let go of where my child is concerned.

Desk Trip

About the desk trip ā€” itā€™s really a time trip, but the portal is my desk. Something about being at a desk puts me in a trance, puts me in the zone, and the next thing I know Iā€™m tripping through time and once again swept up in the never-ending story of it all. I sit at the one I have now every day, sometimes staring into space, daydreaming, or crossing my arms on it in front of me, to put my head down for a rest, and I think of sweltering Spring mid-afternoon ā€œnapsā€ in Catholic elementary school. Those nuns were on to something, you know? Ā Siesta.

My motherā€™s been resting now in her forever plot for seven years today, and I think about her.

She bought me my first desk, an unfinished desk that she finished in an antique off-white she was so fond of in her early furniture refinishing days. How she must have worked on that desk, thinking of how excited Iā€™d be when I saw it. How she even managed all of what she did with the four of us girls, over the years. At that time we were all under the age of almost six. She got me that desk for my sixth birthday, my dad away at sea a lot in those years (Cuban Missile Crisis, Bay of Pigs, Suez Canal, Mediterranean, supposed to be gone for two weeks on one ā€œtourā€ only to have it stretch into two months).

Years later, I remember her telling me how I cried because she got me a desk for that birthday. Six years old. What six year old wants a desk, right? My twenty-six year old mother had to have been misinformed, surely? But then she had nothing to go on really, her own mother having died when she was seven, before sheā€™d even had a chance to cry over much of anything yet.

I did some of my best daydreaming in school at a desk, and a lot of that as Iā€™ve grown older has turned into some of my best writing, as well as some of my worst. It feels good to sit at this designated place where I gather my thoughts, make my lists and give my brain a rest from trying to remember it all. It turns out not only do I WANT a desk, but I NEED a desk ā€” even if itā€™s only a tray in my lap. So thanks, Mom, for that first desk. And Mom? Just so you know, I still have it ā€” it sits in the basement holding my laundry supplies.

A Day in the Life

Yesterday was a long day as we took an unexpected road trip to Southern NH. We avoid any travel through and around Boston especially, because basically the sprawl continues to creep. Ever further, bringing with it more waves of vehicles, including trucks of all sizes and kinds (the heavy equipment trucks are the scariest because who knows how much training the drivers even get, what with the CDL Driver shortage, and the rush to ā€œget it done.ā€), literally blowing by us when we ourselves are admittedly already over the speed limit at 70-80mph. LOL, and if you saw the state of the roads, and the crumbling bridges you hold your breath on, and under, you wonder why in the name of heaven would there be talk of building more roads, new exits and so on, when we donā€™t even maintain what we have. No, travel in most of Massachusetts, and anyplace ā€œprogressā€ continues to encroach, is no longer an enjoyable pursuit like the old ā€œSunday drive.ā€ Not much country left here in this state, and the bits that are left still see their share of amped up, impatient drivers blasting through a ā€œshortcutā€ to another place. And, while it wasnā€™t rush hour, man, I tell ya, a road trip through and around Boston to go out of state to pick up your son after you bail him out of jail makes for one hair-raising kind of day. Huh, and thatā€™s just the state of our roads. On my sonā€™s most recent manic ā€œadventureā€ last Labor Day weekend, he drove cross-country to California in a jalopy of a truck we truly believed wouldnā€™t make it, but did; and wandered the streets of L.A. for the better part of a month trying to get said truck back from the company that had towed it, while borrowing money to get by until he received his October check, at which time he rented a U-haul van and drove back home. It was a relief to know he was finally safe, even if it was just his RV in the woods. But where we live and its lack of public transportation, you really do need a car, especially if you live in the woods, and all this time weā€™ve been thinking heā€™s either borrowing a friendā€™s vehicle, or mustā€™ve found another wreck to fix up, heā€™s been driving the frickinā€™ U-haul, with the idea heā€™d return it at some point. 🙄Ā This is the reality of living with mental illness, whether your own, or a beloved family memberā€™s, in this case both. Iā€™m fortunate in that Iā€™ve had lifelong insight, recognition and acceptance of my own. My son does not. Doesnā€™t recognize when heā€™s manic and delusional. Bipolar Disorder with Psychosis. Why couldnā€™t it just be plain old Major Depressive Disorder? At least it wouldnā€™t get him in so much trouble. So many of those who suffer from mental illness end up in the criminal justice system, and that in itself is a crime. Between the harrowing ride up to NH, our first hour locked in a cinder block cell-like waiting room, cell phones forbidden, no public rest rooms (we asked); finally asking if we could sit in our car (ring buzzer, speak through intercom, hope for prompt response ā€” staff were polite and relatively prompt, Iā€™ll give them that) because we were wearing our coats and still freezing in there, our dog was in the car, and at least weā€™d be somewhat comfortable while we waited another two hours for the one Bail Commissioner who travels the State posting bail for others to finish work elsewhere, as well as eat his lunch, before we were finally able to return home ā€” during metro-Boston rush hour.Ā  It was a punishing day all-around, and a welcome relief to get home. Just another one of those days, not uncommon in the span of my lifetime so far.

Baler twine and Vise Grips

My Irish cousin died the other day after a few months of illness. He was 84, a farmer, who farmed the ancestral farm, ReenoGreena, Glandore, County Cork. I met him and his wife, Anne, for the first time twenty years ago on my first visit to Ireland. He was at that time the age I am now. He had one grandson in particular who loved farming as much as he did, and Iā€™m hoping his farming legacy continues through many future generations. For the brief moments I spent with Pat and Anne on my visits, I truly appreciated their down-to-earth demeanor and their ability to see through pretense. My mother was another soul who recognized pretense, and I believe she would have got on with them quite well. How can you not feel comfortable with folks who have no use for lofty pretense?
I watched Patā€™s funeral service live-streamed from his parish in Ireland this morning. Normally, I have no use for traditional funeral masses as I have little use for the Catholic Church these days, but this experience surprised me. It was actually a beautiful ceremony. Iā€™ve been to so many services that lack personality and the personal. His was not the case, his daughter Siobhanā€™s eulogy, even the priestā€™s words, captured the spirit of my cousin; upon reflection now I can see it soaring amidst the flying buttresses of that church. Ā Although I didnā€™t know Pat well, I felt a peace and comfort hearing about his life of family, farm, community and church, his absolute faith in the miracle of baler twine and vise-grips as an all-purpose fix-it, not only for hay, but also for trousers in need of a belt or coats with broken zippers. Ā To have lived an entire life, amidst the beauty of a familiar landscape on ancestral lands, surrounded by the stories and the people he shared that life with, ah, what a rich, full life indeed. Who cares about fame and fortune with a life like that? Ā To hear that a local schoolboy, when asked what he wants to be when he grows up, answered with ā€œa Pat Hurley,ā€ fills me with a longing for a life that we Americans know far too little of.
ā€You can fix anything with baler twine and vise grips, and if you canā€™t, itā€™s not worth fixing.ā€
-Pat Hurley, ReenoGreena