Here’s my first attempt at haiku (should I capitalize that?), prompted by the sight of a spider web along with Trifecta’s writing challenge to incorporate the word rusty–“dulled in color or appearance by age or use”–fresh in my mind. Whether it works or not, I had a blast writing this.
Dew-spangled spider web
across the path
Old Chevy rusting in the gully
Bronnie Ware, an Australian nurse who spent several years caring for patients in the last 12 weeks of their lives recorded their dying epiphanies in a blog called Inspiration and Chai, which gathered so much attention that she put her observations into a book called The Top Five Regrets of the Dying. Here they are.
1. I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.
2. I wish I hadn’t worked so hard.
3. I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings.
4. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.
5. I wish that I had let myself be happier.
None of these resonate with me, well, not exactly. Here’s my response:
1. I’ve never lived my life according to what others expected of me–sometimes to my regret. As for having the courage to live a life true to myself, I don’t think it was courage I lacked, I just didn’t know know what was true for me, I was always looking to others to tell me.
2. I liked working hard. Perhaps I didn’t work hard enough.
3. For the most part I’ve always expressed my feelings, not always well but it has been important to me to try to do so.
4. I have stayed in touch with friends. Plus I’ve regained Donna and Joan, a couple of old school chums from Zambia, who might never have been in my life anyway, but thanks to Facebook they are.
5. “I wish that I had let myself be happier.” I don’t get this one. Perhaps because I’m a glass half full kind of person.
Right out of the gate, I could spew regrets all over the place. But when I give it serious consideration, I don’t think I have as many regrets as others. Perhaps because I’ve always believed that an unexamined life is not worth living and I’ve gone through some excruciating self-evaluations, culminating in the latest episode that prompted my memoir Loveyoubye. All I think about now is making the most of tomorrow. Perhaps when the time comes at the end, the very finality of leaving life will bring regrets I’m not aware of.
I’d forgotten how much I loved this film. And as before, I grinned all the way through.
My favorite lines:
Maude: A lot of people enjoy being dead. But they are not dead, really. They’re just backing away from life. Reach out. Take a chance. Get hurt even. But play as well as you can. Go team, go! Give me an L. Give me an I. Give me a V. Give me an E. L-I-V-E. LIVE! Otherwise, you got nothing to talk about in the locker room.
Harold: Maude.
Maude: Hmm?
Harold: Do you pray?
Maude: Pray? No. I communicate.
Harold: With God?
Maude: With life.
Maude: Vice, Virtue. It’s best not to be too moral. You cheat yourself out of too much life. Aim above morality. If you apply that to life, then you’re bound to live life fully.
Maude: The earth is my body; my head is in the stars.
[pauses]
Maude: Who said that, Harold?
Harold: I don’t know.
Maude: Well, I suppose I did, then.
Did you know that Ruth Gordon Jones was 75 years old when she made Harold and Maude, Bud Cort was 23.
When the movie was released by Paramount in 1971, it was considered by industry insiders and film critics alike to be of curiosity value; a small offbeat black-comedy, with appeal mostly limited to those harbouring an unconventional taste for the tasteless.
Time–and millions of viewers–were to prove this assumption wrong, however, as the film’s popularity spread first among college students across America and then throughout the general movie-going public on both sides of the Atlantic.
Today, after several cinematic re-runs, numerous television screenings and its release on video, Harold and Maude enjoys a very substantial cult status.
It’s Celebrate The Small Things Day. Something I’ve achieved each week, no matter how small. If you’re interested in joining me sign up here at Vicki’s blog.
So today, I want to celebrate the dwarf lemon tree I just bought. My first tree ever. I’m going to plant it in the middle of this 7 X 15 foot garden bed in front of my writing studio, which is attached to the back of the house. Except for a brief magical spurt of Australian violets that poured in from an adjoining flower bed–I wrote about it in my memoir, Loveyoubye–I’ve thrashed about trying to decide what to plant. I wanted the perfect garden, a perennial display of flowers and all kinds of other plants that complement each other, something Sunset Magazine would clamor to photograph.
But nothing settled in my head; I just didn’t know enough about plants; I wanted something special after the Australian violets which had great meaning. And then a couple of days ago, I awoke with the idea of a dwarf lemon tree right in the middle of the garden bed. So off to the nursery I went. And here it is awaiting planting. Who knows what’s next.
This is the tiny moth who lives on tears,
Who drinks like a deer at the gleaming pool
At the edge of the sleeper’s eyes, the touch
Of its mouth as light as a cloud’s reflection.
In your dreams, a moonlit figure appears
at your bedside and touches your face.
He asks if he might share the poor bread
of your sorrow. You show him the table.
The two of you talk long into the night,
but by morning the words are forgotten.
You awaken serene, in a sunny room,
rubbing the dust of his wings from your eyes.
~From Delights & Shadows, by Ted Kooser, Poet Laureate of the United States (2004-2006), winner of the Pulitzer Prize for this collection of poems.
Poetry was ruined for me back in school. Until I discovered Mr. Kooser.
I awoke this morning with a “feel” for the memoir I’ve been meaning to get to, after my initial attempt twenty years ago turned into a 500-page door-stopper of flashbacks. That in turn became two YA novels, Mine Dances and Monkey’s Wedding (loved but ultimately rejected by Harper-Collins–not high concept enough). Five years later, I wrote Loveyoubye, a memoir, but this was not the one I initially set out to write.
This is the first “feel” I’ve had for that original concept. Nothing big, an inkling, but this time the idea was contained as it were, not some vague sprawling inundation of memories, of game reserves and out of the way bush hotels and attacks by rebels. A possible start on the shores of Lake Nyasa, Malawi, our first stop on a three-month motoring holiday up to Kenya from our home in Nkana, Zambia. This was where I fell in love with a twenty-year old man–I was thirteen–who paid me the slightest attention and where I won a Bingo round.
I lay in bed regretting throwing away that flash-back monstrosity that had been gathering dust in my old studio, chucked when the ex flew the coop and I had to move my writing studio to its present location at the front of the house. My memory was a tad better back then, and as bad as this account was, it had all the dates and events I’d need if I’m to write the Big One. But I do have a truckload of old 3×5 floppy disks with the entire manuscript on them. Now to find a way to extract that information, given that my computer doesn’t accomodate those relics. And are the disks still workable?
I’m having a couple of old friends over for dinner tonight: 6 o’clock margaritas, along with tortilla chips (the good thick ones) and two kinds of salsa I made myself, along with guacamole, chunky and garlicky. These guys are absolute dog lovers, so The Ferg and Jake the Man, will be joining the party out on my deck, well. Actually, they’ll be taking over the party, Jake with his ball and Fergie with her slutty way of creeping toward my guests with legs splayed for a scratch.
I made carnitas along with Spanish rice and refried beans. There’s enough food to feed the neighborhood. Oh, and for desert, New York cheesecake. Not very Mexican, I know, but it’s what I feel like.
Here’s the crockpot carnitas recipe:
Cook on high for approximately 4-6 hours, until the meat pulls apart easily. Remove the meat from the cooker and set aside to cool. Pour the liquid into a saucepan and add the juice from 1 orange. Cook over medium heat until sauce has reduced and thickened. Break the pork into chunks, put the chunks on a wire rack on top of a cookie sheet and baste with the reduced sauce.
Broil, turning once or twice, until crispy.Serves: 6
Serve with corn warmed corn tortillas, guacamole and salsa
Ole!
I don’t watch movies twice. Well, unless I’ve forgotten that I’ve seen the movie before. Hey, it starts happening after you turn 50. But there are three movies that I will watch again: Blade Runner, Where’s Poppa, Harold and Maude, (the latter two star Ruth Gordon–hope I’m turning into her) and Wim Wenders’ Wings of Desire.
I haven’t watched a movie twice yet, that tells you how adverse I am to the practice, but this Thursday, I’m off to see Harold and Maude at Laguna Beach’s dinky little theatre on Coast Highway, across from Main Beach. It’s being put on by the Laguna Beach Film Society, with a reception beforehand: refreshments and wine at the Laguna Beach Museum of Art. I did this once before–can’t remember the film.
This will officially kick off summer celebrations for me. Next is July’s Art Walk, followed by Music in The Park, where I get to dance my ass off, and then perhaps a trip somewhere with the beasties, Fergie and Jake. Hell, I always say that and never do it. But this year, I’m doing it. A B&B in Napa that takes maniacs?
Father’s Day was only officially made a national holiday in the U.S. in 1972, when President Richard Nixon declared it to be the third Sunday of June. But the holiday actually traces its origins to early 20th-century Washington State.
Inspired by a Mother’s Day sermon she heard at church in 1909, Spokane resident Sonora Smart-Dodd—one of six children being raised by a single dad—also wanted to honor her father. She encouraged local churches to institute the first Father’s Day observance the following year, and the idea caught on. (Learn more about the beginnings of Father’s Day.)
When I was a kid and as a young adult in Zambia, we didn’t celebrate Father’s Day, Mother’s Day neither. Was it because the celebration had yet to reach our wild and distant shores in those days of yore? Or was it ignored as a soppy idea created by Americans? Whatever the reason, I never officially wished my dad a happy father’s day. I never shopped for greetings cards that if he hadn’t died in 1976, would’ve become increasingly soppy with each passing year with all those miles between us. Especially after I completed my memoir last year.
So now, I’ve poured myself a beer, not a Castle or a Lion lager like he used to drink at the sundowners at Nkana Mine Club–it’s a Newcastle–and I’m raising my glass to my dearest old dad, whose term of endearment for me, Pearl of Great Price, caused many an embarrassing moment in my life. Especially at those aforementioned sundowners.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad! Cheers!
Yesterday I stood in front of my closet trying to decide what to wear when I noticed my dark grey flip flops were looking mighty black. The room was dark so I bent down to take a closer look. Black as can be and not my flip flops. These were Havaianas, a little pricier than my $5 Old Navy specials. WTF? How long had I been wearing them? I glanced around the room. What was I was expecting, the Flip Flop Fairy?
Just for a moment I panicked, like that time I realized my purse was no longer hanging from my shoulder (I found it twenty yards back down the sidewalk). I thought back to where I’d been the past couple of days. Past week.
Roxane’s. That had to be it. Hadn’t we deposited our shoes at the entrance to her house? But that was a week ago. I emailed her, “Are you missing a pair of black Havaianas?” “Nope, not mine.”
It took me an entire two days to finally remember that my Wednesday yoga class had taken place somewhere different, where we had to deposit our shoes at the entrance. I will only know next Wednesday whether this is indeed where I will find the owner of the Havaianas.
Please let it be so.