Snow

 Snow 

 I’ve written about it before, more than once—how godawful it is.
     Because here’s what happens, the snow comes and all is gray, then the voices come and all is garbled,*
     and I cannot see to see, I cannot hear to hear, I cannot think to think.

 12.16.20

_______________
 * Like cats retching, gangsters talking out of the sides of their mouths.
    Photo: Famartin, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

On mysticism

  On mysticism 

We met in our backyard, socially distanced. Axel was complaining about how difficult preaching is. “For example,” he was saying, “Sunday’s epistle is 2 Peter 3, and . . . .” Bel interrupted,

     “But that’s just what the mystics tell us, isn’t it?” she said. “That we don’t know what we’re talking about.”
     She was completely serious, so I didn’t say: “Of course they do. They know, only they can’t tell us: there are no words. Which is damn lucky for them.”
                                           ____________________

 Later, I was telling Roz about this.
     “Good,” she said.
     “Good what?”
     “Good that you didn’t say that.”
                                                            12.11.20

_______________
Catching up with my world: Axel Sundstrøm; Bel Monk; Roz.

A happier time.

 A happier time. 

Actually, it wasn't like this at all; I was a model of calm.

It was years ago, maybe more. I was waiting. It came to twenty minutes past my appointment time: I was still waiting. Impatiently, nervously, on the edge of “blowing my top,” as if I were a cartoon character. I was a cartoon character. Drooling, it felt like. My knee bouncing up and down. Roz put her hand on my sleeve without looking up from her book. The book: Charles Todd, An Unwilling Accomplice. “It’ll be okay,” the hand said. And I said, “But Dr. Feight* said they were always on time.” “It'll be okay,” she said.

 The color of the carpet, furnace-ash, and the odor of the music, country influenced by hip-hop: neither was helping. I went to the window: the sky was the color of tin, of a much-used loaf pan. Rain. A view of the parking lot.

     “It’s a test, maybe,” I was thinking. That’s what my notes say, that I was thinking: “It’s a test: Make the patient wait, to see how committed he is to whatever he has come for.”

 

Keep moving. Nothing to see here.

More from the notes: 

     “The music is execrable, whiny and wroth (beat, beat, beat, beat), plaining because something has been lost, at the same time growling because something has been taken away. It ain’t fair. Quiet would have been better. 
     “Quiet would be better,“ I wrote in my notebook. “I could hear my pen scrape across the paper as I write this down. I could pay attention to my thoughts.”

     Not that I had any thoughts, I was just “waiting!” “Waiting, dammit.” Fuming. “How much longer?” “Jesus, how much longer? It ain’t fair.”

“Hi, I’m Jennifer,” she said. “If you’ll come with me?” A rhetorical question.

     I elbowed Roz. She looked up from her book. “I’ll come after,” she said. “They’ll run the tests . . .” She looked at Jennifer, who nodded. “Then, when the doctor talks to you about them, I’ll come. They’ll get me.” Still looking at Jennifer, who nodded again while I'm thinking,

     “On my brain! The tests are on my god-d-forsaken brain.”

But I didn't say that. I didn't think it even. It wasn't that way at all. I was, as always, a model of calm.

03.05.20 / 12.10.20

_______________

 * Dr. Feight is my analyst, who has ordered the tests. About him, see here. About Roz, see here.

When Nemet and Zayna were here

continued from
When Nemet and Zayna were here 

 “I made red beans and rice for them,” I said.
     “Yes, from when we lived in New Orleans,” she said.
     “Yes. I went to meet them at the train. It came in in the afternoon. I’m remembering now. In March—not this last March when we were just curling into our pandemic shelters but the March before. It must have been a Tuesday because that’s when the train comes in.”
     “Thursdays. It comes in on Thursdays, too.”
     “No. Tuesday because you were working. And they left on Thursday. That’s why you wouldn’t remember, you were hardly around.”
     “I see,” Roz said (though she was shaking her head). ‘You met them at the station. And you’d made red beans and rice.”
     “I was making it,” I said.

I remembered mostly what we ate because I was cooking—red beans and rice on Tuesday and gumbo on Wednesday because I was on a New Orleans kick.
     But I remembered too that we visited the little museum in The Camera Shop, also that Nemet took lots of pictures. They met Uncle Albert; they had coffee with him and Nils and Axel, neither of whom had heard of Kristovia.
     “I can see that,” Roz said.
     But Uncle Albert said he’d been there in the sixties, and he was surprised because he thought the language would be like Romansh or Romanian, but it wasn’t. “More like Serbian?” he asked. “Not really like either,” Zayna said. “More like Azerbaijani though no one knows quite why.”
     “There must be theories,” Uncle Albert said.
     “More like hypotheses,” Zayna answered.

BOZOTUS
(digital scribble by m ball)

“But you were with us in the evenings,” I said, “as I remember.”
     Roz did not say, “Like I was with you in Kristovia.” She nodded.
     “We talked about Ottawa because we’d been there [link]. That’s where Zayna’s mother grew up.”
     “Yes.”
     “And about the president because they thought he was amusing. ‘I always imagine him in a clown suit,’ Nemet said, ‘like Bozo.’ They knew Bozo somehow.”
     “What was he up to then?” She meant the president, that clown.
     “I don’t remember,” I said. Then I said, “Wait! He was wearing a long red tie, and he was signing something.”
     “Very funny,” Roz said.

“What else did we talk about?” Roz said.
     “They were going on on the train to Chicago and from there—I don’t remember how—to Toronto. Zayna had an Uncle still there, her mother’s brother. He did something with the National Gallery. We went with Uncle Albert there to see a painting his friend recommended.* You remember that, right?”
     “Yes,” Roz said. “I do remember that.”§ [Our Canada adventures begin here.]

12.05.20

_______________
* Shirley Wiitasalo’s Park.
§ Tomorrow Roz asked, “Where did you get that picture of Nemet and Zayna (← all the links)?” “Mel Ball made it,” I said, “though I’m not sure how. Usually he says, but this time he didn’t.” “But where did he get a picture to make it from?” “I think I took a picture with my phone and sent it to him,” I said. “Oh,” Roz said. “I won't ask where the light was coming from,” Roz said.

You don't remember this?

 continued from
  You don’t remember this? 

 “You don’t remember this?” I said.
      Roz: “No.” She didn’t say, “How could I?”

Zayna & Nemet

“Look at me,” Roz said (again) a minute later. (Maybe it wasn’t a minute, it could have been right away; but it seemed longer: it seemed longer than right away, it seemed longer than a minute.)
     I did. I looked up out of my hands in my lap, and I looked at her. She is heartbreakingly beautiful, Not like Tess of the d’Urbervilles or Eustacia Vye or like Julie Christie in Far from the Madding Crowd. Her glasses were slipping down her little nose again. Her face is, especially in the evenings . . . “careworn” is the word. But that’s what makes it so beautiful. She cares. For me she cares.
     “I know,” I said. “Not possible, is it?”
     She shook her head. I looked back into my lap.

“Ted,” she said. I looked up. She raised a finger. “A minute,” it said. And she got up and went into the kitchen.
     She came back with bowls of oatmeal and raisins.
     “So, tell me about it,” she said. “Remind me.”
     “What?”
     “When Nemet and Zayna were here,” she said.                                                          to be continued

 12.04.20

I was saying to Roz

  I was saying to Roz 

 “I was thinking,” I was saying to Roz, “that in retrospect that was kind of fun.”
     “What was?” Roz said.
     “I thought we were talking about Nemet and Zayna.”
     “What?” Roz said. “Who?
     “We weren’t talking at all,” Roz said.
     “Oh,” I said. “I thought we were.”

She looked at me. “Are you okay?”
     “Of course, I’m okay.”
     She looked back into her book, something by Louise Penny; that’s who she’s reading lately. I was watching Law & Order, the one where Lennie’s daughter is arrested for dealing drugs, just the pictures, no sound. Then: “No,” she said, looking back up. “Look at me,” she said.
     “I am looking at you,” I said as if I had been all along, but I was now anyway. Away from Lennie and the daughter arguing in a cell.
     “Who are Nemet and Zayna? Nemet and Zayna who?”
     “Kristovia,” I said. “You remember Kristovia.”
     “Yes,” she said, “I remember your telling me about Kristovia.”
     “We went there.”
     “Yes. So you said. You told me after you’d gotten back.”
     “Oh,” I said again. “We,” I said, though maybe to myself.

Garden of Gethsemane Cathedral, Pompeijo

“What did I tell you?” I said after a long minute.
     “We went by boat,” she said. “And we stayed in Pompeijo—is that right?”
     “Yes.”
     “In a hotel near the harbor—we could almost see it out of our window. And we visited the cathedral, and we went out to eat, and we went to a photography exhibit, and . . .”
     “That was Nemet’s,” I said, “the photographs.”
     “And we were going to stay for a while, maybe a long while. Only we didn’t because you came home instead.”

 I didn't say, “We." I said, “But later Nemet and Zayna, that was his girlfriend whose mother was going to teach us Kristovian—they came to see us here.”
     “When?”
     “I don’t remember. A year ago. More, I think.”
     “How could they have?” Roz said.                                                                            to be continued

  12.03.20

from Nemet (and Zayna) again

lux hominum
another cellphone drawing by m ball

 from Nemet (and Zayna) again 
more on Tess of the d’Urbervilles

To Ted (crabbiolio@gmail.com)
From Nemet (NemetN006@Kmail.nat) :

Zayna and me hope you read the last we write about Tess, how she is so beautiful and how you cannot understand the book if you miss this. We have one other thing we think you and Trudy in heaven miss. The word is the same in your English and our Kristovian, autodidakt (from the Greek, “teach self”).

The novels of Thomas Hardy are full of these. There is Clym Yeobright in The Return of the Native, who will become a teacher. There is Elizabeth-Jane in The Mayor of Casterbridge. Gabriel Oak in Far from the Madding Crowd. Jude Fawley in his book. Here are two, Angel because he cannot go to Cambridge because he will not become a priest and Tess who will learn all that Angel can teach her if he will. But then she will learn wrong things because he is wrong about those things. The narrator may think he, Angel, is right, but he is wrong, the narrator.

It is another one: You cannot understand the book if you do not know this.

From Nemet (and Zayna)

12.01.20