Rat's Country: I know this...

I know this: I have earned what I know.

Rat's Country: Some days I feel like a carapace...

Some days I feel like a carapace with no creature inside.

Rat's Country: Thinking about the weather channel.

The  weatherwoman doesn't judge the fronts moving in and out, the currents and cross-currents, the spots of sun in the midwest or the series of storms moving down from Alaska.  She just describes as best she can.

Rat's Country: I have a great readiness to think the worst of myself...

I have a great readiness to think the worst of myself.  Maybe that is slowly becoming a virtue.  I think it means I have a strong sense of my shadow side.  I don't need you to tell me what my faults are.

Rat's Country: Good Quotes on Writing

"Art is being rid of all preaching:  things in themselves:  the sentence in itself is beautiful:  multitudinous seas; daffodils that come before the swallow dares:  whereas {D.L.} Lawrence would only say what proved something."
                                     from A Writer's Life by Virginia Woolfe

Rat's Country: What are my intentions?

What are my intentions?  To make myself into something.  To reveal who I am.  To come to no harm.  To understand myself.  To be useful.  To be treated well.

Rat's Country: Here's how doubtful I can be

Here's how doubtful I can be:  the light turns green, but I hesitate, not sure that I am really  supposed to go.

Rat's Country: I feel like Red Cross volunteer

I feel like a Red Cross volunteer, likely to get shot by either side.

Rat's Country: Sometimes my stupid issues

Sometimes my stupid “issues” make me feel like one of those annoying people who keeps humming the same tune over and over.

Rat's Country: It's so easy to be fooled...

So easy to be fooled, when you wake to sobbing rain and realize, once again, you did not recognize the calm before the storm.

Rat's Country: Forward Momentum

Forward momentum is not the same thing as speeding downhill with no brakes.

Rat's Country: I would like to have my life organized...

I would like to have my life organized and all my writings in alphabetical order in a black binder.  The bills organized, my clothes organized.  Everything filed, so I know where everything is, including my son and daughter.  I would like to have my past written down, decided on, not some stupid swirling lava lamp.  I’d like my positions on everything clarified, my thoughts organized.  And my hands.  I wish they didn’t end in hangnails and peeling, thin layers.  I wish my hands came to polished oval conclusions and that my feet weren’t rough on the bottom.

Rat's Country: Susan, the painter says...

Susan, the painter, says, "I figure that if I don't show my work in this lifetime, I'm going to be reincarnated as an art critic, come back and discover myself."

Rat's Country: Two buzzards in the sky

Worry and Fear:  Two buzzards in the sky, on the road.

Rat's Country: Winter Thoughts

Winter thoughts: Right now i must make soup, keep the home fires burning, focus on winter storms, persimmons, biscotti, Gregorian chants, basketball games. Pay attention to people who could use my presence. Let go of so much else.

Rat's Country: If My life depended on it...

If my life depended on it, if someone held a gun to my head and said "Write profound thoughts," all that would come to mind would be old sayings like, "A penny saved is a penny earned" or "Do unto others as you would be done by."

Rat's Country: Another Doppleganger

Imagine one child standing behind her friend, pushing her forward.  The first reticent child, with her fist to her mouth, stumbles forward with the momentum of  gentle shoves.  The child behind speaks confidently, "You can do it.  Don't be afraid."

I am both children.

Rat's Country: A Meditation on Lurking

A meditation on lurking:  the cartoon where the private eye  in his trench coat and fedora hat lurks behind a tree.  The masked burglar, too, lurks and then makes his move, tiptoeing out of the house with the silverware in a bag over his shoulder.  Danger lurks everywhere.  The passenger next to you on the flight home has a bomb in his shoe.  No, it’s not him.  It’s the granny knitting on a bench in the train station you need to keep an eye on.

When I am not worried about dangers lurking behind every bush and tree, I am concerned about what I am leaving undone that was important to do.  What have I lost that I don’t know I have lost and will need any minute:  the keys to the car, the checkbook, something to stop the bleeding.  What will be revealed in the lightening bolt of sudden change?

Scorpio Women Are Born Bi-Polar

Scorpio Women Are Born Bi-Polar

I am having a good day.

 Let me tell you about myself. 

I say clever things my friends remember.

 I am kind, caring, bold,

sometimes,

a beautiful woman,

some days,

who deserves manicures, pedicures, exquisite clothing.

Some days

the world conspires to make me  awkward,

unimportant,

 lacking in grace, inclined to drool.

On those days

I am disguised as a thick-waisted lumpenprole,

a shy librarian with tiny affectations

and autistic bursts of knowledge.

One rare day I told the world

(of course, no one was listening)

I am a rare spirit, intuitive and deeply feminine,

an ancient priestess who could rule a kingdom

and read the stars.

Happy Birthday to Me

Happy Birthday to Me

No middle.  Too bad.  A rectangle  on slender  legs.

Ask my friends what  I  have said  worth remembering

Notice  that I love anything that

Crunches.  A ruminate

Yesterday  I tried.  God knows.  Today I begin with promises.

Men in  my dreams?  Always  familiar  but odd.

            Last night my  dentist  curled my  Cher

Hair in red rollers.

Chambray shirts.  Levis.  Suede  jacket.  Gold earrings.

            That’s me.   I sound like some  bitch from Jackson Hole.

            I don’t mean to.

Let’s say she was always interesting,  sometimes

            Beautiful.

Let’s imagine a fire.  She rushes into her house to save

            Five  things.  She  burns with  indecision.

Always says a childhood prayer.  Every night.

No middle.  Too bad.   Built  like a Snickers bar.

Dang.  She’s good company.

Rat's Country: I think it would be fun to design...

I think I would be fun to design a jack-in-the-box so that what pops up is your worst nightmare:  your boss, your ex-, what you will look like if you don’t go on a diet.

Rat's Country: Scorpios

You are in that grand class of Scorpios, with their intelligence, wit, angst, passion, aspirations for greatness, and crafty ways of sabotaging their own best interests.

Rat's Country: If not now...

If not now, when?

Rat's Country: I don't think there is much new...

I don't think there is much new to discuss with myself.

Rat's Country: When you are a prisoner...

When you are a prisoner and you are being transferred from the courthouse to the jail, the guards walk close to you.  They box you in—to your right, left, behind, and in front of you.  At least that’s the way it is in the movies.

It’s the same with celebrities.  Did you ever think of that?  But the prisoner is a bad person, guarded so she won’t get away to do more harm.  The celebrity is guarded because she is precious and must be protected.

You and I don’t need to be guarded, being neither dangerous nor valuable.  

She Comes Home from College for the Weekend

She Comes Home from College for the Weekend

a prose poem

You may laugh, but it feels like a visit from royalty, and  that we are not the parents of royalty, but that we are, you know, the faithful retainers.  When she sits on the floor  of the castle sorting photos, we sigh and say, “Yes, that was you, your blonde hair a halo in the light filtered by redwood trees.”  And we say, “Your hands were always beautiful.”  Yes, we are the humble servants glad to have her back for a weekend, more amused and attentive than anyone to her tales of adventure on the coast of Mexico.  We gladly wash her clothes, fix the door of her car, only tsk slightly to ourselves.  “She is messy,” our eyes say.  Will her carelessness cause her harm, we wonder. 

We sympathize with her parents who deny these leave takings.  We are glad we can stand for them, waving as she backs out of the driveway  and then goes forward into the flow of noisy traffic.

Writers on Writing: "Every good book..."

"Every good book suggests that the writer, however painful his subject, has arrived at some inward peace about it, some inner resolution, even of anger and despair, even though this peace and resolution is purely temporary."

V. S. Naipul

Rat's Country: Sometimes I make it hard

Sometimes I make it hard by saying to myself, "I'll be there in a minute."

Sooner or Later You Are Going to Have a Cormac McCarthy quote...

This is one of my favorites:

All my life, he said, I been witness to people showin’ up where they was supposed to be at various times after they’d said they’d be there.  I never heard one yet that didn’t have a reason for it.

Yessir

But there ain’t but one reason.

Yessir.

You know what it is?

No sir.

It’s that their word’s no good.  That’s the only reason there ever was or ever will be.

Yessir.

From The Crossing by Cormac McCarthy

Rat's Country: It's just me and paper, dammit...

I'm not demanding an airplane, taking a town hostage to hear my needs.

"It's the phrase "without regret" that gets to me...

“One becomes sharply aware, but without regret, of the limits of mutual understanding and consonance with other people.”

                        Albert Einstein

High Mountain Haiku

          High Mountain Haiku

            Aspen in autumn
            A  shimmer of golden coins
            Soon black and then gone.

Rat's Country: I see myself on a desert island...

I see myself on a desert island waving to the search and rescue plane, shouting, "I'm here!  I survived!"

I'm Reading Anna Karenina

I’m reading Anna Karenina…

Levin says this after Kitty rejects his marriage proposal:

“When he saw it all, he was overcome by a momentary doubt of the possibility of setting up that new life he had dreamed of ...  All these traces  of his life seemed to seize hold of him and say to him: ‘No, you won’t escape us and be different, you’ll be the same as you were:  with doubts, an eternal dissatisfaction with yourself, vain attempts to improve, and failures, and an eternal expectation of the happiness that has eluded you and is not possible for you.’”

                                    Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

"Alienation from others, which results in loneliness...

"Alienation from others, which results in loneliness, is actually a projection of alienation from the self.  When you end the alienation from the self, then joy enters, and the sense of alienation just evaporates.  Because after all, alienation from others is not just a matter of leading a lonely life and not being very social.  At the heart of alienation is the feeling of unconnectedness and separateness."

from Waling in Beauty by Richard Olney

Whimsical Weather Report

Cloudy
 with
 a
 slight
chance
 of
 flowers.

"Plato use the expression "techne tou biou"...

 “Plato used the expression techne tou biou, which means “the craft of life.”  When techne is defined with sufficient depth, it refers not just to mechanical skills and instruments but to all kinds of artful managing and careful shaping…we can say that care of the soul requires a special crafting of life itself, with an artist’s sensitivity to the way things are done.  Soul doesn’t pour into life automatically.  It requires our skill and attention.”

                                    From The Care of the Soul by Thomas Moore

"Gravity Keeps Us from Floating Up"

“Gravity Keeps Us from Floating Up”

            Angus McLelland, age 5

Be grateful today

that your  coffee cup

stays on the table.

 Take cheer when you hear

the sound of one shoe dropping.

You know it will hit the floor.

When the shoe will fall

or the cradle with baby and all,

you  will never  know,

and if the suspense is killing you,

never fear.  Here’s what to  do:

(at least this time of year).

Be Newtonian.

Go sit beneath the nearest apple tree

and contemplate

the  thumps on the ground around you.

Should you get bonked

by a nice green  Pippin,

laugh and be glad

for the gravity of your situation.

Quotes about Writers or Writing: The Writer's Dilemma

"The writer's dilemma is this:  are you more talented than you think you are?  Do you think you are more talented than you are?"          

                                                   Nancy McLelland

Car Wreck, New Year's Eve

      

    
Car Wreck, New Year's Eve
         for Persephone,  the one who lived

Look at the low light through leafless oaks.
Read the trees to know the time of year.
Persephone's descent is complete.
Her mother mourns.

Distraught Demeter waits in the ER
 the ambulance speeding toward her
skimming  the wet highway,
among its cargo
the damaged daughter
who stood in the winter road
blinded by oncoming lights.

Stunned Persephone
in the cold sarcophagus
driven back to her mother
out of season
bearing a mournful message
from her dead sisters
bearing her wounded life.

quotes about Writers or Writing: "I've never written a book...

“I’ve never written a book, except my first, without at some point considering that I might die before it was completed. This is all part of the superstition, the folklore, the mania of the business, the fetishistic fuss. The right pencils, felt-tips, biros, notebooks, paper, typewriter: necessities which are also objective correlatives for the proper state of mind. This is created by putting aside all that might harmfully impinge, narrowing the focus until only what’s important remains: me, you, the world, and the book—and how to make it as good as it can possibly be.”

Julian Barnes, Nothing to Be Frightened Of

Fall Moon

Fall Moon

Membranous, warm, full,

a palpable throb

in the midst

of those cold shards,

the stars.

Full as an udder,

translucent, a sac

Full, I tell you, like a drip.

And I thought about that--

the moon suddenly dropping

Kerplunk gone.

Quotes about Writers or Writing: Every narrative arises

"Every narrative arises from one of two situations: someone goes on a journey or a stranger comes to town."

Saved on a yellow post-it, but I can't remember where I found the quote.

Rat's Country: The Dali Lama isn't the only one...

...to speak about compassion.

"Compassion directed to oneself is humility.

Simone Weil, First and Last Notebooks

Rat's Country: What if God sets your happiness thermostat...

What if God sets your happiness thermostat and even babies can't be tickled beyond their set point? What if the truly chosen are those born to die laughing?

Orison: Sotto Voce

Orison: Sotto Voce

Vestal virgin nightgowned in white

demurely kissed two foreheads goodnight,

tiptoed the stairs to her moon-made bed,

whispher-wished her gown were red.

I wrote this little poem when I was in college. Last night I remembered it.

Rat's Country: My friend is grieving

My friend is grieving. She doesn't know when to bare her feelings or how to clothe them.

Rat's Country: I feel like I am earning a Girl Scout badge

I feel like I am earning a Girl Scout badge, taking care of an elderly mother, more self-righteous than sincere.

Quotes about Writers or Writing: Artistic growth is...

“Artistic growth is a refining of the sense of truthfulness. The stupid believe that to be truthful is easy, but only the artist, the great artist, knows how difficult it is.”

Willa Cather

Rat's Country: Sometimes I am certain

Sometimes I am certain I am on someone’s Most Wanted list. I just don’t know whose. I worry that they will find me, arrest me, and when they tell me what I did, I will be surprised. “That’s my crime?” I will say.

Rat's Country: "How I Carry Myself

The image of two me’s, one carrying the other. Sometimes the “me” I carry is a burden, a sack, a lump, something I can hardly wait to put down, let go of, drop, regardless of the consequences. That “me” is a sack of oats, a bag of potatoes, the garbage waiting to be taken out.

The other is a “me” to be carried lightly, gently, with affection—the way I held my babies. No matter the discomfort, I always loved carrying them.

Rat's Country: I have an evil twin...

I have an evil twin named Mia Culpa, who runs around screaming, “Mia Culpa Mia Culpa,” especially when she’s drunk.

Rat's Country: What taking a risk feels like...

I understand it feels like walking on a log high above a fast-moving stream. You feel unbalanced, self-conscious, and you have to stretch your arms to keep from falling. You can do it!

Chekov Cuts to the Chase

"If you want to work on your art, work on your life."

Anton Chekov

If Anger Were a Place

If Anger Were a Place

For years you walked in the wind,

learned to lean forward,

head down,

trained yourself to narrow your eyes.

One day the wind stopped.

You waited.

When the wind didn’t resume,

you became the furious one.

You felt way too old

to learn to walk in stillness

and livid that you spent your life

in a windy place

although you chose it.

Rat's Country: Like an old sheepdog gathering lambs...

Like an old sheepdog gathering lambs scattered in the night, I begin my day by herding myself back together.

Rat's Country: Be kind to yourself today...

Be kind to yourself today, and know that you will have no trouble distinguishing kindness from self-indulgence.

Rat's Country: Whenever I come to a one-way street...

Whenever I come to a one-way street, I look the wrong way first.

Rat's Country: The sound of the truck...

The sound of the truck pulling into the driveway made her cringe: an emotional hearse loaded with sadness.

Rat's Country: When my life is going well...

When my life is going well, I become anxious. I should think like a gardener. It's okay to have healthy flowers and vegetables. It's okay to have healthy, happy adult children. It's okay to have a good life.

Rat's Country: It is pathetic to think of her...

It is pathetic to think of her putting all that effort into loving someone who is incapable of reciprocating, like a little dog mounting the leg of a chair.

Rat's Country: My Definitions:

My definitions: To be intimidated must mean “to be made timid.” To encourage yourself must mean “to give yourself courage.”

Rat's Country: It's hard to come up with a poem

It's hard to come up with a poem. I wish I could come down with one, like the flu or a cold.

Rat's Country: After you let go of a rope...

After you let go of a rope you have held tightly, your fingers want to stay curled and it hurts to unbend them. This discomfort doesn’t last long. When you let go of an attachment or an attitude, expect your mind to stay curled in resentment. It won’t last long. That’s my goal: to let go of tightly held anger and resentment. I expect residual cramping, but I know it will go away.

Rat's Country: I would like to hear sirens singing...

I would like to hear sirens singing from the rocks, “Get a grip. You’re okay.” I know sirens don’t say “okay” or “get a grip.” Actually, sirens don’t talk to women; they only whisper to men. Who does sing to women? Their mothers. Often they hum, “You’re not as good as I am, so don’t even try." Sometimes their fathers hum, "I always wanted a boy."

Rat's Country: "I have no sympathy for you ...."

I have no sympathy for you today. You fuss like a child who frets about jumping off the low board.

Q: Who Were Your Heroes When You Were a Child?

Q: Who were your heroes when you were a child?

A: Dogs and horses. I wanted to be Lassie and always know my way home. I wanted to be loyal and smart--and classy--a collie or a palomino. I wanted to be a tough little terrier not afraid to bite the heels of ruffians. I wanted to be Black Beauty, rescued from hardship and maltreatment, turning out to be a real winner.

Film stars paled in comparison with the dogs and horses of my youth. Sure, I cut out photos of movie idols in Silver Screen. However, I was never certain whether I wanted to be Audie Murphy or to marry him. Although I had pictures of red-lipped women with perms and bosoms, it seemed more likely that I would turn into a dog than become Virginia Mayo or even Esther Williams.

Rat's Country: "The scent of sage ...."

The scent of sage fills me as thoroughly as sorrow.

Rat's Country: "You toss a coin ..."."

You toss a coin into a wishing well and then make a wish. You do not crawl down into a wishing well and live like a toad on the bottom.

Rat's Country: " Standing on the porch..."

Standing on the porch the first day of the rest of my life, thinking it is sunrise, realizing it is sunset.

Rat's Country: "I hate having to climb steep embankments..."."

I hate having to climb steep embankments. The clumps of grass come loose in your hands and your shoes fill with dirt. You wonder how you got there, in the wrong shoes, ungraceful, undignified.

Dwelling on Myself

Dwelling on Myself

I am the dwelling.

Sometimes a hut, seldom a castle,

often a house under construction,

walls removed, a wood floor taken up,

revealing the debris of a life,

mostly rat shit, I might add.

Sometimes a treasure,

a porcelain button, a doll's leg.

Dwelling on myself.

I spend too much time

going room to room

dreaming about paint

and perfect furniture.

To leave this house is to die.

I understand that.

Rat's Country: " If I had other lives to live..."

If I had other lives to live? I'd be a stern judge throwing people in jail, left and right. I'd be a queen with access to a guillotine. I'd be a tiny mouse in a tiny hole in the grass, somewhere in England, living a short, frightened life.

Rat's Country: " Blocking the door I want to open..."

Sometimes I block the door I want to open by stacking tables and chairs in front of it--sometimes even the couch. I cry in frustration, " That door is impossible to open!" My journal helps me see what kind of furniture I'm putting in my own way.

Rat's Country: "Why I Like Reading Thomas Moore..."

That's why I like reading Thomas Moore (Care of the Soul) so much. He says over and over that this is the soul's journey: the blocks, the detours, the rubble, scree slopes, the long boring stretches between Reno and Lovelock. Accept that and see the mystery in it.

(Well, he doesn't actually mention Reno and Lovelock, but metaphorically speaking...)

Rat's Country: "It seems to be part of a new cycle of change"

It seems to be part of a new cycle of change, starting with the whining, complaining, grieving about the status quo; the slow move to action; the sudden rewards of an action taken; then the slow, cautious creation of a new pattern. When the new pattern is established, it is hard to remember all the hard psychological work and all the resistance that was overcome getting to the new mental place.

Rat's Country: " What habit do I have..."

What habit do I have that gets in the way of my creativity? Procrastination. Postponing, putting off, waiting until later. I'll write later. I'll write when I'm fresh. I'll write when I can start at the beginning, not in the middle. I'll do it when I'm clean, when the day is new, when I have the right materials, when I've done everything else.

Rat's Country: " These problems come up..."

"These problems come up, have to be solved, assembly-line issues. Here comes a problem, fix it quickly, move it along the beltway, get on to the next problem. That is what is so great about my summer. I slowly stopped production until the problem factory practically went out of business.

rat's Country: "I want to get my words plain..."

I want to get my words plain, like William Stafford does, and western, but not like a tooled belt, more like a curbed bit: clean, simple, useful.

Rat's Country: "How easy it is..."

How easy it is to bash myself again and again, like a child whacking a doll against the side of a car.

Rat's Country: "I feel like a weak patient..."

I feel like a weak patient who is being carefully walked down a hospital corridor by a sturdy, competent nurse. the weak patient part of me is surprised that I require so much trained attention.

Rat's Country: "These writings..."

These writings have been a sanctuary for my soul’s sidewinding journey through deserts. The journal has been the rock I’ve hidden under, the hole I’ve disappeared into, the puddle where I’ve dipped my forked tongue, the saguaro where I have found shade.

Rat's Country: another series

"Everything in the mind is in rat's country...nothing is lost, but it can never be as it was. You will only find the bits and cry out because they were yourself."

Loren Eisley, All the Strange Hours

I chose "Rat's Country" as the title for observations and images culled from my journals over the years. I started to collect them on my Adobehouseartists webpage. Now I am going to "cull the culls" and post my favorites here, especially when I have no poems to offer.

Deer Hunting, Pomo Way

Deer Hunting, Pomo Way

for William Oandasson

Sit on your spot

Wait for the game

Don’t shoot the first deer (one)

While hunting singing a chant

Once you kill a deer

You sing a different song.

Tabula Rasa

It's Sunday. I am a blank slate. This is not fun.

Artists Week Journal

It’s Not Over Til It’s Over

Artists Week ends today. I think that by this time next year I will be working on a clearly-defined writing project. This year, just staying at my desk at least a couple of hours each morning and doing the Photoshop workshop in the afternoon has been my job. The Photoshop tutorial was a challenge. Nothing is more difficult for me than to be patient with myself when I am first learning something. I want to go friggin’ out of my “Beginners Mind”! Usually, what I want to do is clean something. That’s why I said to James late Thursday afternoon, “I’m sorry but I must go to town to buy paper towels.” (That’s a 104-mile round trip.)

Every week is Artists’ week for my friends here. I love being around them. It takes a village for so many things in life, including art. I am planning on ending the week the way we began: good food, vin ordinaire, great conversation.

Artists Week Journal

Be Here Now

I was awake at three this morning, finishing, eat, pray, love, the book Susan lent me (thank you, Susan) for this trip, and certainly a good book for Artists Week –for lots of reasons---but when I told Joan and James what I was reading, they both had violent reactions of distaste and disdain. I said, “She writes beautiful sentences.” I didn’t bother to defend the author as being both funny and wise, my favorite combination in people, including both of them.

Anyway, this is one of my favorite passages:

“I keep remembering one of my guru’s teachings about happiness. She says that people universally tend to think that happiness is a stroke of luck, something that will maybe descend upon you like fine weather if you’re fortunate enough. But that’s not how happiness works. Happiness is the consequence of personal effort. You fight for it, strive for it, insist upon it, and sometimes even travel around the world looking for it. You have to participate relentlessly in the manifestations of your own blessings’ (the italics are mine). “And once you have achieved a state of happiness, you must never become lax about maintaining it…If you don’t, you will leak away your contentment. It’s easy enough to pray when you’re in distress but continuing to pray even when your crisis has passed is like a sealing process, helping your soul hold tight to its good attainments.”

Artists Week Journal

Randomness and Frozen Charlotte

In a desultory conversation the other night, both James and Sid mentioned finding tiny Victorian dolls called “Frozen Charlottes” somewhere in Tuscarora. Lucky finds because the dolls are no bigger than the tip of a finger.

I had never heard of a Frozen Charlotte. Have you? Hooray for Wiki. Hooray for being on line in Tuscarora. After reading about Frozen Charlottes, I know there’s a poem embedded in the tiny emblem and the cautionary tale of female vanity.

My point is that the bit of conversation was itself a shard found on an evening’s verbal rambling. It was a random, lucky find. We’ll see what it turns into.

Artists Week Journal

If You Can’t Sit Still

After dinner the first evening of Artists Week we were in a circle in the yard, still drinking wine and talking. I said, “What do you know for sure?”

Gail said, “Who are you? Oprah?” She’d had her quota of Pound Hound Red by then.

“No,” I said, and repeated the question, “What is one thing you’re certain about? It can be a small thing. I’ll go first. I’ll never own a yellow car.” We went from there, responses ranging from the trivial, like mine, to the touching response of Vivian: “I’ll never let a year go by without being in Tuscarora.”

This morning I am asking myself, “What is the one thing I know for sure about writing?” I have taught composition for over twenty years. I have what seems like a lifelong yearning to be a “real writer.” What do I know for sure?

Writing requires the ability to sit on your butt for extended periods of time and on a regular basis. (Okay, I know Hemingway stood and typed. It’s a metaphorical butt.)

Artists Week Journal

Power Pole Perspective

On my early morning walk down to the turnoff to the Midas Road and back, I was inspired to write this couplet:

Power Pole Perspective

From a red-tailed hawk's point of view

A mouse is more interesting than you.

Artists Week Journal

Truth and Beauty vs. the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

A rousing argument around the dinner table last night about the aesthetics of ugliness. This morning James read me a quote from the book he is reading by painter Agnes Martin: "The sentimentality of my furniture destroys the perfection of my floor."

Artists Week Journal

CAUTION

"I see there is a piece of art here that I hadn't noticed before," James said. He was sitting in front of the shop drinking a cup of tea as I entered the yard from my morning walk. "It's that mud flap." He nodded toward one of the abandoned trucks in the yard. "Look at the elegant serifs on the word "caution" and the way the rubber has aged and crackled." By that time we were both squatting beside the flat tires, admiring the beautiful mudflap. "I think it should go on a wall in the house," he said.

"I agree," I said.

Artists Week Journal

God as Department Store Santa

I am in a department store sitting on Jehovah's lap and he says to me, " So, little lady, what do you want from the next ten years?" I catch his wording. Unfolding my wish list, I see that it is blank. That is one of my greatest fears: that I fritter away the next ten years.

Artists Week Journal

July 31

Ukiah to Carson City, halfway there

Artists Week begins tomorrow. "It's the first week in August in Tuscarora," I always say to anyone who asks, and I pronounce the dates as though it were a big deal, and it's not, except to me, but I'll get to that at some point.

Today is about hunting and gathering across the Sacramento Valley. I'd like to say that the tradition of eating well--and drinking well--has something to do with nourishing creativity. Nope. Joan and Heidi are extraordinary, creative cooks. Rosemary and I are better than average. All four of us love to eat well, drink well, and believe in the conviviality of the table.

Rosemary is in Provence right now. Heidi will be dividing her time between Redwood Valley and Ft. Bragg. This blog is for you guys and for Pam, who was there the first year and who I hope to persuade to come for a reunion soon.

Joan is already in Tuscarora. So is Sid. James will be there tomorrow evening. So will I. Joan's friend Sally is coming on the train Saturday night or Sunday night.

So far, so good on the hunting and gathering. Right now in the back of the suburu I have a mixed case of Parducci sauvignon blanc and petit syrah; six fresh loaves of bread from Schat's Bakery; jars of mufaletta and dried black olives; almonds and walnuts from Granzella's in Williams. Tomorrow I'll go to the Farmer's Market in Carson. I should be in Tuscarora by five.

I listened to NPR most of the day. On Fresh Air, they recognized the passing of dancer and choreographer Merce Cunningham--who died Sunday at ninety--by playing an interview Terry Gross had with him when Cunnigham was seventy and his life partner and collaborator, John Cage, was still living. Those were two influential lives of art--over fifty years. Cunnigham choreographed and produced a new work just last year. "Almost Ninety" was the title.

What stayed with me from the interview? Random things. They loved to hunt mushrooms. Cunningham spoke about the importance of observation, paying attention to your surroundings. John Cage said that he was more interested in individual sounds, whereas most musicians are attentive to the relationship between or among sounds. Both incorporated randomness, chance into their works. Each of their voices was measured, serious, almost ecclesiastical. Now they were real artists. At some point, some evening this week, we will watch the sun go down and have a lively discussion about what that means--:real artist.

I know that my annual proclamation, "Artists Week is..." honors the spirit, the creative impulse in all of us. I know that. It's seventeen years now. Pam, can you believe it?!

Can you smell the rain? Did you hear the thunder roll? A brief cloudburst just cleared the air, made big flat splats on the sidewalk in front of my son's house.

To be continued...

Tres Poemas de Nueva Mexico: Fiesta de Navidad...

Tres Poemas de Nueva Mexico: Abuelo

Tres Poemas de Nueva Mexico: El Resumidero

Three New Mexico Poems: Christmas Party at Bernalillo County Medical Center

Christmas Party: Bernalillo County Medical Center

Can't we all just get along? Rodney King

The loudspeaker announces the Christmas party in the conference room. We chipped in for cold cuts, brought goodies from home, stuffed eggs, ham and swiss on rye, cranberry relish, pink jello salad, fruitcake, and Mexican wedding cookies. Mary Harjo brought posole, which we eat in paper cups. Mrs. Petty whispers, "We shoulda made chicken soup for Dr. Kopperman." Sandy brought bunuelos, learned to make them in her Mexican cooking class. Consuela spits hers into the wastebasket, hisses to Teresa, "I've never tasted anything like that." Sandy gets huffy, says "They're Mexico City style."

The spiked punch is gone in fifteen minutes.

Abbey doesn't want them to know she's pregnant but we laugh when she pops a button on her blouse. Evie gives me three pair of bikini panties each with a drink recipe on it. Kyle, the security guard, plays Santa. Mary Dullea is selling hot Navajo jewelry for her brother-in-law in Arizona.

The custodians are having their own party upstairs. Lucille says, "They're playing Spanish music and I can't understand a word of it." She writes her recipe for sweet potato pie on a pink "While You Were Out" pad, tells me it's her new husband's favorite. He's from the Bahamas, hates Albuquerque.

They pass around a card to give to Poopsie, the head radiologist's secretary. It's a photo of a penis with glasses. Underneath it says "Seasons Greetings. Guess Who?" I don't think Poopsie will come to our party. The way she says, "executive secretary," emphasizing the "zec" I know she won't show. Evie thinks she's having a mad affair with Dr. B. That may be possible, but I think Poopsie simply hates us all,

especially this time of year.

When the door swings open

you can hear a baby cry.

What a world.

Three New Mexico Poems: Abuelo

Abuelo

Summer evenings, when I walk down Phoenix Avenue,

I see an old man sitting in a faded white lawn chair.

Dark work pants, dark shirt buttoned tight,

neck lean and bristly as a sunflower stem,

a grandfather moved to town,

bearing the heat and Albuquerque noise.

Grease-stained Stetson, profile simple as a sheep hook,

probably a pastor all his life, maybe in the Naciminetos

or in the mountains beyond Truchas.

I like to think he can hear the distant tinkle of the bellwether,

the bark of his dog, the murmuring bleats of his herd.

I know he is not my grandfather,

yet it is a blessing to see him

quiet as a country road at dusk,

common, hardy, at sunset, pure gold.

Three New Mexico Poems: The Resumidero

The Resumidero

"A drainage, a place where things come together."

That's what Mr. Castenada said.

Last spring I asked the ranger,

a Jicarilla from up near Lindreth.

He grinned, wide lipped, shook his head.

"I'm not good enough a Mexican," he said,

standing there, one foot on the barden bumper

of the Forest Service truck,

firm pot belly riding on a rodeo buckle,

clean shirt, greenish levis,

taking us in with the appraising squint

of a law and order man

up there

near the beaver dam

ten days before the start of fishing season.

The Nevada Poems: Color/Dolor

Color/Dolor

Sage in winter,

granite,

the world viewed

through gauze.

Color once removed,

the color of distances,

the Independence Range

after the gorgeous sunrise.

I am scratched silver,

corrugated tin.

Cold, vague colors

come to mind.

I remember

a magenta self,

burnt orange

and turquoise

Too rich now.

The Nevada Poems: Pickup Haiku

Pickup Haiku

     1

High country springtime

Muddy trucks on rutted roads

Daffodils in snow.

     2.

County road truck dust

One who loves you is in sight.

Buckaroo love note.

     3.

Ranch wives in pickups

Crew cab with groceries and kids

Saturday in town.

     4.

Men leaning on trucks

The cow dog seems to listen

The sun warms their backs.

     5.

Labor Day weekend

Pickups headed to Elko

The haying is done.

     6.

High country autumn

Deer lying in pickup beds

Covered in white cloth.

The Nevada Poems: Broke Down. Need Help

 Broke Down. Need Help

Stuck in Lovelock 

in front of  a Chevron,

made a cardboard sign,

"Broke down. Need help."

"Need money for tires,"

I try to explain.

 "Home is Montana

two days away."

I hear what they say.

They won't look my way.

"Druggie."

"Loser."

If the Lord is tryin' to teach me about humility

what I'm learnin' is about humanity.

The Nevada Poems: Tuscarora Prayer Flags

Tuscarora  Prayer Flags

Each spring I bring a string

of Tibetan prayer flags to Tuscarora

to hang in a tree

 by the side of the house.

At winter's end, they are faded and frayed,

which tells you something about

the power of the wind up here.

I wish my hopes could ride the wind skyward.

Although I know the custom makes no sense,

if I did believe, this would be my plea:

"Don't turn my deepest needs to tumbleweeds

blown nowhere but against a barbed wire fence."

The Nevada Poems: Independence Valley

Independence Valley

Watch the restless swallows come and go

on the power line to Tuscarora.

Some avian law explains the way 

they leave precise space between each other.

Instinct decrees the distance between hawks

hunkered on poles beside the Midas Road.

Nature tells peregrine falcons not to nest

less than two miles from other raptors.

But what of the ranchers who inhabit

the valley below?  From an eagle's view

soaring above the plain, distance makes sense.

That's all the high desert land can sustain.

Still, a question remains.  Does remoteness

breed a species disinclined to be near 

its kind?  No.  Any dusty road will show

the miles folks will go to help each other.

Yet, not everyone is born for this place.

Those who do survive, stay sober, stay sane,

have willed their peace with silence and space.

The Nevada Poems: Murderous Impulses

Murderous Impulses

I know a field where a horse killed in anger

lies frozen in the snow.

I haven't seen the neighbors' dogs 

feast on the carcass,

but I know they do.

So much goes unnoticed out here.

I like to think 

God watches everything.

Maybe so.

Maybe not.

The Nevada Poems: Lucretius Leaves Tuscarora

Lucretius Leaves Tuscarora

You leave this place quite sure you won't return

before another year has come and gone.

You know that in the interim you'll learn

of sudden deaths, and births, and lives gone wrong.

You're leaving those you've learned to love and some

you tolerate.  The call of ties beyond

these barren hills to life that's green and warm

conflicts with your strange need for ruined land.

You yearn to turn around the moment that

you leave.  A glance behind shows fading light.

Ahead, the curves disguise the course you've set.

You'll find no answers in the starless night.

To go or stay is but a state of mind.

The mounded earth the only home you'll find.

The Nevada Poems: Go Back

Go Back

If I don't know where I was,

how can I get back there?

There's a place I remember

as if I was holding a photo.

I see the rise of sage-covered hills,

a willow bank, chokecherry and wild rose

blowing sweetness into the morning breeze.

I know what you will say.

We don't learn who we are in a day.

Yet after all these years.

it is a particular day and place

stays with me, when I knew 

I could hold the herd in an easy way.

When I consider the places I have been

and how far I have strayed

I would give anything to go back

and see if I know that younger me

riding happy and free

beneath a cloudless western sky.

The Nevada Poems: Thank God for Hollyhocks

Thank God for Hollyhocks

"Thank God for hollyhocks," the ranch wife said

as she stood by the side of her truck.

"They go untended, not like everything else

around here."  She glanced at the house,

the barn, the cows in the fields beyond.

"Some say they're a poor excuse for a flower,

a large, coarse plant, like the plainest girl at the dance.  

But their colors are pure,

the sturdy stalks stand up to the wind,

the seeds easy to give to a friend.

What's best is they are familiar.

When I see hollyhocks," she sighed

"I know I'm home."

The Nevada Poems: Geographical Cure

Geographical Cure

Choose an afternoon when August sun

stuns basin and range into silence,

while crickets in the meadows

eat all your profits.

If you are going,

that is the time to leave.

Should you hesitate until sunset

you will recognize this common place

a cathedral, and the restless souls among us

are stayed for a moment

by the gorgeous light.

The Nevada Poems: Josie L. Sullivan Dies in Tuscarora at 72

Josie L. Sullivan Dies in Tuscarora at 72

Born in Elk River, Idaho

Received her education

in Orofino, Idaho

Married in Salmon, Idaho

Ranched there.

Moved To Clayton, Idaho

Lived at the Red Bird Mine

Moved to Buffalo Valley

Moved to Tuscarora

Died there yesterday.

She was an avid hunter 

and fisherman

And a month before her death

Landed a twenty-inch

Rainbow, rainbow, rainbow trout

at Wild Horse Reservoir.

Found poem, Elko Daily Free Press

December 1996

with apologies to Elizabeth Bishop 

The Nevada Poems: Secular Grace

         Secular Grace

See this snapshot

of an aluminum lawn chair

at dusk?

Late evening light

especially in summer

dignifies plastic chairs,

rusted cars, the bloated cow

on the hill killed by lightening.

People, too, gain radiance

this time of day.  The homeless pair 

walking toward their rag nest,

the child playing with dust balls

on the linoleum floor.

To me, it is a true light,

as true as the sun at noon,

 but cruel the way 

midsummer minutes

sanctify the mass of flies, 

the wretched couple,

the unloved, untended child.

War photographers

 know this phenomenon. 

 I wonder what they call it.

The Nevada Poems: The Tuscarora Painter Makes a Request

The Tuscarora Painter Makes a Request

Will you fix the distance for me?

Hold it down with a horse and rider.

They appear to know where they're going.

Or the dust plume of a pickup truck

a dilapidated building,

a fenced graveyard, the gate unhinged.

I desperately need a foreground.

Perhaps you could stand 

about, say, fifty feet from me,

angled toward,

away.

Truthfully, it doesn't matter.

I know affection from proximity.

Just stay there, please.

Otherwise, I spend days staring

at the blue-gray haze

of the Independence Range.

The vague light, way too vague,

keeps me from my work.

The Nevada Poems: Epitaph for a Mountain

Epitaph for a Mountain

I wonder what the dead think of the traffic on the road to Tuscarora.

Do they feel blessed by the dust of the living,

the pickups, vans, campers,

the mail truck, drillers' rigs, occasional sedan?

I know the dead don't think.

Nor did most chose to rest

a hundred feet from a county road.

It is my pathetic fallacy.

Comforting, though, to look east

and see the cemetery at dusk,

wrought iron fences, marble pillars,

a mother's grave where roses bloom in June.

Then to gaze beyond.

Between the windswept valley and heaven's vault,

a pious eye beholds eternity in the purple range.

Just don't look at noon.

In stronger light,  only the dead can avoid the bare mountain, 

a monumental headstone

blasted, bulldozed, and boldly inscribed

"Here lies our beloved gold."

The Nevada Poems: Seeing Red

Seeing Red

"...when something stops your mind, catch that moment...of big space, that moment of bewilderment...

from Start Where You Are by Pema Chodron

Stare straight ahead,

tire tracks on the county road

gray as gunmetal.

Glance into the rear view mirror,

the neighbor's hayfield 

suicidal yellow.

Without looking, I know

your white knuckles

on the steering wheel 

want to be around my throat.

You know the blood-colored

willows choking the creek?

Finally I see--

No red is the same.

I thank you for that.

The Nevada Poems: Memento Mori in Five Syllables

Memento Mori in Five Syllables

Something awful may

happen tomorrow.

Some terrible thing

may be waiting for

mourning.  Think on this:

The car you leave in

never arrives.  The

voices you hear are

whispering lies.  The

hankie you touch to

you lips fills with blood.

Think of the skull on

the mantle.  Ponder

Boethius et al.

Turn Terror away.

Make today quiet,

humorous and good.

The Nevada Poems: I Will Know When I Get There

You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace

The mountains and hills will burst into song before you

And all the trees of the field will clap their hands.

Isaiah 55:12

I Will Know When I Get There

A strange land lies ahead

And when I arrive, a voyeur

with second sight, I will see

what I have wished for.

Suitcases out of storage

are packed with bright clothing.

Whatever I bring will be

what I need when I get there.

I have detained myself

half a hundred years.

Now is the time to go, 

such joyful wonders await me.

A strange land lies ahead

and when I arrive I will see

warm red Herefords graze

near the wheels of wrecked trucks.

The wind will sing to the hayfields 

while hawks swirl in exultation.

The Nevada Poems: Lucretius Visits Tuscarora

Lucretius Visits Tuscarora

In Tuscarora no one cares about

the ways in which you spend your nights and days.

The curtains stay untouched if someone shouts

your name in frank despair or drunken haze.

In Tuscarora rust and age conceal

your tales of travels far away and great.

The license plates are gone and can't reveal

the truth of how you came to your estate.

In Tuscarora saints and blasted souls

inhabit every street, their virtues burned

away.  Disdainful of your lofty goals--

God's grand indifference, that's what they have learned.

Forget your need for glory, love, and fame.

The hawk above the graveyard sings your name.

Sonnet for Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Sonnet for Charlotte Perkins Gilman

She hears it whirring in the darkened room

and knows another summer bat has found

its passage to her tangled August dream

of fruit and worm.  Ignoring furry sound,

she pulls the woolen blanket over her,

afraid the bat will suck her blood, although

she knows it is irrational, the fear.

Engulfed by fetid smells of bed, and so

humiliated she could die, she hears

him say, "You goose!  To fear the little bat

who always flies at night this time of year.

Grotesque!--your shadowed fear.  And that is that."

My dear, the shape of what you love or dread

depends upon your age and stage and bed.

Get to Work

"If I insist that my work be rewarding, that it mustn't be tedious or monotonous, I'm in trouble.

... Time after time it fails to become so.  So I get more agitated about it.  I fight with people about it.  I make more demands about it... It's ridiculous to demand that work always be pleasurable, because work is not necessarily pleasing; sometimes it is, sometimes it isn't.  If we're detached and simply pick up the job we have to do and go ahead and do it, it's usually fairly satisfying.  Even jobs that are repugnant or dull or tedious tend to be quite satisfying, once we get right down to doing them... This happens when we just do what we have to do.

Thomas Merton from The Springs of Contemplation:  A Retreat at the Abbey of Gethsemani.

The Upside of Down

"I've observed that every time I'm depressed it's a prelude to some kind of good idea.  So I'm always very happy to be depressed."

Charles Webb, author of The Graduate, in an interview

Staying Put

"One of the big changes made in mid-nineteenth century biology was the notion that natural selection is a force for change.  It's not.  Natural selection is a force for staying put... What you've got to do is change in such a way that the system of changing has a certain steadiness, a certain balance."

Gregory Bateson (1904-1980) in Sacred Unity:  Further Steps to an Ecology of Mind.

Willa Cather said...

"Artistic growth is a refining of the sense of truthfulness.  The stupid believe that to be truthful is easy, but only the artist, the great artist, knows how difficult it is."

Did you ever read Love's Executioner?

"'Once I understood that I must wrestle with the real enemy--time, aging, death--then I came to realize that Mathilde is neither adversary or rescuer, but simply a fellow traveler trudging through the cycle of life.' Breuer says.  To see your partner in this deceptively simple way.  Yalom believes, is to open the door to meaning and happiness in a world without guarantees of either."

Irving Yalom, Love's Executioner 

Have You Read Antigone Lately?

 

Chorus:  Can't you see?/ If a man could wail his own dirge before he dies/ he'd never finish.

from Antigone

Psychic Distance

Psychic Distance

"All of us find comfort in seeing the world either from a great distance, at arm's length, or in close-up."

from Twyla Tharp's book on creativity

I (Heart) Mondays, really

I (Heart) Mondays, really

    Of course, to make the most of my Mondays, I must make sure the subsequent days are incremental disappointments.

I'm back, with an aching back...(Going Through Pain)

Going Through Pain

As if it were a town in Texas,

no way around that hell hole.

You have to go through it.

Of course you don't want to live there.

This metaphor is a dead end.

You don't leave Pain

a better person.

It's still you

if it didn''t kill you.

Sometimes we can't always attribute our favorite quotes

I think this is from a book titled Mob Girl, but I'm not sure:

"She was an overweight middle-aged woman in a muu muu on her way to city jail."

Important Reminders from Forgotten Sources

"Forget about your age.  Live your life."

Norman Vincent Peale 

Today Is My Father's Birthday

That should be the first line of a poem.  Maybe someday it will be.

Old Mother to Middle-Aged Daughter

Old Mother to Middle-Aged Daughter:    "Our journey is nearly over. 

        Carry me."

Middle-Aged Daughter to Old Mother:   "'Filial' means 'carry the father.'  

   There is no word 

   for what you want."

Semi Haiku: Hitting Eighty-five

Semi Haiku:  Hitting Eighty-five

You drive past yourself

wave goodbye.

Is there an age limit on this road?

Tie the Knot

Tie the Knot

"I often have the sense, when someone tells me anxiously about some knot they find themselves in, that what they perceive as an impossible and painful situation calling for professional intervention is simply the complexity of human life once again manifesting itself."  Thomas More, Care of the Soul

Once I went into a wonderful bead store in Arcata, California, where I bought  silver beads to combine with  black ceramic beads  in a necklace I had bought a few years previously in Oaxaca.  I took apart the old necklace, combined it with the new silver beads.  The necklace came together quickly, and I was pleased.  However,  I thought it would be bolder if I added a pendant.

That night, imagining the compliments I would receive and the pleasure in saying, "I made it," I tied a double knot in the cord and went to bed.  I vaguely remembered the girl at the bead store

saying, "Tie the knot, but leave a quarter inch tail and burn the ends.  That will secure the knot."

I didn't do that.  I didn't think it was necessary.

In the bead store the next day, I held up the necklace to show the girl what I wanted.  It fell apart.  Black and silver beads rattled and bounced everywhere.    The young woman felt terrible.  "It's not your fault, " I told her.  "I didn't tie the knot the way you told me to."

Now I would have to start over.  

What did I learn?  I thought I knew what was important and what wasn't.  Tying the knot in the right way was crucial.  I didn't understand that.  Now I do.

 

Ladies with or without Pet Dogs: A series of prose poems: III

Lady Without a Pet Dog

I know a woman who insists on throwing a bright red ball into her empty yard.  When she finally retreats to her house, she is angry  that no clever canine returned the ball to her nicely slippered feet.

When friends confront her with a simple solution,  "Why don't you buy a dog?," she  shakes her head.  "Too much training and trouble.  I'd  rather play fetch with my own disappointment."

Ladies with or without Pet Dogs: A series of prose poems: II

Still Another Lady with a Pet Dog

She acquired the dog fifteen years ago.  She talks about getting rid of it.

Sometimes she says, "Don't visit today.  The dog might bite you," or "I can't go out today.  The dog wouldn't like it."  Sometimes she confides, "He doesn't like anyone to get too near me," and it is difficult to tell whether she is proud of this possessive dog or afraid of it.

Over the years she has developed two explanations for its behavior.  "It's the breed," she says.  Or, as if the mystery lies in its early kennel life, she says, "I didn't train it, you know."

No one in her family likes the dog.  At first they were intimidated by its pedigree and their lack of familiarity with the breed.   They admired certain traits;   its fastidious eating habits, for example.  After a while they began making fun of it, imitating its clipped bark and peculiar wagging.  

In the beginning, she took the dog to family gatherings, but the dog didn't travel well, disliked their yard, and created a dilemma for her:  take the dog or leave it.

Fifteen years of ownership made her reluctant to part with her problematic pet.  She has spoken wistfully that perhaps someday the dog will run off.  Her friends tell her, "You can't spend your life  waiting for your dog to disappear."

Lately, she blames herself for the dog's recalcitrance.  "I'm not a good owner," she says.  "I haven't learned the right commands.  My voice is too soft."  Once, in a moment of soul searching, she said, "Maybe I don't like dogs.  Or this dog."

In the meantime, she feeds it vitamins and gourmet dog chow and keeps its kennel  beautiful and spotlessly clean.

Frankly, I think this is an incredible amount of trouble to go to.  After all, it's just a dog.

Ladies with or without Pet Dogs: A series of prose poems: I

Yet Another  Lady with a Pet Dog

I knew a woman who owned the most devoted dog.  With floppy ears and big feet, this genial mix of mongrel and pedigree followed her everywhere. When she said, "Sit," it sat.  When she said, "fetch," it lay the teeth-marked checkbook at her feet.

Everyone remarked how fortunate she was to have one whose loyal eyes followed her about the room, who bounced and wagged in the driveway when she returned from a trip, a dog who was grateful to sleep at the foot of her bed and who lapped the crumbs beneath her table.

Unfortunately, the dog's devotion began to get on her nerves.  Some days, when she looked at him,  the canine's eyes appeared  red-rimmed and rheumy, and, when she peered into his brown pupils, she suspected dog dementia.

Whenever she prepared for a trip, the dog sensed her departure and lay directly on her feet.  When she opened the door of her flashy coupe, the big dog made himself small and tried to fit into the back seat.  Angry at  dog hairs and muddy paws, she raised her hand and yelled, "Get out!  Get out!"  As the dog retreated from the car with his tail between his legs, she hated him for making her feel mean and coarse.

The feeling didn't go away.  At night, she began to loathe the sound of his breathing.  One day, she once again yelled, "Get out!  Get out!" and the dog skulked down the stairs.  Her ire only increased his vigilance and devotion.

One day she realized that the dog, the house, the village itself had become intolerable.  She packed a bag, jumped into her coupe, and drove to the other side of the world.

The dog waits for her return.