The View

They are making good progress, my robin friends. Although yesterday I had to slap Sunflower kitty down from the tree with a broom.

Peonies

I've been working on my flower beds lately. Always before Memorial Day, the peonies begin to bloom.

God Things

I am watching some robins build a nest right outside my bedroom window and I figure I am the luckiest woman alive. I look up from my computer and there they are, sitting in the young catalpa tree that I didn’t plant, but didn’t pull either, because I am not very good at weeding and besides, catalpa trees have the best fishing worms and it was probably a God thing, which you should never mess with. So anyway, I am here and they are there, not ten feet from my face, trailing bits of stuff they gathered from who knows where and we’re just going to be here together and it’s going to be a fine summer, really fine.

Post Picnic

The first writers’ picnic was good, relaxing, everything I was hoping for. Thanks to all who turned out on such short notice. The air somehow seems a lot healthier when you all are around. There is something about coming together that is essential. The structure for writers might be all screwed up at IUSB, but I believe enough connections have been made to begin to form a community. I guess we’ll have to wait and see. We’ll try to plan a little ahead, say, more than 24 hours, for next time. I’m thinking the week of the June 11th or June 18th. Write me with your preferences and we’ll set the date. Potato Creek is on the schedule next. David knows all the trails, where to take naps...

Now

by Denis Johnson

Ordeal

(I finally started reading Denis Johnson's Jesus' Son, so this morning's work seemed to make more sense.)

You are taking a random walk through our online cemetery.
It’s pronounced bro.

I gathered it from her bit‑by‑bit, piece‑by‑piece.
Cancer.

Did she have a theme in her photography?

She had a high tolerance to drugs like morphine.

The pictures that are posted, a lot of naked women, those were all at your studio?

No water after midnight.

How she felt going through this ordeal.

She could shoot and would shoot anything. She enjoyed shooting people more than anything.

She was awake during the entire procedure.

Did she have any type of bondage issues with her photography? Did she like shooting bondage‑type photographs?

She was aware.

Chemo decimated her skin.

She was left with jangled nerves.

Opiates had no effect.

She had two red dots on each hip bone.

She did not feel good that day.

She didn't dislike it. She would shoot whatever she was asked to or could.

It felt as if something was trying to tear its way out of her abdomen.

Was she able to make a living?

What was puddling up under her was probably a cold sweat.

Something bad going on, either cancer or a tumor.

At various times.

Dilaudid?

Travel to New Orleans or to visit friends in Michigan on occasion.

OxyContin, I believe.

A history of depressive disorder? Anxiety? Panic attacks?
Eight to ten beers over a 10 to 12‑hour period.

In the morning?
No. Well, yes.

A 12-pack of Heineken?
Bubble-gum-flavored Xanax, yes.

Regardless, she stole it anyway.

Issues with anger?
Prozac, Paxil, Ativan.

Is this a good place to stop?

We didn't think she was going to die.

Tossing and Shoring

We are still floating in a state of job uncertainty, at least two more weeks to bob in the unknown. In addition to a move to Grand Rapids, the specter of Cincinnati looms. Still, all the hand wringing could just suddenly disappear and nothing will change, except all of my closets and cupboards will be cleaned. Good Will is tired of seeing me. I hide behind the blinds as my trash man heaves away the overflowing barrels. We should really be under this stress for the entire summer. So many things need to go. While I am tossing things overboard, the Finlander is shoring. This week on his journeys he captured thick wooden spoons “strong enough to beat our grandchildren with,” and a set of shining soup spoons.

Clockwise

Think of your breast as a face on a clock.
Place your right hand at twelve o'clock.

Move toward one o'clock in small circular motions.
Keep your fingers flat and in constant contact with your breast.

Use your fingers in a massaging, clockwise motion.
Remove pillow, check inner breast (six o’clock to eleven o’clock).

Ten o'clock. Eleven o'clock.. Twelve o'clock.

Attention left breast twelve o’clock.
A breast lump approximately 1 to 2 centimeters at nine o’clock.

Soft, round, mobile, non-tender.

Ultrasound wand on the three o’clock position of her right breast…
The right breast mass at one o’clock was marked and scanned.

The three to nine o'clock area that is recommended for excisional biopsy…

Palpable 1 cm mobile non-tender nodule on left breast at three o'clock.

5cm hard mass in the three o’clock position of the right breast 8cm from the nipple.

One morning on seven o'clock rounds, she complained of insomnia.
Most evenings, she goes to bed at nine o’clock.

The OC Boys

Housekeeping and out of control blood pressure have pulled me back to the trains. It seems I need a little exercise, a little fresh air. This is the train trestle in Osceola that inspires me at times. Baugo Ferretti Park now hems it in, but there's a back gate close to my front door, so I slip in when there's time. I'm thinking we ought to do a writer's picnic next week. The park has some nice short hikes.

Housekeeping

I shoved aside my own frantic housekeeping for awhile to finish up Marilynne Robinson's Housekeeping. Towards the last few chapters, nothing else mattered except finishing the book. I haven't read something so right in a very long time. It has everything I love and fear, trains, the lake, drowning, transience, bridges, life coming undone, undertows, old houses... I could go on and on. It was like coming home. I will read it, I know, again and again.