Categories
Photography Writing

A touch of spring

Yesterday and today were perfect days to herald in a gentle Spring, and I was able to photograph several early flowers, including magnolia, snow drops, and, of course, daffodils. The magnolia and snow drops will wait till tomorrow; for today, in what is becoming a Burningbird Spring tradition, the first of the daffodils and the perfect poem to go with them, Henry Wordsworth’s “Daffodils”.

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I wandered lonely as a cloud
   That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
   A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

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Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, 
They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: 
Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

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The waves beside them danced, 
but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: 
A Poet could not but be gay, 
In such a jocund company: 
I gazed–and gazed–but little thought 
What wealth the show to me had brought:

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For oft, 
when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, 
They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; 
And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
And dances with the daffodils.

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Dedicated to promise of future Springs.

 

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Categories
Books Plants

Of found gold and ghost orchids

After the orchid photos last week, a friend recommended that I check out the The Orchid Thief, by Susan Orlean. As serendipity would have it, Mike Golby just wrote a fascinating essay on the movie version of the book, Adaption, and the topic of passion, Gibson and otherwise:

We all have our desired Ghost Orchids and, damn it, we need them. I’m all for orchids. But the stronger our passions, the more we project them and the larger our shopping baskets become. Sometimes, we’re given opportunity to fill them. But I sometimes find myself hoping that, if confronted by one of my Ghost Orchids, I’d duck and run. Well, maybe not run; I’ll just play things cool… thinking things through, you understand.

There is beauty in the Ghost Orchid; beauty that can act as both impetus and anchor, and there’s only a thin fragment of self separating the two. As for me, I’m not sure that I am that passionate, about anything. I think, though, if I did come face to face with my Ghost Orchid, knowing who I am now, I would be content to look and not own. Regretfully.

Returning, though, to more mundane matters in passionate absentia, I was able to find The Orchid Thief at my city library, and the movie Adaption at my county library, along with a much desired documentary film on James Agee. I feel like a woman who has discovered gold coins when putting her hand into a seemingly empty satchel, and I will now indulge in an unseemly fit of gloating.

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Categories
Writing

The wall dog

Dale Keiger talks about a recent visit with his 83 year old father:

He keeps a gun, a Walther PPK automatic, by his bedside, with a round in the chamber. On my last visit, I asked about this, suggesting it was a dangerous practice, even though he keeps the gun’s safety on. A loaded clip was one thing, I said, but a live round in the chamber? He impatiently replied that there was no point in having a gun around if it wasn’t ready to fire. What he fears coming through the door in the middle of the night—drug-crazed neighbors, a burglar, the Taliban—remains murky, like the light in his house.

Wonderful story from first word to last.

Categories
Healthcare Photography Writing

Listen to our bodies

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

After my cleaning frenzy last week, I woke up the next morning with hands that hurt so much I couldn’t use them. I then realized that by increasing measure, I’ve had aches and pains in my hands, my wrists, my feet, and recently my back and even my shoulders. Downing Tylenol and Advil and increasing my nightly drinking did not seem to be an effective way to deal with this problem.

The new doctor I have was very good about getting me in right away. When I met with her, I pointed out the possibility that the increasing pain in various parts of my body could be due to the tick bites I’ve suffered the last couple of years. Though Lyme Disease is rare here, there are Missouri-based variants that exhibit similar symptoms.

My doctor, a lovely young woman originally from India, gave me a gentle smile and nodded as I talked, no doubt thinking all the while about how the Internet is more trouble than it’s worth at times. She asked me several questions about other aspects of my health, took a close look in particular at my hands and wrists and then asked me if there was a history of arthritis in the family.

Well, my Dad has arthritis but that came with age as he got older. She asked if there was any rheumatoid arthritis in the family, and I told her not that I know of. I am familiar with rheumatoid arthritis because the uncle of my first husband suffered from an advanced case of it; his hands were very distorted and he could only wear slippers.

She had me undergo tests, yes even for tick diseases, but told me that from my po’me tale (not her words, my own editorial addition), and the appearance of my hands that I am most likely suffering from rheumatoid arthritis.

Well, in a way it’s nice to know that I’m not a hypochondriac assuming much with each slight pain, but I’m not sure how happy I was to give up my exotic illness. After all, it’s much more interesting to write about a disease picked up from treks through the wild woods of Missouri, then to write about a disease that happens because life dealt me the short straw in this instance.

She gave me some anti-inflammatory medicine to use, which does help, but only to a point. In addition to medicine and applying cold and warmth and wrapping the wrists and even fingers at times, she also told me that I will have to cut back on the amount of time on the keyboard.

Now, for a writer, this is a problem. I spend on an average 10-12 hours a day at the keyboard, either on my books or articles, or writing to this weblog. If I cut back, I’m going to have to restrict most of my keyboard time to work that brings in income, which means less time to the weblog. This was something I had to think about, give myself time to wrap my mind around the idea.

Ultimately, though, I think this is going to be a healthy thing for me. I do need to spend less time on the computer and more time ‘out there’. And my body has just decided to enforce this decision. However, this will mean changes.

For one thing, I won’t be able to sit at my computer and program for hours, like I used to a few years back. This might restrict some of the things I’ve been wanting to try, but I haven’t been in the mood to tech tweak for the longest time anyway, as demonstrated by the still non-existent Poetry Finder. (As noted in comments attached to Loren’s lovely post referencing Emily Dickinson’s use of the robin in her poetry. No worries about being reminded of the Poetry Finder, Loren. BTW, when did that ‘Vote for Bush” sticker start showing up on your weblog pages?)

I will be writing less online, but there are numerous advantages to writing less. One that springs instantly to mind is that I’ll have more time to think about what I’m writing, which means I probably won’t get into as much trouble. Perhaps “Burningbird” will become “Simmering Bird”. Maybe even “Thoughtful Bird”.

Additionally, there are alternatives to writing through a keyboard that I have been wanting to try for some time, such as using a recording device to record my thoughts while I’m out an about. With the new speeech recording software, the recordings can be converted into text and I can use this to help me create my weblog posts, or even to do my books. No reason I can’t use it to help write my books.

Even more interesting, I don’t have to convert the recording to text. Though sound files aren’t effective for all the devices people seem to use to read weblogs, and can be unfriendly to modems, still they are an alternative technique to typing into the computer. In fact, I recorded my first audio blog using the built-in mic on my computer, and shareware software I downloaded from the Internet. The post was a lark, just a ramble, and ended up being truncated at 3 minutes, but I had fun doing it. I just need to figure out how one can talk like one writes. There is no textual varation for pausals such as ‘uhm’. I’ve also found, with myself at least, that writing imposes form, which leads to coherency. I am concerned that all my audio posts will end up being blather.

On the bright side, though, I can actually record the sounds to go with the pictures I take.

Speaking of pictures, I’m also going to have to restrict my film camera photography because the cameras are heavy enough to cause a great deal of strain. Still, that removes the guilt from spending time with my digital camera–my lovely lightweight digital camera–even though the photos I take can’t be sold. Who cares if I can’t sell them, they’re fun.

Eventually, along with my audio recording device I’ll pick up a a digital SLR camera that’s lighter than my film cameras, and can take publication quality photos. But for now, I can write metaphorically through sound and sight. My only concern is for those who have audio impairments, but hopefully they have sound-to-text conversion software they can use. And I’ll still write. Have to shoot me to get to stop completely.

In the meantime, more flower photos from the Orchid Show currently happening at the Missouri Botanical Gardens, in St. Louis. You can see one posting with all the photos here.

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Categories
Just Shelley

How are you tonight?

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

Just peachy. How are you?

I opened the refrigerator and found it and everything in it completely covered with diet Coke. Diet coke with lime, to be exact, a brand new flavor I’m trying (but regret ever so much because I feel as if my tongue has been dipped in furniture polish after drinking a can). The can had been pushed back next to the wall of the refrigerator on the top shelf; combined with a full freezer resulted in the can freezing and then bursting in a beautiful explosion that managed to cover everything quite nicely.

After I had hauled everything out and cleaned down the sides and shelves with soda-water, I noticed that I had a series of jars with only a dib of this and a dab of that so I tossed them. I then noticed that several other things had passed expiration, so tossed them, too. I washed the eggs off and lined them up neatly in the door, and put everything away, dairy here, cokes there. In the front.

But what’s a clean inside if the outside is dusty, and stained.

Nothing shows up dingy cupboards like a clean refrigerator.

When was the last time I moved the microwave and cleaned thoroughly underneath it?

Why is it that stainless steel sinks stain?

The oven smokes so when I use it. Sets off the fire alarm.

The cans and boxes in the open pantry shelves along the wall are all disorganized, and older stuff has been pushed to the back.

You know, I really love copper, it’s my favorite metal. That huge copper vent and hood over the freestanding stove has years of grime and tarnish covering it . I wonder what it will look like polished and clean?

The birds are building nests. Look at that silly finch trying to haul that huge piece of weed across the ground. Easier to see when the windows in the french doors are clean.

The floor. Nothing better than a freshly scrubbed and waxed floor.

Now I’m left with the can, which I’ve decided to keep. It’s a pretty can. It reminds me of nights when I wake, unexpectedly. It looks familiar.

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