I’m not sure where the term “dog tired” came from but that’s what I am today, “dog tired.” When I woke it was a grey, chill day, unremittingly grey. At class I was struggling to get my rambunctious students to pay attention while I was helping them fill in the background of what they needed to know about media history.
Most of them are graduating in three weeks and there are only four more classes for them and you can sense them stampeding toward the doors.
Leaving them, I went down to Relish, the little cafe by the train station and had an egg white omelet, reading a mystery by Louise Penny while eating. Coming home, I did a conference call and then prepped for some interviews I am doing for our community radio station tomorrow.
The American Dance Institute has purchased a rundown lumberyard in Catskill and is converting it to performance spaces and living quarters for artists while they’re in residence. It’s an exciting project…
I am talking to Chris Bolan, their Community Relations Manager, tomorrow about the project.
So right now, I am listening to jazz, sipping a much needed martini and working on figuring out kitchen organization. I have more stuff than space. What goes? What stays and where does what stays, go?
One of the reasons I felt tired or maybe a bit depressed was that as I was walking toward my class, the phone pinged and the BBC reported a leading gay activist in Bangladesh had been hacked to death, not too long after a liberal blogger had been similarly dispensed. I felt sad, angry, helpless, wanting to do something to change the tide of hate sweeping the world and not knowing at all what to do about it.
The afternoon brought news that a Canadian in the Philippines has been killed by an Islamist militant group. His name was John Ridsdel, described as brilliant and compassionate; he was a 68 year old tourist from Calgary, Canada. Beheaded, of course, in keeping with tradition.
On the American political scene, Cruz and Kasich made a pact to stop Trump by Kasich withdrawing from Indiana in favor of Cruz and Cruz withdrawing from Oregon in favor of Kasich. After great fanfare this morning, it seems to have fallen apart by the afternoon.
It was not a good day for the New England Patriot’s Tom Brady as the courts upheld his suspension from the first four games of the season. Deflategate has not gone away; its repercussions are still being felt and Brady’s legacy is at stake. He could still appeal but his chances aren’t good. The NFL may well have won.
Hard for me to figure this out as I am not a football fan; never a big fan, I was totally lost to the sport when the concussion revelations began to happen.
It is a mellow night at the cottage. It is 7:30 and the sun has not yet gone away. There are buds on the trees and the rhododendron are starting their bloom. The jazz has energized me and I am happy now. Somehow, in writing this, I have shed this day. And I am grateful.
Thank you.
Letter From Claverack 08 06 2017 Thoughts from Sunday…
August 8, 2017It is a quiet night; the creek is crystal clear and a squirrel has just paraded down the deck, padding along, obviously unafraid of me.
This morning I did coffee hour at church, bringing, as I frequently do, too much food though everyone was appreciative and there should be almost enough for coffee hour next week, when I am in Minneapolis.
Returning home, I put the extra food I had in the refrigerator and then returned to have a late lunch with my friends, Larry and Alicia. Arriving early, I wrote a poem while waiting.
Sun and shadow dapple road,
curving toward town where
friends await.
A different life now,
slow, time for noticing
the dappled road;
for clasping close
all kind of friends.
To stretch my brain a bit, I am working to write a poem a day. Most days I do, not always, but most days.
Looking up, there is a canopy of green above me and nature is humming around me. It’s amazing that in the peace of my deck there is so much noise. Insects and birds, soft sound of water, far off the sound of trucks now and again, traversing the highway almost half a mile away.
It’s been a day when I have not listened to news or read anything until just a bit ago. There is, you know, only so much one can take.
It is interesting that Vice President Pence is going to great lengths to deny he is making “campaign style” visits to places. Governor Kasich is, I think. However, it is not possible to deny that even at this early stage Republicans are beginning to look to take the place of The Donald on the stage he now holds.
The Donald is in New Jersey at one of his golf clubs in a retreat from the White House will three million dollars plus in renovations are being made. It was just last week that President Trump is reputed to have said the place was “a dump.”
Really, I hope not too much gold is being added.
Venezuela is tottering toward dictatorship and economic collapse which will not be good for gas prices, I keep reading.
Tuesday, I am heading to Minnesota where, to my dismay, a mosque was bombed in Bloomington, the suburb in which my brother lives. That was not “Minnesota nice.”
The world is a very strange place. I mean really, really, strange and, you know, this has gone on forever but it just seems like somehow we should have moved beyond so many of these things and, hopefully, we will in generations to come.
It is there I must place hope.
In this time of my life, I am being as active as I can and, at the same time, treasuring more than I ever have the wonders of my life: an interesting life now and in my past, a creek that flows quietly by a home I think I imagined once and made reality, good friends, good dinners, times of good conversation, some travel for good reasons, a sense I have been luckier than most in keeping alive friendships from my past and carrying than into my present.
There is a tree along the creek that is always the first harbinger of fall and it is beginning to tell me fall is coming.
I’m not ready for it. Though I will accept it as one must.
Tags:Alicia Vergara, Bloomington MN, Claverack, Claverack Cottage, Claverack Creek, Donald Trump, Friends, Kasich, Larry Divney, Media, Mike Pence, poetry, Politics, The Donald, Venezuela
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