Skip to main content

Spring Stream of Consciousness

Just as the weather is becoming winterish again, I'm thinking of e. e. cummings' "In Just-"; but if his free verse is not your style, try "This Is the Garden," a sonnet with a twist of Imagism. Speaking of which, you may enjoy Amy Lowell's imagery in "Lilacs" . . . for some more purple (plums, this time), "This Is Just to Say" that you should check out William Carlos Williams.

I think I've rarely experienced such poignant springs as when my family lived in the last house but one. Maybe part of the reason is that I spent my teenage years there, but I think the house had a lot to do with it--a white colonial with red shutters. The first flowers to bloom were the forsythia out back and the crocuses. Then, one after the other, the ornamental crabapple, bradford pear, and three ornamental cherries would bud and flower. We had grape hyacinths in front of the shrubs and in the round bed among the cherry trees were a variety of nameless pastel perennials. When summer came, the long-lived periwinkles, rose of sharon, and wild strawberries would emerge at the side of the house where the two big pine trees carpeted the slope with golden needles. Usually my grandfather came for a visit and to plant a vegetable garden by the basement door, where the sunlight was always bright. In the corner of the fence, across from the garden, was a rose bush with a lemon-pepper scent.

Spring has gruesomely sprung in my basement. Last week, I had a run-in with my first big spider in months. It had a long fuzzy body with an almost-as-long fuzzy head (if spiders have what can properly be called heads)--kind of like two black pipecleaners jointed together--and legs like unbent hairpins fanned out proportionally around its body, preserving the general oval shape. Unlike the slothful wolf spider of last fall, this one was skitterish and quickly escaped my stomping foot. Although it disappeared into the laundry room, my bold housemate later debilitated it with orange-scented bug spray when it emerged from a corner by the water heater.

Spring Haiku
once again
weapons of war just outside my bedroom:
bug spray and hair spray

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Waste Time When You Could Be Watching a Zombie Movie

Today I read one of those horrible articles that the internet seems to have been designed for, consisting of 40 tips for becoming as successful as the author: "How to Live a Full Life (and Leave Nothing on the Table) by 30." Yes, that's really the title. Normally I wouldn't publish a blog post in response, but because I managed to Come Down with a Chronic Illness (and Achieve Basically Nothing Else) by 30 and Am Currently Feeling the Aftereffects of One of the Treatments I Periodically Take, Which Causes Me to Feel High and Lose My Inhibitions, I'm just going to go for it. (Author's point #33: "Seriously, You Can Do Whatever You Want." Why thank you, young man, I think I will!)

The author's name is Ryan Holiday, and he has published several books. It sounds like he is also very wealthy, because note point #15, "Sooner Is Not Better," where he says he had a weird goal of becoming a millionaire by 25, but it didn't happen until after

Lyme Recovery, Seven Years In

When I first got my Lyme diagnosis, I went to the library and borrowed all the books on Lyme disease I could find (there were only three, if I recall correctly). One book was the personal account of a woman whose undiagnosed Lyme crossed her placenta and infected her unborn son, who later died in childhood after horrific symptoms. That book and a second featured images of magnified ticks, and I would peek through the pages taking care not to accidentally touch the photographs. I realized I might never have children. I returned the books to the library.

The third book was Biography of a Germ by Arno Karlen, a scientific essay on the Lyme spirochete. I didn't finish it because I took it back to the library as part of my stop-scaring-myself-silly dragnet. But I remembered it fondly. The author methodically explored the Lyme bacteria, Borrelia burdorferi, as an organism in its own right, a marvel of evolutionary survival that relies on a complex chain of ticks, small ani…

Waking Up Is Hard to Do

Ever since I was six or so, I have battled alarm clocks. They've jolted me awake. I've turned them off. I've hit snooze. I've gone back to sleep. I've tried to awaken myself gently with the classical music station or Aaron Copland CDs. No matter what, I can't get out of bed when the alarm says I should.

When I was a child, my father and I would race after the school bus. As an adult, I was chronically late for work. I'm not a morning person. I don't sleep well and rarely feel rested. Lymies don't feel well in the mornings anyway, and it didn't help that I'm easily startled and was being shocked awake each day with the equivalent of those paddles they use on heart attack victims. All morning I'd feel groggy and queasy and antsy, with adrenaline pumping through me.

A couple years ago I got sick and had to stay home from work for a few days. When I was ready to get back to the office, I took it easy for a few alarm-clock-free mornings while…