I like to think that my one small, cranky voice has influenced the course of events.
Anything to humiliate the mitthead.
Saturday, October 04, 2003
COUP de ...Foudre ? Grace ?
Suddenly, as in bolt from the blue and probably dozens of other cliches, my life changes. Veers from its dull path. A fateful intersection, laden with contingency, shakes everything up. Last Saturday, the universe ganged up on me and sent a SUV-driving, cell-phone yammering Floridian my way. Thanks a bunch, universe.
At that instant, though, all I saw was a hurtling automotive missile headed from the other lane toward me. Oh, shit, I thought, and the impact was as bad or worse than I'd anticipated, and whatever part of me was untethered flew right, and the neck pain I felt I knew, immediately, was NOT good.
Poor DK. I left him a cell phone message, which I later heard, me rambling about being "whaled into," having neck pain, but being "all right." This coup de foudre has also bolluxed his week -- barely finished music and three rehearsals before Sunday's Cadence recording at Tsai.
Anyway, I think the airbags deployed. Wispy white smoke wreathed about, and I concluded the car would soon explode, so I manged to turn the key and crawl out the passenger door. I vaguely recall walking around in small circles yelling a lot, then decided to calm down and sit on the sidewalk and await rescue. Some tall tattooed dude with a ponytail peered down at me and, I think, apologized. Others were milling about, not grievously hurt. I announced I was a doc could I help anyone, and someone told me that someone had glass in her foot. I left that for fire and rescue. Who arrived and hauled me off to the Beth Israel ER. And brought poor Little Meanie, who'd been in her cat carrier in the back seat, back to the vet's office.
14 hours later, after more xrays, CTs, MRIs and MRAs than one would think possible, I was diagnosed with a C2 foramen transversarium fracture, vertebral artery intact deo gratias, and unloaded into a blissfully soft hospital bed WITH pillow (oh heaven) and a few hours of sleep.
I never saw a senior neurosurgeon. I'm told he saw my films. The residents seemed absurdly young. They said: wear a hard collar for 3 months. (They had raised the specter of a halo vest or surgery so I was relieved.) Have a neck xray in 1 month. But, I countered, the plain films didn't show the fracture ! They replied: it's to look for displacement. That was not reassuring.
I asked: what about sex.
They said: Sure, just don't swing from the chandeliers.
Oh, the callowness of youth.
My always-wonderful, ever-attentive PCP got me an impossibly speedy appt. with a Brigham neurosurgeon who deemed the fracture minor, said six weeks of collar, and will see me again in 3 weeks after a morning of xrays, nuclear med and CT scans.
DK's ever-sensitive pediatric neurologist brother asked him: Is it a Hangman's Fracture ?
So what's the pragmatic bottom line ? No work for a month.
Tylenol works. The collar, though not my favorite thing, isn't too bad. It is possible to sleep in it (with a little help from valium.) I have about 30 weeks of accumulated sick and vacation time.
So here I am. Grateful to be relatively intact, grateful for my husband, my friends, my family, for everyone who took care of me.
Let's leave it there for now: gratitude.
At that instant, though, all I saw was a hurtling automotive missile headed from the other lane toward me. Oh, shit, I thought, and the impact was as bad or worse than I'd anticipated, and whatever part of me was untethered flew right, and the neck pain I felt I knew, immediately, was NOT good.
Poor DK. I left him a cell phone message, which I later heard, me rambling about being "whaled into," having neck pain, but being "all right." This coup de foudre has also bolluxed his week -- barely finished music and three rehearsals before Sunday's Cadence recording at Tsai.
Anyway, I think the airbags deployed. Wispy white smoke wreathed about, and I concluded the car would soon explode, so I manged to turn the key and crawl out the passenger door. I vaguely recall walking around in small circles yelling a lot, then decided to calm down and sit on the sidewalk and await rescue. Some tall tattooed dude with a ponytail peered down at me and, I think, apologized. Others were milling about, not grievously hurt. I announced I was a doc could I help anyone, and someone told me that someone had glass in her foot. I left that for fire and rescue. Who arrived and hauled me off to the Beth Israel ER. And brought poor Little Meanie, who'd been in her cat carrier in the back seat, back to the vet's office.
14 hours later, after more xrays, CTs, MRIs and MRAs than one would think possible, I was diagnosed with a C2 foramen transversarium fracture, vertebral artery intact deo gratias, and unloaded into a blissfully soft hospital bed WITH pillow (oh heaven) and a few hours of sleep.
I never saw a senior neurosurgeon. I'm told he saw my films. The residents seemed absurdly young. They said: wear a hard collar for 3 months. (They had raised the specter of a halo vest or surgery so I was relieved.) Have a neck xray in 1 month. But, I countered, the plain films didn't show the fracture ! They replied: it's to look for displacement. That was not reassuring.
I asked: what about sex.
They said: Sure, just don't swing from the chandeliers.
Oh, the callowness of youth.
My always-wonderful, ever-attentive PCP got me an impossibly speedy appt. with a Brigham neurosurgeon who deemed the fracture minor, said six weeks of collar, and will see me again in 3 weeks after a morning of xrays, nuclear med and CT scans.
DK's ever-sensitive pediatric neurologist brother asked him: Is it a Hangman's Fracture ?
So what's the pragmatic bottom line ? No work for a month.
Tylenol works. The collar, though not my favorite thing, isn't too bad. It is possible to sleep in it (with a little help from valium.) I have about 30 weeks of accumulated sick and vacation time.
So here I am. Grateful to be relatively intact, grateful for my husband, my friends, my family, for everyone who took care of me.
Let's leave it there for now: gratitude.
Saturday, September 27, 2003
Driving past, I noticed that the sign in front of the nursing home near the hospital bears an image of Hokusai's Wave, or something quite similar.
(www.metmuseum.org)
This stunned me.
Someone has linked the nursing home with the "floating world." Someone has applied that image of arrested turbulence to the final domicile of the aged. Does the sign include the dwarfed boat needling through, or serene Mt Fuji on the horizon ?
I love the phrase "floating world."
I think of how, as a child, I'd imagine myself inside the landscape of a blue willow cup. Of course the fact that I wrote a poem about this has forever altered the memory. The poem has superseded, has transplanted the memory. Or embellished, at least. It'd difficult to say. Nabokov has a passage about this phenomenon. The poem's old. 1991. Not very good, either. But oddly pertinent to Winthrop House's "floating world."
May all beings be happy.
BLUE WILLOW
In the aromatic shop of coffee
and fine tea
among sterling, glass and china
a small blue pot
with a roundness that is both elegant
and smug
chokes with recognition
my stunned eye
with a bitter dreg of longing
for the time
when, beyond all distraction,
I could slip
into the pretty landscape
easy as a dream;
and above me the cheerful bird would
swoop and turn,
and below the tiny bridge
the stream
would tinkle on the rocks
its melody;
and in the blue pavilion
a clear white lamp
kept by my mother
would always glow
reminding me of welcome
as I roved
the white and blue landscape
of my round world
And now there's just a roundness
that excludes
as urgently as it beckons me,
a message
wicked as a tease, or life itself --
I turn away.
December's at the door, the glass
occludes
with aromatic steam. At a small
front table,
a derelict, bearded like an ancient
Chinese sage
dozes over a cafe-au lait.
An hour
to closing. I will not take
him home.
Nor will any of the others here,
I think,
go with him into whatever land
is his --
a land that is not round, or blue
or white,
and where, in a broken window
a dead lamp
announces a room of perfect emptiness,
a space
of perpetual shelter. Welcome.
And come in.
(www.metmuseum.org)
This stunned me.
Someone has linked the nursing home with the "floating world." Someone has applied that image of arrested turbulence to the final domicile of the aged. Does the sign include the dwarfed boat needling through, or serene Mt Fuji on the horizon ?
I love the phrase "floating world."
I think of how, as a child, I'd imagine myself inside the landscape of a blue willow cup. Of course the fact that I wrote a poem about this has forever altered the memory. The poem has superseded, has transplanted the memory. Or embellished, at least. It'd difficult to say. Nabokov has a passage about this phenomenon. The poem's old. 1991. Not very good, either. But oddly pertinent to Winthrop House's "floating world."
May all beings be happy.
BLUE WILLOW
In the aromatic shop of coffee
and fine tea
among sterling, glass and china
a small blue pot
with a roundness that is both elegant
and smug
chokes with recognition
my stunned eye
with a bitter dreg of longing
for the time
when, beyond all distraction,
I could slip
into the pretty landscape
easy as a dream;
and above me the cheerful bird would
swoop and turn,
and below the tiny bridge
the stream
would tinkle on the rocks
its melody;
and in the blue pavilion
a clear white lamp
kept by my mother
would always glow
reminding me of welcome
as I roved
the white and blue landscape
of my round world
And now there's just a roundness
that excludes
as urgently as it beckons me,
a message
wicked as a tease, or life itself --
I turn away.
December's at the door, the glass
occludes
with aromatic steam. At a small
front table,
a derelict, bearded like an ancient
Chinese sage
dozes over a cafe-au lait.
An hour
to closing. I will not take
him home.
Nor will any of the others here,
I think,
go with him into whatever land
is his --
a land that is not round, or blue
or white,
and where, in a broken window
a dead lamp
announces a room of perfect emptiness,
a space
of perpetual shelter. Welcome.
And come in.
Wednesday, September 24, 2003
The Book of Hours begins at twilight, that liminal hour, and in autumn, a season of between-ness and boundary.
It's morning: bright, ordinary. Work calls, and I sneer in it's general direction, ignoring the fact that coming to peace with it might hold the real key to my metaphysical discontent. Viz: Dogen's Instructions to the Cook.
Writing lauds and the little hours will be more difficult.
Why are these Christian monastic forms so compelling ? The Dalai Lama counseled hewing to one's own natal faith. There's some wisdom there.
Religions might be languages, all of which discuss the same thing. At least that wager is what has allowed me to even glance in the general direction of Christianity.
There's much in it that repells and revolts.
Merton has made it it tolerable, even attractive.
CHARLES RIVER, SEPTEMBER VESPERS
Before the river and the path diverge
and meadow yields to vine-choked stands of trees,
the chest-high horseweed bows, swaying like fronds
waved in hosannah: Go. The dark woods call,
it seems to say. Evening and winter, too.
Fulfill the scripture coiled in all your cells.
O gracious twilight, linger long enough
that I might read the wayside book of hours
from touch-me-not to loosestrife just once more
before I’m called to seed, to night, to ice
from Vesper’s interzone of neither nor.
God hides here, wordless, cipher absolute.
IN THE NIGHT OFFICE
--Till elevators drop us from our day...
It’s overtime in ordinary time,
when everything inclement, hateful, sour
prepares for night. My window overlooks
a vista of illuminated cells.
In each a figure leans above its desk,
as I do mine, mini- and marginal.
We are the faithful drones, professionals
of ora et labora. Here we sit
accounting for the daily flux of bread
transcorporate. Our credo’s in the Real
Presence of value in unredeemed scrip.
We broker. Trust us with your savings. Please.
But it’s compline, and even mendicants
may have their quiet nights, their perfect ends
to never-perfect days, if not by work
by grace: an easy chair, a lamp, a book,
some wine that’s simply wine, cigar cigar,
and something gentle, loving, sweet, untouched,
untouchable but near enough. Then bed.
-- Nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine.
LATE AUGUST VIGILS
This night, and every night, it is the same question.
T. Merton, “Fire Watch”
She woke. It was too still, too dark, too hot.
The clock sat blank, its red tally erased.
The fanblade, stalled, poised frozen in its cage.
Outside, the dreadlocks of the Norway spruce
hung motionless before a scrim of cloud.
Below, the streetlight neither buzzed nor shone.
Who’d set the nighttime’s preferences to not ?
The moon was AWOL. Tides and waves shut down.
Both East- and Western Zodiacs unstrung:
the rooster, snake and rat, the fish and crab
all scuttled under highboys, fell asleep.
She heard speravit anima mea
in Domino as if there were a choir
of Trappists chanting a custodia
matutina usque ad noctem there
beneath her bedroom window, Romeos
awaiting their Bridegroom, pitching their woo
de profundis. Or just tinnitus ? Snores
from her own bridegroom stirred the heavy air
above her bedsheets’ vasomotor damp.
“Moonpause,” she translated. Her vulgate warned
of coming cold and darkness, polar night.
Her vigil just begun, she prayed for light.
It's morning: bright, ordinary. Work calls, and I sneer in it's general direction, ignoring the fact that coming to peace with it might hold the real key to my metaphysical discontent. Viz: Dogen's Instructions to the Cook.
Writing lauds and the little hours will be more difficult.
Why are these Christian monastic forms so compelling ? The Dalai Lama counseled hewing to one's own natal faith. There's some wisdom there.
Religions might be languages, all of which discuss the same thing. At least that wager is what has allowed me to even glance in the general direction of Christianity.
There's much in it that repells and revolts.
Merton has made it it tolerable, even attractive.
CHARLES RIVER, SEPTEMBER VESPERS
Before the river and the path diverge
and meadow yields to vine-choked stands of trees,
the chest-high horseweed bows, swaying like fronds
waved in hosannah: Go. The dark woods call,
it seems to say. Evening and winter, too.
Fulfill the scripture coiled in all your cells.
O gracious twilight, linger long enough
that I might read the wayside book of hours
from touch-me-not to loosestrife just once more
before I’m called to seed, to night, to ice
from Vesper’s interzone of neither nor.
God hides here, wordless, cipher absolute.
IN THE NIGHT OFFICE
--Till elevators drop us from our day...
It’s overtime in ordinary time,
when everything inclement, hateful, sour
prepares for night. My window overlooks
a vista of illuminated cells.
In each a figure leans above its desk,
as I do mine, mini- and marginal.
We are the faithful drones, professionals
of ora et labora. Here we sit
accounting for the daily flux of bread
transcorporate. Our credo’s in the Real
Presence of value in unredeemed scrip.
We broker. Trust us with your savings. Please.
But it’s compline, and even mendicants
may have their quiet nights, their perfect ends
to never-perfect days, if not by work
by grace: an easy chair, a lamp, a book,
some wine that’s simply wine, cigar cigar,
and something gentle, loving, sweet, untouched,
untouchable but near enough. Then bed.
-- Nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine.
LATE AUGUST VIGILS
This night, and every night, it is the same question.
T. Merton, “Fire Watch”
She woke. It was too still, too dark, too hot.
The clock sat blank, its red tally erased.
The fanblade, stalled, poised frozen in its cage.
Outside, the dreadlocks of the Norway spruce
hung motionless before a scrim of cloud.
Below, the streetlight neither buzzed nor shone.
Who’d set the nighttime’s preferences to not ?
The moon was AWOL. Tides and waves shut down.
Both East- and Western Zodiacs unstrung:
the rooster, snake and rat, the fish and crab
all scuttled under highboys, fell asleep.
She heard speravit anima mea
in Domino as if there were a choir
of Trappists chanting a custodia
matutina usque ad noctem there
beneath her bedroom window, Romeos
awaiting their Bridegroom, pitching their woo
de profundis. Or just tinnitus ? Snores
from her own bridegroom stirred the heavy air
above her bedsheets’ vasomotor damp.
“Moonpause,” she translated. Her vulgate warned
of coming cold and darkness, polar night.
Her vigil just begun, she prayed for light.
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