sometimes you're only half the person you wish you were

and sometimes you're not even that.

Speak, Memory: on Nabokov, time, body, and musing.

The beginning bits of Nabokov's Speak, Memory captivate me, like voice and nostalgia captivate me. He writes:

"The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between to eternities of darkness. Although the two are identical twins, man, as a rule, views the prenatal abyss with more calm than the one he is heading for (at some forty-five hundred heartbeats an hour). I know, however, of a young chronophobiac who experienced something like panic when looking for the first time at homemade movies that had been taken a few weeks before his birth. He saw a world that was practically unchanged--the same house, the same people--and then realized he did not exist there at all and that nobody mourned his absence. He caught a glimpse of his mother waving from an upstairs window, and that unfamiliar gesture disturbed him, as if it were some mysterious farewell. But what particularly frightened him was the sight of a brand-new baby carriage standing there on the porch, with the smug encroaching air of a coffin; even that was empty, as if, in the reverse course of events, his very bones had disintegrated ... I rebel against this state of affairs ... "

Nabokov goes on to deconstruct contemporary assumptions about time-- says he won't take the bait-- that time is something he doesn't believe in. But he's dead. His memory isn't flashing flip-book faces any longer (except, perhaps, in text: call it a Grecian lark, but some part of me connects to that old mantra of immortality through fame--if only fame weren't fame at all, but a series of humble engravings whose etchings echo down the well of humanhood, that is, to say, if only fame were fame with a twist: with a writer's humility, which is, in fact, a writer's self-consciousnessness: a dancing meta). And sometimes I wonder if I could really do it: the writing thing. Not the teaching-writing thing. The writing-thing. Wonder if I could congeal all the octopi tentacles of thought smothering me and create something theoretical that isn't just a rouse and something like poetry, too. But then I wonder if that isn't just a bit escapist (or worse, a selfish attempt to dodge Nabokov's abyss, to appeal to some deconstruction of time). Yeah, then I wonder if I shouldn't just quietly dig my fingers in the dirt instead.

Folks always distinguish between the ethereal (spiritual) and the corporeal (bodily), but I think there is this other place of residence, too: the intellectual: not a person, but a place. And then I wonder if these boundaries between the three aren't as unreal as time to Nabokov.

series of nightmares last night that all could have fit into a bad slasher flick: storm, bodies spewed, creepy nurse, car that wouldn't work, 911 call that wouldn't go through, etc.

miserable.

family family family.

I guess I started tumbling?
haha.

check my tumblr--Rosemarieblues--out here.

(Rosemarie is my grandmother Lehane's first name. She hates being called "Rosemary" like the spice. She is feisty and I love her a whole damn lot).

this is my great grandmother, Lena Lehane's, handkerchief:

She hand-embroidered the whole darn thing (and made the lace, too!). The L in the corner used to stand for her name, and now it can stand for mine, also.

**disclaimer, blogging may become less frequent if I find tumblr a better substitute. This'll still stay up for loved ones if I feel like putting anything more intimate up, though, so keep your eyes out. Love you all!

graduation station.

graduation station (photo series) by Leslie Albanese is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

someday.

it all comes back to feeling liminal.

one part of me can't wait for everything to close and to swallow me.

the other keeps asking, "is this it?" "is this it?"

lions, and tigers, and bears!

I have seen three snakes these past 30 days, easy.

The first: dead and flattened on the road in front of my house (right by my mailbox). (sad).

The second: alive and slithering, in my front yard. I was sitting on a blanket, reading, and it popped up from a hole right in front of me.

The third: a big long scary black one in the middle of the bike path, sunbathing on the concrete. I nearly crashed into Avery, going around it.

I've also been attacked by beetles in my sleep.

And was bitten by a spider in my sleep last night (have the battle wound to prove it).

Fished a (giant! 3 inch long! .5 inch thick! zebra striped!) slug off my kitchen floor the night before (the second one!)

And some dark, indistinguishable creature (either a big cat or a raccoon) has scared the dickens out of me twice, scampering past on my front porch, while I've been scrambling for keys.

(Nattada and I are strong, and not too squeamish. It's our home, and we can share it with the critters/elements; it's a lesson, I think, in recognizing that we are big and small in a world that is at once big and small).

On the plus side, there is a family of deer living in my back yard. They keep nuzzling outside my window. I see them often.

And I found a four leaf clover by the same mailbox where the snake was smushed.

Also on a moderate tangent, I've been floored/humbled lately by the number of people (including strangers) who have looked after me lately. There is certainly a lot of sadness in this world, but there is also a lot of kindness. Yeah, a lotta kind kind, baby.