ㅁ Lately, hating life. This is not a good approach. I should take more walks.
– a pseudo-haiku.
ㅁ The kitchen window presented to me a bear. It was eating grass.
– a pseudo-haiku. The picture is low quality, mostly because the window is quite dirty. But that is clearly a bear, right?
ㅁ I dreamed I was working as a temp in the green IDS tower downtown Minneapolis. So far, true history. But in this weird dream, I had powers... took it down: windows, walls.
– a nonnet.
The last few days with Arthur have been interesting. Yesterday, he got up at 4 AM. That’s a normal time for me to get up, but Arthur rarely gets up before 8, and 10 or noon are just as common. 4 AM is unheard of.
Well after getting up at 4 AM, he suddenly decided it was bedtime, at around 4 PM. Which was weird, because I’d told him I’d be doing dinner in an hour or so. But his bedtime routine kicked in, he brushed his teeth, took off his clothes, and was in bed.
But then it got weirder. I was up, getting ready for my bedtime – which is around 8 PM, because I almost always get up between 4 and 5. And I heard Arthur up and around. I figured it was a bathroom run, but then I heard clonking of his shoes – they have a distinctive sound with how he shuffles his feet as he walks. I went downstairs – he was fully dressed. He said, “Good morning,” rather cheerfully. I pointed at the clock. “That’s 8 PM, not 8 AM,” I explained. He looked quite dismayed. And then he didn’t believe me. “I just slept all night.”
I finally proved to him that it was 8 PM (the perpetual gray, outside light in Southeast Alaskan summer doesn’t help – it really could be any time of day, any time). Then he said, “Well, that makes sense. I slept all day. I tried to explain that he’d gone to bed 4 hours earlier, at 4 PM. He wasn’t buying it. “I slept all day, I’m sure.”
It was all rather pointless. Don’t try to challenge the perceived reality of seniors with dementia. I know this, intellectually, but it can be very hard to practice in the day-to-day.
I got him some warmed up dinner from what I’d made earlier, that he’d missed by going to bed so early. And then, after about 2 hours, he did his full bedtime routine again, and was in bed by 10 PM. Great. I expected more weirdness today. Instead, he slept in to 12:30 in the afternoon. It’s completely random, basically. It’s like that guy living in a cave, in those experiments in the 70’s, where his days would get shorter or longer on strange schedules.
ㅁ Two birds: funny ravens, having conversation. One down on the beach: "oh, hey, squawk! Watch me!"
– a cinquain.
ㅁ This house strongly opposes the sun. To be clear, not the star named 'Sol.' Rather, the manifest disk of sunny summer days. We prefer the clouds. Overcast skies (their grayness) enhance dreams.
– a nonnet.
I power-washed about 80% of the dock today, since I wasn’t at work and it wasn’t raining (a rare combination this year). This was something Arthur used to do. It didn’t get done, the last two years. Moss was growing verdantly on the dock. It needed cleaning.
I hate these kinds of chores – they combine loud machinery (the internal-combustion power-washer) and physical labor. I’m not a fan of either of these things.
In other news, my rhododendron shrub, that I planted 4 years ago (I think?), suddenly decided to bloom. I thought it was planning to die – it wasn’t looking healthy, and it’s never bloomed before.
Here it is (on the left) with my never-grown-much coast redwood (on the right, very small, overshadowed by blueberries on stump behind). That blue in the background is the sea.
ㅁ That boat is out there floating around. They put out nets hoping for fish. So, spooling out their long seins morning and evening time, perhaps some fish come, and get confused and get caught. The boat Gloats.
– a nonnet.
ㅁ The wind made caps of white on waves of gray. The branches swayed and thrust, like angry green, expressing yearnings, just as if the day were new, and solid, but in fact unseen. The birds out there made boring songs, the same. For them, the storm was just a little thing. A swaying branch? Well flit away - a game! Important stuff: to find a mate and sing. Meanwhile, the ghosts hold secret confabs. Yes. The weather means exactly nothing, now. As dead, they have a different view: it's less about what happens, rather, instead, how. That question lingers. What is it all for? The sea keeps surging, gnawing at the shore.
– a sonnet.
ㅁ the machines took over by mistake unplanned they found world dominance just because they could say stuff compelling arguments the others believed blindly trusted gave control... the world burned
– a nonnet.
ㅁ I retreat into escapism, playing mindless computer games, reading short fiction online, neglecting all the 'shoulds'. Then I feel guilty: I've wasted days... work gets done... nothing else.
– a nonnet.
ㅁ Some days have gone by. Still, no poems have appeared here. Daily poems? Sorta.
– a pseudo-haiku. (I fill them in later – just for consistency’s sake.)
ㅁ I'm falling behind on all the things. Things that my commitments entail. Things waiting for me at work. Things I should be doing. Things unknowable. Things lurking here. Things with guilt. Things lost. Things.
– a nonnet.
ㅁ So in two weeks, I got two flat tires. Seems my car's karma has run out. Either that, or the gravel has opted to resist the impositions made by passing vehicles. "Look, tire!" Poke.
– a nonnet.
ㅁ Toast. Because my oatmeal begins to wear out its bland welcome and I crave novelty or at least slight difference maybe I'll put some jam on it or, better, there's some of that cream cheese.
– a reverse nonnet.
ㅁ at three the birds begin clamoring for something quite ill-defined at least to me but still
– a cinquain.