small change

To Bee or Not to Bee

For months now I have tried to find someone who would like to coax away the colony of bees humming away in my walls. No make that, within my walls lately, as more and more of them find their way into the house, where they go into a frenzy. Dutifully, I have been removing them as gently as I could, shooing them outside, either with paper in hand, or, when they kept hurling themselves at the upper edges of the window, with a glass in which I would trap them. But I don’t always catch them alive. There is is always the carnage by the windows, the bodies of the ones who had no one to help them get back to the business of tending to the bottle brush flowers of the hedge so close to our walls and windows.

After almost 2 years of this, it finally happened: I got stung yesterday. Seems that I stepped on a dazed bee, which then, as bees in danger will do, released its stinger. The pain had me sprinting across the kitchen, straight to the fridge, where I got some ice. It seems that with the ice cube, I rubbed away the whole stinging apparatus, which contains the belly of the bee as well, pulsing and releasing its venom, apparently long after it has been torn away from the bee.

So now I feel an urgency to do something about these bees, even if it turns out that I’ll have to take some drastic measures. Since not one of the “natural” solution people for whom I left endless messages have called me back, looks like a job for an exterminator.

I see the bees congregating (that’s not the right word, I am sure), by the heating vent up on the roof, which is probably their entry point. Today, I took some time with my ears to the walls, and after some searching, there it was, the unmistakable hive buzz. I am not afraid of bugs of any sort, but that sound, after that sting yesterday, put me in a combative mood. These were not Rilke's bees gathering the honey of the invisible. Nope, these were the bees, visibly undermining the walls of my house, threatening to make them invisible....

The gloves are off, which may not be the smartest figure of speech, given my adversary here, and I am determined to evict the whole swarm of them. Who knows how deep the honeycombs go into the walls, and who knows how much it will cost to remove this huge “illegal” second multi-unit, sweet as it may be, but bee-gone it has to be, if peace be. Especially since I also found out that one of my neighbors is deadly allergic to bee stings….

I wish I could have watched some pastoral scene in which a bee whisperer comes and lures them away to a pollen paradise. I wish I could coexist with them in such close quarters. But these wishes are now just bees in my head, a noisy buzz that is losing its sting.

Spout

Our new faucet is sleek, stylish, and imposing. Since it has been put into its place, I suspect it has also acquired an attitude that is far from sleek or stylish, but still definitely imposing. Not that I can blame it. After all, it was doomed for the flow of high aspirations from the moment of it was cast in its mold in a European country all the way of its arrival to our house in a package worthy of housing gourmet European chocolates.

 

Instead it found itself a faux swan among true ducklings, the ragtag assembly of “home improvements” at the hands of people like us, who are inept at the art of gliding, gracefully or otherwise, on the glassy surfaces of interior decorating. And so our long-necked diva has had to steel itself a little harder to staring into the abyss of a small black sink -- unless it can charm us eventually, into upgrading, for its sake, to a sink worthy of Narcissus himself:

Still, a benefit of this mismatch of faucet and sink is that we get free showers (partial though they may be) every time we  turn on the faucet, which thinks the sink is just way too beneath it to bother going with the flow.

Consequences 7

This is the seventh post in an ongoing online game of Consequences Each successive entry begins with the closing lines of its predecessor. Entries are 250 words long, and are linked thematically. The series started with Hydragenic and was followed by Patteran Pages, Porous Borders, The Middlewesterner,  Feathers of Hope, Blaugustine, and Small Change. The series will continue in a day or two at Via Negativa.

EX-HALE

“ Portez-moi  à une nunnery! “ 

Bells pealed in the distance. The road was shrouded in dust. He was drenched in sweat. His right shoulder was numb with pain. He had been carrying her in his arms, it seems like forever. Around him, dust devils rose on wings coaxed by the relentless wind.  She wailed. In French. Half French, what with that nunnery business coming up at intervals like a tasteless refrain. He did not speak French, but that was never a problem before. Mostly because she never spoke French either to him before.

“ Portez-moi  à une nunnery! “ 

Maybe it wasn’t bells that pealed, he thought. Maybe it’s laughter. Merriment from a feast in full swing. A wedding, somewhere ahead or behind on this road that spliced through the nebulous dust only enough for him to see her as she was, settled in his arms.  He took a step, then another, soldiering on. For the both of them now. Since she no longer had her feet on the ground, he was to be her legs. And she, what was she to them now?

“ Portez-moi  à une nunnery! “

That pealing in the distance. Maybe neither bells nor merriment. Derision. His arms were leaden with her weight,  even as her voice rose lightly. He ached for the lightness that had possessed her, and which asked so much of his legs now. To get somewhere, he thought, he would have to disarm. All at once, wholly and decisively, he shook with laughter.

Now

I had no camera with me. But even if I had, what it would have captured could never be what I saw. Eight white pelicans in a circle, like synchronized swimmers, diving into shallow waters. Their rear ends sticking up like capsized boats, their wings, half submerged. They kept diving, greedily, and yet, this greed did not detract from the grace of their synchronized movements.

Some of us in the group watched the pelicans, while the others took turns helping in the kitchen. We gathered at this lovely spot, a house by a lagoon, to take a cooking lesson. We were to learn how to make some of the dishes that made our recent yoga retreat also such a culinary treat.

We roasted peppers, we chopped tomatoes, we whipped up sauces, all in a whirl. We were in a rush, so grace was not on our mind. The resident dog, a beagle, kept an eye on us, but after a while, she retreated to her bed in the corner, pulling a blanket over herself. Apparently she is quite adept at this maneuver.

By the time we sat down to eat at the table on the deck, the pelicans have stopped their feeding dance and were floating in random patterns on the shifting tides echoing through the lagoon. If they watched us, I doubt that they bothered themselves about the way we bobbed our heads over our plates. There was nothing synchronized about any of our movements or voices in conversations.

Above us, the clouds that have been hanging around for the better part of the week, relented and began to drift eastward, leaving a brilliant light in their wake. That’s when it came to me: here is a moment like no other in a world like no other. Some would call it grace. Others beauty. Or gratitude. All I could think of was here is now. But of course, the moment I thought that, it passed.

"just one book"

British poet Anne Berkeley, whom I had the pleasure of meeting some years ago in London, has published a terrific collection of poems, "The Men from Praga.” The publisher of her collection, Salt Publishing, like all independent publishers these days, is struggling to keep going. They put to the word out, asking for anyone to buy “just one book,” whether from them or “from Amazon, your local shop or megastore, online or offline” they don’t care -- as long as you buy just one book.

You might as well start with Anne Berkeley’s book, but don’t stop there…. The list of books is long, with plenty of drama and fiction, and even criticism and essays to please the omni-genrist.

For a taste of Anne Berkeley's work, here is one of my favorite poems from her book:

Nav Rad*

The Vulcan beat out such a din
there's heavy irony
in the imagery
of anvil and sickle.
Heaven 'd
weep at what my father knew:
co-ordinates
of targets,
the precise skill
of Blue Steel
to raze so many by so few--
returning with his burden
red-eyed, limping, deafened
by a damaged ossicle.

* After an email exchange with Anne Berkeley it became clear to me that perhaps an American reader, especially one far removed from the days of the Cold War, might not have a frame of reference for some of the terms that give this poem its twists and turns and music, so here is a brief glossary:

• Nav Rad  is a Navigator Radar (who plots bombs)
• Vulcan was a British nuclear bomber
• Blue Steel was a British H-bomb
• The eleventh line references a speech by Churchill praising the RAF.V-bomber aircrew frequently suffered hearing damage on account of prolonged exposure to extreme noise

Poetry in Bits

Read, Write Poem on its site featured a random quote by Sam Hamill: “Poetry exists as a body attempting communication.” Seems to me that the opposite of this also can be pleaded: poetry exists as communication attempting a body.

In fact, at least in my wordy world, poetry does not attempt. Tempt, maybe, as it should, but even when it doesn't whatever it does, it is communication. It seeks not it itself, or its image petrified in the body of an other, but seeks the Other ... Forget the fancy talk:  the poetry Sam Hamill’s quote invokes for me is the life insurance salesman “attempting” to communicate the benefits of annuities. The poetry I am thinking of would like to ply you with beer and stories in the pub, and, if things go well and you both feel like it, heck, you might get all tempted and attempt to communicate via a romp in the hay.

But then, in the best manner of synchronicity, porous borders has just posted a provocative piece about “poet, poems, and videotape” that sheds a brighter and wider light on why tradition and poetry don’t really belong next to each other in a sentence, unless they have something to say to each other, something that makes a difference.