Cloister Commentary, Day 174: Golden Doré Dreams

What’s worse? Hearing me bitch about trying to get an insurance company (the name is Franklin-Madison, and they have left a suspicious web-print) to deliver simple paperwork for an accidental death policy, or hearing about a dream I had last night (which is technically today, but screw it)? I’m betting a dream would be more interesting, right, Rex?

Nicole and I are sitting in some kind of watercraft, bigger than a johnboat, smaller than a yacht. It’s motorized, we’re just off some ocean shore, and many, many other watercraft are on the water, which is gently but firmly rocking. From my vantage point in the back of our boat, the scene looks like a Gustave Doré etching, but in motion, and in monochromatic gold. Suddenly, rain begins to fall, the ocean turns quickly turbulent, and our boat (I can’t see Nicole anywhere, and I’m sure not piloting it) is being “tempest-toss’d”–that compound-adjective immediately popped into my head when I awakened. For some reason, I have brought a notebook with me that’s getting soaked, which is causing me almost as much distress as the possibilities of capsizing or being thrown into another craft. Somehow, through what seemed like a half-hour of chaotic wave-hopping, I stayed port-side, though I was sliding around the deck (it wasn’t a yacht!) and at times was briefly airborne. The water suddenly calmed, and from flat on my back I sprung up–and awake.

It was the most physically intense and rigorous dream I’ve ever had. Perhaps it derived from a deep need within me to be immersed in nature and fully drained: this pandemic is not great for either desire, thought it doesn’t prevent it. I do think the golden vista was related to a character’s scene in The Indian Doctor, where, with her lover, she’s looking out from a Welsh hillside upon a village she thinks is both backwards and beautiful (in reality, it was very obvious CGI); the notebook, my notary public log, which I just used for the first time, yesterday.

Better than a corporate rant? I hope so.

Streaming for Strivers:

Gently rocking waves of percussion and guitar.

Cloister Commentary, Day 173: Extraction

I completed my on-line notary public profile, which can help folks who need me find me. In the process, I studied my seven steps to good notarization and explored Missouri’s new legislation regarding RON: “remote on-line notaries.” I don’t trust much our ledge passes, but this looks decent. Should I or shouldn’t I?

My Stephens College colleague, the legendary art history prof Jim Terry, invited me to judge his annual Punctuation Day Celebration, which of course I accepted. He may feel sorry for me that I don’t have a class, and this in fact will make me smile.

I took a gander at my young friend Benjamin Ruffin’s current rough draft and passed along some feedback. He has sights on being an architect, and he’d be a great one.

A few years back, we paid a guy a very reasonable fee to powerwash the house and stain our deck, and he was fast and skilled. I tried in vain to locate him, so we have need of someone new. Any suggestions?

I have mentioned this in a past entry, but I am reading and loving Hanif Kureishi’s The Buddha of Suburbia. It’s a less annoying Catcher in the Rye, very much updated to post-Sexual Revolution (is that capitalized?) social living and transplanted to just-post-punk Eighties London. I bring it up again for people who think everything ever filmed is streaming. Sammy & Rosie Get Laid, for which Kureishi wrote what must be a very similar screenplay, is not streaming. It is not available on DVD; it never made it to DVD. Used VHSes run in the $80-100 range; I tried to Christian a guy down to a decent price for his copy on eBay, but got denied. Word to the wise from a dude that still likes physical media.

I resumed my battle against corporate labyrinths in trying to settle minor affairs in the wake of Dad’s death, this time against an old dragon, AT&T. They had promised to send my mom a paper bill–they did not. They sent her instead a form letter seeming to imply that she had to participate in their AutoPay program (she does not). Also, they owe her $14.99 but that can’t be deducted from her phone bill because it’s from her old internet bill, which is under their auspices. Hammering a way for 70 minutes, I actually wore down a chat agent to do the unthinkable and start sending her a paper bill and cut her a check for the amount, even though I was initially unable to breach Fort Knocks with a passcode I couldn’t remember (I knew all 15 of the other secret digital handshakes). My dad also had paid for an accidental death policy with a company that, after six contacts with them, has not moved to act (for example, mailing me paperwork), though they have acknowledged the policy is in effect. I literally did scream when they, again, did not “call in one to two business days.” These a-holes are terrific at extracting; stingy when it comes to being extracted from. The American Way. Nicole brought me a spearmint candy and I quieted down.

The day ended on a great note, with a classic double-overtime clash between two teams I love, the Raptors and the Celtics, leading to a Game 7 that should be equally classic, and an episode of The Indian Doctor in which an amoral kleptocrat gets his (it’s a fantasy series).

Streaming for Strivers:

I need something catchy, funny, smart, weird, and absurd sometimes, don’t you?

Cloister Commentary, Day 172: Maybe Remote On-Line Notarizing Will Help

I know that, in some marriages, spouses actively seek out ways to be apart (aside from a job), at least on occasion. I don’t intend that as a critique, necessarily; the practice is probably essential for some of those marriages to not just survive, but prosper. However, I admit that I’ve seldom (if ever) screamed to myself, “I have got to get away from this woman Nicole for at least a half-hour!” Much more frequently, I mutter to myself, “When’s she gonna get home?” I can only read and crank up horrible, beautiful noise for so long before I miss my podnah.

Yesterday, she went out to her building (though she could have worked from home), and I had virtually the whole day to myself. The morning and early afternoon were fine, but after that, it was either take a nap or climb the walls–that’s a strange either-or, right there! I could have thrown “Play with the cats” in there, but I’m 58 years old. Maybe if I extend my notary qualifications to RON (that’s “remote on-line notary”), I can deal with this twice-a-week workweek.

That’s all I got, except for the fact that, just as we were slippin’ into sleep, a pretty major lightning party kicked in, and Louis doesn’t like those. They don’t scare him; in fact, he wants to attack them, to break up the party, and he barks to that effect. I had to move out to the TV room couch to “comfort” him. Simply by lying on the couch a few feet away from him, I calmed him down, but I also cranked the fan he likes blowing on him at night up to “High” to drown out some of the noise.

I didn’t even get to spend time with her last night. Boo!

Streaming for Survivors:

John Easedale was the first rock and roll star I ever interviewed. Thankfully, that interview is buried in the fanzine dustbin, but this album is one reason I was so nervous on the phone.

Cloister Commentary, Day 171: Reading is Exciting, Bananas are Boring

My sweetie Nicole starts school today, and she put in about 12 hours of organizational work at home yesterday. After she finished in the evening, she showed me a deeply detailed spreadsheet of all the students she works with; I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s necessary, I think, given the strange new world she’s entering. But it puts the lie to the ridiculous “lazy” claims some are making about teachers (us, I should say) lately.

For myself, I’m missing the work, but at least I have good books handy. My favorite phenomenon in reading is encountering something in one book that leads me to another book that leads me to something non-literary. I have been strolling through a Zadie Smith essay collection for over a year (her best pieces are like a glass of good bourbon: strong, a little spicy, with unique notes), and in a piece I read recently she wrote about the influence a book, The Buddha of Suburbia by Hanif Kureishi, had had on her–she was re-reading it after having first wrestled with it as a kid. The chunks she excerpted were delightfully wicked, like Wilde, so I had to read it myself. 15 pages in, I had to look up Kureishi; I hadn’t known he wrote the screenplays for two movies that were wildly popular when I was a video clerk but had never gotten around the seeing, My Beautiful Laundrette and Sammy & Rosie Get Laid. I may have missed the boat thirty years ago, but it’s docked and ready for me now (if I can find the latter streaming somewhere). I love reading–it’s incredibly exciting, simple as that.

A teacher friend of mine started his classes the other day with a counterintuitive ice-breaking query: “What’s one boring fact about you?” Takes the pressure off having to dare to be interesting! Let’s play: you share in the comments, and here is mine.

I completely peel a banana before I eat it.

Thanks, Kevin!

Streaming for Strivers:

Soul, jazz-style, courtesy of two masters.

Cloister Commentary, Day 170: Crackle and Zoom

We took a nice hour-long neighborhood walk, discussed some small-scale home improvement plans, snagged some items at Westlake (including his-and-hers “crackle candles”), finally tracked down the September issue of Vanity Fair, toasted a fine Sunday with “tomato time” (a Bloody Mary, a tomato-and-mayo sandwich, and Zapp’s), then did our respective things for most of the afternoon. My respective thing was studying up (via reference books and streaming) on the inimitable jazz singer and pianist Shirley Horn. I tell ya: I cannot get enough of her and Carmen McRae’s music. Am I wearing you down yet?

We also Zoomed with our friends Rex, Jill (accompanied by her wonderful Mississippi beau John Roy), and Isaac (now dubbed, due to his unexpected appearance, “SurprIsaac”). Nicole brought her big monitor home and figured out how to link it with her laptop, so this Zoom felt almost like we’d moved from a mini-TV to a cinema screen. My highlight from the Zoom was expounding with John Roy about Natchez history and Richard Grant’s relevant new book The Deepest South. We also sang the praises of Bobby Rush and his excellent new album.

After our Zoom, we dined on a vegan variant on Brazilian black bean stew that Nicole prepared. I had two helpings–I especially liked the chard she cooked up in it.

Streaming for Strivers:

It’s Celebrate Sonny Rollins Day.

Cloister Commentary, Day 169: Eat It?

Drove back home yesterday and dropped off my version of care packages to my friends Mike and Isaac in Springfield and made it to CoMo in 2:25. Gotta love that lake bypass, and were the fate-tempter out in number on our waters! I listened to many albums on the road, but most satisfactorily to the album below, and if you need a little tough-not-facile spiritual pick-me-up, click. Ya heard about William Blake?

COVID Curbside Question for the Readers: If you order for pickup, bring it home, and it’s some other cloisterer’s order, what do you do? Turn around, run it back, and get yours? Or accept the imperfection of human workings and just eat what ya got, save time, and let the other guy demand human perfection? We got a vastly different order from ours, chose to just eat it, and damned if it wasn’t delicious. Nicole and I would like to hear your opinions.

Word to the wise who have HBO Max and need some entertaining viewing: try Class Action Park, like we did. That was then, it is more so now.

Streaming for Survivors:

Exquisite. One of the best “bluegrass” / “Americana” / “folk” albums of the 2010s.

Cloister Commentary, Day 168: Trip to Typhoon Island

By surprise, in these locked-down days, I was able to take a trip to Typhoon Island yesterday. I was not planning on a tropical vacation, but I did not turn it down. I paid for the Ultimate Package, and when I arrived, I put the chair back, got out a great book, and relaxed to the sounds of splashing waves.

Unfortunately, Typhoon Island is a car wash, and I thought that, since I paid for the Ultimate ($11.99), I’d be chilling in my mom’s vehicle for about 10-15 minutes. I was snapped out of my reading reverie seeming seconds later by the car wash proprietor knocking on the window.

“Sir, did you get a wash at all? Just wondering because you’re still sitting here!” she asked–with genuine concern.

I replied, “I guess I was dug in for the long haul.”

Some vacation.

Earlier in the day, Mom and I had a great visit with two of her and Dad’s long-time best friends, George and Virginia Terry, who were on their way to antique in Branson. George (besides being on old rascal) is a craftsman–I once wrote a research paper about his “folk art” for Dr. Bob Cochran at the University of Arkansas–and he left us with his recent, characteristically excellent creations.

In the evening, I Zoomed with Nicole and our best friends, Gwen and Kenny Wright. We caught glimpses of their twins and dawg, and rapped about many things of concern and delight. After our Zoom, I watched my new co-favorite NBA team (now that OKC has been vanquished), Miami, crush the hapless Bucks. Milwaukee, you need a couple more pieces, and Giannis? You have to hit threes and frees. My other favorite team is Boston; I’d never have predicted that would be how I’d be ridin’ at this point. Also, Mom overheard Nicole and I raving to the Wrights about Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul, and was curious, so we watched the first episode of the former. I think she liked it!

Finally, I invented what seems like a tacky drink but it works for me: the Monett Margarita Mixer COVID Cocktail. 4/5ths Salvador Top Shelf Margarita Pre-mix, 1/5th Lunazul Agave Tequila, heavy ice and salt on the rim.

Streaming for Survivors:

I forgot to grab this to listen to on my road trip, so I guess I’ll stream it. One of the many great albums Kenny introduced me to.

Cloister Commentary, Day 167: Not All Bad

Continued from Day 166, the saga of Phil and
Jane and the SSA. I was determined to find an uncomplicated way to change Mom’s direct deposit info without an excruciating phone call leading to futility, so I a) decided to just drive down and visit her, partially because I suspected we’d need to be in the same room, on the same phone, b) thought I’d test the waters first, call Mom’s local SSA office, and, um, assertively ask about the best process to accomplish our lofty goal. The unfortunate agent who answered the phone had to listen to me tersely, then with rising volume, describe the whole story (I’m bad about set-ups), while she tried in vain to interrupt me. It was fun! However, when I finally stopped to take a breath, she interjected, “Sir, just let me call your mom directly and I’ll do this for her in a couple minutes. Call her and have her get the checkbooks together, and tell her I’ll ring her in 30 minutes!” Wait what? And she did just what she said. To paraphrase the title of a section of the news magazine The Week, it’s not all bad. What’s the lesson learned, Phil? My cousin Rob has told me twice but I imperfectly listened: always call your local SSA office first.

Still, I decided to drive down and see Mom. We had Mexican food and margaritas, and watched basketball and tennis. And we FaceTimed with Nicole. Tomorrow I will again contact the insurance company that, despite three calls from me, still haven’t sent me the accidental death paperwork they owe me from Dad’s policy (these calls have spanned over two months, so I’ve been patient), and possibly reference a lawyer. Also, as I thumb this out on my phone, I’m watching the morning news: the flood of human-issued sludge oozes unabated.

But…it’s not ALL bad. I hope I get a similarly smart, sweet, and efficient customer service agent today.

Streaming for Strivers:

A humble request. You have to listen to the title song to understand.

Cloister Commentary, Day 166: I’m Late

“Are you ever too busy to write these,” you might ask. Well, I always write about yesterdays on my todays, and today I’ve been ON IT since I woke up at 4:30ish. I just realized I hadn’t, ahem, journaled. I’m hanging out with my mom Jane and watching Bubble Playoffs, so I must be brief.

Yesterday started pretty well. I accomplished something easy but important at work: I emailed 12 freshmen at Stephens to check on their start (students can choose to attend classes in person or on-line, with all classes available in real time on Zoom), their comfort level (Stephens is taking our health pretty seriously, and only has two recorded cases so far), and their need for tutoring. Amazingly, almost all of them wrote me back quickly with quite a bit enthusiasm for school. I will contact them intermittently just to make sure they know they have academic (and moral) support.

Then I learned Mom was having no luck simply changing her direct deposit information with the Social Security Administration, a necessity since Dad passed. She was just looking for a way to help, as my brother Brian and I have divided up the massive and labyrinthine administrative issues that confront every family when someone passes. I jumped in to help her, but met with just as much frustration–to the extent that it drove me into a moody state for the rest of the day. I’m fairly sure Nicole would agree that’s a state I seldom visit. I escaped into books and two nail-biter playoff games, including one that sent my Thunder home. I rolled over to go to sleep at a little past 11 and stared at the wall for several minutes, before, fortunately, I crashed.

To be continued.

Streaming for Survivors:

How I felt after setting up a “My Social Security” profile for Mom to no avail. Play loud.

Cloister Commentary, Day 165: Bakin’ That COVID Lasagna

Tuesdays and Thursdays are going to be a challenge to comment on, as–at present–I am not working on those days of the week. Yesterday, I made a futile trip out to the USPS Pickup location, caught up on some new music, read a bit from three different books, helped my mom with a equipment return issue (AT&T does not make that easy if you live in a small town), talked to my cousin Jim on the phone, ate delicious leftovers for two meals, talked to Nicole about her day at Battle, had a kitten attached to my lap for several hours, and watched a fairly exciting 80-78 NBA playoff 7th game–these days you have to really work at a score that low.

However, the most interesting thing happened at 3:15 this morning, which I’m going to count as yesterday because it feels like it. At that hour, the same kitten mentioned above sat in the hallway repeatedly “asking a question”: meowing with an upward inflection. Junior also has a very distinct whine to his meow that grates, so I was forced to get up and see what the issue was. Turns out that, since I’d WD-40’d the door to the basement stairs, it was slowly easing shut on its own, so when I swung it back open, Junior disappeared down the stairs like he was shot out of a cannon. I guess he really was making an inquiry.

But–the point is, Phil?–when I tried to go back to sleep, I encountered what I call COVID lasagna: layers of psychological stress that press down with a combined force that denies the ease required for shut-eye. I’m the layer of tomato sauce at the bottom of the pan, underneath dread about November 3rd, worry about my family and friends and us as we continue to wrestle with grief, horror at what atrocities have become commonplace, even accepted, more worry about the health, safety and success of teachers, students, parents, families (other than my own), and those protesters indefatigably striving in this truly historical moment for social justice.

Just enumerating the topics on my mind took twenty minutes–at the end of which Junior had arrived back upstairs, hopped up on the bed, and positioned himself between my legs in such a way that, in order to get comfortable, I would have to have disturbed the young prince…which would only have added another lasagna layer.

Resorting to a technique that should have been my first resort (I always forget), I engaged in some deep breathing and fell back asleep in the midst, for about 15 minutes before the alarm dawned.

Maybe that isn’t much more interesting than the rest, but I suspect I am not alone at the bottom of the pan.

Streaming for Survivors:

Morning meditation music.